Dead Pan

by Gayle Trent

  I steeled myself for another lecture on investigating Fred Duncan’s death and rehearsed my response. It was, of course, along the same lines of what I’d told Violet—which was the truth, I’m out of the detective business. I have a fancy-schmancy New Year’s Eve party to work on.

  I was so busy planning out what I wanted to say to Uncle Hal that when I didn’t hear “Fred Duncan,” I had to have him repeat himself.

  “Is it true you’ve been running around with that newspaper fellow, Ben Jacobs?” he asked.

  “We’ve had a few dates,” I said. “I’m not sure that qualifies us as ‘running around’ together.”

  “I don’t care what it qualifies as. All I know is that you’d better be awful careful with that man. He’s dangerous.”

  Chapter Nine

  “What? Did you say Ben is dangerous?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Do you know something I don’t?”

  “Obviously. Haven’t you ever wondered why a nice-looking, successful man like Ben Jacobs has never married? Aren’t you the least bit curious as to why he’s not been in a serious relationship since his junior year of college?”

  Wow. And they call me an investigator. What was Uncle Hal . . . C.I.A.?

  “Please tell me you’re not implying what I think you are,” I said.

  “You ought to know me well enough to realize I never imply anything. I come right out and tell it like it is. That man is a playboy, and he’s gonna wind up breaking your heart. And I would hope you’ve had enough of that.”

  “Uncle Hal, I’ve known Ben since I was a little girl. He doesn’t strike me as the playboy type.”

  “There’s nobody so blind as the one who refuses to see.”

  “No, really. I think Ben hasn’t been seriously involved with anyone because he’s been focusing on his career . . . and taking care of his parents.” I threw in that last part—albeit true—mainly to try and win Ben some brownie points with Uncle Hal. It didn’t pay off.

  “Is that what he’s told you?”

  “Yes . . . and I believe him. After all, if I’d spent my time focused on my career instead of in an abusive marriage, I might have my own bakery, or TV show or who-knows-what by now.”

  “Exactly. And yet, Mr. Jacobs is still right there in little old Brea Ridge.”

  “But, he likes it here. And he freelances for larger newspapers and magazines.”

  “Mm-hmm. Sounds to me like you need to spend more time focused on your career and less time with manipulative jerks.”

  I sighed. When Uncle Hal gets like this, there’s no reasoning with him. He’s right, he knows what’s best, you don’t, end of discussion.

  “All right, Uncle Hal. I’ll be careful. Oh, by the way, how’s Mr. Duncan doing?”

  “As you can well imagine, he’s torn all to pieces over Fred’s death. That boy was his only grandson.”

  “I’m so sorry for that family,” I said. “First to have Fred get hurt so badly in the car accident—with that hit-and-run driver never found and forced to face charges—and then this. It’s tragic.”

  “It is that. I remember Walt Duncan turning that town inside out after Fred’s car wreck looking for that other driver, the car or anybody who might know anything. To this day, Steve Franklin hurries to his office or to the storeroom—whichever’s closest—anytime he sees Walt come into the Save-A-Buck.”

  “Why? Did Mr. Duncan think Mr. Franklin had something to do with Fred’s accident?”

  Uncle Hal snorted. “Franklin did have something to do with Fred’s accident. He sent Fred out that rainy afternoon rather than running his errand himself like he should have.”

  “What errand?”

  “To deliver flowers to Franklin’s mother. It was her birthday.”

  “What? Why on earth would Mr. Franklin send one of his baggers to take his own mother a birthday gift instead of taking it himself?”

  “Now that there is the million dollar question. He told Walt he was just too busy to leave the store. And yet, he had time to get a haircut earlier that day. Which brings me back to our original topic of discussion,” Uncle Hal said. “No man is ever too busy or too focused on his career to do something he really wants to do. If he tells you otherwise, he’s lying.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Uncle Hal.”

  “You do that.”

  *

  I called Ben and Cara. Both were apparently unavailable because both phone numbers went straight to voice mail. I left messages and then got ready to meet with Fran and Carol.

  When they arrived, I had the kitchen set up in a Brigade system.

  “Tonight we’re doing cookies,” I explained. “I don’t advise tasting the cookie dough.”

  “Because of the raw eggs?” Fran asked.

  “Because these are guinea pig cookies.”

  Both she and Carol made a face.

  “They’re probably not bad, just . . . .” I shrugged. “Vegetable and bland tasting, I imagine.”

  “We’re only making enough cookies for Belinda’s cavies to sample tonight. Then we’re going to make some people cookies, candy and tarts. So, here’s how this will work. I’ll mix the ingredients into this bowl. Then I’ll pass the bowl down the line to Carol, who will roll out the dough on the waxed paper. Carol will slide the waxed paper down to Fran who will use the water bottle cap beside the parchment-lined cookie sheets to cut guinea pig sized cookies and place them on the cookie sheets. The oven is already preheating and will be ready by the time the batch of cookies is done. Carol, if you don’t mind, while Fran is cutting out the cookies, would you please put the bowl and spoon into the dishwasher? While you guys are taking care of those things, I’ll be setting up the next assembly line.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Carol said.

  “Me, too,” Fran said.

  I put the ingredients into the bowl, mixed them up and slid the bowl to Carol. As I was putting away the cavy cookie ingredients, Carol flipped the dough onto the waxed paper, sprinkled it with flour and began rolling it out.

  “What’s she like? Mrs. Fremont, I mean,” Carol said.

  “She’s nice,” I said. “She wants things done a particular way; but once you and she have come to an agreement on that and she realizes you’ll work your butt off to make things right for her, she’s easy to work for. And, I have to say, she is awfully proud of that house.”

  “I can imagine.” Carol slid the flattened dough down to Fran and took the bowl and spoon to the dishwasher. “What about the rolling pin?”

  I tilted my head. “It hasn’t had anything gross on it—just banana, honey, carrots and oats. Let’s just wipe it off with a damp paper towel, okay?”

  “Will do.”

  “Tell us about the house,” Fran said, placing tiny cookies onto the baking sheet.

  “In a word, wow,” I said. “You know that saying, ‘you had me at hello’? Well, the Fremonts had me at the driveway. It’s a white and terra cotta mosaic. I always feel I should get out in the road and wash my tires before I drive up to the gate.”

  Fran and Carol laughed.

  “You’ll have to see it for yourselves.” I grinned. “What are you guys doing tomorrow morning at eleven-thirty?”

  “I have to work, but I can take my lunch break then,” Carol said, her excitement evident in her voice.

  “Good. Fran?”

  “We’re on Christmas break, so I’m at your disposal until after the first of the year.”

  “Great. Come with me to Mrs. Fremont’s house.”

  Carol squealed like a little girl. I could not get over the change in her demeanor. It was as if her evil twin had been here the last time.

  “What should I wear?” Carol asked.

  “Something casual,” I said. “Business casual. You don’t want her to think you dressed up for her.” I continued gathering the ingredients for pinwheels.

  “I know, but it’s almost like meeting the queen or something,” Carol said.

  I
turned and held my whisk aloft. “I present to you Her Royal Highness Belinda Freemont, Queen of the Guinea Pigs.”

  “No, no,” Fran said, with a giggle. “How about Countess Cavy?”

  “Countess Cavy,” I echoed. “I like it.”

  As we baked the cavy cookies and prepared the other samples, we discussed some of the other ideas Belinda had for the party and how Carol and Fran could help me pull off such a huge undertaking despite everything else going on within the next couple weeks.

  I offered Carol and Fran a decaf café au lait, but they both declined.

  “I appreciate it,” Carol said, “but I’d better not. I need to get up early and go back to work tomorrow.”

  “Can we help you do anything else before we go?” Fran asked.

  “No, but thank you for the offer. I’m going to make a couple batches of fudge to take to the Save-A-Buck tomorrow, but then I’m calling it a night myself.” I got out my double boiler. “Speaking of the Save-A-Buck, do either of you know why Mr. Franklin sent Fred to his mother’s house the day of Fred’s car accident rather than going himself?”

  “He—Mr. Franklin, I mean—told Papaw it was because his brother was visiting,” Fran said.

  “So? It was their mother’s birthday,” I said. “Lots of family members who don’t get along suck it up and make nice for holidays and other events. What’s so bad about Mr. Franklin’s brother?”

  Fran shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe he’s a Cullen.”

  Carol rolled her eyes. “Again with the vampires? Honestly.”

  Catching their reference to the popular Twilight series, I said, “I’m more of a werewolf fan myself. That Jacob is adorable.”

  “Not you, too,” Carol said. “I’ll take Frannie and get out of here before you two start howling at the moon.”

  “New Moon,” Fran and I said in unison. Then we exchanged high fives.

  Carol shook her head. “I must be getting old.”

  I walked Fran and Carol to the door, turned on the porch light and waved goodbye as they backed out of the driveway.

  The light had beckoned to Sparrow, so she eased out of hiding to investigate. I held the door open.

  “Come on, Sparrow. Come inside and get a treat.”

  She gave me a look that plainly said, “What treat? I don’t see any treat. Show me the treat, and maybe we’ll pursue this further.”

  Doing some movements that would make your run-of-the-mill contortionist proud, I held the door open with my foot while turning and retrieving a can of tuna from the cabinet to my right. The can had a pull-top, so I opened it and sat it on the floor about eight inches—or a Sparrow length—from the door.

  “How’s that?” I asked. “Doesn’t that smell good? Come on in and have a bite.”

  She looked as if she was trying to decide whether or not she was being tricked. I understood her hesitation. I’ve certainly fallen for my fair share of tricks.

  For some reason, the conversation I’d had with Uncle Hal earlier sprang to mind. I shoved the thought aside and went back to concentrating on Sparrow.

  “Come on,” I said softly. “It’s okay.”

  She eased closer to the step, but she still debated about trusting me.

  Still holding the door open, I looked away from her. The detachment ploy worked. She quickly leapt onto the step and ran inside the kitchen. From the corner of my eye, I could see her turn back to me before risking a bite of the tuna.

  I continued pretending to ignore her while holding the door open and praying I would not be besieged by moths, bugs, possums, raccoons, bats, owls, bears, coyotes, skunks . . . . I was running out of critters to be concerned about when Sparrow darted back outside.

  I closed the door and turned out the porch light. I smiled and did a Tiger Woods’ fist pump before tossing the empty tuna can into the trash and going to wash my hands.

  One small step for Sparrow; one giant leap for our relationship.

  When I returned to the kitchen, a large cricket was sitting where the tuna can had been and was chirping for all it was worth.

  “Did the Blue Fairy send you, Jiminy? Oh, well, it could’ve been worse, I suppose. You could’ve been a skunk.”

  *

  I’d just stepped my weary body out of the bathtub when the phone rang. I wrapped myself in my robe and hurried to the bedroom to answer it. It was Ben.

  “How are you?” I asked.

  “I think I’ll live. I had my doubts up until earlier this evening.”

  “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

  “Yeah. Me, too. I don’t think I would be if I hadn’t received a call from Doc Holloway.”

  Visions of a tough but sickly Val Kilmer came to mind. No, wait, that was Doc Holliday. I shook off my musings as I leaned back against the pillows and asked, “Why did you get a call from him?”

  “He was concerned because of the way I left the table last night. He said he didn’t know if I was feeling ill or if I was merely upset at his and Cara’s interruption. He told me that if it was the latter, he wanted to apologize. But I told him I’d become sick and still was. He asked me my symptoms, and I explained what was going on. Then he brought me over a dose of the vaccine he gave to the people at the Christmas party. I started feeling better within minutes.”

  “That’s freaky. So does he think your illness was caused by the same bacteria?”

  “He knows it was. He drove me to his clinic where he took some blood and tested it for that particular strain of bacteria. It was the same stuff.”

  “Then is Brea Ridge undergoing an epidemic?” I asked.

  “Nobody knows . . . at least, not at this point. And, I’m asking you to keep this confidential. We don’t want to cause a panic.”

  “No, of course, not. But other people need to know a vaccine is available if they do become sick.”

  “That’s true,” Ben said, “but I spoke with the manager of Dakota’s. No one else who was there last night reported becoming ill. No one who works there has reported getting ill either. And, according to John, this bacterium is so aggressive, if it got on the food preparers’ hands, they’d get sick, too.”

  “You hadn’t even received your food before you got sick. Frankly, I thought you were upset about Cara and Dr. Holloway, too. Then, after you didn’t come inside to finish having dinner with me, I thought you might be angry with me.”

  “Daphne, I told you I was sick.”

  “I know, but I thought you were simply saying that to avoid talking about what was really bothering you. That’s what I’d do if I were trying to avoid a confrontation.”

  “Well, that’s great. Now the next time you tell me you’re not feeling well I’m going to wonder if it’s because you’re really not feeling well or because you’re avoiding a confrontation. You have real trust issues, you know that?”

  “Maybe a few. But, given my past, I’m entitled. Back to this bacterium—where does Dr. Holloway think you encountered this junk if it wasn’t at Dakota’s?”

  “We don’t know. On the one hand, John feels it would almost certainly have to have originated with me at Dakotas because I got so sick there. If you’ll recall, the people at the Christmas party had a reaction within minutes of being infected.”

  “Did you eat or drink anything before you came to pick me up?”

  “No, and John even asked me if I ate or drank anything at your house before we left for the restaurant.”

  “At my house?” I nearly shrieked. “But I haven’t been sick. Don’t tell me they’re trying to tie this entire thing back to me and that stupid cake I took to that stupid party! That cake is being tested, and the police will see it was perfectly fine.”

  “Calm down. Nobody is blaming you for anything. I didn’t eat or drink anything at your house before we left, remember?”

  “Of course, I remember. I just . . . it’s been a crazy day, that’s all.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m glad you’re feeling better.” A
fter a rather awkward silence, I asked, “What if this is the start of an epidemic in Brea Ridge? Something has to be done before the children start back to school and especially before . . . .”

  “Before other people wind up like Fred Duncan,” Ben said.

  “Exactly. So what do we do?”

  “I don’t know.” Ben sighed. “As I said, Dr. Holloway doesn’t want to create a panic. He wants people to think the bacteria incident was limited to the Christmas party . . . that it was just a fluke.”

  “Is that wise? I mean, obviously, the Christmas party was not an isolated incident or else you wouldn’t have gotten sick from that same bacterium.”

  “I know, but what am I supposed to do? Print a story about it and scare everyone in town?”

  I expelled a breath. “Yeah. That’s a pickle.”

  “I’ll sleep on it,” Ben said. “Maybe things will look different in the morning.”

  Things definitely did look different the next morning. Cara Logan went on the local morning news show to warn people about the mysterious illness that is befalling the residents of Brea Ridge.

  Chapter Ten

  I was roused from a peaceful slumber Tuesday morning by the shrill ring of the phone. Before I was fully awake, I thought it was the oven timer and tried to remember what I was baking. But then I remembered the oven timer was a continuous buzz, while this sound was intermittent. That’s when the fog cleared, and I fumbled for the phone.

  “Daphne’s . . . Cake . . . Delicacies.”

  It was Ben. “Have you got your TV on?”

  “I don’t even have my brain on. What time is it? What’s the matter?”

  “Turn your TV on to Channel 2.”

  Fortunately, there’s a small television on top of the chest of drawers in my bedroom. I was in no condition to be ambulatory. I propped up on my elbow and opened the drawer to my nightstand. Taking out the remote, I turned on the TV, put it on Channel 2, yawned and flopped back down in bed. The clock in the corner of the set told me it was 6:05 a.m. The station was showing a commercial for hemorrhoid cream.

  I groaned. “Uh, I appreciate your concern, but I don’t currently need this particular product. Or is this your roundabout way of telling me I’m a pain in your posterior?”