Having known him since he was riddled with acne and shooting rubber bands out of his braces, Mel often forgot that her childhood chum had grown into a man that most husband-hunting women would happily hold at gunpoint to force a proposal.
Tate stared at her. Then he looked at Angie, who was restocking the display case with Mel’s latest creation, the Choco-Pom Cupcake, a chocolate and pomegranate concoction that was Mel’s current favorite.
“How did she do?” he asked Angie.
“Made it with a nanosecond to spare,” Angie said.
Tate shook his head. “Mel, you’ve got to get your game face on.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” Mel protested. “We would have been there in plenty of time if not for Olivia.”
“Olivia Puckett?” he asked.
“Yep.” Angie said. “She tried to block us from turning in our paperwork.”
“How did you get past her?”
Mel and Angie exchanged a look. Angie ducked back behind the display case and began rapidly unloading the Choco-Poms. Mel grabbed a rag and began wiping down the counter even though she had just finished doing so minutes before.
Tate lowered his head and pinched the bridge of his nose as if bracing himself for a migraine. “You might as well tell me. It can’t be any worse than what I’m imagining.”
“The fall-over feint,” Mel mumbled.
“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that,” Tate said. He cupped his ear and leaned close.
“The fall-over feint,” Mel repeated with a grimace.
“You didn’t,” he said. He looked as if his knees might give out, and he lowered himself into a nearby chair.
“We did.” Angie popped up from the display case with an empty tray. “And it worked, too.”
“Of course it worked,” Tate said. “It always works! Last time it worked so well, your brother Tony ended up in the hospital with a concussion. Please tell me Olivia is unconcussed.”
“She got up on her own power,” Angie said. “As soon as I got off of her.”
“Does the word lawsuit mean anything to you two?” Tate asked. He looked as if he might have a seizure.
“She was blocking our way,” Mel said. “We really had no choice.”
“If Joe hears about this . . .” Tate’s voice trailed off, and Mel blanched.
Her boyfriend, Joe DeLaura, one of Angie’s older brothers, was an assistant district attorney. There was no question. He would be very unhappy to find out she and Angie had tackled someone, even someone as annoying as Olivia Puckett.
“Well, I don’t see why he would unless someone shoots his mouth off,” Angie said. She glowered at Tate, making it very clear who she thought the weak link might be.
He raised his hands in a gesture of innocence. Angie scowled, picked up her tray, and pushed her way through the swinging door back into the kitchen.
“What did I say?” he asked Mel.
“‘It has been my experience that men are least attracted to women who treat them well,’” Mel said.
“Miss Bowers in Death on the Nile,” Tate cited the quote without blinking. “Played by Maggie Smith, I believe.”
“Correct and correct,” Mel said.
“So, enlighten me,” he said. He leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table, eagerness etched in every line of his body. “What’s going on with Ange?”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Mel warned him.
“Too late.” He grinned. “Did she dump him? Is it over? Was he crushed?”
“No, no, and no,” Mel said. “In fact, I’m worried about her. He hasn’t called her in two days.”
Tate let out a groan and leaned back. “That’s it?”
“He’s never missed a day,” Mel said. She put away her cleaning rag and wiped her hands on her bright pink bib apron that had Fairy Tale Cupcakes scrawled in glittery script across the front.
Tate rolled his eyes. “Why is she still dating him? I mean, what can she possibly see in him?”
He was referring to Angie’s boyfriend of three months. Brian Malloy, known to his fans as Roach, was the drummer in the popular rock band the Sewers. He and Angie had met when his father had been murdered on a date with Mel’s mother. Roach had made the mistake of accusing Mel of harming his father, and Angie had gone nuclear on him. Mel suspected very few people got in the rock star’s face, and he had been bowled over by Angie and asked her out immediately.
“Um, let’s see, he’s hot,” Mel said. She came around the counter and sat across from Tate. “Oh, yeah, and he’s hot.”
“Only if you go for the ‘skinny, tattooed, with stringy hair’ type,” Tate grumped.
Mel pressed her lips together. Over the past few months, she had become a master at knowing when to keep her mouth shut. Whatever happened between Angie and Tate, she fervently hoped they would all come out friends at the end of it.
It had been the three of them against the world for as long as she could remember. Then Tate had gotten engaged, and Angie had finally come clean to Mel about her feelings for him. She was in love with Tate and had been since they were kids. Oy.
But after his tragically ended engagement, Tate, being a typical male, had wallowed and whined and refused even to consider dating anyone ever again. Then Roach had come to town and swept Angie off her feet. Now Tate had come to realize that he was in love with her, too, but so far he had not declared himself but sat ever hopeful, waiting for Angie’s relationship to implode.
It was only a matter of time before the situation was resolved. Roach had asked Angie to move back to Los Angeles with him, but she had told him she wanted to wait until he was done with his current tour. Mel knew that once Roach was back, decisions would have to be made.
Mel hated the idea of losing her best friend and partner, but Tate had it much worse. He stood to lose the love of his life without ever having told her how he felt.
“He’ll call,” he said sourly. “He’d be an idiot to let her go.”
Mel reached over and patted his shoulder. “Hang in there, champ.”
“I have a choice?”
“No.”
“Okay, I’ve worked out a schedule,” Angie said as she came bustling back through the kitchen door. She was carrying a clipboard and had a red pen in her hand. “We have three weeks, and we’re going to need every second of them.”
“Three weeks for what?” Mel asked.
“Until the competition,” Angie said. “Now here’s what I was thinking. We get up at four thirty every day and—”
“In the morning?” Mel asked in horror. The only part of running a bakery that didn’t suit her was the early mornings.
“Yep,” Angie said, plowing on and ignoring her. “Tate will drop off a bag of mystery ingredients, and we’ll set the timer to give ourselves one hour to whip up a fabulous dessert.”
“And we can’t do this during regular operating hours because . . .”
“We need to have complete, uninterrupted focus,” Angie said. “Tate, can we count on you?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “Any idea what the mystery ingredients should be?”
“If I gave you a list, they wouldn’t exactly be a mystery, now would they?” Angie asked. “However, I made a list of everything they’ve used over the past five years, so that should give you some ideas.”
Tate took the list she handed him and scanned it. “Why are pickles on this list?”
Angie gave a long-suffering sigh. “Because that was one of the mystery ingredients one year.”
“For the pastry competition, really?” Mel asked.
“They try to make it difficult,” Angie said. “Have you even looked at any of the information I’ve given you?”
“Yeah . . . uh . . . no,” she admitted.
“How do you expect to cream Olivia’s tartar if you don’t study up?” Angie asked. “You can’t just waltz in there and expect to win, you know.”
“I don’t expect it to be easy. I’ve just had other—” Mel began, bu
t Angie interrupted, “I know. Now that you and Joe are finally together, you are useless. You know, I have a good mind to ban you from seeing Joe until this competition is over.”
Mel opened her mouth then shut it quickly before something better left unsaid flew out. She and Angie locked stares. They’d been doing this since grade school. Whoever blinked first lost, not only the staring contest, but also the argument.
“Would you look at the time?” Tate asked without consulting his watch or a clock. “I’d better get back to the office. So, I’ll see you tomorrow morning at four thirty. Bye.”
Mel felt her eyes begin to burn. It was agony.
“You blinked,” Angie said. She spun on her heel and stomped back to the kitchen.
Mel turned and glared at Tate’s retreating back. Big coward!
“ Hey, Cupcake,wake up,”a voice whispered in Mel’s ear.
She cracked an eyelid and then closed it. It was still dark. She must have been dreaming.
“It’s four twenty-five,” the voice said. “Angie is going to bang in here and drag you out by the hair.”
“I don’t care,” Mel mumbled and burrowed deeper into her pillow.
“Yesterday she dumped ice water on you,” the voice reminded her. “And the day before that she pressed the test button on your smoke detector to blast you awake.”
Now Mel’s eyes opened. She turned her head and saw Joe smiling at her from the neighboring pillow. As always when she found him watching her with his warm brown eyes, she was struck by how much he seemed to like her, and her breath caught in her chest.
She’d had a crush on Joe DeLaura from the first day she set eyes on him when she was a sturdy twelve-year-old and he was a gangly sixteen-year-old with a killer grin who looked out for his little sister, Angie, and by extension his little sister’s best friend, which was Mel. They’d gone separate ways in their twenties, but then, six months ago, he’d walked into Fairy Tale Cupcakes and noticed that Mel was all grown up. They’d been dating ever since.
She felt too much when she looked at him, so she turned her gaze to the ceiling and teased, “You just don’t want to get caught in the back splash again.”
“Well, it was kind of harsh,” he said. “Even for Angie. No telling what she’ll come up with today.”
Mel groaned. “I’d better head her off.”
“Call me later,” Joe said.
“I will.” Mel kissed him and rolled out of the bed. She ducked into the bathroom, threw on some clothes, and slipped on her sneakers. Joe was snoring softly as she locked the door behind her.
She turned to head down the stairs and found Angie halfway up, holding two pot lids, which she had obviously intended to use as cymbals.
“I’m going to take back the key to my apartment,” Mel said. “You’re abusing the privilege.”
Angie shrugged. “You’re up, aren’t you?”
Mel followed her down the stairs and into the back door of the bakery, which led into the kitchen. The large steel worktable in the center held a brown paper bag, presumably full of mystery ingredients. Tate was hovering by the coffee machine in the corner as if willing it to brew faster.
“Morning,” Mel mumbled.
“Hunh,” he grunted. He handed her a mug before filling his own.
“So, what’s the ingredient today?” Mel asked. She took a sip of the refreshingly strong brew and tried to defog her brain. They’d been at this competition prep for two weeks, and she wondered if Tate had run out of mystery ingredients yet.
“Good question.” Angie fished in the bag with a frown. She pulled out a bunch of what looked like white carrots by their leafy green stems and frowned. “What are these?”
“Parsnips,” Mel and Tate said together.
“Seriously?” Angie asked. “What are we supposed to do with these?”
“Sorry, I’m beginning to scrape the bottom of the barrel on unusual ingredients,” Tate said. “I figured this would throw Mel a nice curve. Call me when you’re ready for a taste test. You have one hour—starting now.”
“Where are you going?” Angie asked.
Tate usually stayed to watch them work, but today he looked more exhausted than usual. Mel figured the early mornings must be catching up to him. He sipped his coffee and headed for the office. “I’m going to stay out of the way and read the paper.”
He shut the office door behind him, and they heard Mel’s desk chair creak as he tilted it backwards.
“Five bucks says we hear him snoring within ten minutes,” Angie said.
“Sucker bet,” Mel said with a shake of her head. “You’re not earning a fiver off of me that easily.”
“Fine. Clock’s ticking,” Angie said. She held out the parsnips to Mel. “What’s your plan?”
Mel studied the parsnips. “Peel and shred these into three cups then steam them.”
“Roger that,” Angie said and set to work.
Mel walked over to her pantry and examined her stores. She knew the judges in the competition would be looking for originality in presentation as well as taste. She wasn’t going to be able to present them with cupcakes every time—she had to show diversity—but if she made it to the finals, she wanted to win with a cupcake to give the bakery the most promotion possible.
Now parsnips were known to be a cross between a potato and a carrot or a mild turnip. Mel figured she had two ways she could go with this. It was either a parsnip spice cake or a carrot cake with parsnips in lieu of carrots. If she made the spice cake, she wanted a plain cream cheese frosting. If she went with the carrot-type cake, she could get funky with the frosting. That decided it. In competition, funky frosting would be much harder to ignore.
With that in mind, she started gathering ingredients. She raided the pantry and the walk-in cooler. Because they were only making a small batch, she used her pink KitchenAid mixer instead of her industrial Hobart. She fitted it with a paddle and let it go to work, creaming the butter, sugars, and oil.
She prepped the cupcake pan with foil liners, and in a separate bowl she sifted her dry ingredients. Angie handed her a bowl with the shredded and steamed parsnips.
“What next?” she asked.
Mel glanced at the clock. They were ten minutes in.
“I need you to toast some walnut halves in the small oven and then make a batch of cream cheese frosting,” she said.
Mel slowly added the dry ingredients into the mixer then the parsnips. When the batter was done, she scraped the sides of the bowl and grabbed an ice cream scoop. She filled the cupcake pan and put it in the oven. She set the timer for 25 minutes.
Angie was toasting walnut halves in their smaller conventional oven and mixing the frosting at the same time. Mel dashed back to the pantry and found her container of crystallized ginger. Using her best chopping knife, she minced a quarter cup of the sugared ginger root.
She glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes for the cupcakes to be done, and then they had to cool. It would take both her and Angie icing them at the same time in order to beat the clock.
Angie shut off the mixer and delivered the cream cheese frosting to Mel. She went back to the walnuts and pulled them out of the oven.
Angie poured the walnuts into a bowl, shaking it to help the walnuts cool. Mel added the crystallized ginger and a teaspoon of ground ginger into the cream cheese frosting. She stirred it in with a rubber spatula, scraping the bowl and making sure the ginger was well mixed.
The timer on the oven buzzed, and Angie grabbed two pot holders to retrieve the cupcakes. They were golden brown and sprang back to the touch. Perfect.
Angie glanced at the clock. “These are too hot. How can we frost them when we only have fifteen minutes left?”
“Let them sit in the pan for five minutes,” Mel said. “Then we’ll put them in the walk-in for another five minutes. They should be cool enough to frost by then.”
Mel got a steel tray and laid out some circular paper doilies. This would be the base of their presentation. Whi
le they waited for the cupcakes to cool in the freezer, they each loaded a pastry bag with a large plain piping tip and filled the bags about two-thirds full of the ginger cream cheese frosting.
Five minutes to go. Mel could feel her heart pounding as adrenaline coursed through her. Was this what the real competition would be like?
Angie brought the rack of cupcakes out of the cooler and set it on their steel worktable.
They each took a cupcake, and starting at the outer edge, they piped a circle of icing toward the center. Mel stopped squeezing the bag and twisted her wrist to give the frosting a center swirl. Then she carefully perched one of the toasted walnuts on top. They managed to finish the cupcakes with seconds to spare.
Tate banged out of the office just as Joe came in the back door. The clock struck six o’clock, and Mel was ready to go back to bed.
“Wow, those look spectacular,” Joe said. He meant it, which was just one of the many reasons that Mel adored him. “Do we get to taste-test now?”
He looked as eager as a kid, and Mel grinned. Joe suffered from an advanced sweet tooth disorder, and she was sure one of the many reasons he was so fond of her was her baking skills.
“First, we have to judge the presentation,” Tate said.
“Looks awfully plain to me,” a gravelly voice said from the back door. “What kind of lame teachers did you have at that culinary school of yours?”
Three
Mel whirled around to find Vic Mazzotta standing in the doorway, wearing his usual scowl.
“What are you doing here at six o’clock in the morning?” she asked. He opened his mouth, but she raised her hand and cut him off. “No, don’t tell me, let me guess: You woke up and said to yourself, ‘Hey, I haven’t pestered Mel in months, I think I’ll go over there right now and see if I can get her all riled up.’”
Vic’s lips twitched, which was as close to a smile as he ever ventured. He was built solid and was dressed casually in his usual khaki pants and a deep blue denim shirt, which made his thick head of gray hair seem silver in contrast. Even after all these years, Mel found it odd when she saw him without his white chef coat and toque.
Death by the Dozen Page 2
