Mel squinted at him. How had it happened? Marty, who had shown up here two and a half years ago, looking sad and bedraggled in a baggy cardigan sweater and a toupee that looked more like road kill that wasn’t quite dead, had become such an integral part of their operation. She could barely remember a time when the octogenarian hadn’t been her main counter person.
Now his daughters, Nora and Julie, were trying to take him away because they thought he was crazy to be working here in his eighties. What they didn’t understand was that he was happy.
Unbeknownst to Mel or any of the others, Marty was loaded and his daughters lived in fear that he planned to fritter it away on what they called “his little bakery friends.” The only person they disliked more than Mel and the bakery crew was Marty’s on-again, off-again girlfriend, Olivia Puckett, who owned a rival bakery called Confections.
Presently, Marty and Olivia were struggling with the fact that Marty had never mentioned to her that he was a millionaire. Mel could understand both sides. Marty didn’t want someone after his money but Olivia was furious that he hadn’t trusted her with the information after they moved in together. In short, they were a hot mess.
With Angie and Tate’s wedding coming up fast, Mel was just hoping the chaos could be contained so as not to damage the day Angie had been waiting for her whole life.
“It’ll be okay,” Marty said. Mel wasn’t sure if he was talking her into believing it or himself. “If we could just keep it quiet, you know, not make a fuss, not draw attention to ourselves by sticking our noses where they don’t belong, that might keep the whole incident off their radar.”
“I don’t see why we would have anything to do with it,” Mel said. “I mean, we only found him. It’s not like incidents before where he was a customer, or someone the bakery was working with in an official capacity.”
Marty blew out a relieved breath. “Good, that’s good.”
“Of course, it might come out when Angie and Tate hire a new photographer and people talk about what happened to the old one.”
“No, I’ve got that covered,” Marty said.
“You’ve got it covered?” she asked. “Marty, you can’t take Blaise’s place and do the pictures for the wedding. He was a pro.”
“I take a good picture,” he protested.
“Sure, if you like the whole severed-head look,” Mel said.
“What?” He looked offended.
“When have you ever taken a picture that actually included anyone’s head on their body?” Marty opened his mouth to protest but she interrupted and said, “Or without blocking their face with your thumb?”
“Well, I thought it was really nice of me to volunteer my services, but if you’re just going to nitpick, I’ll go back out front,” he said.
“Marty, we need someone who can take a professional picture,” Mel said. Then she bit her lip, realizing she wasn’t at her most tactful.
“Well, that’s gratitude,” he snapped, and pushed through the swinging doors back to the front of the bakery, where he’d left Oz, Mel’s other main employee, manning the front counter by himself.
Mel put down her coffee cup and reached for the pastry bag. She was just lifting it when Marty’s head reappeared around the swinging door.
“And just so we’re clear, I wasn’t talking about doing the photos myself. I figured Ray DeLaura probably knew a guy, so I placed a call,” he said. “But your confidence in me really warms my heart. Not!”
The door swung shut after him, moving back and forth until it came to a stop, and Mel stared at it for a moment. Ray? Did he really say he’d tapped Ray DeLaura for a replacement? Oh, hell no! Joe would have a stroke.
Ray DeLaura was the black sheep of the DeLaura family because every family has to have one. If Joe was the mediating peacemaker of his six brothers, Ray was the instigator, the troublemaker, the wild card. If he hired a photographer for the wedding, it would likely be the same person who took his mug shot at the local police station.
Mel debated calling Joe. But then again, he had his hands full already and maybe Ray would surprise them. Maybe when he said he knew a guy, he actually knew a guy who was qualified.
Needing distraction, Mel got back to work on the cupcakes. The purple frosting lifted her spirits just a little bit, enough to keep her moving at any rate, and as she loaded up a tray to store in the walk-in cooler for delivery later, she convinced herself that Uncle Stan would figure out who had harmed Blaise. Her throat tightened up, but she swallowed past it.
Deep in the cooler, Mel didn’t hear the back door open, so when she stepped out, she gave a small yelp to find Angie sitting at the worktable, surrounded by three of her brothers, Tony, Al, and Paulie.
“Ah!” Mel jumped and put her hand over her heart. “Give a gal a warning shout, guys.”
“Sorry,” Tony said.
Being the nerd inventor of the family, he was fiddling with some small electronic device. To Mel, it looked like a sort of house arrest anklet. That couldn’t be good. She raised her eyebrows at Angie, who was puffy eyed, red nosed, and pale looking.
“Oh, Ange,” Mel said. “I thought you were going to stay home for the rest of the day.”
“I was,” she said. “But I had to make some more of the payments for the wedding.” She paused to hiccup and then continued, “So I figured I’d do it over the phone. I called the limousine service . . . and—”
Angie stopped talking. It was as if her voice had given out and she couldn’t form the words. Mel studied her face. She glanced at the brothers. They were all looking at their sister as if they didn’t know what to do. Growing up with seven older brothers,
