by Gayle Trent
I giggled. “Really?”
“Really. And then China walked to the door and said, ‘I’ve had it with her. I won’t be back here until one of us is dead.’ And she ain’t been back to church since.”
“Wow,” I said. “That’s some story.”
“Makes you wonder if China finally got tired of sitting home by herself on Sunday mornings.”
Seeing how serious Myra looked, I stifled my laughter. “Do you honestly think this woman has been nursing a grudge all these years and killed Mrs. Watson rather than simply finding herself another church?”
“There’s not another Baptist church within ten miles of here.” She finished off her soda. “People have killed for crazier reasons than that, haven’t they?”
“I suppose, but—”
“And if it wasn’t China York, I can think of a few other folks who had it in for Yodel.”
“Come on. I’ll admit she’s been a pain to work with on these cakes, but I have a hard time casting Mrs. Watson in the role of Cruella De Vil.”
Myra got up and put her empty soda can in the garbage. “I didn’t say she made puppy coats. I said there were a lot of people who’d just as soon not have Yodel Watson around.”
Coming in 2010
Daphne's Next Cake-Baking Mystery
KILLER SWEET TOOTH
Book Three in the Daphne Martin Cake Decorating Mystery Series
It all began with a little bite of innocent sweetness. It was mid-January, and Brea Ridge had been experiencing the type of “Desperado” days the Eagles would describe as “the sky won’t snow and the sun won’t shine.” Indeed, it was hard to tell the nighttime from the day.
Ben, my significant other—at least, to my way of thinking . . . and I believe he’s thinking that way, too, after the comment he made just before Christmas—was working late on a story. He’s a reporter, editor and go-to-guy for the Brea Ridge Chronicle. On top of that, he’s a perfectionist who has trouble delegating. Hence, the working late.
Violet, my sister, was visiting her mother-in-law this evening with her hubby Jason and my precious tween twin nephew and niece Lucas and Leslie. Try saying that line three times fast. Anyway, Grammy Armstrong was celebrating her seventieth birthday, and Violet’s family as well as the rest of the Armstrong clan was gathering to wish her well.
All of which, I must selfishly admit, left me out in the cold. Pardon the pun. But I was lonely. Lucky for me—or, at least, I thought so at the time—Myra was lonely, too. Myra is my favorite neighbor. She’s a sassy, sixty-something (you’ll never get her to admit to any specific age) widow who knows everything about everybody in Brea Ridge (or can find out), who has a heart of gold and who is as entertaining as they come. I gave her a call and she agreed to come over for some just-made cashew brittle and a game of Scrabble. Myra tends to make up words when playing Scrabble, but that merely adds to the challenge of the game.
At the sound of the doorbell, Sparrow, my one-eyed formerly-stray gray and white Persian cat raced down the hall toward my office. She has a little bed in there under the desk, and it’s her favorite hiding place. She has begrudgingly made friends with me, but she isn’t comfortable around other people yet. Don’t worry about the one-eye. The veterinarian said she was probably born that way. Plus, it’s how she got her name. Lucas and Leslie named her Sparrow in honor of Captain Jack, Johnny Depp’s character in Pirates of the Caribbean. They said having one eye made Sparrow look like a pirate.
I opened the door and Myra came in wearing jeans, an oversized blue sweater and a pair of Ugg boots. She deposited the boots by the door and rubbed her hands together.
“I’m so glad you called,” she said. “I’ve been bored out of my mind today.”
“Me, too,” I said. “Cake orders have been slow since New Year’s.”
“They’ll pick back up.”
We walked into the kitchen where I had the Scrabble board set up on the island. The two stools were set on opposite sides of the island. The cashew brittle, popcorn and chocolate-covered raisins were plated and on a tray to the right side of the board. The Scrabble tiles were to the left.
“What would you like to drink?” I asked.
“Something hot. How about a decaf café au lait?”
I smiled. “Sounds good to me.”
Myra sat down and began choosing her tiles. “Great. Nearly all vowels. How am I supposed to make a word out of this mess?”
“Just put those back and draw some new letters.” I have a single-cup coffee maker, so I began making Myra’s café au lait.
“No, now, you know I don’t cheat,” she said. “I’ll make do with the letters I have. Maybe some of this cashew brittle will help me think.”
The next sound I heard was a howl of pain.
“Myra? What is it?”
“Owwww, my toof . . . my filling . . . fell out!” She rocked back and forth on the stool.
I turned the coffee maker off. “Who’s your dentist? I’ll call him and ask if he can meet you in his office.” Don’t think I was being sexist when I said “him.” There are only two dentists in Brea Ridge, and they’re both men.
“Bainworf.”
I got “Bainsworth” out of the mumbled word and rushed into the living room to retrieve my phone book from the end table. I called the dentist’s office and then dialed the emergency number left on the answering machine. Dr. Bainsworth answered the call immediately.
“Hi, Dr. Bainsworth. I’m Daphne Martin. A patient of yours—Myra Jenkins—is here at my house. She bit into a piece of cashew brittle and lost a filling. She’s in terrible pain.”
“Ah, yes, I know Myra well. Tell her I’ll meet her at my office in a half hour. In the meantime, do you have any clove oil?”
“I believe so.”
“Then apply a little of the oil to the tooth with a cotton swab,” he said. “It’ll help dull the pain until you can get her here.” He chuckled. “Good luck.”
“Thank you.” Apparently, he did know Myra well.
I returned to the kitchen. “Dr. Bainsworth will see you in his office in half an hour.”
“Half an hour? I’ll be dead by then.”
I opened the cabinet where I keep my spices and got the clove oil. “He told me to apply a little of this to your tooth with a cotton swab. He said it will help dull the pain.”
“Easy for him to say.” She continued moaning as I went to the bathroom for a cotton swab.
“Come on,” I said, when I had both clove oil and cotton swab in hand. “Dr. Bainsworth says this will help. Take your hand down, open your mouth and show me which tooth.”
She opened her mouth. “It’s ‘is toot.” She pointed to her second bicuspid on the left. “The one throbbing wit pain.”
I dabbed clove oil on the tooth. “There. Feel better?”
“No.”
“Well, just give it a minute. Go ahead and get your boots back on, and we’ll go on to the dentist’s office.”
She got down from the stool, went into the living room and got on her boots. It was a laborious effort, but she managed somehow.
I took my coat from the closet, grabbed my purse and car keys and off we went.
Myra gasped and covered her mouth when the cold air hit her tooth.
“I’m sorry,” I told her, “but the dentist is meeting us, and you’ll be feeling better in no time.”
She nodded as I opened the passenger side door of my red Mini Cooper and helped her get in.
I hurried around to the driver’s side, started the engine, turned on the lights and backed out of the driveway. The traffic was surprisingly heavy for a mid-week winter’s night in Brea Ridge. We met at least half a dozen cars on the way to Dr. Bainsworth’s office.
When we got there, I was relieved to see lights blazing in the back of the office. Dr. Bainsworth was already here and, presumably, had everything ready to fix Myra’s tooth.
Myra pulled the neck of her sweater up over the lower portion of her face before steppin
g out into the cold air. I walked ahead of her so I could hold the heavy door open for her.
We stepped inside and looked around the empty office. Empty offices always look creepy at night, don’t you think? There was only one light on in the entryway; and in the waiting area, the long, skinny windows allowed muted light from streetlamps to filter in casting shadows throughout the room.
“Dr. Bainsworth? It’s Daphne Martin and Myra Jenkins. Would you like us to come on back?”
He didn’t answer, and I supposed maybe he couldn’t hear us.
“Let’s go on back,” I said to Myra.
She nodded slightly, and we walked back toward the examining rooms.
“Dr. Bainsworth?” I called again. “Are you back here?”
I looked inside the first exam room. My eyes widened, and my hand flew to my throat. I turned to Myra in shocked silence.
“Wha?” She followed my gaze to where Dr. Bainsworth was lying facedown on the floor. A trickle of blood emanated from his head. “No!”
“It’s okay,” I said, putting my arms around her. “I’ll call 9-1-1. I’m sure he’ll be all right.”
“My toof! Who’ll fix my toof!”
I heard a noise in the front office and froze. Myra did, too.
“Whoever did this to Dr. Bainsworth is still here,” I whispered.
She nodded.
“We have to find weapons.” I stepped into the examining room and grabbed a huge plastic toothbrush.
Myra armed herself with a model of a molar so big she could barely hold it. She raised it up to eye level so she’d be ready to strike someone with it if need be.
It was at that moment that we heard the sirens. Which was odd because I hadn’t called 9-1-1 yet.
I looked from my giant toothbrush to Myra’s giant molar to the dentist bleeding on the floor. “This is not good.”
More Great Cozy Mysteries From Bell Bridge Books
Dixie Divas
Book One, The Dixie Divas Series
Virginia Brown
Now Available!
Trade Paperback
Ebook at Fictionwise.com
Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
If not for long-dead Civil War Generals Ulysses S. Grant, Nathan Bedford Forrest, and a pot of chicken and dumplings, Bitty Hollandale would never have been charged with murder. Of course, if the mule hadn’t eaten the chicken and dumplings, that would have helped a lot, too.
My name is Eureka Truevine, but my family and friends all call me Trinket. Except for my ex-husband, who’s been known to call me a few other names. That’s one of the reasons I left him and came home to take care of my parents who are in their second adolescence, having missed out on their first one for reasons of survival.
We live at Cherryhill in Mississippi, three miles outside of Holly Springs and forty-five minutes down 78 Highway southeast from Memphis, Tennessee. My father— Edward Wellford Truevine— inherited the house from my grandparents around fifty years ago. It wasn’t in great shape when he got it, but over the years he’s put money, time, and his own craftsmanship into it, and now it’s on the Holly Springs Historic Register.
Every April, Holly Springs has an annual pilgrimage tour of restored antebellum homes, with pretty girls and women in hoop skirts and high button shoes. Men and boys in Confederate uniforms stand sentry with old family Sharpshooters and cavalry swords, neither of which could do much harm to a marshmallow. It’s a big event that draws people from all over the country and gives purpose to the lives of more than a few elderly matrons and historical buffs.
This year, Bitty Hollandale cooked up a big pot of chicken and dumplings to take to Mr. Sanders, who lives in an old house off Highway 7 that the local historical society has been trying to get on the historic register for decades. Sherman Sanders is known for his fondness of chicken and dumplings, and Bitty meant to convince him to put his house on the tour. It’d been built in 1832 and kept in remarkably good shape. Most of the original furniture is in most of the original places, with most of the original wallpaper and carpets still in their original places. The only modern renovations have been electricity and what’s discreetly referred to as a water closet. It’s enough to make any Southerner drool with envy and avarice.
“Go with me, Trinket,” Bitty said to me that day in February. “It’d be such a feather in my cap to get the Sanders house on our tour.”
I looked over at my parents. My father was dressed in plaid golfing pants and a red striped shirt, and my mother wore a red cable knit sweater and a plaid skirt. Under the kitchen table at their feet lay their little brown dog, appropriately named Little Brown Dog and called Brownie. He wore a red plaid sweater. They all like to coordinate.
“I don’t know,” I said doubtfully to Bitty. “I’m not sure what our plans are for the day.”
What I really meant was I wasn’t at all sure leaving my parents alone would be wise. Since I’ve come home, I’ve noticed they have a tendency to pretend they’re sixteen again. While their libidos may be, their bodies are still mid-seventies. The doctor assures me it’s fine, but I worry about them. Daddy’s had an angioplasty, and Mama has occasional lapses of memory. But otherwise, they’re probably in better shape than Bitty and me.
Bitty, like me, is fifty-one, a little on the plump side, and divorced. But she’s lived in Holly Springs all her life, while I haven’t come back to live since I married and followed my husband to random jobs around the country. Bitty and I have been close since we were six years old and she rode over on her pony to invite me to a swimming party. As I then had a love for anything to do with horses, she fast became my best friend. Besides that, she’s my first cousin. I’ve got other cousins in the area, but over the years we’ve lost touch and haven’t gotten around to getting reacquainted.
Bitty knows everyone. I’ve only been back a couple of months and am still struggling to reacquaint myself with old friends. Some people I remember from my childhood, but many have been forgotten over the years. Besides, the shock of finding my parents so different from how I remembered them in my childhood still hasn’t faded enough to encourage more shocks of the same kind.
“They’ll be just fine,” Bitty assured me. She knew what made me hesitate. “Uncle Eddie and Aunt Anna can do without you for an hour.”
“Maybe you’re right.” I studied Mama and Daddy. They played gin rummy with a pack of cards that looked as if they’d survived the Blitzkrieg. “Will you two be okay if I run an errand with Bitty?” I asked in a loud enough voice to catch their attention.
“Gin!” my mother shouted triumphantly, or what passes for a shout with her. She’s petite, with flawless ivory skin that’s never seen a blemish or freckle, bright blue eyes, and stylishly short silver hair that used to be blond. Next to my father, who’s over six-four in his stockinged feet, she looks like a child’s doll. My father has brown eyes and the kind of skin that looks like he works in the sun. He wears a neatly trimmed mustache, his once dark brown hair is still thick, but has been white since a family tragedy in the late sixties. He reminds me of an older Rhett Butler. Since I’m using Gone With the Wind references, my mother reminds me of Melanie Wilkes, with just enough Scarlett O’Hara thrown in to keep her interesting. And unpredictable.
I, on the other hand, am more like Scarlett’s sister Suellen, with just enough of Mammy’s pragmatic optimism to keep me from being a complete cynic and whiner. I inherited my father’s height, my grandmother’s tendency toward weight gain, and auburn hair and green eyes no one can explain. I like to think I’m a throwback to my mother’s Scotch-Irish ancestry.
“We’ll be fine if your mother will stop cheating at cards,” my father said.
Mama just smiled. “I’m not cheating, Eddie. I’m just good enough to win.”
Daddy shook his head. “You’ve got to be cheating. No one beats me at gin.”
“Except me.”
“So,” I said again, a little louder, “you’ll both be fine for a little while, right?”
My mother looked at me with surprise. “Of course, sugar,” she said. “We’re always fine.”
Bitty and I went out to her car. Bitty’s real name is Elisabeth, but it got shortened to Bitty when she was born and the name stuck. Anyone who calls her Elisabeth is a stranger or works for the government. Bitty is one of those females who attract men like state taxpayers’ money lures politicians. On her, a little extra weight settles in the form of voluptuous curves. About five-two in her Prada pumps, she has blond hair, china blue eyes, a complexion like a California girl, and a laugh that’d make even Scrooge smile. If she wasn’t my best friend, I’d probably be jealous.
“I wish you’d drive a bigger car,” I complained once I’d wedged myself into her flashy red sports car that smelled of chicken and dumplings. “I always feel like a giant in this thing.”
Bitty shifted the car into gear and we lurched forward. “You are a giant.”
“I am not. I’m statuesque. Five-nine is not that tall for a woman. Though I admit I could lose twenty pounds and not miss it.”
Gears ground and I winced as we pulled out of the driveway onto the road that leads to Highway 311. One of the things Bitty got in her last— and fourth— divorce was a lot of money that she’s found new and interesting ways to spend. I got ulcers from my one and only divorce. Those aren’t bankable. My only child, however, a married daughter, makes up for everything.
It was one of those February days that promise good weather isn’t so far away. Yellow daffodils and tufts of crocus bloomed in yards and outlined empty spaces where houses had once been. Some fields had already been plowed in preparation for spring planting. A few puffy clouds skimmed across a bright blue sky, and sunlight through the Miata’s windshield heated the car. I rolled down my window and inhaled essence of Mississippi. It was cool, familiar, and very nice.
