Death by the Dozen (21 page)

“Don’t look at me,” he said. “You did that all on your own.”

“But . . . oh, man, I have to get that recipe.”

“Yes, you do,” he agreed. His plate was empty, and he was looking at the box with longing.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Mel said. “The last one is for Angie. Speaking of which, I want to get back to her.”

“Agreed,” Joe said. “Will the little guy be okay?”

“I think so,” Mel said. She watched Joe reach down and give Captain Jack a scratch under the chin. The white ball of fluff gave a contented purr, and Mel had a feeling her males were bonding. She refused to acknowledge how charming she found this entire situation or to dwell on how much it scared the baloney out of her.

It wasn’t that she was commitment phobic, she told herself. Really. It was just that she’d been single for a long time, and although she loved dating Joe, she wasn’t sure she was ready for the “24–7 together” thing or the “coparenting a pet” thing.

She reached down and rubbed Captain Jack’s head, and he let out a big yawn. As they shut the door behind them, he was kneading a fluffy pillow on the futon, looking ready to pass out.

When they arrived in the waiting room, most of the DeLauras were still there. They were watching a movie on the TV, and someone had brought in a load of subs from DeFalco’s Italian Deli. They appeared to be camped out for the duration.

“How did it go, Mel?” Paulie asked. “Did you make the cut? Angie’s been anxious.”

“I think we may have pulled it out,” she said. “Do you think I could go see her?”

“You might want to ask her husband,” Dom said and gave Tate a firm nudge in the ribs.

Tate rubbed his side and said, “I’ll call back and see if they’re letting her take visitors.”

He went to use the phone on the wall beside the door that led to the ICU. In a moment, he turned and waved Mel and Joe forward.

“It’s a go,” he said. As the door was unlatched, Tate grabbed Mel’s arm. “Tell her if she needs anything, anything at all, to let me know.”

“I will,” Mel said.

The air in the ICU was suffused with the harsh astringent smell of disinfectant and body odors that Mel didn’t care to dwell on. She forced herself to think of Oz’s cupcake instead and tried to deconstruct the ingredients in her mind.

The corridor ended in a circle with the nurses’ station in the middle and the rooms jutting off it. Joe paused beside Angie’s room. Her curtain was pulled shut, and they eased around it, afraid to disturb her if she was sleeping.

Angie turned her gaze from the window, and her face lit up as soon as she saw them. She struggled to sit up, but Joe hurried forward and pushed her back down.

“Don’t get excited or we’re leaving,” he ordered.

Angie ignored him. “How did we do? Did you make it in time? Did we win?”

“We did all right—better than all right, in fact,” Mel said. “And we owe it all to Oz.”

Angie’s eyes went wide. “Explain.”

Mel told her the entire story. Angie hooted with triumph when the story finished.

“We have to hire him,” she said. “If we win, he gets a cut of the prize.”

“Absolutely,” Mel agreed. “I was so late. I never could have put together an entry, and his cupcake was superb.”

“You have to check the leader board,” Angie said. “First thing tonight when you go home and then call me. And Joe, you have to stay with her. Don’t let her out of your sight.”

“Angie—” Mel began, but Angie interrupted her, “No, this poisoning was no accident. I’m telling you it was meant for you.”

“Joe said that before, but I just can’t believe anyone would want to win this competition so much that they would poison one of us.”

“I think both of our meals were poisoned,” Angie said. “I’ve been lying here thinking about it, and I bet they were trying to take you out, but they would have to have poisoned both of our breakfasts since there would be no way for them to know what you had ordered. Mel, if you hadn’t gone to the bathroom, we might both be dead.”

“I hope you’re wrong,” Mel said. A shudder coursed through her at the thought that Angie might have died. “I couldn’t stand it if some nut harmed you while trying to get to me. That would mean this is my fault.”

“No, it isn’t,” Angie and Joe declared at the same time.

Mel looked at them.

“It’s not your fault if some wacko thought that poisoning you would give them a better shot at winning a cooking contest,” Joe said. “That’s out of your control.”

“Does Dr. Patel have any more information?” Mel asked.

“No,” Angie said. “He’s still trying to figure out exactly what the poison was, but he did say he thought it was something that would have an immediate reaction, which means it had to be in my breakfast at the café. It was my first meal of the day.”

“Did we see any of our competitors there?” Mel asked. “All I saw were a few of the judges.”

“Just because we didn’t see them doesn’t mean they weren’t there,” Angie said.

The phone beside her bed began to ring. She reached for it, but the tubes she was tied to made it too difficult. Joe grabbed it for her and handed it to her.

“Hello,” she said. There was a pause and then her voice got soft. “Oh, hi.”

Mel figured it had to be Roach, Angie’s boyfriend, and she glanced at Joe, who was watching his sister with a face full of unhappy.

“Come on,” Mel said.

He looked exasperatedly at her as if he couldn’t believe she was dragging him away from the perfect opportunity to eavesdrop on his sister.

She took him by the arm and pulled him away. She stopped only to wave at Angie to let her know she’d be back.

“I can’t believe you’re letting her have her privacy,” Joe said. “Last I heard she was pouting because he wasn’t calling as much as he had been.”

“Yeah, then he sent her a cuckoo clock from Germany to tell her how cuckoo he was about her, and all was forgiven.”

“How did Tate take that?” he asked.

“I believe he wanted to vomit,” Mel said.

“I don’t blame him,” Joe said. “Poor bastard.”

“And yet, he must have been the one to call Roach, because I didn’t and I’m sure Angie didn’t,” Mel said. “It’s like he wants to lose her.”

They stopped beside the exit door to the ICU. Mel went to hit the electronic button that would release the door, but Joe grabbed her hand, stopping her.

“He doesn’t want to lose her,” he said. “Quite the opposite, I’m betting. I think he called Roach because he thinks it’s the right thing to do, and that if he and Angie are meant to be together, he wants it to be because he won her fair and square, not because he withheld information from his competition.”

“Is that what you would do?” Mel asked him.

Joe kissed her quick and hard on the mouth and then lightly brushed her bangs off her forehead with the back of his fingers. “Nope, when it comes to you, Cupcake, I play dirty.”

And there it was, the grin that had made her weak in the knees since the first day he had strolled into her life when she was twelve. Mel felt a little light-headed, and she shook her head, trying to clear it as he took her hand and led her back into the waiting room. To Mel’s surprise, Uncle Stan was waiting there, and he looked grim.

“How is she?” he asked.

“Feisty as ever,” Mel said. She noticed everyone in the room was listening, and at her words the tension level seemed to drop like the temperature on a winter’s day.

“Good, that’s good,” he said. He glanced at the room full of DeLauras. “How about we take a walk and I buy you a cup of coffee. You look like you could use a pickme-up.”

“Am I invited, too?” Joe asked.

“If you must, but then the coffee is on you,” Uncle Stan said. “Rule of deepest pocket.”

“How do you figure?” Joe asked. “We’re both public servants.”

“Yeah, but the suits make more than the badges, so you can pony it up, pretty boy,” Uncle Stan teased.

Mel knew that Uncle Stan was just yanking Joe’s tie, as it were. They’d been friends even before Mel started dating Joe, and their affection for one another was always demonstrated through put-downs. She figured it had to be a lawenforcement thing.

“Fine, but we’re not getting any of that vending machine swill you like,” he said. “We’re going to the cafeteria.”

They left the ICU and made their way to the first floor. People in scrubs as well as visitors filled the room, but Mel, Joe, and Uncle Stan managed to get their coffee and then went to sit in the courtyard just off the cafeteria.

It was shaded from the direct blast of the sun, but the afternoon air was still warm and Mel was grateful to be outside, away from the chilly air-conditioning.

Uncle Stan led them to a table in the back, and when they sat down, he said, “So, you’re not just putting on a brave face for the family? She really is doing better?”

“Compared to being huddled in an unconscious ball under a table, yeah, I’d say she’s doing better,” Mel said. “Why?”

“Does the doctor know what did this to her yet?”

“He only knows that it was a fast-acting poison reminiscent of digitalis something or other, like foxglove, but he can’t pinpoint exactly what it was. I’m just glad he’s finding it treatable.”

“She’s going to have to keep the electrocardiogram on and they’re still treating her with potassium chloride, but so far her recovery looks promising,” Joe added. “Why the interest, Stan?”

“I care about her,” Stan said. “She’s always been my favorite DeLaura.”

“No doubt,” Joe said. He took a sip from his steaming cup of coffee and added, “But I know you. What’s going on in that cop head of yours?”

“I talked to the medical examiner about Vic Mazzotta,” he said. “It looks like he died of cardiac arrest, but we can’t tell if it was before or after he ended up in the freezer.”

Mel and Joe exchanged a glance.

“And?” Mel prompted him, knowing there had to be more.

“I got his doctor’s name from his wife, Grace,” Stan said. “When I talked to the doctor, I asked if he had a history of heart disease. The doctor said no.”

“Well, that doesn’t mean it couldn’t have been natural causes,” Joe said. “Some people don’t know they’re high risk until they have a heart attack.”

“Except Mazzotta just had a stress test a few weeks ago, and according to the results, he had the ticker of a twenty-five-year-old.”

“You think he was poisoned by the same person who got Angie,” Mel said.

“I’m just saying it’s possible,” Stan said. “I’m having the ME run some toxicology tests, and we’ll know more soon. We’ve also questioned the kitchen staff at the café, and no one saw anyone in the kitchen who shouldn’t have been. We were hoping to retrieve your breakfasts from the café’s garbage to test them both for poison, but the city truck had already picked up by the time we got there.”

“You know what this means,” Joe said to Uncle Stan.

“We need to watch her around the clock” Uncle Stan said.

“I’ve got the night shift,” Joe said. “And I can work out a schedule with the brothers to cover the rest of the hours in the day.”

“What about me?” Mel said. “I want to help.”

They both looked at her with identical expressions of confusion.

“I want to help watch over Angie, too,” she said.

“Oh, honey, we’re not talking about Angie,” Uncle Stan said. “We’re talking about you.”

“Me?” Mel blinked.

“I think Stan is right,” Joe said. “If Vic was poisoned, then whoever did it to him went after you.”

“But why?” Mel asked. “There is no purpose in poisoning me. Vic, sadly, had a lot of enemies, but I don’t.”

“Don’t you find it odd that Vic was judging the competition, you were his favorite student, he dies, probably poisoned, and then your sous-chef ingests poison that was most likely meant for you, too?”

“But that’s mental,” Mel said. “I mean it’s not like we’re having a million-dollar bake-off. It’s ten thousand dollars and a plaque, not really worth murdering three people over.”

“Mel, why are you in this competition?” Stan asked.

“Because it will bring prestige to the bakery, it’s excellent publicity, and the cash prize is a nice chunk of change.”

“Mel, we talked about this. You’ve got competitors who see this as the leap to a television career on the Food Channel,” Joe said. “This is like
American Idol
for chefs to them.”

“But that’s ridic—” Mel cut herself off as she remembered Polly Ramsey, the cookie baker, telling her that her mother had high hopes that Polly would get noticed and picked up by the network.

“What are you thinking?” Stan asked. His gaze was shrewd.

“That I hate to admit it, but you might be right about some of my competitors. This is more than just a baking competition for them.”

“And not just your baking competitors,” he said.

“What do you mean?” Mel asked.

“Bertie Grassello is replacing Vic on his show, right?” Uncle Stan asked.

“Yeah,” Mel said. “And he’s taking Dutch Johnson along with him.”

“Well then . . .” Uncle Stan trailed off, waiting for her to put it together.

“You think some of the celebrity judges don’t want to be outshined by the competing chefs?” she asked.

“Namely, you and Angie,” Uncle Stan said.

“I hate to puff up Stan’s already substantial ego,” Joe said. “But he’s got something there. You and Angie are young, fun, and easy on the eyes. The Food Channel would be lucky to have a show featuring you two.”

Mel frowned and said in a doubtful tone, “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Stan barked. A couple at the next table looked over, and he cleared his throat and took a sip of his coffee. “Look, I’m going to post a uniform in the ICU to look after Angie just to be on the safe side, but I don’t think she was the target. That being the case, I’m also going to have some undercovers patrolling the festival and keeping an eye out for anything suspicious.”