Death by the Dozen

by Jenn McKinlay

  “Don’t you have anything besides cupcakes?”

  Five

  The woman speaking was tall and thin, too thin, making her head look overly large for her body as it perched on her shoulders like a beach ball. It didn’t help that her hair was dyed an unnatural shade of red, a cranberry hue with magenta highlights, and her face had seen so many nips and tucks it had developed an alarming sheen from being stretched too tight.

  She was a standard-issue Scottsdale matron, one of the ones who had more money than sense. Mel had observed her type all her life. Sadly, these women seemed to be clinging more desperately to their youth than ever before, as if wrinkles and gray hair were a bad thing. Who had decided that? And why did all of these women buy into it?

  “Well, we are a cupcake bakery,” Mel said. “So, we pretty much stick to cupcakes.”

  The woman made a bad face, as if she’d just caught a whiff of sour milk.

  “What’s the problem, Audra?” the redhead’s companion asked.

  She was short and stout, dressed in an unfortunate leopard print. Her hair was big and blonde, and her fingernails were long and painted leprechaun green with little gold rhinestones glued on them.

  “All they have is cupcakes,” Audra whined. “Carrie, I wanted a nibble of something sweet, not a whole cupcake. How could I possibly eat a whole cupcake?”

  The blonde let out a put-upon sigh. “Just buy a cupcake. Take your nibble and I’ll eat the rest.”

  “Do you really think that’s wise?” Audra asked, eyeing Carrie’s middle with one eyebrow raised. It was not a nice look.

  Carrie’s eyes narrowed, and Mel glanced at the counter to make sure there were no sharp implements for the one named Carrie to use as weapons. She needn’t have worried.

  “Oh, my dear older sister,” Carrie said, her voice sweeter than Mel’s bin of sugar, “aren’t you a love to worry about your younger, wrinkle-free baby sister?”

  Audra’s lips tightened—well, Mel thought they did. It was hard to be sure, given the immobility of her face.

  “The only thing babyish about you is your fat rolls,” Audra snapped.

  Mel winced. That was a pretty low blow.

  “Ooh!” Carrie gasped. “Listen, you bony-bottomed, knock-kneed twig—”

  The bells on the door handle jangled again, and Mel was relieved that the arrival of more customers cut off Carrie’s tirade and forced the two sisters to cease and desist their squabble.

  Carrie pointed out the cupcakes she wanted, and Mel packed up the six-pack of cupcakes for them and sighed with relief when they paid and left.

  The newcomers were studying the menu board. They were a group of three, an older, sturdy-looking couple with a younger woman standing in between them. Mel turned to them with her usual welcome smile, but the older woman in the group glared at her.

  “I don’t see what’s so special about these cupcakes,” the woman said, obviously not caring whether Mel heard her or not.

  “Mom, shh,” the young woman said. She cast Mel an apologetic look.

  “Why are we here again?” the man asked, but the woman hushed him.

  From his vacant expression, Mel got the feeling he wasn’t all there. The older woman gave him an irritated look as if he was being forgetful just to annoy her.

  “May I help you?” Mel asked.

  “Hi, my name is Polly Ramsey,” the young woman said, and she held out her hand.

  Mel shook her hand and guessed the young woman was in her early twenties. She wore jeans and a T-shirt, and her long light brown hair was scraped back in a tight ponytail at the crown of her head. She wore no makeup and had a pretty face, but her ears stuck out like handles, and Mel thought she might want to reconsider the ponytail.

  “Hi, Polly. I’m Mel. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Hunh,” the older woman grunted. She glanced around the bakery, obviously not liking anything she was seeing.

  “How can I help you?” Mel asked.

  “I just, uh, well, I wanted to . . .” Polly’s face turned an alarming shade of red as she stammered to a halt.

  Mel waited, figuring Polly would get there eventually.

  “I’m in the challenge to the chefs, pastry division,” she said. “In the food festival.”

  “Oh.” Mel leaned on the counter and said, “So, you’ve come to check out the competition.”

  “As if she needs to,” her mother scoffed with a sniff.

  Polly gave her a pained look. “I’m sorry, my mother is a little biased about my skills.”

  “That’s understandable,” Mel said, pushing back up off the counter. “Although rudeness is not.”

  Polly’s mother gave her a scathing look and spun on her heel and went to study the open cabinet in the corner that held all sorts of Fairy Tale Cupcake swag, such as T-shirts and coffee cups, featuring their atomic cupcake logo, newly designed by a fashion designer acquaintance of theirs, Alma Rodriguez, in a trade for cupcake deal.

  The logo featured an aqua and pink cupcake with the swirls of an atom going around it. It really suited their fifties decor; even Alma had been pleased with her design.

  “I’m sorry,” Polly said. She looked painfully earnest, and Mel took pity on her.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Mel said. “It’s not your fault.”

  “I’ve never been in one of these competitions before,” Polly said. “I’m afraid I’m in over my head, and I just wanted to meet someone else who was competing. I saw your name on the list, and I figured I’d pop in to say hello. Is that weird?”

  “Nah, you’re just looking for a friendly face. I felt like that when I started cooking school. I’ve never done one of these competitions either,” Mel said. “So you’re not alone. I take it you’re a professional baker?”

  “Not really. I run a cookie basket company out of my apartment. I started it a year ago, and it just took off.”

  “Impressive,” Mel said.

  “Yeah, then Mom entered me in this competition because she thinks it’ll give the business a lot of publicity.”

  “It might,” Mel said. “That’s pretty much why we entered. Well, that and the ten-thousand-dollar prize.”

  “She thinks with Vic Mazzotta judging, I’ll get on TV,” Polly said. She looked mortified, and Mel felt sorry for her. It appeared Mrs. Ramsey was the “pushy stage mother” type.

  Mel’s own mother, Joyce, was nothing like that, for which Mel was extremely grateful. Joyce was happy as long as her kids were happy. Well, and as long as Mel kept dating Joe. Her mother always called him “dear Joe” and lived in constant fear that Mel was going to muck it up.

  “Well, I don’t know about any of that,” Mel said. “But I do think it will be fun.”

  Polly looked doubtful.

  Mel was about to give her another pep talk when Angie and Oz came back through the kitchen door.

  “Nice,” Oz said. “You’ve got a sweet Hobart mixer back there.”

  “Thanks,” Mel said.

  She glanced back at Polly, who was looking at Oz with huge eyes. Her mother came up behind her as if to protect her from the ogre from the kitchen.

  “Polly, this is my staff,” Mel said. “Angie DeLaura, my partner, and Oz Ruiz, our intern.”

  “You let that into your kitchen?” Mrs. Ramsey asked. She gave Oz a once-over that said she found him wanting.

  Now Mel was annoyed. It was one thing to be rude to her; it was quite another to be rude to her staff.

  “I don’t really see how it’s any of your business,” she snapped.

  “Yeah,” Angie said. “Who are you anyway?”

  “Polly’s mother,” Mel said. “Polly is in the challenge to the chefs, too.”

  “Well, Polly, unless you want to alienate everyone in the competition, you might want to muzzle your mother,” Angie said and pointed at Mrs. Ramsey, who sucked in an outraged breath.

  “I don’t have to take that,” Mrs. Ramsey huffed.

  “No, you don’t,” Angie a
greed. “You can leave. Now.”

  Polly looked down as if she hoped the black-and-whitetile floor had a built-in escape hatch. No such luck.

  “I’d like a cupcake,” Mr. Ramsey said. “A pink one.”

  “No,” Mrs. Ramsey said. “You can’t have one.”

  “What do you mean? Isn’t that why we’re here? To have cupcakes?” he asked.

  “No, you dolt.” Mrs. Ramsey grabbed her husband’s arm none too gently and hustled him out the door.

  He tried to dig in his rubber orthopedic heels, but she had a good grip on his arm and Mel could see the muscles bunch in her upper arm. She was no weakling. He gave her a mean stink eye but didn’t make any more protests as she pushed him out the door.

  “Sorry,” Polly apologized again.

  “No worries. See you at the festival, Polly,” Mel said with a genial wave. Polly nodded and dashed after her parents.

  The bells rang on the door once again, and Mel glanced up from the counter. What now?

  She shouldn’t have asked. Obviously, the rule of threes was in action here, as in three high-maintenance customers in a row. She glanced at the clock. It was only four o’clock; closing time at eight seemed eons away.

  The tall black man who approached the counter gave her a slow smile. It was the smile of a man who was used to getting his way.

  “Dutch Johnson,” she said. She didn’t return the smile.

  “Melanie Cooper.” His smile became blinding.

  Mel figured the reading on his charm-o-meter went right into the red zone as he approached the counter with a swagger that on a lesser man would look ridiculous. Dutch, however, made it look like the zoo had lost one of their big cats, as he walked in a gait that was purely predatory.

  Both Angie and Oz stood frozen watching the stunningly handsome black man approach Mel. She had to admit he looked like something that had walked off the cover of a men’s health magazine.

  Muscles rippled under his purple silk dress shirt. He wore his hair so closely shaved to his head that it was impossible not to notice that even the shape of his head was attractive. When they were handing out good looks, Dutch had obviously gone back for thirds.

  “So, how is my favorite classmate?” Dutch asked.

  “Oh, please, I’m only your fave because I’m the only one who didn’t sleep with you,” she said.

  “Yes, which damaged my self-esteem beyond repair,” he said.

  There was a twinkle in his eye, and Mel knew he was teasing her. The truth was he had never hit on Mel. She liked to think it was because he respected her culinary skills, but she suspected he was just not that into her. She’d had a relapse into her big-girl pants after her father had died and had been significantly larger back then.

  “You look amazing,” he said. “But then, you always did.”

  Mel squinted at him.

  “What?” he asked, the picture of innocence.

  “You’re so full of it, I’m going to need a snow shovel to dig out of here tonight,” she said.

  “I’m hurt.” He put his hands on his chest as if she had mortally wounded him.

  “I’m sure,” she countered. She glanced behind her, where Angie and Oz were still rooted to the spot.

  “This is my partner, Angie, and our intern, Oz,” Mel said. “Guys, this is Dutch Johnson. We went to cooking school together.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Dutch said. “I can see Mel isn’t the only beauty in the Fairy Tale here.”

  Angie sagged a bit in the knees, and Oz quickly braced her with a hand at her elbow. She gave Dutch a weak smile.

  It was harder to tell what Oz was thinking, given that his eyes were covered by his mop of hair, but since he was a teen male, the awe in his voice spoke volumes.

  “How do you do that?” he asked, obviously referring to Dutch’s ability to make women go limp

  Dutch spread his hands wide. “It’s a gift.”

  “Yeah,” Mel snorted. “The gift that keeps on giving.”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re unhappy with me,” Dutch said.

  “Not unhappy, just immune,” Mel said. “I can’t tell you how many girls I saw sobbing into their crème brûlée because of you. It was more effective than a vaccination.”

  “Huh.” Dutch grunted, but Mel was pretty sure it was meant with respect.

  Shaking her head as if pulling herself out of a trance, Angie stepped away from the counter. “Come on, Oz, I need to go inventory the walk-in cooler.”

  “But we did that yesterday,” Mel said.

  Angie gave her a flat stare. “Your point?”

  Mel glanced between Angie and Dutch. Oh. “Don’t have one.”

  “I thought not,” Angie said.

  They departed through the kitchen door, and Mel turned back to Dutch.

  “So, I’m guessing you’re not here just to catch up,” Mel said. “What brings you by, Dutch?”

  “What? A guy can’t look up an old friend?”

  Now it was Mel’s turn to give the flat stare.

  “All right, all right,” he said. The veneer of charming rogue slid off him like a snake shedding its skin, and he gave her a straight face. “I’m one of the judges in the festival.”

  Mel’s eyes widened. “The pastry division?”

  He nodded.

  “But you and Vic can’t stand each other.”

  Dutch nodded.

  “Awkward,” Mel said.

  “Little bit,” Dutch said. “Which is why I need you.”

  Six

  “Does Vic know you’re one of the judges?” Mel asked.

  “I’m sure he must,” Dutch said. “I was surprised he left World Chef to come and be a judge. But then I’m sure when he realized it was another opportunity to screw me over, he jumped at the chance.”

  “Dutch, be serious.” Mel shook her head.

  “I am. They were filming in India, so why would he leave the shoot early unless he had a reason?” The bitterness in Dutch’s voice was as tart as Mel’s lemon curd but lacked its subtle aftertaste.

  “I sincerely doubt that Vic dislikes you so much that he would travel halfway around the world just to damage your career. If he left his cooking gig in Southeast Asia, it’s because it was done.”

  Dutch snorted. “He had no qualms about forcing the network to pull the plug on my cooking show.”

  “He didn’t force the network to sack you. You weren’t cooking,” Mel argued. “You were being a poser, and Vic called you out on it.”

  A flash of anger sparked in his dark eyes, and Mel grimaced, afraid she’d gone too far. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but she felt compelled to be honest.

  “So he got to you, too,” Dutch said. He spun away from the counter, anger in every line of his rigid body, then he turned back, looking defeated. “Even you believe the lies he spread about me.”

  “Dutch, I watched the show,” Mel said. “What were you doing? You had all these celebrities on, and if I remember right, they were supposed to be cooking with you, but you didn’t do much cooking. You did do a whole lot of dishing around the stove but not on plates. It was like watching a gossip show with recipes for cute appetizers.”

  Dutch opened his mouth to protest and then closed it again. Mel gave him points for knowing when he was beat.

  “So, what if I was toying with being a talk show host?” he asked. “I could have been good.”

  “On the Food Channel, they’re not really looking for the latest celebutante martini recipe,” Mel said.

  Dutch turned to look out the large front window. Mel studied his profile and watched his jaw clench and unclench.

  “You know why Vic went after you,” she said. “You have skills. You were one of the best in our class—”

  “Present company excepted,” he interrupted with a smirk.

  Mel had been a better student than Dutch, that was true, but she forged on to make her point.

  “It drove Vic crazy that you didn’t live up to
your full potential. He believed in you; that’s why he was so hard on you.”

  Dutch shook his head. He didn’t want to hear it.

  “He was always jealous of me. He knew I was going to be a bigger star than he was, and he stopped it before it could happen.”

  “Is your ego really that big?” Mel snapped. She was out of patience. “Do you really think Vic cares if you’re a star or not?”

  Dutch turned back to her and shook his head as if this conversation had not gone the way he’d expected and he was giving up.

  “Look, it doesn’t matter, that’s not why I’m here. I really do need you.”

  “Oh, so there is more to your visit than renewing our old friendship?”

  Dutch gave her a small smile, and she was reassured that there were no hard feelings between them.

  “Bertie Grassello is going to be judging the contest as well,” Dutch said.

  “Are you kidding me?” Mel asked. “Vic is going to have a stroke.”

  Bertie Grassello was another teacher from their days at the culinary institute. Both Mel and Dutch had studied with him as well as Vic. Dutch had been Bertie’s favorite, while he seemed to merely tolerate Mel.

  She had often suspected that Bertie disliked her because Vic favored her. Bertie opposed everything about Vic. It was no matter to Mel because, as far as she was concerned, Vic was the more talented of the two teachers and she learned more from him in a day than she did in a week of Bertie’s classes.

  “A stroke, huh?” Dutch asked. He grinned. It wasn’t a nice smile.

  “Yeah.” Mel wouldn’t be surprised if Vic popped a blood vessel over this, because if Dutch and Vic disliked each other, then Vic and Bertie absolutely despised each other.

  “Here’s the thing: Bertie has some business in the works that could be very good for me, and I was hoping if the opportunity presented itself, you’d put in a good word with Bertie for me, you know, remind him of my skills and charisma.”

  “Should I work this into my challenge to the chefs presentation?” Mel asked. “Maybe deliver my dessert plated in a raspberry syrup that spells out your name with hearts around it?”

  “You’d do that for me?” Dutch asked. “See? I knew you always liked me.”