Twelve

“What?” Simon asked. He sounded distracted and angry. “Why would you even ask me that?”

“Relax, I’m just making conversation,” Marty said. “Don’t get all worked up.”

“If you’re trying to break my concentration on the final hand,” Simon said, “it won’t work. I’m hot tonight and nothing can break ruin my winning streak.”

“We’ll see,” Marty said.

There was a tense silence that fairly crackled out of the speaker. Mel felt Joe stiffen beside her. Always the protector, she knew he was ready to run to the rescue if need be.

There was the sound of cards being dealt and studied. One hand was tossed down.

“I’m out,” Tony said.

“Me, too,” Al said.

Silence stretched to the point where Mel feared the speaker might have broken.

“Together?” Marty asked.

“All right,” Simon agreed.

The sound of cards being flipped, a random nervous cough, and then . . .

“You son of gun!” Ray shouted. There was the sound of someone getting thumped on the back.

“Ow,” Marty said.

“Look at that!” Al cried. “You had him three of a kind, king to queens. Talk about luck of the draw.”

“I think I had a heart attack,” Ray said.

“That’s a helluva pot of gold,” Tony agreed.

The noise of chips being gathered sounded. Mel felt herself relax. They hadn’t gotten anything out of Simon, but at least Marty hadn’t lost his money.

“So, this was great,” Simon said. “I’ll have my businessman pop a check in the mail to you.”

“Beg pardon?” Marty asked.

“You know, for my share,” Simon said. He sounded nervous.

“This is a cash game,” Marty said. “Acceptable forms of payment include cash, money order, or bank check, unless you can directly transfer the money from your bank to mine while I watch.”

“Right,” Simon said. “Sure. I’ll just— Damn, looks like I left the bank check at home.” The sound of a chair scraping against the floor broke the quiet. Mel wondered if Simon really thought he was going to be able to outrun all of the DeLaura brothers.

“That’s cool,” Marty said. “I take cards, too.”

“Well, I . . . you . . . huh, it seems I’ve forgotten my wallet as well.”

“Really?” Tony asked. “Because I think this is it right here.”

Mel glanced at Angie who said, “Sticky Fingers.”

Mel grinned but noted that Joe was frowning. He did not like it when the brothers played fast and loose with the rules.

“Hey!” Simon protested. “How did you—?”

“Found it on the ground,” Tony said. “But that’s you, right? I mean, the license says Simon Marconi.”

“Give me that!” Simon snapped. There was a scuffle and Mel suspected that Simon had snatched his wallet away from Tony.

“Listen, the truth is I’m a little short,” Simon said. “I’m going to have to do some transfers of funds.”

“I get it,” Marty said. “These things happen.”

“I’m glad you understand,” Simon said. “I’m good for it, I swear.”

“I’m sure you are,” Marty said. “Hey, Mick, come here.”

The sound of a door opened and then Mick’s unmistakably deep voice asked, “What do you need, Marty?”

“My friend needs a little reminder to pay up,” Marty said.

“He sounds like a mob boss,” Tate hissed. “Who let him watch Goodfellas unsupervised?”

Joe was easing out of the booth and Mel knew he was going to intervene before anything bad happened.

“If he tattoos him, I’m going to throw up,” Paulie said. His voice sounded strangled.

“Tattoo? Reminder?” Simon squeaked. “No, no, no. I’ll remember. I promise. I’m good for it.”

“Really?” Al asked. “Because I heard the only reason you were even at the resort looking at Miles for your television show was because you’re in debt to Clay Perry and this was the only way you could break even.”

“How did you know?” Simon asked. He paused and Mel suspected he was glancing around the room at the wall of DeLaura brothers and Mick who, with his shaved-and-tattooed head and multiple body piercings, was a fearsome sight to behold.

“I have my sources,” Ray said.

“Well, it’s not a secret,” Simon said. “Even the police know I’m in debt up to my—”

“They do?” Marty asked. He failed to hide his disappointment.

“Yeah,” Simon said. “It’s common knowledge that I like to gamble and sometimes it gets a little away from me. Clay and I have an understanding, so it’s all good. I find that a lot of people prefer to use my skills as a trade for monies owed.”

“Your skills?” Tony asked dubiously.

“Yeah, like, look at the four of you,” Simon said. “Four good-looking brothers such as yourselves should have your own TV show.”

Stunned silence met this statement.

“Oh, hell no!” Joe cried, and he bolted for the door.

Mel and Angie were right behind him. Tate was left behind to lock up as they raced down the walkway to Mick’s tattoo parlor.

Joe didn’t knock. Instead he yanked the door open—thankfully it was unlocked—and barged into the vacant parlor. He strode across the floor and made his way into the back. The room was a total man cave with squashy leather couches, a giant flat-screen television on the wall, and a large refrigerator.

The brothers, Marty, and Simon were seated at a round table off to the side of the room while Mick hovered in the doorway of the back entrance as if he’d been beckoned from the underworld. They all had beers in front of them and, in Marty’s case, a pile of chips.

“Joe,” Ray said. “What are you doing here?”

“No television show,” Joe said.

“Hi, Mick,” Mel said. She waved at the tattoo artist and he waved back with a grin.

“How did you know about the show?” Paulie asked. He glanced at Angie. “Did you rat us out about the poker game?”

“Didn’t have to,” she said.

“We forgot to take you off the group text, didn’t we?” Tony asked. He smacked his forehead.

“Yes,” Joe confirmed.

Tony looked at Mel and Angie. “You knew he was in on it and you didn’t say anything?”

“Duh,” Angie said. “Did you really think we’d let you do something like this without bringing Joe into the loop?”

“That’s cold,” Al said.

Tate arrived right behind them. “What’d I miss?”

“Nothing yet,” Joe said. “But if any of them reaches for a pen to sign anything you have my permission to tackle at will.”

“As if we’d sign anything,” Tony said with an exaggerated eye roll.

“Speak for yourself,” Paulie retorted. He turned back to Simon. “I’ll sign.”

Simon’s head bobbed around the room as if he was trying to keep up with the fast and furious conversation. Mel would have told him not to bother, the DeLauras spoke their own language.

Joe jerked his head at Tony, who rose from his chair and snatched up both Paulie and Al by the backs of their shirts. “Come on, you two. We’ve got to go. I told Ma we’d stop by tonight.”

“What? Why?” Al protested.

“She made zeppole,” Tony said.

Both brothers straightened up. “Why didn’t you say so?” Al asked. “Night, all, nice meeting you, Simon.” Al led the way to the door.

“Yeah, it was great,” Paulie said. He made a phone with his hand and to Simon, he said, “Call me.”

“Bye.” Tony followed the other two out the door and to Mel it felt as if the closed-in space swelled with oxygen.

“So, wild guess here, but this whole thing”—Simon paused to gesture to the table and the room—“was just an elaborate way to try and determine if I was Miles’s killer.”

There was an awkward silence and finally Marty said, “Yeah.”

“Well, I’m not,” he said. “Why would I kill him? What possible motive could I have?”

“Money,” Ray said. “It’s always money.”

“I didn’t owe him any money. Clay, sure, but not Miles. He didn’t have any money, either,” Simon said.

“Then sex,” Marty added. “Sex is always a motive.”

“No.” Simon shook his head. “We didn’t have that sort of relationship.”

“Secrets.” Angie snapped her fingers. “What secret did Miles know about you?”

“I don’t have any secrets,” Simon said.

“You have a gambling problem,” Joe said. “That seems like a worthy secret.”

“It would be, if it was actually a secret,” Simon said. He gestured to Marty and Ray, still sitting at the table. “But clearly, it’s not. Besides, even if it was, why would I kill Miles?”

“Maybe someone asked you to do it,” Angie said. “Someone you owe a favor?”

Simon shook his head. “I’m not the murdering kind. I’d rather just be sued and then shunned.”

Mel felt her hopes deflate. It would have been so nice to have the murder solved all nice and neat with Simon killing off Miles as payment to what he owed Clay, who wanted to exact revenge for his wife’s affair but no matter how they tried to make the pieces fit, they just didn’t.

“Besides,” Simon said as he rose from the table, “if you had just asked me, I could have told you, I have an alibi for the time of the murder.”

“Oh?” Angie asked.

Simon looked smug as if he didn’t plan on saying a word.

“I’m an assistant DA,” Joe said. “I’ll find out either way.”

Simon frowned. “Fine. I was auditioning Ashley for the television spot.”

“When you say auditioning . . .” Ray let the sentence hang in the air. They all looked at Simon.

“We were doing a screen test to see how well she did in front of the camera,” he said. “Some people just aren’t natural on screen.”

“And?” Marty asked.

“And what?” Simon snapped.

“How did she do?” Ray asked. “You can’t leave us hanging.”

“She blinks,” Simon said. He made an annoyed face. “A lot. I don’t know if it’s a nervous thing or what, but unless she can get that under control, there’s no career in television for her.”

“And you say you were with her when Miles was murdered?” Mel asked. “And she’ll corroborate that?”

“She already has with the police,” he asked. “Why?”

“Because she came screaming into the kitchen when we found Miles,” Mel said. “It just seems odd timing.”

“She’d just left filming,” he said. He sounded like he was running out of patience. “Your point?”

“None, except everyone knew Miles wanted back on television, so if she wanted it really badly, she might have—”

“Bludgeoned him with a meat tenderizer to take his place?” Simon asked.

Mel shrugged. At least she hadn’t said it first.

“I think you credit her with a lot more ambition than she actually has. It wasn’t her,” he said. “She was with me.”

“Which gives her an alibi, too,” Angie said. She didn’t bother to hide her disappointment.

Simon grinned at her but it was without amusement. “Just so. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m leaving.”

No one stopped him as he strode out of the parlor, closing the front door behind him with a firm click.

“Well, that didn’t work out as I’d hoped,” Marty said.

“What?” Ray asked. “You don’t believe that guy, do you?”

“Don’t you?” Joe asked.

They all turned to look at Ray. He stared back, unblinking. “Not one word of it. Dude was lying out of his—”

“We get the idea,” Mick interrupted. Despite his rough exterior, he didn’t like it when people swore.

“Face hole,” Ray continued. “Maybe it takes one to know one, but that man is a stone-cold liar. He knows something that he’s not saying and I’ll bet dollars to donuts, he knows exactly what happened to Miles Gallway.”

---

It was only days until the wedding. Mel had a million things to do, one of which was to drop by the resort and deliver to Courtney the seating chart Joyce had drawn up. There were to be only fifty people in attendance but Joyce had been very clear that the tables not be a free-for-all of seating, as she felt it might get awkward with too many people at one table and not enough at another and so on.

To appease Joyce’s need for order, Mel agreed to stop by the resort and drop off the table charts even though she had less than no interest in where anyone sat. She was leaving Courtney’s office when she decided to swing by the pastry kitchen so she could report back to Oz on what was happening in his workspace during his leave of absence. She knew he’d been particularly worried about the Beast and whether it was being fed, since Tomas was still on vacation.

She walked through the resort, thinking not about her upcoming reception but rather the fact that Miles Gallway, disgraced Foodie Channel chef, had been murdered right here in this very kitchen and no one knew who had done it or why.

She paused by the door of the big kitchen and peered through the round window. The line cooks were beginning prep and Ashley was marching around them, looking very much like a military general giving inspection to the troops. Mel leaned in and heard nothing but criticism and cutting remarks. Why did every chef think that treating their crew badly made them a rock star? It made them a jerk in Mel’s opinion, not that anyone was asking.

She must have made a noise because Ashley whipped around in the direction of the doors and Mel jumped back. She slammed into someone behind her and let out a yelp. She spun around to find Sarah Lincoln, the unfortunate saucier, standing there holding a large tub of mayonnaise. She was grimacing in pain and Mel glanced down and noticed that one of her hands was bandaged.

“Oh, no! I’m so sorry,” Mel cried. “Are you all right?”

“No, it’s my fault,” Sarah said. “I thought you were going in and didn’t say I was behind you. I know better.”

Mel remembered the training of the high-traffic kitchen. One of the rules was to let other cooks know when you were moving behind them. It spared a lot of injuries in the trenches.

“What happened to your hand?” Mel asked.

“Burn,” Sarah said. She cradled the tub in one arm and held up her hand to show her individually wrapped fingers. “One of the hazards of the kitchen. I like to think I’m adding to my collection of battle scars.”

Mel held up her left hand. She had a knife scar that ran across the middle of her palm. “I got this my first week in cooking school. I was positive I was going to bleed out and then get thrown out.”

“Oh, wow,” Sarah said. “New knives?”

“Of course,” Mel confirmed. They shared a knowing laugh, the sort only cooking school survivors could understand.

“When did it happen?” Mel asked.

“A few days ago,” Sarah said. She shrugged. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. No permanent damage, at any rate.”

“I’m sorry, are we cooking out here now?” Ashley’s voice broke into their conversation as she pushed open the door. Sarah paled as if she knew what was coming. “When I send you to the larder, I expect a prompt return.”

“My fault,” Mel said. Mercy, she hated bullies. “I was asking for directions.” She turned to Sarah. “Thank you. I’ll be sure to let Mr. Perry know how helpful you were.”

Sarah nodded and then scurried past Mel and Ashley and back into the kitchen.

Ashley glared at Mel, who glared back. She was a bride having her wedding to a prominent district attorney at the resort. If this was a power play, Mel knew she was the winner. Ashley made the most of it, however, doing a very slow pivot and pushing back into the kitchen, dripping with attitude and scorn.

Mel wasn’t impressed. She waited until the door shut and then strode down the hall to the pastry kitchen. There was a young man sitting at the counter, staring at a tablet he had propped up. When Mel entered, he slammed the tablet facedown and stood.

“Hi! Can I help you?” He appeared to be in his early twenties. He was medium in height and build, pale as if he didn’t get outside much, with a shock of dark blond hair that stuck out from under his black chef’s beanie, a much more practical hat while cooking than the oversized toque.

Mel looked behind her to see if something scary had followed her into the room because his reaction was so over the top. No one and nothing was there.

“Hi, I’m Melanie Cooper and you are?”

“Sorry, I’m Sam Whitaker.”

“Nice to meet you,” Mel said. She glanced around the empty kitchen. Sam watched her. He was about as contained as a pressure cooker about to blow.

“Are you okay, Sam?” she asked. He was sweating profusely and she started to worry that he might pass out on her.

“Sure, fine, yup,” he answered. He looked even more nervous.

“I’m a friend of Oz’s,” Mel said. “I just came by to see how things were going without him.”

“Great!” the young man said. “Things are great. I am on top of it.”

Mel pursed her lips. This kid was the worst fibber of all time. She approached his worktable and flipped the tablet back over. Oz’s face stared back at her.

“Really, Oz?” she asked.