by Gayle Trent
“What? No. It’s coming up after the break.”
“I have no idea what ‘it’ is; but unless a meteorite fell on the Save-A-Buck during the middle of the night or confectioner’s sugar has been deemed an illegal substance, I’m not sure I care.” I could suddenly see myself in a black trench coat meeting a seedy-looking character in a dark alley to buy a ten-pound bag of confectioner’s sugar, dampening my ring finger and tasting the sugar to make sure it was “pure” before handing over the money.
Mental note: Lay off the cop shows.
“Oh, I think you’ll be interested in this,” Ben said.
“What time do you get up anyway?” I asked. “You do realize it’s barely six o’clock, don’t you? The sun isn’t even up.”
“Shhh. Here it is.”
Before I had time to go all indignant on him for calling and waking me up only to shush me, Cara appeared onscreen. She looked lovely in a gray pinstriped suit, pink blouse and gray spectator pumps. Wonder what time she got up this morning? I had to admit the girl was a natural for the news desk.
The anchorman was a Ken-looking type of guy—you know, Ken . . . as in Barbie and—whom I’d seen on the noon show a few times. He was saying something grave to the viewing audience. I turned up the volume to I could make out what he was saying.
“Cara, fill us in on this latest development.”
“Thank you, Doug.” The camera zoomed in on Cara. “As you mentioned earlier, we had all hoped—and indeed thought—the outbreak of an isolated strain of campylobacter which triggers intense gastrointestinal distress was limited to that suffered by those attending the Brea Ridge Pharmaceutical Christmas party several days ago. Unfortunately, another case has been reported.”
The camera panned back out to include both Cara and Doug in the shot.
“And that has occurred here in Brea Ridge,” Doug said.
“Precisely. Ben Jacobs, a reporter and editor for the Brea Ridge Chronicle, fell ill suddenly Sunday evening. When Dr. John Holloway of Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals, learned of Mr. Jacobs’ illness, he treated Mr. Jacobs with the same drug used successfully on ninety-nine percent of the people stricken by this strain of campylobacter at the aforementioned party. A blood test confirmed Jacobs had been infected with the same illness.”
“Cara, after Fred Duncan’s death following the administration of the experimental campylobacter drug, Campylophine, was there any hesitation on the part of Dr. Holloway or Mr. Jacobs in employing this remedy?”
“Not at all. It’s apparent Mr. Duncan’s death was an anomaly. There’s currently nothing definitively linking his death to the drug. In fact, Dr. Holloway is encouraging anyone who shows symptoms of being affected by campylobacter to contact Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals.”
“A list of those symptoms will be displayed onscreen prior to our next break, and it will also be posted on our website,” Doug said. “One last thing, Cara, do we know where Mr. Jacobs contracted the campylobacter?”
“We haven’t a clue. However, no one else has shown symptoms. We’re urging residents of Brea Ridge not to panic—we don’t think there’s any cause for alarm—but to simply remain vigilant.”
“Again, that’s Cara Logan of the West Side Messenger speaking with us this morning on behalf of Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals. Thank you, Cara.”
“My pleasure, Doug.”
I’d almost forgotten Ben was still on the phone when he asked, “Can you believe that?”
*
I dropped four containers of chocolate fudge and four containers of peanut butter fudge off at Save-A-Buck as I drove to Carol’s house to pick up her and Fran. I beeped the horn, and they quickly came outside.
Carol was looking nicer than I’d ever seen her. Her brown hair had been curled, she had on makeup, and she was wearing a royal blue wool suit and black knee-length boots.
Fran was wearing black pants, a white ruffled shirt and a teal blazer. She looked fresh and beautiful. But, then, she always does.
Fran allowed her mother to take the front seat, and she hopped in back with the baked goods.
“Carol, we’ll make this as quick as possible,” I said. “I don’t want your lunch break to run too long.”
“That’s all right,” she said. “Fran and I have already talked about that. If I go over my lunch hour, I’ll stay after work to make it up; and she’ll start dinner.”
“Yeah, that way dinner will be ready when she and Dad get home,” Fran said.
“Right. Pete will be late getting home tonight anyway,” Carol said.
“Did he go back to work today, too?” I asked.
“No,” Carol said. “He took an extra day to spend with his dad. They both needed it.”
I nodded. “I spoke with my Uncle Hall the other day. He said Walt was taking Fred’s death awfully hard.”
“Pete is, too. Well, we all are, really,” Carol said. “Fred was all we had left of Pete’s brother Travis.”
After that, we passed the couple remaining miles to Belinda’s house in silence.
I pulled up to the gate, put down my window and pressed the intercom button. “Daphne Martin, Carol Duncan and Fran Duncan to see Mrs. Fremont please.”
The anticipation emanating from Carol and Fran was nearly palpable.
“Come right in, Ms. Martin.”
The gate slowly opened, and Fran and Carol gasped.
When we arrived at the house, we were shown into the parlor. Before Belinda joined us, however, Hilda the housekeeper came to get us. I introduced her to Carol and Fran.
“Mrs. Fremont has requested you meet with her in the dining room this morning, Ms. Martin. She said you may set up everything on the dining room table, and she’ll join you in approximately fifteen minutes.”
“Thank you, Hilda.”
She, Fran, Carol and I carried our boxes into the Fremonts’ dining room. The long cherry table was bare with the exception of a large fresh centerpiece with mums, daisies and lilies.
Before Hilda left, she turned to Carol. “Did Ms. Martin introduce you as ‘Duncan’?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m Carol Duncan, and this is my daughter Fran.”
“Were you related to the young man who died last week?”
“Yes,” Carol said. “I’m his aunt.”
Hilda nodded. “I’m awfully sorry for your family’s loss. He was a good boy, your Fred.”
“You knew Fred?” Fran asked.
“Yes, dear. I once showed him a photograph of my poodle Maggie, and he sketched her for me while we waited for our appointments.”
“Appointments?” Carol asked.
“Yes. I suppose it won’t hurt to spill the beans now. He and I were in a drug research trial together in Abingdon a couple months ago. We were testing a new drug for migraines . . . or, at least, I was. I only discovered I’d had the real thing at the end of the trial.”
“Did the medication help you?” I asked.
“Not so much that I could notice,” Hilda said. She turned back to Carol. “I framed that sketch. He was a talented young man.” She blinked rapidly. “Excuse me, won’t you? I’ll be in the kitchen should you need anything.”
“Thank you, Hilda.”
I glanced at Fran and Carol. They appeared to be as perplexed as I was, but we had to put this information on the backburner until after our meeting with Belinda.
“Fran,” I said, “would you please plate the cavy cookies and garnish the plate with the marzipan fruit? Carol, let’s you and I arrange these cookies in a pretty pattern on this tray.”
After preparing the cookies for display, I prepared a crystal pedestal with five white petit-fours bearing golden Fs. We also plated a sampling of candies, fresh fruit, fruit dips and tarts.
We’d barely finished arranging everything when Belinda swept into the dining room with Guinevere in her arms.
“Daphne, darling, this all looks delightful.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Mrs. Fremont, I’d like to introduce you to Carol and Fran
Duncan. They’ll be helping me cater your party. I hope you don’t mind my bringing them along.”
“Certainly not.” She nodded at Carol and Fran. “Nice to meet you both. Plus, it’s good for you to know up front what will be expected.” She turned back to me. “I’ve been telling Guinevere about her special cookies, and she’s eager to try them.”
I took a dessert plate and put two of the cavy cookies on it.
“They’re precious,” Belinda said. “How did you ever make them so tiny?”
Knowing she didn’t really care, I merely smiled and sat the plate onto the table. I pulled out a chair for her, and she sat down.
By this time, Hilda had slipped unobtrusively back into the dining room. She placed a white linen napkin on the table to Belinda’s right.
Belinda picked up one of the cookies. Guinevere was leaning toward it before Belinda could get it close enough to her mouth.
“My, you little pig.” Belinda looked at me and winked.
We all chuckled like she’d said something ever so clever.
Belinda held the cookie closer to Guinevere, and the “little pig” devoured it and sniffed around for more.
“I believe you have a hit on your hands, Daphne.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I have an entire plate full here, so you can ensure Lancelot and the rest of Guinevere’s friends enjoy them as well.”
“Wonderful. Hilda, please take Guinevere up to her room,” Belinda said. “Leave the cookies here for now. I’ll distribute them at snack time.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Hilda took the guinea pig.
Guinevere let out a squeak of protest as she was carried from the room. The poor thing wanted another cookie. I couldn’t blame her really. I’d tried one last night after Fran and Carol had left. After all, one doesn’t serve something to Belinda Fremont—or her cavies—one hasn’t sampled first. They weren’t bad. And if you were a guinea pig who’d never had a cookie before—who was ignorant of the delights of chocolate chunk, peanut butter and white chocolate macadamia nut—you’d be wanting another one, too.
Belinda spent the next thirty minutes tasting the goodies and giving me “yays” and “nays.” Mostly, there were “yays,” thank goodness. And I explained how the various tables would be set up.
“Will the cavies be staying up to usher in the New Year?” I asked.
“No,” Belinda said, “I’m afraid it would be a strain on them to deviate that much from their routine.”
“What if you have a mini countdown for them near their bedtime?” I asked. “We could even let them drink water out of miniature wine glasses to ring in the New Year. Then we can move them upstairs and get them settled down while the people guests enjoy the remainder of the party.”
Belinda clasped her hands together. “Excellent.” She smiled. “Daphne, I like the way you think.”
*
“Was the Fremont house everything you thought it would be?” I asked Carol as I was driving her and Fran back to their house.
“Everything and more,” Carol said. “What a showplace.”
“I’ll say,” Fran said. “Did you see all those guinea pigs’ rooms? They were fancier than mine.” She drew in a breath. “I mean . . . .”
“It’s okay, honey,” Carol said. “I know exactly what you mean.”
“You know the story in the Bible of the prodigal son?” I asked. “How he squandered his fortune and wound up living with the pigs? That story might’ve turned out completely different if that boy had gone to live with Belinda’s ‘pigs.’”
We all laughed.
“Yeah,” Carol said. “He might’ve been more like Joseph during the famine.”
“When do you need us to work again?” Fran asked as we neared their house.
“I’m not sure. After I get home and sort through my notes, I’ll give you a call so we can work something out,” I said.
“Okay.” Fran hopped out of the backseat, waved goodbye, took out her phone and began texting as she strode up the sidewalk.
I shook my head. “No way was I that coordinated at her age.”
Carol scoffed. “I’m not that coordinated now.”
I smiled. “I’ll discuss a tentative schedule with Fran; and if you need to change anything, simply give me a call.”
“Thank you. And thanks for taking us with you.” She grinned shyly. “I felt like I was visiting Brea Ridge’s answer to Biltmore.”
“In a way, I guess we were. Belinda modeled her house after Crane Cottage in Jekyll Island, Georgia, and some of the architecture of Crane Cottage was modeled after Biltmore. Apparently, the Cranes and the Vanderbilts were friends.”
“Well, how about that. Wait until I tell Pete.”
We said our goodbyes, and I drove on home. My mind wandered to Steve Franklin and his brother, and I wondered if China might know anything about their feud. As soon as I got inside, I called her to ask.
“Yeah,” she said, “I heard all the gossip about Steve and Robby Franklin . . . oh, I reckon it was ten or fifteen years ago now. What’s got you wanting to know about that?”
“Apparently, the reason Fred Duncan was in that car accident last year was because Steve Franklin sent Fred to take his mom flowers for her birthday. Mr. Franklin wouldn’t go because his brother was there.”
“Yeah, well, that makes sense, I reckon. When I heard over the police scanner that Fred had wrecked on Fox Hollow Road, I was confounded as to why he’d be plumb out there.”
“So, what’s the deal between Mr. Franklin and his brother?” I asked.
“Well, you see, Steve was sweet on this girl named Erica. They’d dated for several months, and from what I heard told, Steve was fixing to ask her to marry him come Christmas. Then came Thanksgiving break, and Robby came home from college.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Uh-oh is right. Erica spent Thanksgiving Day with the Franklins, and that night she broke up with Steve. She’d done set her cap for Robby.”
“What a hag!” And I don’t mean Hot Available Guy.
“Well, I agree, dumplin’, but Robby Franklin was the kind of man that’d give a woman pause.”
“Did Robby get together with Erica?” I asked.
“Yeah, but only for the rest of that weekend. Then he dumped her and told her to go on back to Steve if he was stupid enough to have her back.”
“Was he? Was he stupid enough?”
“No. He had the good sense to send her packing. Never got over it, though. Never forgave his brother, and never found a girl to replace Erica.”
“So Mr. Franklin never married?”
“Nope. Not unless you count the Save-A-Buck—he seems pretty devoted to that.”
“What about Robby?”
“Oh, yeah, he married a darling girl he met after college. I believe they have a couple young ‘uns.”
“Hmm. He moved on, and Steve didn’t,” I said.
“Well, that’s the thing about forgiveness, dumplin’. You don’t forgive somebody that wronged you for their benefit, you do it for yours. All that anger and bitterness has eaten away at Steve Franklin for all these years, but it ain’t hurt his brother one iota.”
“How about Erica? What ever became of her?”
“She moved away from Brea Ridge is all I know.”
“Thanks for filling me in,” I said.
“Anytime. Got what happened to Fred figured out yet?”
“I’m afraid not, China.”
“Oh, well, you’ll get it.”
I didn’t argue with her. Instead, I told her goodbye and began looking over the notes I’d taken at Belinda’s house.
The cavy cookies were a definite yes. I’d need three dozen of those. I’d need two dozen petit-fours. The pinwheels were a no. A cupcake tower using red velvet cupcakes with white icing and raspberry toppers were a yes—I’d need forty of those. And I’d need forty lemon tarts.
I called Fran and told her we could do all the preparations for Belinda’s party the five days af
ter Christmas, but three of those days would be fairly labor intensive. “Are you still up for it?”
“You bet,” Fran said.
“Do you mean it?” I asked. “I’m not trying to dissuade you, but if you and your mom change your minds and bail on me at the last minute, I’ll really be in a pickle.”
“We won’t bail,” Fran said. “Now, while Mom isn’t here, we can discuss the investigation.”
“Sorry, kiddo, I don’t have anything to discuss unless you want to talk about what Hilda, the Fremonts’ housekeeper said about meeting Fred at a medical research facility.”
“Well, I do think that’s odd, but I found out something even stranger than that.”
“Okay, shoot.”
“None of the food at the Brea Ridge Pharmaceutical Christmas party was contaminated with campylobacter.”
“None of it?” Thank you, God.
“None of it.”
“Are you sure?”
“It was in the toxicology report.”
“Wait, wait, wait. Everybody who got sick at the party did test positive for having this particular strain of bacterium in their system, right?”
“Right.”
“Then, if it didn’t come from the food, where did it come from?” I asked.
“That appears to be the million dollar question.”
Chapter Eleven
“How can that be?” Ben asked when I called him to pass along Fran’s information.
“Fran said the police had been back in touch with Connie and told her none of the food tested positive for the campylobacter bacteria.”
“Then how did those people get sick?” Ben asked. “Was someone going around passing out free bacteria samples?”
“Now that you mention it, Fran did point out that none of the doctors got sick.”
“Daphne, those doctors are not stupid enough to infect a group of partygoers—most of whom are their employees—with a bacterium simply to test a new product. First of all, that would be business suicide. Second, there was no need. The drug had been widely tested, approved and was set to hit the market in January.”
“Two excellent points.”
