by Gayle Trent
I walked down the hall and pressed the button for the elevator. I was relieved to see the elevator was empty. Being in a crowded hospital elevator is especially awkward. Before the door could close, I saw a tall, thin blonde woman with a briefcase and a travel mug briskly approaching.
I studied her while I was holding the “Open Door” button. “Cara? Cara Logan?”
She whisked a long strand of hair off her face with her wrist. “Daphne?” She smiled. “Hi! What’re you doing here?”
“I was . . . visiting a friend. You?”
“Following a story. As always. My boyfriend works with Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals. They had some sort of outbreak during a Christmas party, of all things.”
“I, uh, heard.”
“My boyfriend, John Holloway, saved just about everybody with some kind of miracle vaccine the company has been working on.”
I merely nodded. ‘Just about everybody’ was right.
“The only guy who didn’t get better right away was named Fred . . . somebody.”
“Duncan,” I said.
“Yeah, that’s it. Anyway, his reaction was more severe than everyone else’s, and I intend to figure out why.” She lifted her mug and took a drink of—given the scent—coffee. “I meant to talk to them upstairs, but they sent me away. Even threatened to call security.” The elevator door opened. “Oh, well, see ya, Daphne. Maybe we can get together while I’m in town.”
“Sure. That’d be great.” I slowly walked out of the hospital.
Cara was a reporter from Richmond. How her paper had the resources to send her all over the place to follow stories was beyond me. Or maybe Cara was the one with the budget, and the paper just gave her free rein to pursue whatever stories she wanted to report on. Either way, it seemed a bit strange to me.
I’d met Cara a few months ago at the Oklahoma Sugar Art Show. As a cake decorator, I always pack my bags and attend. It’s the Big Kahuna of national cake shows. Kerry Vincent runs it, and she’s a star on the Food Network. On my kitchen wall I have a framed picture of me posing with her in front of a cake display. Anyhow, at the show Cara and I discovered we were from the same area of the country, and so we had lunch together. Cara talked in depth about her career. She flitted from story to story and subject to subject like a honeybee in a field of wildflowers. Buzz. . . . buzz. A murder in Kentucky. Buzz . . . buzz. Katrina restorations. Buzz . . . buzz. Fashion week in New York. Buzz . . . buzz. The Oklahoma Sugar Art Show. And now she was here in little Brea Ridge, covering a story involving her boyfriend, Dr. Holloway.
A story—given Fred’s death—I wouldn’t think Dr. Holloway would want told.
Chapter Two
I got home, took a photo album from a drawer in the wardrobe that houses my television and sat down in my pink-and-white-checked club chair. My nerves were shot. When I’m upset, I calm myself by thinking about cakes. Fred’s death, and then seeing Cara at the hospital, had freaked me out pretty badly. I tried to focus on my album from the Oklahoma Sugar Art Show. With any luck it would take my mind off Fred and Connie for a few minutes.
The detail on the cakes entered in the show’s competitions had been amazing. Delicate butterflies . . . baby carriages . . . figures that looked as if they were made of porcelain. I’d taken photographs to show Lucas and Leslie, my nephew and niece. There was a character from the movie Ice Age, a cake depicting a scene from Pirates of the Caribbean, the cartoon character “Johnny Bravo,” a Monopoly board complete with Chance and Community Chest cards, a dog with its toys, Yoda, Chinese food . . . and the darling, stand-alone sugar figurines. Entire sculptures made of sugar. Imagine.
And the wedding cakes! I haven’t had many occasions to bake many wedding cakes yet—Daphne’s Delectable Cakes is still a fledgling business, you know—and the only wedding cakes I’ve made so far have been practice cakes. But I’m hoping to add more wedding cakes to my portfolio soon. And the cakes displayed at the Oklahoma Sugar Arts Show provide such inspiration! The intricate scroll work, beading, gum paste flowers, lacework and paint. I really needed to brush up on my painting skills. Pun not intended.
One cake had love letters made of fondant with icing script. How many tedious hours went into that?
I turned an album page and there was a photograph of Craig Gustafson and Heather Walters of American Cake Decorating and Mailbox News. I had promised I’d send them something for the magazine; but I still hadn’t done that. A girl gets a little nervous at the thought of sending a photograph of one of her cakes to the country’s premiere cake-decorating magazines. Still, the chess board cake I’d made for Brea Ridge’s Kellen Dobbs had turned out nice. I might send them a picture of that one.
Below the photograph of Craig and Heather, there was a picture of a cake someone had damaged. When I saw the beautiful cake with a piece of the bottom border lying to the side with the note Spectator Damaged, I had nearly cried for the decorator. To work that hard and then have some careless passerby ruin your cake and your chance of winning the competition was heartbreaking.
There was the photo of me with Kerry Vincent, the famous sugar artist, Food Network Challenge judge and Show Director of the Oklahoma Sugar Art Show. Chef Paul from Las Vegas had snapped the shot. As emcee for the onsite ‘Divorce Cake Competition,’ Chef Paul had regaled us with anecdotes—whether real or exaggerated—of his own unpleasant marital experiences.
I’d been a bit nervous about meeting Kerry Vincent. I’d seen her on television, and I was really intimidated by her. Tough but fair, she exuded a stern and pristine persona. This Hall of Fame sugar artist expected contestants to do their best work and really earn the honor of being the “best of the best” cake designer as well as recipient of the $10,000 prize money.
“Um . . . Mrs. Vincent?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Daphne Martin, a cake decorator from Virginia . . . and I just wanted to meet you and tell you how much I admire your work.”
“Thank you. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Daphne.”
Her voice was Australian . . . not like the “shrimp on the Barbie” accents most often inaccurately associated with the country but sophisticated. Like Julie Andrews. I wondered if she could sing.
“Do you have a cake in the competition?” she asked. “If so, don’t tell me which one.”
“Oh, no. I . . . I’m here mainly to check out the trends . . . the new products . . .”
“You don't mean to tell me you came all the way from Virginia just to check out trends. Why on earth didn’t you enter a cake?”
Man, nobody pulls anything over on that lady.
I took a deep breath. “I did bring a cake, but after I got here and saw the competition, I just chickened out.”
“Daphne, shame on you! I’ve got a feeling you’re in the habit of selling yourself short.” She gave me her card. “Next year, I want to see you enter a cake. And if you think of backing out at the eleventh hour, you call me.”
I smiled. “Okay.”
She cocked her head. “What did you do with the cake you’d planned to enter?”
“I gave it to the hotel staff, and they promptly devoured it.”
Mrs. Vincent laughed and hugged me. “You poor darling. You go home and gather up some self-confidence. Just remember with practice and dedication to the art you have chosen plus involvement in serious competition, your skills will improve tenfold. I’m expecting great things from you, Daphne Martin.”
She was right about my needing self-confidence. My ex-husband’s years of abuse had culminated in his firing a pistol at me. Fortunately, he’d missed. Unfortunately, his attempt on my life had netted him a mere seven-year prison sentence. That’s why he’s incarcerated in Tennessee, and I’m here in Virginia. When Violet, my sister, a Brea Ridge realtor, called and said she’d found the perfect house for me, I began packing as soon as I hung up the phone.
Looking at the photographs from the Oklahoma Sugar Art Show started me thinking I needed to work on my fondant figures in addition
to my painting. I decided to start with the figure molding. My nerves needed the distraction.
I got up and headed for the kitchen.
*
I was getting ready to dig into a can of white chocolate fondant when the phone rang.
I plucked the cordless from its charging base. It was Violet, and she was speaking barely above a whisper.
“I need you to do me a favor,” she said.
“What is it?” I whispered back. I don’t know why I felt compelled to whisper, but it somehow seemed wrong not to.
“Jason’s mom told me she got Lucas that guitar player video game for Christmas. I want you to rent a copy of it to make sure it’s age appropriate.”
“What’s it rated? I can’t imagine Grammy Armstrong getting Lucas a mature game.”
“It’s rated ‘T for teen.’” She sighed. “I know he’s been wanting one, and I’m sure he asked her to get it, but I’m hesitant.”
“Well, he and Leslie are nearly twelve. It should be okay.”
“Just check it out for me. Please.”
“Okay. I’ll go by the video store tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
“By the way,” I said, “Fred Duncan died.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry.” She was speaking in a normal tone now, so I felt I could do likewise.
“I am, too. Despite all the mood swings he had because of his brain injury, I think he was a good person.”
“I do, too. I’ll have to send Connie some flowers.”
“You know Connie?”
“Not very well. I sold her sister-in-law a piece of property a few years ago, and I met Connie then.”
“I met her today at the hospital.” Later I’d ask myself why I’d felt compelled to blurt this out: “She wants me to help figure out what happened to Fred.”
“Daphne, please don’t do this again. You’re a cake decorator, not Jessica Fletcher. Besides, it was ‘Murder, She Wrote’ not ‘Murder, She Baked.’ Let the police do their job, and stay out of it.”
“I know, but Connie—”
“Connie is upset. She needs to understand you’re not the answer to her problem right now. And even if you do find out why all those other people got better and poor Fred died, it isn’t going to bring him back.”
“You’re absolutely right, but—”
“Promise me you’ll stay out of this. Be supportive, be a friend, but don’t go playing detective.”
“Who has time to be a detective, right? I’m too busy baking cakes, and soon I’ll also be reviewing a guitar game.”
Violet audibly blew a breath of relief into the phone and, thus, my ear. For a petite, bubbly blonde—I’m afraid I’m her polar opposite in terms of height, hair and bubbles—Violet can be a force to be reckoned with. Besides, she was right. I needed to spend my time baking, playing Lucas’ game to see whether or not it was appropriate for him and Leslie and getting ready for Christmas. My tree stood in the corner of my living room —thanks to the help of my darling nephew and niece—glistening with its twinkling lights, red and white ornaments, popcorn strings and clusters of cinnamon sticks. It looked beautiful, it smelled good, but there wasn’t a single wrapped present sitting beneath it.
She reinforced my decision. When I said goodnight and hung up, I had no intention of pursuing the mysterious death of Fred Duncan. I mean, the injuries he’d suffered in the car wreck that caused his frontal lobe damage could have contributed to his death. Maybe that was the one difference between Fred and everyone else who’d been infected and then given the vaccine. Case closed.
I really did have too much to do to play detective. And I really did have every intention not to play detective. And then my doorbell rang.
There was a cute, clean-cut young lady standing on my porch. She had long, straight brown hair, blue eyes, and she wore very little makeup. She had on forest green corduroy pants and a matching blazer. A pale pink shirt and taupe low-heeled pumps rounded out her outfit. She looked too young to drive; but there was a late-model sapphire VW Beetle with a cloth top sitting in my driveway, and I didn’t see anyone else with the girl.
“Hi,” I said. “How can I help you?” I was expecting her to ask me to buy something: cookies, magazine subscriptions, candy, raffle tickets. So what she said completely blew me away.
“I’m here to help you investigate the death of Fred Duncan.”
Here I was getting ready to say, “I’ll take two,” when she hits me with that. I blinked. Twice. “Excuse me?”
“I’m Fran Duncan, Fred’s cousin. My Aunt Connie told me you’ve agreed to look into Fred’s death, and I want to help you.”
I stepped back. “Um . . . would you like to come in?”
“Please.” She wiped her feet on the mat before stepping into the house. “Should I take them off? My shoes, I mean.”
“No, you’re fine.” I led her into the living room and motioned for her to have a seat. She chose the sofa, and I sat down in the club chair and tried to think of a way to explain to this girl that I’m not a detective.
“I read about you in the paper a couple of weeks ago,” Fran said. “It was impressive how you single-handedly nabbed Yodel Watson’s killer.”
“I wouldn’t say I did that single-handedly.”
“I know you’re afraid I’ll get in your way, but Fred was more like a brother than a cousin to me.”
“I understand, but—”
“And next year, I’m hoping to get into West Virginia University’s forensics and biometrics program. I want to be a criminologist.”
“That’s terrific, Fran; it really is. But I’m not sure Fred’s brain injury wasn’t a contributing cause of death.”
“Then that’s the first thing we’ll need to rule out. As a family member, I’ll have access to information the hospital wouldn’t give you.” She got up. “I’m on it. As soon as I find out something, I’ll be back.”
With that, she was gone. And, just like that, I was smack dab in the middle of another investigation. Unless, of course, the hospital confirmed that Fred’s brain damage had contributed to his death. Somehow, I doubted I would be that lucky.
*
I’d bought some molds at the Oklahoma Sugar Art Show. One was the figure of a woman. A recent issue of American Cake Decorating featured step-by-step instructions for creating a gum-paste girl holding a package to sit atop a cake.
I got out my materials—including the American Cake Decorating magazine open to the instructions—and arranged them on the island in the center of the kitchen. I spread out waxed paper, put my telephone headset on and donned decorator gloves.
I mixed some brown and yellow gel colors until I had a suitable blonde color. Then I used that color to tint about six ounces of gum paste—enough for two dolls’ hair. I wrapped that gum paste in plastic wrap and put it aside.
I then used a bit of tan coloring to create a skin tone. I tinted quite a bit of gum paste this color. I knew I’d need extra if I botched painting the face. Those little eyebrows and eyelashes were going to be really tough to get right.
I tinted the remainder of the gum paste red and green. Even if I got frustrated and gave up on the doll, I could still use the green and red gum paste for decoration on Christmas cakes.
I took off the gloves and unwrapped the skin-colored gum paste. I tore off a small amount and rewrapped the gum paste. I rolled a piece of the gum paste into a ball and then flattened it out into a long, relatively thick strand. I placed this strand into the bottom half of the mold to create a leg. I repeated the process for the other leg. Then I placed the top on the mold and pressed the two halves together. I trimmed away the excess, and then opened the mold and took out the doll’s legs. I bent the legs into a sitting position and placed them on a Styrofoam block.
Before I could get the doll’s arms molded, the doorbell rang. That was quick, I thought, praying once again that the hospital had confirmed Fred’s death to have been a fluke . . . the result of a preexisting condition.
But instead of Fran, it was Ben. Ben Jacobs. He’s a reporter and editor for the Brea Ridge Chronicle, a freelance writer and a total HAG (Hot Available Guy). Ben has light brown hair that has a habit of falling over his pale blue eyes, a lanky build, and a lopsided smile.
We’ve known each other since we were kids and have been dating since I moved back here from Tennessee. He’s never been married, so maybe he’s not the type to commit . . . which is fine by me because I’m not looking for any sort of serious attachment right now either. Really. I’m not.
“It’s not like you to leave your door unlocked and invite visitors in sight unseen,” Ben said. “You must be expecting someone.”
“I’m afraid I am.”
He looked so handsome and so comfortable leaning there against the doorpost. He was wearing khaki pants and a light blue denim shirt that brought out his eyes. He made himself right at home when he was here. I wondered if he was at ease like that everywhere or if it had something to do with me. Maybe I made him feel at home.
He arched a brow, which nearly hid beneath that strand of wavy hair that had fallen into his eyes. If I wasn’t working with gum paste, I’d brush it away.
“So who’s this scary visitor?” he asked.
I smiled. “She’s not scary. What scares me about her is that she’s a Nancy Drew wannabe, and she wants to help me investigate Fred Duncan’s death. Fred’s her cousin.”
“Since when are you investigating Fred Duncan’s death?”
I explained to him how I was there with Connie when Fred died and how she’d asked me to help her. Then I relayed my conversation with Violet and my visit with Fran.
“So you’re thinking Fran will come back here, tell you Fred’s year-old brain injury contributed to his death and that will be the end of it.”
I grimaced and bobbed my head from side to side. “Hoping, I think, would be a better word. Really, really hoping. What? You don’t think so?”
