by Gayle Trent
I put a new waxed paper square onto the flower nail and stood the nail on its Styrofoam perch while I switched tips.
The phone rang, and I picked up the headset I use while I’m working. “Daphne’s Delectable Cakes.”
“Hi, hon. It’s Myra. How are you?”
“I’m fine,” I said, constructing a rose base onto the flower nail. “You?”
“Well, I just heard they got Yodel Watson’s autopsy report back.”
“Wow. That was quick.”
“Yeah, it was, and it apparently raised more questions than it gave answers.”
“What do you mean?” I switched to the petal tip and twirled the flower nail as I put the rose’s petals in place.
“The autopsy report gave Yodel’s cause of death as respiratory failure. It also said she had some gross hemorrhaging, some dead tissue and something about bad kidney tubes.”
“Ick. That sounds horrible. Where did you get the lowdown on the autopsy?”
“From Joanne Hayden. I saw her in the drugstore. She was buying hair dye. I knew that wasn’t her natural color.”
“Good ol’ Joanne. I should’ve guessed.” I put this rose into the container beside the first one. “I really need to meet her. I’ve heard so much about her, I feel I know her already.”
“Joanne says the police are afraid Yodel might’ve been poisoned.”
I froze. “Really?”
“Yeah, and she said you were even being investigated to make sure it wasn’t something in your cake that did her in.”
“Myra, you saw that cake . . . you’ve got that cake! It hadn’t been touched until you tasted the frosting. Did you tell Joanne that?”
“Yes . . . well, I tried to. But sometimes people can get sick from just smelling something, you know.”
“Yodel Watson did not smell my cake! Look, if there was any smell in that house, it was the smell of her corpse. Yodel was dead when I got there. Besides, if she could’ve died instantly from merely smelling the cake, why didn’t it kill me?”
“Oh, you’ve got a point. I hadn’t even thought of that. So, you think it’s okay then?”
“What? The cake?”
“Uh-huh. You know, I’d planned on serving it and the other two you made to my family tomorrow for Thanksgiving—”
“The cake is fine,” I interrupted. “But if you don’t feel comfortable serving it—and the other two—bring them back over here, and I’ll take them to Violet’s house tomorrow and serve them to my family.”
“No . . . uh . . . I think they’ll probably be all right.”
“If it makes you feel any better, the Virginia Department of Agriculture and Consumer Services inspected my home and all my baking ingredients only a few hours ago.”
“Honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Joanne got me worked up is all.”
“It’s okay.” I sighed. “It’s got me worked up, too. I’m afraid these rumors will ruin my business before it even gets started.”
As I continued replenishing my roses, my mind wandered back to my lunch conversation with Ben. Could someone here in town have it in for me? Was someone spreading the unfounded rumor about my cake being responsible for Yodel Watson’s death in order to sabotage me? Or was I merely the scapegoat? It was time to get some answers.
CHAPTER FIVE
I was fed up with Joanne Hayden. I hadn’t even met the woman, and she was spreading rumors—dangerous rumors—about me around town. I was going down to that police station, and I was going to give Bill Hayden a piece of my mind.
If that didn’t work, I’d go to the chief . . . or the commissioner . . . or whomever was Officer Hayden’s boss, and I’d tell him about Joanne’s loose lips. And I’d tell him how—thanks to Bill Hayden’s pillow talk—the entire department could very well be facing slander charges if the situation was not rectified immediately. I’d make the department issue a public apology; that’s what I’d do. I’d make them put it in the newspaper. No, wait, I’d have them give a press conference. That’d teach Bill and his wife not to be so quick to ruin someone’s professional reputation on speculation and unfounded accusations.
The yellow rose I was working on looked like a big, shapeless glob. I mashed it back into the icing bowl. With a growl of disgust, I realized I wouldn’t make any progress on my roses until I took my anger out on the Haydens and possibly the entire police force. I covered my supplies and placed them inside the refrigerator until after I got back from the police department.
I grabbed my purse and keys off a hook hanging by the door; but before I could step out onto the porch, an attractive, fifty-ish woman with a trim figure and shoulder-length, curly black hair timidly approached the door.
“Can I help you?” I asked. My voice was a bit terse, partly due to my residual anger and partly because I’d reached my tolerance level for unexpected guests for the day.
“I . . . I’m Annabelle. I-is this a bad time?”
“Oh . . . of course not. I . . . .” I sighed. “I’m just having a rough day.”
“I’m sorry,” Annabelle said. “I should’ve called first. I can come back.”
“No, please,” I said. “I’m the one who should apologize. Please come in.” I stepped back inside and placed my purse and keys back on the hook.
“But you were obviously going somewhere.”
“It can wait.” I smiled. “In fact, it’s probably best that it does wait.”
“This shouldn’t take long,” Annabelle said. “I haven’t even been to . . . to M-mother’s yet.”
“Do you have someone with you?”
Annabelle shook her head. “My husband wanted to come, but I insisted he and my daughters go on to his mother’s house for Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow. Both our children are home from college and—” She closed her eyes.
“Please sit down,” I said, gesturing toward the kitchen table. “Can I make you some coffee . . . tea?”
“No, thank you.” She took a napkin from the napkin caddy and pressed it to her nose. “I would take some water, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” I took a bottle of water from the fridge and sat it and a crystal tumbler in front of Annabelle.
“Thank you.” She filled the tumbler and drank deeply. “I hope you don’t think my husband and children are being thoughtless, because they aren’t.”
I pulled out a chair. “Oh, of course—”
“I insisted they stay behind. They’ll be here for the funeral on Saturday, but I wanted to go through Mother’s things by myself.” She took another drink. “We’ve lived in Florida since the girls were small. They hardly know mother.”
I sat quietly, not sure what I could do or say to comfort her.
She gave me a half-smile. “I guess I wanted my memories to myself when I begin going through her things.” She let a shoulder rise and drop. “I wanted to be alone with her . . . with my thoughts . . . tonight and tomorrow.” She lifted her eyes to mine. “Daffy, huh?”
“No.” I smiled. “Sweet . . . thoughtful . . . certainly courageous . . . not daffy.”
“I don’t know about courageous.” She took another deep drink. “I’ll probably rant and rave and cry and laugh and act like a complete lunatic.”
“Cathartic. The beginning of healing.”
“You speak as one who’s been there.”
I chuckled. “Suffice it to say I’ve had my share of lunatic moments.” I got up to get Annabelle another bottle of water. “Did you have any trouble finding me?”
“No. I was friends with the Pearces. Did you know them?”
I shook my head as I placed the water bottle on the table and reclaimed my seat. “I only met them at the closing. They seemed nice.”
“They’re great. Did they tell you why they were selling their house?”
“They said they were moving to Arizona to be nearer their grandchildren.”
Annabelle nodded. “When Chuck got transferred, we asked both sets of parents to make the move with us
. Chuck’s did.” Her face clouded. “I think Dad would have.” She shook her head, sending her black curls bobbing. “Not Mother. She couldn’t leave this . . . this viper’s nest.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.” She took another napkin, lifting her face heavenward as tears dripped from her cheeks.
I didn’t know this woman well enough to hug her, but she was crying at my kitchen table. I squeezed her hand. “I’m so sorry.”
“M-may I . . . use your bathroom?”
“Sure, it’s—”
“I know,” she said, hurrying down the hall.
Could this be more awkward? I wish I knew what to do . . . what to say . . . what might bring Annabelle some comfort.
Annabelle came back to the kitchen, her face now free of makeup. “I used one of your washcloths. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind at all. I only wish I could do something to help.”
“You already have. You did get the journal . . . didn’t you?”
“I did. Be right back.” I went to the bedroom and retrieved the journal and the key to Mrs. Watson’s back door.
When I returned to the kitchen, Annabelle had sat back down and was opening the second bottle of water. I placed the journal and the key on the table.
“Thank you,” she said, pouring water into the tumbler. The bottle had left a wet spot on the table, and Annabelle wiped it up with a napkin. “Did you read any of it?”
“I did. There was something in the book about Vern March.” I searched her downcast face for any sign of reaction . . . any clue that she knew what significance reading about Vern and my mother would have on me, but I could find none. Perhaps she didn’t know of the affair. “He used to be a friend of our family. Any idea what ever became of him?”
She shook her head. “I have no idea. You might ask Joanne, though.”
“Joanne?”
“Joanne Hayden. She’s his granddaughter.”
I gaped at Annabelle. “W-what? I . . . I never even knew Vern was married.”
“Well, it didn’t last very long. He married when he was sixteen. The girl was only fifteen, and she was pregnant. Her parents made them get an annulment.”
“That’s . . . that’s too bad.”
“Mm-hmm. You’d think with her pregnant, her parents would have insisted they remain married. Go figure.” She took a drink of water. “It was a little boy. She—Joanne’s grandmother—named him Jonah. Jonah March.”
“And . . . and Joanne Hayden is Jonah’s daughter.”
*
I was still thinking about that after Annabelle had left and I was back to making butter cream roses. Joanne Hayden was Vern March’s granddaughter.
This tidbit of information had made me rethink my decision to unleash my wrath on Bill Hayden. If Joanne Hayden did resent me, was it because she suspected my family of being responsible for Vern’s disappearance . . .and, ultimately, death? I wanted to call Violet and get her thoughts on the matter; but Mom and Dad would be there by now, and I knew Vi wouldn’t be able or willing to speak freely on the subject of Vern March with them around.
The phone rang, and I’d forgotten to put on my headset. By the time I’d put the flower nail in the Styrofoam block, the phone was chirping its second ring. On the third ring, the answering machine would pick up. I quickly grabbed the phone.
“Hello, Daphne’s Del—”
“Yes, hello, Daphne. This is Steve Franklin.”
“Hi, Mr. Franklin. Did the cakes sell well?”
“Yes . . . yes. I have a check for you at the front office. You can pick it up anytime.”
“Thank you.” My mood soared like a kite in a late March sky. “How many sold?”
“All of them.”
There goes my kite, rising above the trees.
“After we took your logo off the boxes,” Mr. Franklin finished.
“I . . . I beg your pardon?”
My kite got caught in a power line.
Mr. Franklin cleared his throat. “At first, a few of our patrons appeared to be concerned about the cakes due to . . . uh . . . the . . . well, the unfortunate demise of Yodel Watson.”
I clutched the phone so tightly my knuckles turned white. “What?”
“They . . . uh . . . seemed to be afraid your . . . your product . . . had in some way . . . affected Mrs. Watson.”
“That’s insane. Mrs. Watson was dead when I got there. She didn’t even see the cake. What do I have to do? Launch a full-fledged media campaign to clear my name?”
“No, dear. Don’t worry. This will all blow over.” He cleared his throat again. “And when it does, Save-A-Buck will be delighted to offer your products again.”
“With or without my logo?”
“Uh . . . we’ll see about that, dear. Happy Thanksgiving.”
With that, Mr. Franklin hung up.
I gave my little kite a tug—as you’ll recall, it was now tangled in a power line—and the resultant electrical shock incited my anger to the point that it boiled up from my toes and erupted from my mouth in an outraged scream. I no longer cared whether or not Joanne March Hayden’s condemnation of my family—in this case, me—was due to just cause. It was going to stop. I was going to make it stop. Even if that meant shoving a poison cake up Joanne’s nose!
I snatched the phone and called the police station. “Officer Hayden, please.”
“I’m sorry,” the nasal-voiced receptionist said. “He’s out on a call right now, but—”
“Thanks.” I hung up.
Once again, I gathered my icing and completed roses to put into the refrigerator. I was going to that police station and I wasn’t leaving until I got answers.
When I opened the refrigerator door, I spotted the casserole dish Mrs. Dobbs had asked me to give to Annabelle. I’d drop it off on my way. Maybe that’d give Officer Hayden time to get back to the station.
*
I saw the blue lights as soon as I turned onto Mrs. Watson’s street. No red lights—which was good because that would indicate an ambulance or fire truck—but there were two sets of flashing blue lights. I parked my car one house down, retrieved my purse and the casserole and walked to Mrs. Watson’s house.
It suddenly occurred to me that if the police thought I killed Mrs. Watson with a cake, they might think I’d brought the casserole to do in Annabelle. Oh, well; I was here now. Besides, this might be the perfect opportunity to clear my name.
There was a police officer standing outside the front door, but it wasn’t Bill Hayden. It was a woman, and she was talking into her radio. She quit talking as I approached.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m here to see Annabelle. Is everything okay?”
Stupid question, I know. Seldom are the police congregated at your house when everything is okay.
“I mean, is she all right?” I asked.
“She’s fine. Your name?”
“Daphne Martin.”
She radioed someone and announced my arrival.
Annabelle came to the door. “Daphne, hi.”
“Mrs. Dobbs had given me a casserole to give you when I was here yesterday. I forgot to give it to your earlier.”
“Thanks.” She took the casserole. “Can you come in?”
“Sure. What’s wrong?”
“There’s been a break-in. The glass was knocked out of the kitchen door. That’s how they got in.”
I gasped when I stepped inside the living room. The once immaculate room was now a mess. The curio cabinet had been knocked over, and broken porcelain was everywhere. Especially poignant were the faces staring up at me from the carpet.
“Watch your step,” Annabelle said.
“I am so sorry,” I whispered, my voice not willing to rise to the occasion. “Was anything taken?” I followed Annabelle through the living room and into the kitchen.
“I don’t think so. But I would like for you to take a look around and make sure the house didn’t look like this when you were here yesterda
y.”
Officer Hayden was standing in the kitchen. “Wait a minute. She was here yesterday?”
“Yes,” Annabelle said, setting the casserole dish onto the table. “I asked her to get something for me.”
“Are you sure she didn’t do this?”
“You may address me directly, Officer Hayden. And I can assure you I did not do this. I had no need to break in as Annabelle trusted me with access to a key.” I lifted my chin. “Put that in your pipeline and spread it.”
He put his hands on his hips and took a step closer to me. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean there’s an awful lot of confidential information about me—much of it inaccurate—floating around town, thanks to you and your wife.”
“I don’t like your tone.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple jerking spastically.
“I don’t like your veiled accusations.”
Annabelle stepped between us. “Please. Can we not argue right now? I’d like to get this wrapped up.”
“Of course.” I took my first real look around the kitchen. Cabinet doors were flung open, and the counter tops were piled with pans, canned food, cereal boxes and cookbooks. I shook my head. “This kitchen was spotless when I was here yesterday. Is the entire house torn apart like this room and the living room?”
“Afraid so.”
The police woman joined us. “Johnson and McAfee are back from talking to the neighbors. Nobody is claiming to have seen anything.”
Officer Hayden shot me a sharp look. “Figures.”
I ignored him. “Annabelle, can I help you clean all this up?”
“I appreciate the offer, Daphne; I really do. But I’m so tired. The police have offered to board up the kitchen door for me, and after they leave I’m going to straighten up the guest room and leave the rest until morning.”
“Aren’t you worried about staying here alone?” I asked.
“I’ll be fine.” She smiled wanly. “I’ll keep all the doors locked, including the guest room door. And I’ll have my phone handy.”
“If you need me tomorrow, please call me.”
