Death by the Dozen (30 page)

Mel had already lost track of how many people she had to thank for getting them through this past week.

Finally at eleven, she and Joe made their way over to the festival. Angie had texted that she was on her way, but she made no mention of Tate, and Mel had to wonder what had happened with them when Tate had brought her home last night.

“Melanie and dear Joe,” Mel’s mother greeted them at the entrance. She gave them each a hug and ushered them through the gate. “Can you believe it? The last day!”

“So did Ginny’s plan work?” Mel asked.

Her mother turned a faint shade of pink and looked away.

“What plan?” Joe asked.

“Oh, nothing really . . .” Joyce waved her hand but Mel ignored her.

“Ginny thought Mom might meet a man if she volunteered to work at the festival.”

Joe raised his brows. “So I expect you’re beating them off with a spatula, then.”

“Oh, dear Joe, aren’t you a love?” Joyce said, blushing an even deeper shade of pink.

He grinned and Mel rolled her eyes. Her mother and Joe adored one another, which was fabulous most of the time. It was only when they ganged up on her that she found it problematic.

“I hate to cut the love fest short, but I have to go,” she said. She kissed Joe’s cheek and then her mother’s. “I’ll see you two later.”

“Oh, Melanie, wait,” Joyce called after her. She hurried to Mel’s side, drawing something out of her pocket. “This came for you at the house. It looks very official.”

Mel glanced at the envelope before shoving it in her pocket. She didn’t have time for junk mail right now. “Thanks, Mom.”

She hurried to the conference room, where they were to cool their heels until showtime. She wanted to visit with Johnny Pepper and see if he knew anything.

With only four of them competing, the room was empty when Mel got there. She crossed it and knocked on Johnny’s door.

“What?” a snippy female voice called.

“It’s Mel, Johnny, open up,” she called.

The door was yanked open and out popped Johnny’s trademark blond tips.

“Mel, this isn’t a good time,” he said.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m just wondering what you’ve heard about Bertie’s death and what you think about it.”

Johnny stepped forward and leaned on his doorjamb. Mel glanced over his shoulder and saw a woman, holding a hair dryer, looking like she meant business.

“Heart attack in the bathtub seems pretty straightforward to me,” he said.

“Yeah, I suppose,” Mel said. “But don’t you think it’s odd that two of our judges are dead?”

“Yeah, I’m sort of feeling like this food fest is cursed,” he said without humor. “I’m surprised Felicity was able to strong-arm Grace into taking Bertie’s place. I’d have passed.”

“Agreed,” Mel said.

“Johnny, your product is going to dry out,” the hair lady called.

“Gotta go. Don’t tell anyone,” he said and glanced over his shoulder at the dominatrix-looking stylist, “but I’m afraid of her. See y’all on the stage.”

The door shut in her face, and Mel was left in the prep room alone. She had been leaning toward Bertie as Vic’s killer. It made the most sense. He was the one with the most to gain from Vic’s death. With Vic dead, there could be no more rivalry, meaning the studio couldn’t replace Bertie with Vic if they decided they didn’t like how it was going.

Of course, Dutch had a lot to gain, too, by joining forces with Bertie. But Bertie’s death was going to set him back. Without Bertie to give him another shot in front of the camera, how was Dutch going to get back into the spotlight ?

The door opened and Olivia Puckett entered. She had her usual sneer in place, and her eyes lit up at the sight of Mel.

“Well, well, well,” she said as she sashayed across the room. “Is poor little Melanie all alone?”

Mel felt her teeth clench as Olivia talked to her like she was a lost little toddler likely to burst into tears.

“Can it, Olivia,” she said and added with a smile, “Then it will taste just like your frosting.”

Olivia glared daggers at her but kept up the baby talk. “What’s the matter, don’t you have anyone to protect you from the big, bad world anymore?”

“I don’t need protecting,” Mel said, frowning. “What exactly is your problem with me?”

“You mean, other than the fact that you’re a spoiled little rich girl who pretends to work when really you just have your rich friend Tate Harper dump money into your business to make it look successful?”

“Let me get this straight: You’re mad because I have an investor in my business?” Mel asked. “For your information, I happen to work my butt off in that bakery. Those cupcake recipes are all mine, and I do most of the baking. Yes, Tate gave me start-up capital, but he also gets a cut of the profit, which given our success, is substantial.”

“Blah, blah, blah.” Olivia made a talking motion with her hand. “Try selling that somewhere else. I am not buying it.”

“You are such a . . .”

The door opened, halting Mel’s rant as Felicity Parnassus entered.

“Ladies,” Felicity greeted them with a bob of her head.

They barely had time to greet her in return as she trotted past them to Johnny’s door. She gave it a swift knock and then entered without even waiting to be invited.

Olivia was too much of a suck-up to continue their spat while an official was present, so they gave each other mutual looks of loathing before Olivia turned on her heel and headed for the coffee in the back of the room.

Mel glanced at her phone. She had another half hour of waiting at least. She was not going to sit in this room with Olivia. She felt weary all the way to her bones, and even though she would have given it her best, she was not up for another confrontation.

The festival was open, and the crowds were gathering. Mel noticed that the cooks from the restaurants that had booths looked as tired as she felt, and she wondered if the charm had worn off for them as well. Six days of cooking outside for gobs of visitors would do that.

“Mel!” a voice cried, and she turned, expecting to see Angie or her mother. Instead, it was Polly Ramsey, the cookie baker, who had also made the final four, running toward her.

“Hi, Polly,” she said. The young woman was breathless as she stepped into the shade with her.

“Can you believe the news about Mr. Grassello?” Polly asked, her breath still rasping.

“No,” Mel said, feeling suddenly sad for Bertie even though she had never been very fond of the old blowhard.

“It’s been such a crazy week,” Polly said. “Two judges dead and that mean Olivia Puckett giving me such a hard time. I can’t believe I made the finals.”

“Polly, come here!” an imperious voice commanded.

Mel looked past Polly to see her mother standing a few feet away from them, carrying an old-fashioned round cosmetic bag.

“I thought you weren’t going to let her in,” Mel said.

“I had to,” Polly sighed. “My dad asked me to, and he’s been working so hard during the competition, I couldn’t refuse. Now she’s going to have me wearing red lipstick and stinking of Shalimar.”

“Well, there’s no time like the present to tell her no,” Mel said. “If you don’t, she’ll be like this forever.”

“Forever?” Polly asked.

Mel nodded.

“Oh, gees, and I’ve just been offered an opportunity to test for a new television cooking show,” Polly said, fretting her lower lip.

“What?” Mel asked.

“I’m not supposed to say anything,” Polly said, cringing. “Promise you won’t tell.”

“Absolutely,” Mel said.

“Well, Grace, you know the woman married to Mr. Mazzotta, she asked me if I had any interest in television,” Polly said. “I was shocked, but she seemed to think that with my youth and skill, I would have real audience appeal, so she wants me to come with her to Los Angeles for a screen test next week.”

“That’s exciting!” Mel said. “You must be thrilled.”

Polly frowned. “I don’t know. I’m not sure that life is for me.”

“Well, you won’t know unless you try it,” Mel said. Polly was cute. Mel could see an audience loving her big smile and genuine warmth. With Vic gone, it made sense that Grace was looking for someone else to represent.

“It’s lucky for her that she discovered you, given Vic’s passing and all,” Mel said. She knew her voice sounded sad. “It’ll be good for Grace to have a new talent on whom she can channel her management skills.”

Polly frowned. “I suppose. Although she asked me the day before he died when I was just touring the staging area to get my bearings. She seemed very excited to make the offer.”

“I’m sure she did,” Mel said. She felt her mouth curve into a smile while her stomach twisted into a knot. There was something about this that she didn’t like.

“Polly Alexandra Ramsey, come here right now!” her mother demanded.

“I’d better go,” Polly said apologetically.

“Say no to the red lipstick!” Mel called after her.

Polly shot her a grateful grin over her shoulder and walked away with her mother nattering behind her.

Mel turned and looked out over the festival. She could see people clutching their taste-testing coupons. She didn’t know what to make of Polly’s news.

Grace had approached Polly about testing for a show. She could certainly see why—Polly was perky enough to be the next Rachael Ray—but still it didn’t sit well with Mel that Grace had approached her before Vic passed away, almost as if she had known that Vic’s career was over . . . for good.

Mel thrust her hands into her pocket and found the letter that her mother had given to her. It was probably just junk mail, but she opened it anyway, as it gave her muddled brain something to do.

It was a letter from an estate attorney. It was short and to the point. The attorney represented Vic Mazzotta’s estate, and as per the deceased’s request, upon his death the enclosed letter was to be sent to Mel.

An envelope, looking to be a bit yellowed with age, was included. She carefully pried open the seal and pulled out a small sheet of matching stationary.

Vic’s characteristic squiggly script appeared on the page, and Mel felt a lump form in her throat, as she read.

Mel laughed and had to pause to wipe the tears off her face before she could continue reading.

Sobs cut through Mel’s chest like her sharpest knives. Her tears dropped onto the paper, and she wiped them away, wanting to save this last bit of Vic so that she could keep him with her always.

Damn him, she would miss the old bastard so much, and as usual, he had managed to have the last word.

She stared at the letter in her hands. Vic had always joked that he would tell her his secret when he was dead. She had assumed it was a joke, but she knew he was serious. Vic did cook with love. His food was better than anyone else’s because he loved the food he cooked with and the people for whom he cooked.

She stared off into the crowd. Then what the hell had Jordan and Dutch been talking about? All the rumors that Vic left out seemingly insignificant but ultimately critical ingredients were just that—rumors. Vic didn’t leave out any ingredients in his recipes; he was just a better cook than the rest of them because he’d honed his skills and cooked from a place deeper inside himself than the rest of them.

So, what had Bertie given them to use on Vic’s scones? Mel felt fear’s chilly fingers creep up her spine in a scary tickle.

“Mel, where have you been?” Angie raced down the sidewalk, ducking around visitors in her hurry to reach her. “Didn’t you notice the time? We have to get to the staging area, like now!”

“Oh!” Mel stuffed the letter back into her pocket and wiped her face.

“What’s wrong?” Angie asked.

“Nothing,” Mel said as she snuffled. “Just an allergy attack.”

“Well, shake it off,” Angie said. “We have to go.”

Mel bolted up from her spot in the shade. She followed Angie as they made their way against the crowd toward the stage.

Now that it was the finals, the area seemed even more congested than ever. Mel and Angie took their spot in their kitchen. The chefs from Molly’s Moonpies were in theirs while Polly and Olivia hurried into their spots, too.

Mel looked out over the crowd. Her chest still hurt when she thought of Vic’s letter, but she saw Joe in the crowd and the sight of him bolstered her. His brothers, including the married ones with their families, and Mr. and Mrs. DeLaura were also there. She and Angie waved, and the whole group waved back, and one of them let loose an air horn that made everyone in the vicinity jump.

Mrs. DeLaura spun around and gave them her scarymama look. Mel didn’t think she imagined it when Tony got noticeably shorter.

Next to the DeLauras, Tate was standing with Mel’s mother, who gave them a thumbs-up and jumped up and down in excitement.

In no time, Johnny Pepper was taking the stage. His hair didn’t have a blond spike out of place, and he was carrying his usual large white box.

Mel leaned close to Angie and said, “I’m beginning to hate the white box.”

“Maybe he’ll let us burn it when this is over,” Angie said.

They exchanged a smile, and Mel was grateful to have Angie by her side for this final round.

“Many of you are aware that we lost a dear friend last night. Our judge Bertie Grassello, a legend in the food world and a close personal friend to many of us, passed away from a heart attack early last evening,” Johnny said. “Bertie, you will be missed. Let us observe a moment of silence for our friend.”