“No problem,” Mel said. “We’ll just store our cupcakes in the cooler and pitch in until it’s time.”
“Fine. If you need anything, let me know,” Bonnie said. Her hair was up in a French twist, and her chic purple wraparound dress hugged a nice set of curves that made her look feminine without appearing too easy-access.
She and Mr. Zelaznik made quick work of unloading the cupcakes into the walk-in refrigerator in the kitchen. The executive chef and Bonnie seemed to be having a disagreement about the temperature of the cold soups, and Mel was more than happy to leave the kitchen before it turned ugly.
“Okay, Mr. Zelaznik,” she began, but he interrupted.
“Call me Marty, since I’m staff now and all.”
Mel smiled. “All right, Marty. I want you to work the room. Blend in as much as you can, and keep your ears open for any talk about Baxter Malloy.”
“Will do,” he agreed.
“Report back to me in the kitchen in forty-five minutes,” Mel said. She watched as he shuffled off in the direction of a cluster of ladies.
Go, Marty, go!
Meanwhile, she headed in the opposite direction: into the museum. As soon as she stepped through the door, she paused to check out the crowd. It was made up of the same people who always made up these events. You had your Generation O, as in
old
. These were the folks who still wore cowboy hats and chunky turquoise jewelry, who had been residents of the city since the 1950s, when Frank Sinatra used to sing for his supper at the Safari and when the introduction of air conditioning made Arizona more habitable.
Then you had your younger, more newly minted money, usually discernable by the amount of cleavage and leg being shown, although some of the older ladies were giving healthy glimpses of their gams, too. Zapping those pesky spider veins with lasers will do that for a gal, or so Mel had heard.
The men all looked the same: Old or new money, they sported potbellies and receding hairlines, thin gold watches, and citrus-scented cologne. Conversation revolved around golf handicaps, exotic cruises recently taken, and how much money they had spent on luxury cars for their wives.
The women ran the gamut of shapes and sizes. The only things they all seemed to have in common were expensive clothing, expensive hairdos, gobs of jewelry, and a withering disdain for the husbands who provided it all.
Mel grabbed an empty tray from a side table. She wandered through the room gathering empty glasses, keeping her head down and her ears open. She saw two women whispering together and leaned in close.
“She’s had more work than Joan Rivers.”
“Botox?”
“Collagen, an acid peel, and a full lift. Look, her eyebrows practically reach her hairline.”
Mel glanced up to see who they were whispering about. In a too-tight micro-minidress, she was easy to spot. Under a huge blonde weave, the woman’s face looked as if it were molded from plastic. When she spoke, her face didn’t even move. Creepy. Mel shuddered.
The guests were ushered into one of the larger galleries where banquet tables had been set up. Mel deposited her tray in the kitchen and grabbed a water pitcher, heading back out to the banquet room to fill up glasses as the guests seated themselves.
“I heard Malloy was bludgeoned to death with a Marc Jacobs stiletto.”
Bingo!
Mel circled back to stand near a gossipy gathering of women. The one speaking was one of the Generation Os. She was stout, dressed in clothes designed to hide extra pounds, her fingers sparkled with many rings, and her short hair was dyed the color of champagne. Her voice was hushed as she repeated her gossip, but it also carried a note of macabre delight.
“You would be wrong, Doreen,” said another woman. She was also of the older set. She was rail thin and her silver hair was cut in a stylish bob. She wore a Dolce & Gabbana floral dress with black trim, which set off a stunning onyx necklace with matching drop earrings and a large ring on her right hand.
She adjusted her napkin in her lap with the air of one who is used to commanding attention. The nine ladies dining with her all leaned forward, and one of the younger-looking ones whispered, “Oh, Beverly, what have you heard?”
Mel found herself leaning in as well. A dribble of ice water ran over her hand, and she jerked herself back, remembering that she was supposed to be a waitress. She snatched up a glass and began to fill it while the woman named Beverly spoke.
“Well, he was not bludgeoned, he was strangled.”
“I bet it was that slut he was on a date with,” one of the women said.
Mel bristled on her mother’s behalf and turned to glare at the woman. She was a buxom blonde, pushing fifty but trying to hold on to thirty-five with a clenched fist.
Mel’s eyes narrowed. She knew this woman. She was the one Joyce had snapped at in the dressing room at Dillard’s.
“I actually saw her the day before the date,” the woman said.
“You didn’t!” another woman gasped.
“I did,” the woman said. She looked smugly pleased to have the attention of the entire table. “Her name is something pedestrian. Joy . . . er, no. Joyce. That’s it. I imagine she has oodles of money, otherwise I can’t imagine what Baxter saw in such a frumpy little woman.”
Mel wanted to dump the entire pitcher of ice water into the shrew’s lap, but the older lady named Beverly in the onyx jewels lifted her water glass, and Mel had no choice but to fill it or blow her cover.
Beverly frowned at the blonde. It was obvious from her pinched expression that she did not like sharing the limelight.
She turned her head towards the blonde, raised a slim, penciled-on eyebrow, and asked, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but weren’t you dating Baxter, Elle?”
Mel glanced back at Elle, the blonde, who pouted and said, “A few times. Hardly worth mentioning.”
“Really? Didn’t he buy you that lovely pink solitaire?” Beverly asked.
Elle lowered her right hand under the table, but not before Mel caught a flash of pink. Beverly looked like a shark that smelled blood in the water and was circling back for the killing strike. “In fact, didn’t Baxter pay for your town-house and your Cadillac? One wonders, how are you going to maintain them now?”
The blonde flushed a sickly shade of red, and Mel knew it was no coincidence that she had been in the dressing room that day. She must have been following them in order to check Joyce out, no doubt to see who her competition was.
“Seems to me the police should be asking you some questions about Baxter’s death, especially if he was, oh, how shall I put it—moving on?”
“Trading up,” said another, and they all cackled.
Elle rose to her feet and tossed her napkin onto the table.
“Enjoy yourself now, Beverly. Your days of being among the elite are numbered.”
“Oh, am I to be replaced by you?” Beverly asked. Her eyes flashed angrily, and Mel got the distinct impression that there was a history between these two women and that this was more than just a power play among women.
“You’ve already had one heart attack. I don’t suppose you’ll survive another. More butter?” Elle picked up a small crock of butter and smacked it down on the table in front of Beverly. “Eat up.”
She whirled around, her hot pink Alexander McQueen dress flashing like a strobe light as she strode out of the room with a fury that spewed behind her like exhaust fumes.
“I never liked her,” the woman named Doreen said. “She’s just trash. I can’t believe she thinks she can get away with talking to you like that.”
Mel glanced at Beverly, who seemed completely unaffected by Elle’s outburst. In fact, she wore a small smile of satisfaction.
She glanced around the table at the ladies and said, “Oh, she won’t get away with it. Do you see that tall gentleman by the door? He’s a police officer.”
The women all turned to stare. Mel did, too, and her breath tripped on her inhale and left her gasping. Leaning against the wall watching their group was Detective Martinez. She could hear the blood rushing through her ears and felt her face get hot. Had he seen her? How would she explain?
As she watched, he turned and followed Elle as she stomped out the door to the museum. Mel went limp with relief.
“Do you really think it was Elle who killed Malloy?” one of the women squeaked. She had pointy features and short hair dyed a startling shade of red. She leaned close to the other women as if nervous.
“She had an awful lot to lose if he dumped her,” one woman said.
“I heard the police found his date buck naked and drunk in the Jacuzzi while he was dead in the pool,” said another.
“No!” gasped another woman
Now Mel had to curb the urge to dump the ice water on the lot of them.
“So, who was she? This Joy . . . er, Joyce person?”
“A gold digger, no doubt,” Beverly said. “You know the type, all blonde and tan and surgically enhanced. Probably just a younger version of Elle.”
Mel glanced around the table. Six of the nine remaining ladies definitely fit that description, and yet they nodded in accord with Beverly. Mel had to wonder: When a person became a stereotype, did they really not know it?
“What will happen to Malloy’s company?” one of the blondes asked.
“Will it go to his son?” another asked.
“Oh, I should hope not,” Beverly said. “He’s a disgrace. All those years at Juilliard, and he plays in a rock-and-roll band.” She sniffed in disgust.
The woman’s contempt made Mel feel warmer towards Roach, even though he was possibly a murderer and currently out with her best friend, than she would have if Beverly had approved of him.
“Oh, look, there’s Jay Gatwick,” the pointy-featured woman said. All eyes turned towards a table across the room.
“How did Poppy manage to bag him?”
“I heard that they met on the Ponte Vecchio in Firenze,” Doreen said. “He took one look at her and knew he had to marry her.”
A collective sigh went around the table, emitted by every woman except Beverly. She was looking at the Gatwicks with a contemplative stare.
“He is divine, isn’t he?” one woman asked.
“I don’t know,” Beverly said. “You know the old expression. If something seems to be too good to be true, it usually is.”
“Now, Beverly, just because he isn’t your Morty doesn’t mean he isn’t a fine man,” Doreen said.
A flash of pain crossed over Beverly’s face, and Mel recognized it for what it was. Grief. She’d seen the same anguished look on her mother’s face. So Beverly was a widow, then. Mel decided to forgive her for her uncharitable comments about her mother. She couldn’t help but feel empathy for anyone who had lost her spouse.
“No, he isn’t Morty,” Beverly said. “No one is.”
Mel glanced back over at the Gatwicks. Even though they were students in her cupcake class, she supposed it would be bad form to go over and say hello, seeing as she was posing as the hired help under false pretenses and all.
As the table went on to discuss the Gatwicks and the latest party Jay had thrown in honor of Poppy, Mel figured the good gossip was over and it was time to get back to the kitchen.
As she wound her way through the crowd, she tried to keep an eye out for Detective Martinez on the off chance he reappeared and recognized her. Hopefully he wasn’t looking too closely at the waitstaff.
She was halfway through the room when she felt a tap on her shoulder.
“Hello, Melanie.” It was Jay Gatwick. “What brings you here?”
“Dessert,” Mel said, gesturing at her white shirt and black pants.
“Oh, I didn’t realize you were catering,” he said. “I thought it was some other bakery. Poppy’s on the board, you know, and recommended you, but apparently the baker they had in mind has been doing it for years. Poppy got the distinct impression that the other board members were afraid of her.”
“Er, something must have happened. I was a last minute fill-in,” Mel said. It wasn’t a complete lie, she told herself.
“Well, aren’t we the lucky ones? We get to enjoy the ambrosia of your ovens.” That was the charm of Jay Gatwick. He could say the dopiest things and not sound at all like a dork. Very Cary Grant.
“Thanks,” Mel said.
“I owe you an apology, by the way,” he said.
“You do?”
“Yes, the other night at class, when you asked me if I’d heard of Baxter Malloy . . . well, I guess we’ve all heard of him now.”
“Yes,” Mel agreed with a heavy sigh.
“Poppy and I were wondering . . .” Jay paused as if uncertain of how to continue.
Mel decided to save him the trouble. “Yes, it was my mother he was with when he was found dead.”
“Oh.” Jay looked away. “I’m sorry. That must have been awful for her.”
“She was shaken up, but she’ll be all right,” Mel said. “She’s survived worse. I’m just afraid the police have fixated on her because she actually had money invested with Malloy and didn’t even know it.”
Jay gave her a hard look, and then in a hushed voice he said, “That describes most of this room.”
“What do you know?” Mel asked.
Jay took her elbow and steered her towards the wall.
“Look over my left shoulder,” he said. “See the man in the gray suit at table twelve.”
“The one with the
Magnum P.I.
mustache?” she asked.
Jay smiled. “Scottie Jensen, played for the Dodgers, headed for the hall of fame. Lost everything. I heard they foreclosed on his house yesterday.”
“That’s terrible,” Mel said.
“Check out table twenty,” Jay said. “See the old couple in matching sweaters?”
“His and hers Norwegian knits?”
“That’s Lester and Miriam Hargrave. Malloy wiped them out of billions.”
“Billions?” Mel squeaked.
“Probably, all they can afford are the sweaters,” Jay said with a shake of his head.
“What about that blonde who just stormed from the room?” Mel asked. “I heard she was dating Malloy.”