Red Velvet Revenge (23 page)

Angie stood, staring after him, looking stricken. She turned and glanced at Mel.

“Ange,” she said, rising up out of her seat.

Angie shook her off with a shake of her head. Then she bolted through the small door that led to the rooms above.

Mel let out a breath and sank back into her seat. Both Tate and Angie were her best friends, so whom did she go after? Or for once in her life should she just mind her own business and stay put?

“‘We’re the last of the holdouts,’” a voice quoted from behind Mel’s chair.

She spun around to find Jake Morgan standing there.

“
The Outlaw Josey Wales
,” she said, identifying the movie.

He lowered his head in acknowledgment. “I noticed you all like to quiz each other. I figured you’d know a classic.”

“Clint Eastwood and me are like that,” Mel said, and she held up crossed fingers. Jake smiled.

“Can I buy you a beer?” she offered.

“No, thanks,” he said. He held up a mug with dark liquid. “I’m sticking to root beer, as I’m on duty.”

“On duty?”

“I’ve been shuttling the drunks up from the dance for the past hour in my truck. Apparently, the punch got spiked again. It happens every year, so I try to get as many folks home as I can.”

“That’s nice of you,” Mel said, and he shrugged, as if he didn’t think it was particularly nice of him; it was just what he believed one neighbor should do for another.

“I couldn’t help but notice the…uh…” His voice trailed off as if he didn’t know how to describe the scene between Angie and Tate.

“It’s all right,” Mel said. She gestured for him to take Tate’s abandoned seat. “I don’t know what to make of them myself. And you’re right: I do feel like a bit of a holdout. I mean, they’re both my friends; I don’t want to look like I’m choosing sides.”

She took a long sip of beer.

“I think staying out of it is probably the wise choice,” Jake said.

“So, you like old movies?” Mel asked. She desperately wanted to talk about something besides Angie and Tate.

“Westerns, mostly,” he said. A slow grin crept over his face, making him handsome in a rough-and-tumble sort of way. “Big shock, huh?”

Mel laughed. She liked Jake. He was a no-nonsense kind
of person, and, given the state of the ridiculous surrounding her right now, she really appreciated his down-to-earth way.

“So, how did it go with the…um…What was it you were making?” Jake asked.

“Cake pops,” Mel said. “It went well. They’re selling like gangbusters, so whoever tried to sabotage us failed.”

“Do you think someone is trying to drive you away from the rodeo?” he asked. “Pun intended.”

Mel smiled. “Oh, I know a few people who’d like to see us gone.”

He looked surprised and concerned. Mel told him about Billy and Bob, and his face relaxed a bit.

“It sounds like a friendly wager,” he said. “I’d be more worried about someone chasing you out because, well, you and your crew seem to be in the wrong place at the wrong time a lot.”

Mel blinked at him. Coming from Jake, this felt like some fairly harsh criticism.

“I’d say it’s more a case that trouble seems to find us,” she said. “Angie certainly didn’t mean to find the murder weapon.”

“What?” Jake shook his head as if he’d heard her wrong, and he slowly lowered his mug of root beer to the table.

“Oh, you hadn’t heard about that yet?” she asked. “Well, I suppose it’s premature to call it the murder weapon, but a bloody pitchfork in a barn where a man has recently been gored sort of makes it seem likely, doesn’t it?”

“Did she report it to the sheriff?”

“Yes, she had no choice, since he arrived right when she and Oz were arguing about telling him or not,” Mel said. “It sort of took the decision out of her hands.”

“See? This is what I’m talking about,” Jake said. He shook his head in bewilderment. “What is it about you people?”

“Hey!” Mel protested. “It’s not our fault that Ty Stokes was an egomaniacal jerk with a lot of enemies. Besides, Angie was just walking with Oz to see the bull when she tripped over the handle, so it was hardly her fault.”

“Have you ever noticed that some people attract bad luck?” he asked.

Mel shrugged. She wasn’t so sure she liked where this conversation was headed, especially given that it was hard to ignore that over the past year, she was quite sure she had stumbled over more dead bodies than the national average for cupcake bakers.

“It’s like a hard-luck Charlie, you know, the sort who can never seem to get a break in life,” Jake said. “Only instead of hard luck, it’s just plain bad luck.”

“I don’t know,” Mel said, fretting her lower lip. She was afraid to do too much self-examination in this particular area, as it might make her paranoid.

“Jake, do you think Slim’s shooting and Ty’s stabbing are connected?” she asked.

She wasn’t sure why she asked, but the question had been bothering her for days, and since Jake was more familiar with all of the players in this particular drama, maybe he knew something she didn’t.

“I can’t imagine that they are,” he said. “But again, perhaps this is not something you should be thinking about overmuch, as it might land you into more trouble than you’re already in.”

“We’re not in trouble,” Mel protested.

Jake gave her a disbelieving look and said, “You’ve got one employee who was seen at the scene of Ty’s murder, and now your other employee found the murder weapon. You don’t consider that trouble?”

Mel took a deep breath. When he put it like that, it didn’t look so good for the Fairy Tale Cupcake crew, and she couldn’t even blame it on the Bubbas.

Jake stood and drained his glass. “I’m just saying maybe you all need to be a little more careful.”

He tipped his hat to her before he headed back to the bar to give Henry his empty mug.

Mel watched him leave through the swinging doors, feeling seriously unhappy. Maybe Jake was right. Maybe they were a bunch of Lousy Luck Louies, or maybe some spoiled rancher’s daughter was causing them unnecessary grief. Tate had never gotten the chance to tell Mel what he had found out about Shelby, but that was okay; she had other avenues for getting information.

She took out her phone and called her uncle Stan. It was late, but as a detective for the Scottsdale police department, he kept some pretty late hours.

“Mel, how’s the north country?” he asked, letting her know he’d checked the number displayed on his phone before he answered.

“That depends—are we talking about the weather?” she asked.

“Mel, it’s a hundred and eight, and the sun is down,” he said. “Of course I’m talking about the weather.”

“Cool pine-scented breezes,” she said. “Warm sun shining but not enough to cause even a bead of sweat.”

Uncle Stan gave a longing sigh and then asked, “Okay,
so why are you really calling me? I know it’s not just to taunt me about the weather.”

“Uncle Stan, have you ever heard of the Hazards from Juniper Pass?” she asked.

“Well, sure, anyone who gives two hoots about Arizona history knows about the Hazards. I think state historian Marshall Trimble mentions them in a few of his books. Why?”

Mel noticed Stan’s tone went from conversational—he was an Arizona history nut himself—to suspicious.

“Did you hear about the shooting?” she asked.

“I heard a moron shot off a gun at the parade and Slim Hazard got winged, but he was okay.”

“And did you hear about the murder?” she asked.

“Murder?” Stan’s voice got loud and seemed to roar into the phone, as if he had been reclined but now was leaning forward as she had just gotten his full attention. “Who got murdered?”

“The rodeo star Ty Stokes,” she said.

“The news said he got gored by a bull.”

“More accurately a pitchfork.”

“And you know this because?”

“Angie found the murder weapon.”

There was a beat of silence on the phone, and the band in the bar, who’d been taking a break, got back on the stage. In the time it took Uncle Stan to process what Mel had said, the band began to play.

“What is that noise?” he asked.

“The country band just started to play again,” she said. She finished off her beer.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“The Last Chance Saloon,” she said.

“Is Angie with you?” he asked. “I want to talk to her.”

“No, she went to bed,” she said.

“Tate?” he asked.

“Out for a walk.”

“Melanie Cooper, are you sitting in a bar all alone?”

“Uncle Stan, I am more than of age, painfully more than of age,” she said.

“I’m telling Joe,” he said.

“Oh, good grief, how old are you?” she asked. “Listen, I’m calling because I’m curious about the Hazards. Is there any way you could find out more about them than what might be read in a history book?”

“Like what?” he asked.

“Well, I’m curious about Shelby Hazard, Slim’s daughter, in particular,” she said. “I’m pretty sure she was with Ty right before he was killed, and I heard that they were once a couple.”

“And you’d be sticking your nose into this because…?”

“She told the local sheriff that Oz was in the barn right before Stokes was killed, and because Angie found the murder weapon and had to be fingerprinted. I’m feeling a tad paranoid,” Mel said. “I don’t like Shelby and I don’t trust her, and I don’t like that she seems to be getting my people in trouble.”

Uncle Stan was quiet for a minute. “I’ll see what I can find out for you on one condition.”

Twenty-six

Mel hesitated. She’d been on the receiving end of Uncle Stan’s conditions before.

“Is this like the affidavit you had me sign when I was fifteen saying that if I didn’t get a tattoo until after I was twenty-five, you’d give me five hundred dollars?”

“Yes, but this time I’m willing to take a verbal promise, since you followed through on the tattoo thing,” he said.

Mel had to plug her other ear so she could hear Uncle Stan over the bar noise.

“Fine,” she said. “What’s the condition?”

“You’ve got to stay out of this, Mel,” he said.

Mel was quiet for a minute. In fact, she was quiet long enough that Uncle Stan had to ask if she was still there.

“Yes, I’m here,” she said. “But I fail to see why you’d
get me information about the Hazards and then want me to stay out of it. I can’t help but be in it.”

“Let me clarify,” Uncle Stan said. “I want you to keep Angie and Oz out of trouble, and if finding out about the Hazards helps you to do that, then fine. However, I don’t want you getting mixed up in this thing. If I do find out anything of particular interest, I will be calling the sheriff up there to share.”

“Okay,” Mel said. “I think I can safely commit to these conditions.”

“Excellent,” Uncle Stan said. “I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”

Mel ended the call and slid her phone into her pocket. Why was it when she made a deal with Uncle Stan, she always felt as though she’d been outmaneuvered?

She walked her empty mug over to the bar and left it with a wave to Henry. Then she headed through the door into the hotel. She climbed the stairs and eased into the room she shared with Angie as quietly as she could.

She assumed the body-shaped lump in the other bed was Angie. She watched her for a moment and debated asking whether she was awake, but figured if she was and she wanted to talk, she’d hear Mel and start the conversation. The lump didn’t move, so Mel figured Angie was asleep or faking it, which she could respect.

She wondered whether Marty and Oz were okay, but then, she had a feeling that Tate had probably headed back in that direction. She thought back to the scene in the bar between her friends. When had all of this gotten so complicated?

She shook her head and started to get ready for bed. Despite her nap in the truck cab, she was exhausted. When her head hit the pillow, she had thought she’d be up thinking, but no. It was as if she were a puppet and someone had cut her strings. In the time it took her to exhale, her body went limp and everything went dark.

Mel blinked against the sun that was streaming through the window. She didn’t want to get up. She didn’t want to face another day of chaos and emotional upheaval. Then she thought about her cake pops and what might have happened during the night.