Mel whipped around to face the back hallway just as Angie came barreling through the curtain into the back room.
“Any sign of her?” Angie asked.
“Maybe,” Mel said. She stared down the hallway, listening to the water running in the bathroom. Please, please, please, let it be . . .
“Well, doesn’t that just figure?” Annabelle asked as she strode toward them. “It’s quiet all morning, and then the second you go to the bathroom, someone shows up.”
“You’re okay!” Mel cried. Impulsively, she threw herself at Annabelle’s big-boned frame and hugged her tight. “You’re not dead.”
“Oh, honey.” Annabelle hugged her back. “You need to calm down, maybe take a vacation or something.”
Mel let her go with a nervous laugh. “Ha, you’re right. I must be working too hard.”
Annabelle fluffed her close-cropped curls and then turned to Angie with a hug and a smile. “And how is our bride? Seven days to go! Are you ready?”
“More than,” Angie said. “I’m excited for the wedding, but I’m even more excited to have it over and be Mrs. Tate Harper.”
Annabelle clasped her hands over her heart and sighed. “Of all the events I arrange, flowers for weddings are my favorite. Yours aren’t here yet, but come on, I’ll show you what I just got in.”
Annabelle scooped up the irises and put them in water and then led them to the front of the shop. While she and Angie oohed and aahed over some of the fresh flowers, Mel took a moment to get herself together. Clearly, she had some issues if her first thought when Annabelle hadn’t been available was that she was dead. Seriously, what was wrong with her?
She had been around an inordinate amount of death over the past few years. She wondered if perhaps it was her own fault. Maybe she found all of these bodies, maybe bad things happened all around her, because she went looking for them. The thought disturbed Mel on a lot of levels.
“Did that daisy do something to offend you?” Annabelle asked.
Mel looked at her questioningly, and Annabelle pointed to Mel’s hands, where just the stem and one petal were left of an orange gerbera daisy Mel had been systematically stripping the petals off of without realizing.
Snatching off the last petal, Mel said, “He loves me. Phew!”
Angie looked at her as if she thought Mel was drunk or crazy, or drunk and crazy. Mel shrugged. Annabelle gave her a concerned look and took the stem out of her hands and threw it in the trash.
While Angie paid Annabelle for her flowers, Mel picked up the petals and then paced up by the front of the shop. She didn’t trust herself not to destroy any of the lovely arrangements and kept her hands in her pockets just in case.
With a wave, they left Annabelle and her flowers to head to the photographer’s studio. It was across Scottsdale Road, on a small side street, nestled in among the trendy restaurants and art galleries.
“Okay, what gives?” Angie asked as soon as the door shut behind them.
“What?” Mel asked.
Angie widened her eyes and said, “Come on, you know what. You started shredding flowers in there. What was that all about?”
“Nothing. I just had this random thought,” Mel said. “It was silly.”
“Good, then you won’t mind sharing.”
Mel pursed her lips. Angie was a badger. There was no way she was getting out of this.
“Fine, if you must know—”
“I must.”
They paused at the corner to wait for the crossing light.
“I just thought it was weird that my first instinct when Annabelle wasn’t readily available was that she’d been murdered. I mean, that’s weird, right?”
Angie squinted at her. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
Mel blew out a breath. “Okay, it also occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, the fact that I am always looking for something bad to have happened is what makes it happen.”
The light turned and the walk signal lit up. Angie opened her mouth to speak, closed it, then took Mel’s arm and pulled her across the street.
Once they stepped onto the curb, she looked at Mel and said, “Now, that is nuts.”
“Is it?” Mel asked. “I mean, isn’t there a whole philosophy that says whatever you put out there comes back to you?”
“So you think that by putting out thoughts of dead bodies or worst-case scenarios, that’s what makes them happen?”
“Yeah . . . maybe . . . no . . . I don’t know.”
“Listen, we’ve definitely had some crazy stuff happen to us since we opened the bakery, but don’t you think it’s because we work in a service industry with a whole lot of different people with all sorts of bad and good things happening in their lives?” Angie asked. “I mean, how many weddings, birthdays, retirement parties, etcetera, have we baked cupcakes for and nothing bad has happened? Quite the opposite, in fact—the person has had the greatest day ever.”
She began walking and Mel fell into step beside her.
“You’re right,” Mel said. “Maybe I just have a little post-traumatic stress going because the bad—when it’s bad—is so very bad.”
Angie nodded. “I’m sure that’s it, but since my wedding is coming up in a matter of days, why don’t we just hedge our bets, and you just keep picturing happy things in that head of yours?”
“Like puppies and kittens?”
“Yeah, or go big with unicorns and glitter bombs,” Angie suggested.
Mel laughed. Angie was right. She needed to chillax. Probably she was just nervous about the wedding. She was maid of honor, after all, which carried a lot of responsibility. Not that she thought Angie would pull a runner, but it was Mel’s job to get her to the church on time, dressed appropriately, and to be prepared to crack some skulls if anyone interfered with her best friend’s wedding.
“Okay, glittery unicorns it is,” Mel said.
“That’s my girl.” Angie paused in front of the photographer’s studio, pulling out her phone to check the time. Mel glanced over her shoulder and noted that they were right on schedule. Excellent.
Blaise Ione, the photographer, was a friend of Tate’s from his days in high school marching band. After graduation, Blaise had gone to art school and lived in New York City for several years, but when his aging mother needed him, he’d come home to Scottsdale to be nearby.
Blaise was a hard-core hipster and wore his short hair bleached white and paired it with his large Andy Warhol glasses, striped skinny pants, and pointy-toed shoes. He was exuberant, enthusiastic, and always made Mel laugh. She knew the wedding was safe in Blaise’s hands.
Although it was a small space, Blaise made the most of it with huge portraits decorating the black walls, and mid-century modern furniture that made a statement as well as provided a place to sit. Through the window, Mel studied one of the chairs, which looked to be molded out of cement. The statement she got was, This is uncomfortable, so move along, which, knowing Blaise, was exactly what he wanted it to say.
Angie pulled open the door, and a gong sounded somewhere in the back of the space. Leave it to Blaise to have an unconventional door chime.
“Blaise? Hello?” Angie called out.
Mel moved toward the wall to study the portraits. Blaise had done Tate and Angie’s engagement pictures and they were spectacular, managing to capture the longtime friendship that had morphed into romantic love between the couple.
Mel’s favorite shot had been taken in black-and-white in an old movie theater. In it, Tate and Angie were sharing a bucket of popcorn, the red and white stripes on the bucket the only pop of color in the photo, as they gazed at each other with all the love in their hearts. It made Mel water up every time she saw it.
Oh, and there it was on the wall! Blaise had added it to his display. Mel felt her throat get tight.
“Hey, I didn’t kn
ow he was going to put that up,” Angie said as she joined her. “That’s my favorite.”
“Mine, too,” Mel said. “Wow, it keeps hitting me that in a few days you’ll be married to Tate.”
“I know, right?” Angie grinned. “Say it again, it makes me dizzy.”
“In a few days you’ll be married to Tate.” Mel laughed and hugged her friend close. “I am so happy for you both.”
“Thanks,” Angie said. “Man, I can’t believe I spent all those years thinking he was in love with you.”
“Idiot.”
Mel’s voice was teasing when she said it, and Angie laughed and said, “Yep.”
They sighed and then looked around the studio. There was no sign of Blaise. They glanced at each other and Mel shrugged.
“Blaise, hello,” Angie cried out. “It’s Angie, your favorite bride.”
Silence greeted them. Mel felt the hair on the back of her neck begin to prickle. No, no, no! She wasn’t doing that again. She pictured a unicorn prancing through the studio. It didn’t really help.
“Probably he’s in the bathroom,” she said.
“Yeah,” Angie agreed. “I’ll just poke my head in the back.”
“Okay,” Mel said. Under her breath, she began to chant, “Unicorns and glitter, unicorns and glitter, come on, unicorns and glitter.”
Angie got halfway to the back and turned around. “Come with me.”
Mel nodded. She followed Angie to Blaise’s office in the back corner. It had no windows into the studio, just a door painted with black chalkboard paint, where people could scrawl messages for him. Several messages in different-colored chalk were there now, including one in bright blue that listed Angie’s name and the time. So he had been expecting them.
Angie knocked on the door. There was no answer. She rapped again. Still nothing. She reached down and grasped the handle, turning it and pushing in the door.
The office was a cluttered mess with papers and proof sheets and pop-art tchotchkes littering every surface. A life-size self-portrait of Blaise was on the wall opposite, and Mel almost greeted the picture instead of the man.
“Blaise, hey, are you napping on the job or what?” Angie asked.
Blaise was in his office chair, with his back to them as he faced his very large computer screen. The screen saver was on and the pattern was undulating all over the display. Mel followed it for a second, but then realized that Blaise sitting in front of the computer while the screen saver was on was wrong. So wrong!
“Blaise!” she cried.
She stepped around Angie and into the room to get a look at the photographer. He was sitting upright, staring at the computer with vacant eyes, his lips tinged a faint shade of blue. Mel reached out to touch his hand. It was icy cold. There was no pulse. No rise and fall to his chest.
Blaise Ione was dead.
Former librarian Jenn McKinlay is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the Bluff Point Romances, including Every Dog Has His Day, Barking Up the Wrong Tree, and About a Dog, as well as the Library Lover’s Mysteries, the Cupcake Bakery Mysteries, and the Hat Shop Mysteries. Jenn lives in sunny Arizona in a house that is overrun with kids, pets, and her husband’s guitars. Visit her website at jennmckinlay.com.
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Every Dog Has His Day Page 32
