“What kind of poison is it?”
“It’s a toxin in the seeds from a tree in India called the Suicide Tree.”
“Whoa,” he said. “You have a number for this doctor? I want to talk to him.”
Mel read it off to him.
“You know, if you ever get tired of the bakery,” Uncle Stan said, “I could probably get you on the force.”
Mel laughed. “I think I’ll stick with cupcakes.”
“Mel, if this is true and we can link Angie’s poisoning with Vic’s, then we have a real case for murder and attempted murder.”
“I know,” Mel said.
“Watch your back,” he said. “I’ll call you later.”
“Thanks, Uncle Stan,” she said.
Mel shut her phone. She studied the carefully xeriscaped land that surrounded the building. Decorative red gravel dotted with hesperaloe and spineless prickly pear cactus gave the squat red building a desert flare that was low on water intake and maintenance.
She watched as a hummingbird flitted over the aloe, looking for blooms. Her mind felt just like that tiny bird with its invisible wings. Her brain was flitting over all the information she had taken in over the past few days.
She was still standing there when Angie came out to meet her.
“What did Uncle Stan say?” Angie asked.
“He was interested,” Mel said.
“So, what are you doing out here?”
“Thinking,” Mel said.
“Oh, no.” Angie shook her head.
“What, I’m not allowed to think?”
“You’ve got that look.”
“What look?” Mel asked as they walked toward her car.
“The one that says you’re going to stick your nose where it does not belong.”
“That’s a look?”
“Yes, and for your information, it’s not attractive,” Angie said.
“I’m just going to look up an old friend and have a nice little chat,” Mel said. “No big deal.”
“What friend?” Angie asked.
“An old cooking school buddy,” Mel said. She was going for vague, hoping Angie would let it go. No such luck.
“Dutch. You’re going to talk to Dutch,” Angie said.
“Maybe,” Mel said.
“You can’t go alone,” Angie said.
“I have to,” Mel argued as they got into her car. She turned on the ignition and hit the gas, sending them out of the parking lot and out onto the street. “He’ll talk to me one on one. I’m sure of it.”
“He could be the killer!”
“I don’t think so,” Mel said. Although, she had to admit, she could be wrong.
“Take me with you or I’m telling Joe,” Angie said.
“No!” Mel argued. “You almost got killed. You’re not going anywhere near this thing again.”
“Fine.” Angie fished her cell phone out of her purse. She began to dial.
“Angie, don’t you dare!” Mel said.
“Then take me with you,” Angie said. She had her finger hovering over Joe’s name. One tap and the call would go through.
“All right, but I go in alone,” Mel said. “We stay connected through our phones, and you don’t eat or drink anything. Got it?”
“Roger, that,” Angie said and closed her phone without placing the call. “I’m so glad you’ve come around to my way of thinking.”
Mel rolled her eyes as she headed for the Hotel Valley Ho. She had a sinking feeling she was going to regret this in a big way.
Mel left her car with the valet, and they trotted into the lobby. Mel stopped at the desk and asked if they could place a courtesy call to Dutch Johnson’s room. The desk worker graciously placed the call, and Mel waited.
“Do you think there is an issue of impropriety with us talking to a judge the night before the final competition?” Angie asked.
“Don’t know, don’t care,” Mel said. “I’m not here to bribe him, so I don’t see why it would be.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, he’s not answering his phone,” the desk clerk said.
“That’s all right,” Mel said. “Thanks for trying. We’ll just go have a drink. Maybe he’ll turn up.”
“Excellent, ma’am,” he said with a smile.
“We’re not really going to stake out the place, are we?” Angie asked. “I mean we have a pretty big day tomorrow.”
“There’s more to life than winning a baking competition,” Mel said as she strode toward the bar but then did an abrupt turn and went to the elevators instead.
“I have to disagree. There really isn’t more to life than beating the apron off of Olivia Puckett for me. I still think she’s the one who poisoned our breakfasts at the café.”
“We have no proof that she was at the café when we had breakfast,” Mel said.
“Oh, please, she’s like the Wicked Witch of the West,” Angie said. “She probably sent one of her flying monkeys over to do it.”
“Call me crazy, but I think I would have noticed a flying monkey hovering over our food,” Mel said.
The elevator doors opened and they climbed inside. Mel knew that Jordan’s room had been next to Grace’s, and she was betting that if Dutch was anywhere to be found, it was in the hot young protégée’s room.
“You know what I mean,” Angie said. “She probably had one of her lackeys do it.”
“Do you really think it was Olivia?” Mel asked. “I know she’s crazy, but murder?”
“You saw that wacko light in her eye when she tried to keep us from entering the competition,” Angie said. “I’m telling you she’d do anything to beat us.”
“Okay, well how does she know about the Suicide Tree?” Mel asked. “Whoever used this poison had to have had access to the seeds from that tree, which only grows in India and Southeast Asia. You heard Dr. Patel. This isn’t a common poison.”
“Maybe she went on holiday there,” Angie said.
“And gathered deadly seeds just for giggles?” Mel asked. “No, I think someone planned this. I think it was someone who went to India recently.”
The elevator doors slid open, and Mel stepped out and strode down the hall to the room she knew was Jordan’s. She put her ear to the door, listening for voices, but there was none.
She gestured Angie to follow her, and they stood around the corner from the room. “Go ahead and call me.”
Angie did, and Mel answered her phone, opening a line of communication so Angie could tell if she was getting in over her head.
“Are we connected?” Angie asked.
“Yep, and the signal is strong,” Mel said. “Now, I’m going to knock and see if Dutch is there, but either way I’m going to talk to someone until I get some answers.”
“Just be safe,” Angie said, keeping her phone to her ear while Mel put hers in the front pouch of her purse.
“Will do.”
Mel left Angie and went back to Jordan’s door. This time she knocked.
She heard the rustle of someone moving behind the door. She waited, smiling into the peephole but not showing any teeth—yet.
The door swung open and Jordan stood there in highcut white shorts and a red halter top with matching strappy red high-heeled sandals.
“What do you want?” she asked. Obviously, she didn’t feel the need to play nice.
“I’m looking for Dutch,” Mel said.
“Why would he be here?” Jordan demanded, looking perfectly outraged.
“Because you’re sleeping with him and probably have been for a long time,” Mel said. It was a punt, but she had nothing to lose.
“I don’t know where you get your information—” Jordan began, but Mel cut her off.
“My Uncle Stan. You know, Detective Stan Cooper, we’re like this.” Mel crossed her fingers and held them up.
“Let her in,” a voice called from behind Jordan.
Twenty-seven
Jordan gave her a sour look and opened the door wide enough for Mel to stri
de through.
“Hi, Dutch,” Mel said. She glanced around the room. A cart with champagne and strawberries had been wheeled into the sitting area. “Cozy.”
Dutch ran a hand over his bald head and studied her through his dark eyes.
“What is it you think you know, Mel?”
Mel took a seat and helped herself to a strawberry, then she remembered that she wasn’t supposed to eat anything for which she didn’t know the point of origin. She placed it on a napkin as if saving it for later. Trying to look casual, she glanced up and studied them both. Dutch looked as smooth as ever, but Jordan appeared as twitchy as a treed squirrel.
“I think you know more about Vic’s death than you’re telling,” Mel said.
“You think I murdered the old blowhard, don’t you?” Dutch asked. He sat in the chair beside hers, a look of scorn marring his handsome features.
Mel shrugged. She really hoped Angie could hear her.
“Let me quote something I heard in passing, ‘What if someone finds out . . .’ or here is another little gem, ‘No one is going to find out what we did . . .’”
Jordan went pale and slumped into the chair beside Dutch’s, while he glowered at Mel.
“That was a private conversation.”
“Then why did I hear it?” she asked. “Maybe you shouldn’t talk about murdering people when you’re lounging poolside.”
“We weren’t talking about murder!” Jordan protested.
“Then what were you talking about?” Mel pressed.
“We borrowed something from Vic,” Dutch said. “And we were concerned that if people found out, they would think we murdered him for it.”
“Borrowed what?” Mel asked.
Jordan and Dutch exchanged a look.
“You may as well tell me,” Mel said. “Or I’ll tell Uncle Stan what I know.”
“What’s our guarantee that you won’t?” Dutch asked.
“There isn’t one,” Mel said.
Dutch was silent. Mel waited. She wondered if Angie would think their call had been disconnected. She started to get antsy but tried not to show it.
“All right, you remember how we always suspected that Vic didn’t give us his full recipes when we were in school?” Dutch asked.
Mel shrugged. “Of course, he always teased his students about having a secret ingredient for every recipe, but I never paid much attention. I thought he was kidding, especially since he said he wouldn’t tell me until, well, he said until he died. But it was just a joke.”
“That’s what I thought,” Dutch said. “But then, I found out it was true.”
Jordan nodded vigorously, and Mel stared at them, thinking they were both daft. Her face must have shown her skepticism because Jordan leaned forward.
“It’s true,” she insisted.
“So, you’re telling me that Vic really did withhold ingredients from his recipes to make sure that no one could replicate his dishes exactly?”
“Yes,” Dutch said. “You realize what this means?”
Mel frowned. “No.”
“It means he was a fraud,” Dutch said. “He really wasn’t a master chef, and he wasn’t a great professor. He was just a con man with a few tricks up his sleeve.”
“That’s a lie!” Mel snapped.
“Is it?” Dutch asked. “Then why did he commit suicide after Jordan revealed that she had discovered one of his secret ingredients?”
“He didn’t commit suicide,” Mel argued. “He was murdered.”
“I’m sorry, Mel, but that’s not what happened,” Dutch said.
Mel felt her throat get tight. “Have you told the police all of this?”
“No,” Dutch said. His confidence was oozing forth like cookie dough out of a store-bought tube. Mel hated that prepackaged stuff.
“Tell me what happened the day he died,” Mel demanded. “Don’t leave anything out.”
Dutch gestured to Jordan to speak with a wave of his hand.
“Well, I invited him to breakfast here in my room. I wanted to break it off with him gently.”
Jordan looked at Mel, and Mel got the feeling she was looking for approval. Well, she wasn’t going to get it. Mel gestured for her to continue.
“I was going to make omelets, but you know how fussy he was about his eggs,” Jordan said.
Mel nodded. Vic had been known for his exquisite skill with eggs. The pleats in a chef’s hat are supposed to represent the chef’s knowledge of how many ways to use eggs. In Vic’s case, Mel had thought they always needed to add a few pleats.
“So, I decided to make scones, you know how his scones were so rich and flaky and had that delicious but indefinable savory taste to them?”
“Oh, yes.” Mel had envied Vic’s scones forever.
“I wanted to show him that I did have some food skills, so I added his secret ingredient to them.”
“Okay, put the brakes on right there,” Mel said. “What secret ingredient?”
“It’s the one he used in a lot of his baked goods,” Jordan said.
“Yeah, I got that. What’s the name of it?” Mel asked.
Jordan glanced at Dutch and then back at Mel. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Mel asked. “Surely it had a name.”
“Um, actually no,” she said. “It was just in a plain spice bottle, and it had a handwritten label that said, For baking .”
“Did you tell the police about your breakfast?” Mel asked.
“I told her not to,” Dutch said. “I thought if they knew he’d been here, she’d be in trouble. So she just told them that she’d broken things off with him.”
“But left out that it was over a cozy little breakfast,” Mel said. Jordan opened her mouth to protest, but Mel waved her off. “So then what happened?”
“He tried his scone, but when I told him I’d added his secret ingredient for pastries and asked him if he was surprised, he got the strangest look on his face.”
“Strange how?” Mel asked.
“Well, he looked startled and then he got really pale. I thought he was going to have one of his temper tantrums, you know the kind where he yells a lot, so I quickly told him that I couldn’t see him anymore.”
“Nice,” Mel said. “Announce that you have the apparent key to one of his recipes and then dump him. You’re all heart.”
“Hey, I asked him if he was all right,” Jordan protested. Mel rolled her eyes. “But he just looked sickly. I thought maybe he was devastated that I had dumped him, but he got up from his chair and left without answering me. It was the last time I ever saw him.”
Jordan dissolved into tears with a noisy hiccupping accompaniment. Mel wanted to tell her to put a sock in it, but then she wondered if Jordan had really had some feelings for Vic.
She turned to Dutch. “And you really thought not telling the police any of this was a good idea?”
“Look, I’m starting a new gig with Bertie, and I don’t want any bad publicity mucking up my shot, you feel me?”
“Like a hemorrhoid,” Mel snapped. “Honestly, is success so important to you that you don’t care that Vic obviously left that breakfast in some distress and then he died?”
She jumped up from her seat and glared down at them.
“What did you expect us to do about it?” Dutch rose, matching her combative stance.
“Why did you really do it?” Mel asked Jordan. “Why did you cook him a meal using an ingredient that he supposedly kept to himself?”
“Well, to show him . . . that I . . . that we . . .” Jordan stammered and looked helplessly at Dutch.
“You made her do it, didn’t you?” Mel asked, turning back to Dutch. “You did this. You stole his lover and had her serve him one of his own recipes just to destroy him. Admit it.”
“I . . . it . . .” Dutch took a steadying breath. “Bertie made me do it. Bertie gave me the spice bottle and told me it was what Vic used in his baked goods. There wasn’t much in it, so I told Jo
rdan to use it all.”
“Why?” Mel asked. “Why would Bertie have you do this?”
“Because he hated Vic; you know that. If I wanted a spot on his show, he told me I had to sleep with Jordan and reveal to Vic that we knew he withheld ingredients from his recipes and that we had figured out what they were. That was the deal I made with Bertie to be his costar—basically I agreed to humiliate Vic.”
“What?” Jordan shrieked.
“Baby, I’m so . . .” Dutch reached for her, but she stumbled away from him.
“Oh, no, don’t you ‘baby’ me! I thought you did all this for me. I thought you did this to prove to Vic that we didn’t need him. I thought it was because you wanted me, not because you were involved in some twisted revenge scheme of Bertie’s to forward your own career.”
A knock like gunfire sounded on the door, but Dutch and Jordan were oblivious. Mel circled them and hurried to open the door. She had a feeling she was going to need backup.
There was Angie, holding two large soda spritzer bottles, looking ready to unload the contents should the situation warrant it.
“Where did you get these?” Mel asked as Angie handed her one.
“Passing bar cart,” she said and strode into the room. “Very fortunate that it passed by right when it sounded as if someone needed a cool-down.”
“You used me!” Jordan was shrieking now. “And I let you. I was just a way to get to Vic for you and Bertie, wasn’t I? Wasn’t I?”
Dutch raised his hands in the universal sign of surrender, which was an unfortunate mistake as it further enflamed the rage that was Jordan.
“Listen, sweetie,” he began, but Jordan let out a grunt and started looking around for a weapon.
“Get your target sighted,” Angie ordered. “I’ve got the brunette.”
Mel aimed the business end of her spritzer bottle at Dutch. Jordan began to hurl strawberries at him, which landed on Dutch’s shirt with a series of solid plops. When she was out of those, she grabbed ice cubes from the ice bucket. One nailed him in the eye, and he went down clutching his face. Jordan wasn’t done, however. She took the chocolate dipping sauce and upended the entire bowl on Dutch’s bent head.
“As much as I’m enjoying this . . .” Angie said, and Mel nodded. Enough was enough. Angie gave the order. “Fire!”
Death by the Dozen Page 20
