The Fatal Funnel Cake

by Livia J. Washburn

  But a bit of good luck never hurt anything, either.

  With the competition at one o’clock, the group ate an early lunch; then Phyllis and Sam went out to the car to fetch the things Phyllis would need for the contest. It was a beautiful autumn day, with a definite nip in the air that was balanced by the warmth of the sun. Phyllis barely noticed the weather, though. Her attention was focused on the task in front of her.

  She had decided to make the maple pecan funnel cake topped with maple syrup and pecans. It was a departure from the traditional recipe, but not so offbeat that the judges would consider it bizarre, she hoped. She had practiced pouring out the batter until she was confident she could form the cakes in the usual shape. Fancy designs were still beyond her abilities, but there was something to be said for a well-executed classic funnel cake shape.

  “Is there a special prize for winnin’ this contest?” Sam asked as they entered the hall, each carrying a cardboard box containing the things Phyllis would need.

  She shook her head and said, “Not that I know of, other than the recognition. And all the winning recipes are published each year in a new edition of the state fair cookbook. That’s true of all the cooking contests.”

  “Well, that’d be good, you and Carolyn both bein’ in the same cookbook. Although that’s probably happened before, hasn’t it, what with all the different contests the two of you have been in?”

  “As a matter of fact, it has,” Phyllis said. “But they were all locally produced cookbooks. People all over the state, and probably all over the country, buy the State Fair of Texas cookbook.”

  “You’ll be in it. I’m sure of it.”

  “Like Carolyn said, you don’t have to give me a pep talk, Sam. Although I do appreciate the support.”

  “That’s just the ol’ coach in me talkin’, I guess,” he said, smiling. “Confidence is a big part of winnin’.”

  Phyllis was confident that she would do her very best. Beyond that, it was out of her hands.

  Carolyn, Eve, and Peggy were waiting for them at the row of stoves set up along one wall. Other contestants were already there getting ready. An official wearing a state fair name badge consulted a list on a clipboard and told Phyllis which stove she was supposed to use. It was at the end of the row, so she would have a competitor to her right but not to her left.

  “And good luck to you,” the official added.

  “Thank you,” Phyllis said. She had decided that she would take all the luck she could get. Some of the other competitors looked very serious about what they were doing.

  At the stove next to hers, a short, slender Hispanic man with a neatly trimmed gray mustache was setting up. He looked over at her and said, “I don’t think I recognize you. How long have you been coming to the fair?”

  “This is my first time in years,” Phyllis said.

  “Oh. You’re one of the amateurs.”

  Phyllis wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that, and he must have noticed her confusion, because he went on, “This contest used to be open just to the food concessionaires. It wasn’t really an official state fair contest. But it was always good publicity for whoever won.” He smiled. “Modesty forbids me from mentioning that I took top honors a few times myself.”

  “That’s wonderful. Congratulations.”

  The man shrugged. “This year, though, they decided to throw it open to anybody. I don’t think any of the amateurs will win—no offense, but we do this for a living, you know.”

  Phyllis laughed. “Well, now I’m more intimidated than ever. I never made funnel cakes before last week. I just thought it would be fun.”

  “Oh, it’s serious business. A big chunk of our yearly income comes from the state fair. Some of the concessionaires weren’t happy about the contest being open to the public.” He shrugged. “It didn’t bother me, of course. Competition never does. By the way, I’m Ramón Silva.” He held out his hand.

  Phyllis shook hands with him and introduced herself. He didn’t seem to recognize her name, which came as no surprise. Outside Weatherford, not many people knew about her cooking skills. And she certainly didn’t want to draw attention to her skills as a detective. The less said about that, the better, as far as she was concerned.

  Silva looked with interest at the ingredients Phyllis was taking out of the boxes. “What are you going to make?” he asked.

  Normally she wouldn’t give that sort of information to a rival, not even Carolyn. But with the contest about to begin at any minute, Silva couldn’t really steal her recipe. He already had to have his own plans in place.

  Phyllis told him about the maple pecan funnel cakes she had decided to make. Silva nodded and said, “That sounds interesting. If you can pull it off, it might be enough to get a little attention from the judges. Not enough to win, of course, but still, it might turn out nicely.”

  His confidence—which bordered on arrogance, Phyllis thought—was starting to get on her nerves. She repeated what she had told Sam earlier. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

  “That’s right,” Silva said, but he still managed to sound like he thought she had no chance at all of beating him.

  She could understand why people whose livelihoods depended on the food they cooked and sold at the state fair might not be too fond of the idea of competing against amateurs who really had nothing to lose. But that was the way things were set up this year and she didn’t think she was doing anything wrong. So she wasn’t going to worry about the possibility of hurting Ramón Silva’s feelings if she happened to finish ahead of him in this contest, no matter how far-fetched he apparently considered that possibility.

  In fact, she realized, the idea held some definite appeal for her, if she was being honest with herself.

  Phyllis looked over her shoulder at the spectators, who were standing back behind a taped line on the floor to watch the competition. Sam smiled and gave her a little salute. Carolyn, Eve, and Peggy waved. Phyllis smiled back at them. It felt good to know they were there to root for her.

  The starting times for the contestants were staggered, so that the judges could sample each funnel cake when it was still fresh and warm. Since Phyllis was at the end of the line, she had to wait, but the judges moved quickly in her direction, increasing the tension she felt that much more.

  “All right, get ready,” one of the contest workers told her. “Your time begins . . . now!”

  Phyllis put oil in the iron skillet and started it heating while she mixed her ingredients. She paid no attention to what Ramón Silva and the other contestants and the judges were doing but focused all her attention on her own efforts.

  When the batter was ready and the oil was hot enough, she set the metal ring into the hot oil and began pouring the batter inside the ring, using a traditional funnel. It took a steady hand to keep the line of batter from coming apart as it lay down in the hot oil, and there could be no stopping and starting if she wanted a smooth, unbroken design. More time to practice that skill might have come in handy, but this was all for fun, Phyllis told herself, so she didn’t take any of it too seriously. She supposed that experienced funnel cake makers like Ramón Silva could do this automatically, without even thinking too much about what they were doing.

  She tried not to let herself get too tense. Her movements needed to be smooth and flowing. As the oil sizzled, the funnel cake began to take shape in the pan. The loops and strands intersected and overlapped within the metal ring, giving them the strength required for them to hold together.

  It seemed like the rest of the world had gone away, receding from around her until the only things she was aware of were the funnel, the batter, and the pan. She had to rely on instinct to know when the cake was ready to be turned over, and she hadn’t had long to develop that instinct. Phyllis had always prided herself on being a quick learner, though, all the way back to the days when she was a student. She
set the funnel inside a small bowl to keep the drips contained, and when she felt like the time was right, she picked up the tongs she had sitting there close at hand, ready for action, and used them to first remove the metal ring, setting it aside, and then take hold of the cake. A deft flick of the wrist, and the funnel cake came up and over and settled back down into the oil. The side that was now turned up was a rich golden brown. Despite hoping that she would do a good job, Phyllis was a little surprised at just how perfect it looked.

  A few minutes later she used the tongs again, this time to remove the cake from the pan and place it on a plate with a paper towel on it. As soon as she thought the cake had drained enough, she moved it to another plate and picked up the high-quality maple syrup and the pecans she had chopped in Peggy’s kitchen the night before. She drizzled the syrup on the hot funnel cake, being careful not to use too much or too little. Just like Goldilocks, she thought. She wanted it to be just right.

  As she set the syrup down and sprinkled the pecans on top, she reminded herself that she wasn’t finished. She had to make two more cakes, three in all for the judges, and there was no time to waste. It was a delicate balance, keeping the oil at just the right temperature.

  Even though she knew better than to check on the competition, Phyllis flicked a glance over at Ramón Silva. He was just taking his first cake out of the pan. His design was a lot more elaborate than hers, so it had taken longer.

  Of course, this wasn’t a race, Phyllis thought. The contestants would be allowed all the time they needed, within reason. If they weren’t satisfied with the way a cake turned out, they could discard it and start over, as long as they didn’t go over that time limit.

  She began working on her second one, trying to make it exactly the same as the first one. Uniformity was important, as was appearance, but the cakes were judged primarily on taste.

  “Looks good,” Silva said. “Not as spectacular as mine, of course, but not bad for a newbie.”

  “Thank you,” Phyllis said without taking her eyes off what she was doing. She wasn’t going to allow him to distract her as she began to pour again, and she certainly wasn’t going to engage in trash talk with him.

  “Better be careful. You know how easy that batter breaks.”

  She started to get angry, knowing that he was trying to get her goat. But that was exactly the response he wanted to provoke, she told herself, so she called on the almost Zen-like calm that every good teacher developed in order to stay sane in the classroom. She was even able to summon up a tranquil smile.

  That ought to infuriate Ramón Silva, she thought.

  Her second cake looked just as good as the first. When she took it out of the skillet, Silva was just flipping his second cake. It was totally irrational to feel that way since speed didn’t matter, but Phyllis was pleased that she was pulling ahead of him.

  Silva wasn’t happy about it, though. She could tell that from the hooded glances he kept shooting in her direction. Phyllis did her best to ignore the man and concentrate on her own efforts.

  “No funnel cake can match up to mine,” Silva muttered. Phyllis heard him but pretended that she hadn’t.

  Her movements weren’t quite as smooth as she poured the third cake. Tension was taking its toll on her muscles, she supposed. But the strands didn’t break and the cake formed the way it was supposed to. There were minor variations, of course—like snowflakes, no two funnel cakes were exactly alike—but it was obvious that all three were poured by the same hand. Phyllis adjusted the temperature on the stove’s burner, bumping it down a little to keep the oil from getting too hot. She picked up the tongs and turned the cake.

  This was the home stretch, she told herself. As soon as this side finished browning, she would be almost done. Again relying on instinct, she waited as the seconds ticked by and turned into minutes. Then, holding her breath, she reached out with the tongs and grasped the cake.

  When she lifted it from the pan, she heard a murmur of approval from the spectators. She supposed that like any other activity, there were funnel cake aficionados who knew all the ins and outs of the game and recognized good work. She began soaking up the oil from her third and final funnel cake.

  Ramón Silva wore a dark scowl now. He had his third cake cooking. Phyllis didn’t take a good look at the first two he had cooked until she was finished pouring the maple syrup and sprinkling the pecans over her third cake. Silva’s cakes were beautiful; there was no denying that. And she was sure they were light and fluffy inside and would taste wonderful. There would be no shame in losing to an old pro like him.

  Phyllis hoped her cakes would at least be competitive. She thought they would taste good. There was no reason they shouldn’t.

  She stepped back, looked at the three funnel cakes on the counter next to her stove, and heaved a sigh of relief. She was finished, anyway. She had done her best. Now it was up to the judges.

  She turned to look at her friends. They all smiled broadly at her, and Sam gave her a thumbs-up. Phyllis returned the gesture, feeling a little foolish as she did so, but Sam’s enthusiasm was infectious.

  Ramón Silva stepped back, beamed at his cakes with obvious pride, and said, “Those are the winners, right there.” He looked over at Phyllis. “They’ll see they never should have opened the contest to amateurs.”

  “Oh, I don’t know; it adds some excitement to the proceedings, don’t you think?” she said.

  Silva snorted. “This isn’t a game. It isn’t about excitement. This is business. If I can claim I make the fair’s best funnel cakes, I’ll sell more of them.”

  Phyllis could understand that, and she didn’t have any desire to hurt anyone’s business. But she hadn’t made the rules, and as far as she could see the contest had been fair for everyone involved, concessionaires and amateurs alike.

  The judging got under way. Phyllis glanced at the clock on the wall. Nearly an hour remained until Joye Jameson’s broadcast would be over. She hoped that she and the others would be able to see part of the show and meet Joye afterward.

  Now that the cooking was finished, the spectators were allowed to mingle with the contestants. Sam, Carolyn, Eve, and Peggy came over to Phyllis and congratulated her.

  “It’s a little early for that,” she told them. “The judges haven’t even tried my cakes yet.”

  “Yeah, but you got through it,” Sam said, “and I could tell it was a little nerve-rackin’.”

  “Phyllis has always handled pressure without any trouble,” Carolyn said. “When you’re a teacher you learn how to do that, or you don’t last long in the job.”

  “That’s certainly true,” Eve agreed. “And she’s never broken under the pressure of all those murder investigations, either, even when she got thrown in jail because she was trying to help me.”

  The others looked at her in surprise.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Eve went on. “Do you think I don’t know you’ve been avoiding talking about anything like that in front of me? I appreciate the consideration for my feelings, but it’s time we all moved on, don’t you think? From now on, you don’t have to watch what you say around me. Just be yourselves.” She smiled at Carolyn. “I know it must have been terribly difficult for you, dear.”

  “What does that mean?” Carolyn demanded. “Do you think I’m just naturally tactless or something?”

  The arrival of the judges saved Eve from having to answer.

  Phyllis introduced herself, showed the judges—two women and a man—the printed recipe she had used, and watched in tense anticipation as each judge sampled one of the funnel cakes, cutting off a couple of bites and chewing them slowly as if savoring everything about the experience.

  Then they thanked her and moved on. Phyllis hadn’t been able to tell a thing from their expressions about whether or not they had liked her entries.

  “Is that it?” Carolyn asked. “Jus
t two bites?”

  “I reckon they can’t eat the whole thing every time,” Sam said, “or else they’d have such a sugar rush they’d be bouncin’ off the walls for the next two days.”

  “I couldn’t even eat that much,” Peggy said. “My blood sugar would go sky-high if I did.”

  The judges were just as expressionless as they sampled Ramón Silva’s cakes. He tried to chat familiarly with them, but they didn’t seem to pay much attention to what he said.

  It was a few minutes past two o’clock when the judges finished sampling all the entries and drew off to the side to confer among themselves. The discussion seemed to take forever, even though it was really only a couple of minutes. Finally, they all nodded as if they had reached a consensus, and when they turned around and approached the contestants again, the male judge had a big blue ribbon in his hand.

  His course led him straight toward the stoves where Phyllis and Silva had prepared their funnel cakes. Phyllis couldn’t tell which of them was the judge’s destination. Silva thought he knew, though. A smug, self-satisfied smile appeared on his face.

  Then the judge veered slightly, just enough to take him to Phyllis, who stood there too stunned to move as the man held out the blue ribbon, smiled, and said, “Congratulations, Mrs. Newsom.”

  Chapter 9

  “Noooo!”

  The shout of anger and disbelief came from Ramón Silva. He lunged toward the judge, getting in the man’s face and continuing, “You can’t give the blue ribbon to an amateur! You just can’t! It’s not right!”

  “Please, Mr. Silva—” the startled judge began.

  Silva made a grab for the ribbon. “Gimme that!” he demanded. “It’s mine!”

  Phyllis was just as shocked as anyone else at the man’s outburst. She saw one of the female judges saying something into a walkie-talkie and figured the woman was calling security.

  The male judge backed away hurriedly. He was taller than Silva and held the blue ribbon over his head, out of Silva’s reach, but that didn’t stop the outraged concessionaire from trying to get it. Silva jumped and grabbed at the ribbon several times, and Phyllis thought the scene would have been comical if it hadn’t been so sad.