by Gayle Trent
“You’d like that,” Fred said, swiping his hand beneath his nose. “You’d like for me to quit.”
Mr. Franklin took a deep breath and impressively, I thought, kept his cool. “You need to punch in and get to work.”
As Mr. Franklin went back outside to get more cakes, Fred stomped toward the stockroom, muttering under his breath. I put my cakes down, checked to make sure they weren’t damaged, and followed Mr. Franklin.
“I brought a covered glass cake plate,” I told Mr. Franklin. “I thought we could display one cake on it and set it in the center of the table.”
“Good idea,” Mr. Franklin said as we returned inside. “What do we have here?”
“We have three yellow, four white and three spice cakes.”
“Great. I’ll get Juanita to make a sign for—”
“I’ve got one.” I reached into my tote bag and retrieved an 8 ½” x 11” sign. It had my logo at the top and the cake flavors at the bottom. “I’ve also got the cake boxes labeled so there won’t be any confusion.”
Mr. Franklin smiled and glanced toward the stockroom. “I wish everyone was as competent as you are.”
I bit my lip. “You handled that outburst much better than I would have.”
“I’m used to it. Fred’s right—I do wish he’d quit.” He shook his head. “Don’t get me wrong. Before the accident, you couldn’t have asked for a harder worker or a nicer guy than Fred.”
“Accident?”
“A car wreck about a year ago. There was some damage to his brain—the frontal lobe. He hasn’t been the same since.”
“Isn’t there something the doctors can do?” I asked. “Some sort of medication?”
“He’s on medication. Trust me, you wouldn’t want to run across him when he’s not.”
“If he’s this disruptive . . . ” I let my sentence trail off.
“I can’t afford a lawsuit, Ms. Martin. Besides, Fred needs this job.” He nodded toward the door. “Let’s go get the rest of those cakes.”
Fortunately, I didn’t see Fred again until I’d put the finishing touches on the display and was getting ready to leave. He came and stood in front of the display and looked at the cakes.
“They look good,” he said. “Smell good, too.”
“Thanks.” I smiled. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
He didn’t respond.
I waved goodbye to Juanita and Mr. Franklin, and then I left.
*
My next stop was the newspaper office. I wanted to know what happened to Vern March. If I could get a lead on where he went, then maybe I could find an address or phone number. I had questions I was desperate to have answered.
The receptionist looked like everybody’s ideal grandma. She had tight gray curls, twinkling blue eyes, and a ready smile. And she greeted me with, “Good mornin’, darlin’. What can I do for you?”
I smiled. “I’m here to see Ben Jacobs. Is he available?”
“You know, I’m not sure whether he’s available or not. But if he is, I’m sure a pretty little thing like you stands a real good chance.”
My smile faded, and I could feel the color flooding my face.
She picked up the phone. “Ben, honey, there’s somebody here to see you.” She replaced the receiver and winked at me. “He’ll be right out.”
“Thank you. Um . . . could I get a list of your advertising rates?”
“Sure, darlin’. Personal ad?”
“No.” I was thinking she might not be such a swell granny after all. “I have a business, and I’d—”
“Oh! What kind of business?”
“I bake and decorate cakes.”
She stared at me.
“You know, for special occasions.”
“Right.” She tsked. “Making all those wedding cakes, no wonder it’s got you thinking about the personals. There’s no shame in that, mind you. Just be careful. You never—”
“Daphne!” Ben’s voice rang out in the reception area, and I felt a relief that was nearly tangible.
“Hi,” I said.
“Come on back to my office.”
I followed him down the narrow hallway.
“Here we go.”
His door had a gold nameplate that read “Benjamin Jacobs, Staff Reporter and Assistant Editor.” The desk wasn’t as cluttered as I’d thought it might be. I glanced around for photographs—maybe of Sally?—but there were none.
“How are you doing this morning?” Ben asked as I took a seat in one of the industrial blue chairs in front of his desk.
“I’m fine. I’d . . . I’d like to see your archives.”
He perched on the corner of his desk. “Any year in particular?”
“Around 1975 . . .to 1976.” I looked down at my hands.
“That was a long time ago. We were . . . what . . . eight?”
I nodded.
“You want me to help you look or just take you to the archive room and get you started?”
“I can take care of it,” I said. “You’ve got work to do.”
“Okay.” He reached over and put his hand on my shoulder. “But if you decide you want to talk about it, I’m here.”
Ben always was infuriatingly perceptive. I guess that’s what made him a good reporter. Minutes later, he had me ensconced in the archive room with instructions to ask someone named Wanda for any help I needed.
I’d expected the archives to be on microfiche or some sort of digital system. Imagine my surprise when I realized the archive room was a library containing books of actual newspapers.
A woman with frizzy brown hair, wearing a brown jumper over a white sweater and white tights, came into the room. “Hi, I’m Wanda. Ben said you were here.”
“Yes. I’m looking for some newspapers from quite a while back.”
“They date back to the early sixties. The earliest ones are in the back, and the latest are in the front. My office is right next door. Give me a shout if you need anything.”
“Thank you.”
I was glad I was wearing jeans. I’d probably be smeared from head to toe with black newsprint before I’d found what I was looking for.
I started at the back of the room.
1962.
I moved about four feet back toward the front.
1970.
A few more steps back.
1974.
I was close. I sat down on the floor and began to rifle thought the books.
1975 . . . February, March, April.
Daddy had gone to Boston in April.
I poured over every page of every day’s newspaper for April. Of course, there was nothing in them pertaining to Vern March. What had I expected? My mother’s affair to take precedence over the Vietnam War?
The front page of April 30, 1975 was all about the surrender of the city of Saigon. “Remaining Americans are evacuated, ending the Vietnam War.”
There was also a world refugee crisis in April of 1975 as millions of Vietnamese fled their country.
The more I read through the papers, the more stupid I felt. With everything that had gone on in the world in 1975, why would I expect Vern March’s accident or assault to make the news? Yet, I personally could remember Vern, Daddy’s trip to Boston, and even Ben’s old dog . . . but I couldn’t recall a single thing about the Vietnam War. Somewhere in the black depths of my memory, I’d thought it had something to do with Jane Fonda, Anita Bryant and Florida orange juice. Clearly, I was mistaken.
Foolish or not, I decided to continue looking at least through the summer of 1975. I’m glad I did. It was on Wednesday, May 7 that I found Vern March . . . or rather his obituary. So now I knew were Vern was. He was interred in a cemetery in Scott County, Virginia.
*
Ben wasn’t in his office when I left. I wrote “Thank you” on a sticky note and put it on his phone. In a way, I was glad he wasn’t there. I knew he’d ask all the right questions, and I’d end up telling him about Mom, Vern March and Uncle Hal. I wasn’t ready to do
that yet . . . or, at least, I wasn’t ready to tell Ben. I didn’t want to drag all the scary skeletons out of my closet until I knew where I stood with him. Even if we were destined to be “just friends,” I didn’t want to screw that up with a sob story at this point. Besides, there wasn’t a wedding ring on Ben’s hand.
Not that I’m interested . . . really . . . very much. I mean, there is Sally to consider. But Ben has always had the sweetest smile.
I gave myself a mental shake, got into my car and drove a bit over the speed limit getting home. Hey, I had stuff to do: a freezer to replenish with cakes; a diary and a set of keys to return; a call to Uncle Hal to make . . .
When I saw the van in my driveway, I wished I’d kept to the letter of the law on that speed limit thing. The van had “Virginia Department of Agriculture and Consumer Services” emblazoned on the side in large blue letters. Suddenly, I wasn’t in such a hurry to be here.
I got out of the car and walked up to the driver’s side of the van. A man with an official-looking clipboard put down the window.
“Hello. Are you Daphne Martin?”
“Yes, sir.”
The driver jerked his head toward his partner. “We’re here to inspect your home.”
“Excuse me?”
“We’re with the Department of Agriculture.”
“And?”
“And under the Virginia Food Laws, you’re subject to an inspection.”
I glanced from the driver to his chubby partner. They looked like Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy in drab olive coveralls. Maybe I was being punked. “Is this a joke?”
Hardy grinned. “No joke, ma’am.”
“Someone came out and inspected my home about a month ago . . . when I first set up my business. This must be a mistake.”
“We received information that your products might present a risk,” Laurel said, “so we’re here to do a repeat inspection.”
“What do you mean my products might present a risk?”
Laurel consulted his clipboard. “Did you deliver a cake to a Yodel Watson on Monday morning?”
“Yes, but—”
“Mrs. Watson died,” Hardy said.
“I know that, but she never even saw the cake.”
“We have our instructions to inspect this residence,” Laurel said. “Do we have your permission to do so or should we suspend your operations?”
I put my hand up to my forehead. “Fine. Come on in.”
“We won’t take but a few minutes of your time,” Laurel said.
“All right.” I unlocked the door as Laurel and Hardy got out of the van.
When they came inside, Hardy was carrying what appeared to me to be a cross between a tool box and a doctor’s kit.
I pointed at the box. “What’s that for? The first inspectors didn’t have anything like that.”
“This contains our tools and sample bags,” Hardy said. “We’ll need to take food samples back to our lab.” He sat the box on the island and opened it.
Laurel went directly to the sink, turned on the faucet and placed his hand in the stream of water. After a few seconds, he announced the hot water was sufficient. He shut off the water, took a flashlight from the box and opened the cabinet under the sink.
As he moved my cleaning supplies onto the kitchen floor, I asked, “What exactly are you looking for?”
Laurel didn’t look up from his task. “Pest infestation, inadequate refrigeration, contaminated food.”
“That’s why we need samples,” Hardy said. “Of your cakes, icing, flour, sugar. And we may need to come back once Mrs. Watson’s cause of death has been determined.”
“Like I told you, the cake I delivered to Mrs. Watson was never even cut! Mrs. Watson didn’t see the cake; she didn’t touch the cake; she didn’t smell the cake; and she darn sure didn’t eat the cake!” I flailed my arms. “The police know the cake wasn’t cut! If they’d thought something was wrong with the cake, they’d have taken it with them.”
“We’re not the police,” Laurel said. He shut off the flashlight and began putting my things back in the cabinet. “This one’s clear.” He looked up at me. “I’m sorry this is upsetting you. We’ll be through in a few minutes. You might want to wait in the living room or—”
“I’ll wait right here.”
“Fine,” Hardy said, holding up a sample bag. “Can you give us some sugar?” He gave me a leering grin that nearly brought my breakfast back to the surface. “Get it?”
“Confectioner’s or pure cane?”
His grin faded. “Both.”
After giving Hardy samples of all my baking supplies, I sat down at the table and watched Laurel go through all my cabinets. He was pretty quick at emptying and refilling them. Where’d he been when I was moving?
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hardy going for the cake box that held tomorrow’s cake. I sprang out of my chair. “Don’t mess with that! It’s for my family’s Thanksgiving dinner!”
Hardy looked at Laurel. I refused to take my eyes off Hardy and was willing to do him bodily harm if he touched my cake.
“You have samples of my supplies,” I said. “You have some of every ingredient in that cake.”
Laurel must’ve given Hardy some sort of high sign because he backed away from the cake.
When they finally left, I cleaned the kitchen from top to bottom. Logically, I knew they hadn’t gotten anything dirty. They’d worn gloves and had been careful to leave everything as they’d found it. Still, it felt dirty somehow. These men had violated my home . . . my business . . . my privacy . . . my life.
After I’d cleaned the kitchen, I poured my mop water outside and sat down on the step. I saw the cat staring at me from beneath a tree, and I wished she’d come to me. I’d never felt so alone . . . well, at least, not lately. I was ever so pitiful sitting on my porch feeling sorry for myself.
I heard a vehicle in the driveway and raised my head, afraid the men from the Department of Agriculture and Consumer Services had returned. I was squinting to try to recognize the man in the white Jeep when he got out. It was Ben. He was carrying a deli bag.
“Hungry?” he asked.
That simple gesture poked a needle into my balloon of self-pity, and I began to sob. Lucy Ricardo would’ve been proud.
Ten minutes later, I had stopped crying and Ben and I were at the kitchen table eating ham and Swiss on rye.
“Why in the world was the Department of Agriculture here?” Ben asked.
“Because the Virginia Department of Agriculture and Consumer Services oversees bakeries.” It was the answer I was given the first time the department had shown up to inspect my home . . . when I’d opened my business.
“But you aren’t running a bakery.”
“Not exactly, but I do sell baked goods to the public. That brings me under the department’s jurisdiction.”
“And they simply showed up out of the blue?”
I nodded. “They said it was routine, but one of them did mention Mrs. Watson’s death.”
“How could they think your cake was responsible for that?”
“I don’t know. I tried to tell them the cake wasn’t even cut. I said it was in the police report, but they arrogantly informed me that they are not with the police department.”
“Even so, I’d expect the agencies to work together, especially if they feel your cake was somehow responsible for someone’s death.”
“How did they even know I took a cake to Mrs. Watson?”
Ben dabbed at his mouth with a paper napkin. “You said it yourself. It’s a matter of public record since it’s in the police report. But I’ll see if I can find out if someone tipped them off.”
“Tipped them off? You sound as if somebody has it in for me.”
“I don’t mean that exactly,” Ben said. “I mean, I know these visits are routine, but I’m curious to know why they came back so soon after you opened your business.” He shook his head. “Your kitchen passed muster a month ago. Why did they
need to recheck everything because Mrs. Watson received a cake she never even touched?”
I took the Department of Agriculture’s invoice out of my jeans pocket and pushed it across the table. “The holiday shopping season is upon us. Maybe they needed the forty dollars.”
“What? They actually billed you for this inspection?”
“Yep. I believe that’s what is commonly known as adding insult to injury.”
“That’s certainly not the phrase I’d have chosen, Daph. But yours is the nicer one.”
After Ben left, I made up a batch of stiff butter cream. I divided the icing into fourths and tinted one fourth yellow, one fourth pink, one fourth peach and one fourth red. Thankfully, I’d remembered to put on decorator’s gloves before coloring my icing. I didn’t want to have multi-hued fingers at Violet’s house tomorrow.
Violet. That would be a pretty color for roses, too.
But I’d already divided and colored the icing in four popular colors. I could make Vi a cake with violet roses for her birthday.
As I put couplers in four featherweight bags, I tried to remember the date of Ben’s birthday. Surely I’d known it when we were growing up. I think it was in spring. Or maybe summer.
I took out a Styrofoam block, my flower nail and my number twelve and number 104 tips. Deciding to make yellow roses first, I filled a bag one-third of the way with yellow icing. I attached a square of waxed paper to the flower nail with a dot of icing. I put the number twelve round tip into the coupler and made a generous cone base for the rose. As I stuck the flower nail into the Styrofoam, I still couldn’t remember Ben’s birthday. But, since I still had no clue as to whether he was a HUG (hot unavailable guy) or a HAG (hot available guy), I guessed it didn’t matter all that much at this point.
I traded the round tip for my number 104 petal tip and retrieved the flower nail. I made sure the wide end was at the bottom, and I made the center petal. I followed up with the three top petals, five middle petals and seven lower petals. Voila. One yellow rose. I removed the waxed paper square from the flower nail and placed it and the rose it held onto a long, flat container. I had several of these freezer-friendly containers for this very purpose.
