Death by the Dozen (24 page)

She had come to suspect that although he looked pretty tough on the outside, he was a big marshmallow inside. Bullies loved targets like Oz. The bigger the victim, the tougher the bully felt.

Mel didn’t doubt that the same type of bullies who had made her chubby years hell on earth found Oz an easy target as well. Still, he couldn’t be missing school.

With the booth backs between them, she felt as if they were in a retro fifties confessional. Maybe that was why Oz had been square with her. She glanced down; she could see his size thirteens sticking out of his bench. The tips of his Converse high-tops kept tapping against one another. He was nervous; he was afraid he was in trouble. Mel decided to put him at ease.

“I was the fat kid in school,” she said. “From grades K through eight, I was the porker, the one who always had a candy bar stashed in my cubby, my backpack, my locker. I even put one in my training bra once. It melted. Not a good plan, but it was an especially bad term.”

She glanced down. The Converse had stopped tapping.

“I was lucky,” she said. “My dad was a funny guy, and he always knew just what to say to make things better. I never realized what a gift that was until he was gone. But I also had a couple of friends, Tate and Angie, who got me through the worst of it. Oh, I still got picked on in high school, but it wasn’t as bad.”

“I never knew my dad,” Oz said. “My friend Lupe looks out for me, but she’s younger and we’re not in a lot of the same classes.”

“Do you feel afraid?” Mel asked.

Oz was silent for a while, and then he said, “No, just sad.”

Mel lifted up her arm and rested it on the back of the booth. After a moment, almost hesitantly, Oz’s hand appeared beside hers. She patted his hand and then asked, “Do you want me to come to your school and kick some bully ass?”

A shocked laugh erupted from Oz, and like the rest of him, even his laugh sounded too big and it boomed around the room, making Mel laugh with him.

He sat up and peered over the back of the bench. “That would be something.”

“If I bring Angie, it’ll be ugly,” she said.

A grin appeared below his shaggy bangs.

“Oz, I’m going to write your counselor a note about what all has been happening here, and I’m going to take full responsibility for your absences, but you have to promise me you’ll start going to your classes and maintaining your grades.”

“Do I still get to work here?” he asked. His voice was just above a whisper.

“Absolutely, but not before your last class, which I believe lets out at noon, correct?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Okay, I don’t want to see you before twelve thirty, then,” Mel said. “And I wasn’t kidding. We’re going to work out a way for this to be a paid internship. You have certainly earned it.”

His grin flashed back into place, and Mel felt relieved that she hadn’t screwed up. Of course, she still needed to convince his counselor that this was a good idea, but she’d worry about that later.

Captain Jack was still asleep on his pillow when Mel went into her apartment. At least he hadn’t slipped into that alternate dimension cats seemed capable of disappearing into on a whim. She did not need to be scared like that again.

Mel checked her messages. The first was from Joe telling her that he was on duty to watch Angie at her house tonight. Mel thought about stopping by, but knowing Angie, she was probably full up on people at the moment. Besides, it would be good for them to have some time together.

The second message was from Mel’s mother, Joyce.

“Melanie, dear Joe told me that he is watching his sister tonight, such a good man, and we both agreed that you should spend the night with me.” Here the message paused. “Are you there, Melanie? Please pick up. Oh, you’re probably still closing up. All right, I’ll call back in a half hour. Love you. Bye.”

Even though Mel had always had voice mail, her mother always seemed to think she could hear the messages being recorded. Mel had tried to explain voice mail to her mother, but it hadn’t taken.

She glanced at the clock. Her mother would be calling back in ten minutes. Mel didn’t want to spend the night at her mother’s. She knew she had to be careful, but really, who could poison her in her own apartment?

Now the trick was going to be avoiding talking to her mother at all costs. Joyce wielded guilt like a swordsman used a rapier. Mel would be tucked into her old bed at her mother’s faster than she could say “no thank you” if she spoke to her directly.

She supposed she could go down and hide in her kitchen and get some baking done, but the idea did not appeal. She could unplug her phone and just ignore it, but then her mother would probably drive over to check on her.

She paced around the small room, trying to pinpoint what exactly was making her so reluctant to go stay with her mother. She couldn’t describe it, except to acknowledge a feeling of restlessness that was consuming her from within, licking at her like the flames of a slow-burning fire.

There was so much on her mind between Vic’s murder, the challenge to the chefs competition, and Angie’s poisoning that Mel felt as if her brain was full. She knew she wouldn’t feel better until she knew what had happened to Vic and who had poisoned Angie.

She thought about the conversation between Dutch and Jordan. If Grace hadn’t interrupted, she may have learned more about what they had done.

Now what was she supposed to do? She couldn’t exactly go to Dutch, admit she’d been eavesdropping, and demand an explanation. And she definitely couldn’t approach Jordan, who was quite clear in her dislike of Mel. Who else would know if the two of them were in cahoots? And who would care other than the police, who really couldn’t do anything without more than hearsay to go on?

Grace. If anyone cared about what happened to Vic, it was Grace. Mel glanced out the window. It was dark. She decided to take her car over to the Valley Ho and see if Grace had learned anything about how Vic had died. If Uncle Stan was right and Vic had been poisoned, too, then it stood to reason that the police would tell Grace first.

Mel left a light on, patted Captain Jack on the head, and locked up her apartment. With a renewed sense of purpose, she headed toward the lot where her car was parked.

Perhaps it was just the crazy week she’d been having, but Mel clicked the unlock button on her key fob and jogged to her car. She always parked under one of the two streetlights in the parking lot, and she climbed into her car and locked the door, feeling an urgency she couldn’t explain.

She turned the key and stomped on the gas, moving the stick shift through the first three gears as she built up speed. Luck was on her side. Five traffic lights to get through and not one was red.

She pulled up in front of the valet. It wasn’t the one she’d had watch her bike. She handed him her keys and hurried through the main door on her way to Grace’s room. She supposed she could use a courtesy phone, but for some reason she didn’t want to take the time.

She took the elevator up and hurried down the hallway. She knocked three times and waited. She felt awkward in the hotel hallway as if she were up to no good, but that was ridiculous. She was just checking on a friend. Yes, Joe would be furious that she hadn’t taken someone with her, but this was Grace, for pity’s sake. Mel had known her as long as she’d known Vic.

The door opened and a woman in a fluffy white dressing gown answered. Her hair was wrapped in a towel, but Mel could see right away that it wasn’t Grace.

“I’m sorry,” Mel said. “I’m looking for Grace Mazzotta.”

“You and everyone else,” the woman huffed. “You’re the third person today to come knocking. I’m really going to have to complain.”

“Do you know where she is?” Mel asked.

“No, like I’ve told everyone else, I don’t know her,” the woman snapped. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a bath waiting.”

She shut the door with a firm snap, and Mel knew there would be no point in trying to ask her any more questions.

Great, now what? She supposed she could call Uncle Stan, but he probably didn’t know anything yet. She could try and talk to Dutch, but he was the king of deny, deny, deny. She’d seen him when he tried to date three girls at the same time when they were in cooking school. He had been such a cad back then, and judging by the conversation she’d overheard between him and Jordan, he hadn’t changed much.

No, she needed to talk to Grace. She went back to the elevator, where there was a small table with a courtesy phone. She dialed the front desk and waited for the very gracious clerk to answer.

“Hi, this is Melanie Cooper,” she said. “I’m a friend of Grace Mazzotta’s. I was hoping to stop by her room for a quick visit, but I’ve misplaced the room number. Could you assist me?”

“Certainly, Ms. Cooper,” the clerk said. “Let me check with Mrs. Mazzotta.”

There was a few moments pause before the clerk came back on the line.

“Ms. Cooper? Mrs. Mazzotta said to let you know that she has moved to one of our ground-floor rooms. The number is eleven. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Oh, no, you’ve been very kind, thanks.” Mel hung up the phone. Ground floor was good.

She went back to the reception area and out the patio doors to circle the pool area. She couldn’t blame Grace for switching. She could only imagine that the reporters were dogging her every step since Vic’s body was found.

She rapped on the door, It was answered swiftly as if Grace had been waiting on the other side for her. Mel blinked as she found herself face to face with Bertie Grassello.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought this was Grace’s room.”

“It is.” Grace appeared from behind Bertie. “Thanks for the condolences, Bertie, it was good of you to drop by.”

Bertie stared at them nonplussed, and then he pulled himself upright and gave a quick jerk of his head. “All right. I won’t belabor my point, then. You’ll think about what we discussed?”

“Of course,” Grace said.

“Then good night,” Bertie said and departed.

“What was that all about?” Mel asked as she followed Grace into the luxurious room.

“Bertie is having an identity crisis, I’m afraid.” Grace shook her head. “He’s been Vic’s rival for so long, he doesn’t quite know who he is if he’s not the man battling Vic for the spotlight. He seems to think I’d like to manage his career for him.”

“Would you?” Mel asked.

“A woman has to eat,” Grace said. Then she shrugged.

“Interesting,” Mel said.

“And what brings you by so late?” Grace asked. “Not an identity crisis of your own, I trust?”

“No, nothing so simple,” Mel said. “Grace, you mentioned before that you thought Vic might have committed suicide. Do you really believe that?”

“I don’t know what to believe,” Grace said. She led Mel out onto her balcony. It was bigger than the last, and Grace lit up a cigarette. She stared out across the grounds as she blew out a plume of smoke.

“Vic was not an easy man, but the thought that someone might have murdered him . . .” Her voice trailed off and she shook her head. “I almost wish it was suicide so that at least it would have been on Vic’s terms.”

Mel could understand that. Vic had such a strong personality. She didn’t like the idea that someone else had snuffed out his life against his will. It was very unlike Vic to be at anyone’s mercy. It was one of the things she had always liked about him.

“How’s your friend?” Grace asked.

“She’s better,” Mel said. “Thanks.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Grace took another drag of her cigarette. As she blew out the smoke, she asked, “So, what can I do for you?”

“Tell me who you think killed Vic,” Mel said. She hadn’t been planning to say it quite so plainly, but now that the words were out, she felt relief.

Grace sat back on the cushy seat of her patio chair. She was quiet for a moment. Mel watched her face. She watched the lines get deeper around her eyes, the corner of her mouth turn down. Her shoulders drooped as if she were cloaked in a blanket of sadness.

Mel waited, knowing that she was being about as insensitive as a person could get, asking the grieving widow to speculate about her husband’s death, but still she didn’t take back the question.

Whoever had killed Vic had harmed Angie as well, making it all the more personal. Mel couldn’t let it go. Not now, not until the person was caught.

“I don’t know,” Grace finally said. “I wish I did but I just don’t know.”

“But you must have some idea,” Mel persisted.

“I don’t!” Grace snapped. She stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray that was already overflowing. “Don’t you think I wish I did? Don’t you think the police have grilled me for information that I wish I knew to give them? Don’t you think I’ve lain awake every night since the murder, trying to recall some moment, some snatch of conversation, something that would tell me who killed my husband?”