by Gayle Trent
“Wow. That should keep you well fed for the rest of the winter.” Don’t think about Bambi. Don’t think about Bambi. “How did Uncle Hal do?”
“Didn’t get a dad gum thing.” Mr. Duncan chuckled. “Of course, he was only with us on Friday. He left early Saturday morning.”
“He . . . he did?”
“Yep.” He spat a stream of tobacco juice onto the pavement. “He had to go to the doctor or something.”
“Oh, uh, how about that?” So where was Hal Saturday and Sunday? I nodded at Mr. Duncan’s pet carrier. “What’ve you got there?”
“My grandson’s snake. The boy had to go back to work today, so bringing the snake to the doctor fell to me.”
“That doesn’t sound like a fun job.”
“Ah, I’ve had worse.”
“It was good seeing you, Mr. Duncan.”
“You, too, darlin’. Tell your daddy I said howdy.”
“I sure will.”
Mr. Duncan ambled into the veterinarian’s office. I got in the car and squeezed the bridge of my nose between my thumb and index finger. So Uncle Hal had not been with the Duncan brothers for the entire weekend. He’d left early Saturday morning. But if he’d truly had a doctor’s appointment, why wouldn’t he have gone back home?
I was hesitant to talk with Uncle Hal again. I didn’t want him to think I was checking up on him. And it was possible he’d begun feeling ill Friday night and had decided to go to a doctor or to the emergency room Saturday morning. It was a possibility, albeit an unlikely one. If Uncle Hal had begun feeling ill, Mr. Duncan would’ve said, “He got sick Friday night,” rather than, “He had to go to the doctor or something.” Of course, I could look into this without involving Uncle Hal.
I got out my list and added, “Check with area doctors,” to the bottom. While I had the list out, I double-checked the address for Peggy March I’d gotten off the Internet. Lucky for me, she hadn’t remarried. I suppose she had her hands full raising Joanne by herself.
*
The white house was small, but it and the lawn surrounding it were as tidy as could be. Most of the leaves had been raked up and disposed of; the few that remained looked as if they’d been artistically placed rather than had merely blown off the trees. I saw a curtain move in one of the two dormer windows. My presence had been noted, but I wasn’t sure it would be acknowledged.
I got out of the car and walked on the smooth stepping stones to the front door. I thought those might be slippery when the weather turned colder; but by the looks of the rest of her home, I imagined Peggy March would be outside with a bag of rock salt by the time the last snowflake hit the ground.
Which reminds me, I need to buy rock salt before the weather turns colder.
I rang the doorbell and wiped my palms on my thighs. I was getting more nervous by the second and didn’t want to offer a sweaty hand if Ms. March was the handshaking type.
If I’d been given only one adjective with which to describe Peggy March, it would have had to be “dainty.” When she opened the door and stepped out onto the porch, I felt like a giant standing before her. She was barely five feet tall and appeared no heavier than a whisper. She looked as if a good stout wind would blow her away. Her hair was a golden blonde, and I noted strength in her hazel eyes.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I hope so. My name is Daphne Martin. I just moved back into town about a month ago and wanted to reconnect with some of my parents’ old friends.” I smiled.
Peggy eyed me with suspicion. Not that I could blame her. My story sounded lame even to my own ears.
“Do you know Vern March?” I asked.
“I was married to Vern’s son, Jonah.” She opened the door. “Why don’t you come in and tell me what you’re really doing here?”
One part of me wanted to turn and run back to my car. The part of me that sought the truth—no matter how painful it might prove to be—took a deep breath and stepped into the house. Like the home’s exterior, the interior was magazine-beautiful.
“Are you an interior designer?” I asked.
“No. Would you prefer to talk in the kitchen or in the living room?”
“Either would be fine.”
She led me to the kitchen where the décor was a retro black and white. “Coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
She got herself a cup—black—and sat down at the gleaming white table with the black-and-white-checked cloth. She looked at me expectantly, and I sat down across from her.
What am I doing here? Where did I think Joanne got her hatred of our family in the first place? What am I hoping to gain?
“Well?” Peggy asked.
I folded my hands in front of me. “I suddenly feel the need to apologize . . . though I don’t know why.”
Peggy simply stared at me. She apparently knew why I should apologize, but she wasn’t forthcoming with the reason.
“I’m here to find out if your husband was my half-brother.”
She nodded. “I figured that was it.” Now that Jonah’s skeleton was out of the closet and lying on the table between us, Peggy decided to proceed at a more leisurely pace. She took a sip of her coffee. “Sure you won’t have a cup?”
“Positive. Thank you.”
“Tell me what you know.”
“A few days ago, I learned my mother had an affair with Vern when I was a little girl, about thirty years ago. She even consulted a divorce attorney. She was going to leave us.”
“Go on.”
“Then at Mrs. Watson’s funeral, I overheard your daughter talking with Tar. He asked about Joanne’s grandmother, Gloria.” I took a deep breath. “My mother’s name is Gloria.”
“And you’re here to find out if your mother is the Gloria.”
“Yes. At least I think I am.”
“Why didn’t you simply go to her?”
“She doesn’t know I know about the affair . . . much less anything that might’ve happened between her and Vern prior to that affair.”
“I’ll tell you what little I know about my father-in-law’s past.”
“Thank you.”
She pressed her lips together.
“You don’t think much of my mother, do you?” I asked.
“I don’t think much of Jonah’s mother. I believe they might be the same person—and Joanne is convinced of it—but I don’t know for certain.”
“I understand Jonah was born when Vern and Gloria were young.”
“She got pregnant in high school. That wasn’t as common then as it is these days. They—Vern and Gloria, that is—paid some lady to pretend to be Gloria’s mother and sign a consent form so they could be married. Vern was crazy about her. I know that.”
So is Dad.
“When the happy couple began telling people they were married,” Peggy continued, “Gloria’s parents took their daughter home and later had the marriage annulled.”
“Did they know she was pregnant?”
Peggy nodded. “They sent her somewhere—to a relative, I suppose—to have the baby.”
“But I heard Vern wound up with the baby.”
“He did. He threatened Gloria’s parents that he’d take out an ad in the paper and tell the whole sordid story if they didn’t let him have Gloria and the baby.” She took a drink of her coffee, wrinkled her nose in distaste and pushed the cup aside. “They compromised. He got the baby.”
“But what about Gloria? Didn’t she want the baby?”
“From what I understand, she’d gone off the deep end by then. Spent some time in a mental institution.”
“A mental institution?”
“Uh-huh. She had some sort of breakdown.”
“Well, I don’t doubt that. Afterwards did she . . . ?”
Peggy was shaking her head before I could finish my question. “She never met Jonah. At least, not until he was grown.”
My eyes widened. “Then you . . . then Gloria . . . ”
“Vern brought your m
other to meet Jonah when Jonah was nineteen. We were newlyweds.” She gave me a half smile. “I suppose marrying young runs in the March family.”
“And Vern told Jonah that my . . .that Gloria was his mother?”
“No. He merely introduced her as Gloria Carter and said they were contemplating a future together.”
I felt my anger at my mother spark and start to burn all over again. “How could she do that? How could he? How could they pretend she had no obligations and was free to pursue a future with another man? She had a nine-year-old and a six-year-old daughter at home who needed her, who depended on her.” My breathing quickened. “I don’t remember Vern that well. How could they?”
Peggy put her hand over mine. “I’m sorry.” I believe in that instant she realized I was almost as much a victim as Jonah. “Maybe they thought it was all right because they were picking up were they’d left off all those years ago.”
“But that didn’t make it right for Violet and me. It didn’t make it right for our Dad. Nor did it make up all those missed years to Jonah.”
“I know, sugar. I know.”
*
I left Peggy’s house and drove straight to Violet’s real estate office. I needed her to help me take this all in. But she was dealing with an entirely different problem.
As I walked in, I heard a man’s voice saying, “House Bill 4182, introduced by Representative Tupac Hunter on February 3, 2005, calls for prevailing plaintiffs to be allowed to collect triple damages against someone who sells a building containing toxic mold without disclosing its presence.”
I took a seat in the outer office, where I could be unobtrusive but still hear what was going on.
A cultured female voice countered the man’s attack. “Your case against my clients is flimsy, Mr. Charles. The Steins had an independent inspection of the property done prior to purchase. If their own paid professional was unable to detect the water leak that produced the mold, why do you doubt my clients’ insistence they didn’t know about the problem?”
I felt the woman had an excellent point. You can’t tell someone what you don’t know.
“Because they were wanting to sell this house,” the man shot back. “They needed to unload it onto my clients so they wouldn’t have to deal with the structural damage—not to mention the health issues—themselves.”
Violet jumped in. “That house was on the market for two years before it sold. Do you honestly think the Hills would have knowingly lived in a home you’re calling a health hazard?”
Good point. Way to go, Vi.
“Please,” the other woman said, “let me handle this.”
I suddenly felt guilty for eavesdropping. I left a note for Vi and slipped back outside. Driving home, I remembered what the plaintiffs’ attorney had said about triple damages. That could ruin Violet, professionally and personally.
CHAPTER TEN
I checked my e-mail when I got home. Other than junk, there was an e-mail I started to delete because the address began sweetcandy4u. But then I saw “cake” in the subject line and decided to take a chance and open it. I was glad I did. It was from Candy at the pet shop. She wanted me to make a birthday cake for a special male friend. I e-mailed back asking her to call me at her earliest convenience so we could discuss cake flavors, designs and how many people the cake should serve. I clicked “send,” and the phone rang almost immediately.
Wow, that was fast!
But it wasn’t Candy calling; it was Violet.
“So you came by the office today?” she asked.
“Yeah. It sounded as if you were having a pretty intense conversation, so I didn’t stay.”
“What did you hear? Just curious. I mean, I didn’t hear you come in, and . . . ”
“And you wonder what anyone could’ve overheard. You know, you really should put a bell above the door.”
“I have an intern—Marcy—but she was out today. She took an extra day off for Thanksgiving.”
“What I heard is that a non-disclosure lawsuit over some mold could cause you a whole lot of grief.”
“It could, Daph. It really could. I’m just praying it won’t. Annette, my attorney, says the Steins’ suit against me is moot. I can’t disclose what I don’t know.”
“She sounded extremely competent to me . . . I mean, from what little I heard.”
“She is competent. She’s top notch. But, then, so is Mr. Charles.”
“Still, it’s like you said, you didn’t know about the mold.”
“No, I didn’t. And neither did my clients, the Hills. They have two small children. They wouldn’t have lived in the home had they known there was mold between the walls.”
“How did the Steins discover the mold?”
“They tore out a wall to build a sunroom onto the house.” Violet sighed. “I just wish Yodel Watson had kept her big, ignorant mouth shut. It’s all her fault that this thing got blown out of proportion.”
“How so?”
“She and Sue Stein were friends. When the Steins found the mold, Mrs. Watson told Sue that it was against the law for the realtor not to have told them about the mold, and that they could sue and get their house for free.”
“But they had no reason to accuse you. Wouldn’t their beef be with the previous owner?”
“Yeah, but according to Mrs. Watson, who watched lots of crime shows and news programs and was, therefore, an expert on such matters, the realtor is always in cahoots with the homeowner.”
“I’m sorry you’re going through this,” I said. “I hope it’ll be over soon.”
“Thanks. Me, too.”
“If there’s anything I can do to help . . .”
Violet barked out a bitter laugh. “Bake me a cake with a file in it. I might need it.”
*
I hung up the phone after talking with Violet and went straight to my cake books. I doubted Candy knew what type of cake she wanted, other than one that would look pretty and taste delicious. I realize that’s what everyone is looking for in a cake, but it’s up to me to help my client make an informed decision. Since it had been a few days—days that felt like years, come to think of it—since I’d taken a specific cake order, I thought I should reacquaint myself with the basics. Besides, I love looking at cake books.
I looked first at the serving charts. I personally can’t hold fast to the numbers suggested on the charts, but they do provide a good starting point and, occasionally, a laugh. For example, the chart I’m looking at right now tells me that a six-inch round, three-inch high cake will serve twelve people. I’m thinking, “Twelve people?” Are these servings provided on toothpicks like hors d’oeuvres? Maybe I make my servings a little bigger than they’re supposed to be; but if I go to a party and get a one-by-two-inch square of cake, that’s going to be just enough to whet my appetite for a real piece of cake. It’s like those diet gurus who say if you’re craving something, take one bite of it and throw the rest away. Who can do that? I can’t do that, which is why I need to be on my treadmill like a hamster on a wheel. But I’m digressing all over the place. Back to Candy and her cake.
If she wanted something simple as far as decorations go, then she could have pretty much any flavor of cake she thought her friend would like. If, however, she wanted a three-dimensional or sculpted cake, we would need to go with something with a firmer textured batter, such as a pound cake.
When Candy called, I was better prepared for her.
“I’m so glad you’ve got the time to make a cake for Ke—for my friend,” she said. “I want it to be something really, really special.”
“All right. Tell me a little bit about him. What flavors does he like?”
“Well, he positively loves chocolate.”
“Milk, white or dark?”
“All of it. He’s what you might call one of them chocoholics.” She giggled.
“Okay. Great.” I was taking notes as we talked. “Is he a coffee drinker?”
“Why, he positively is! Are you sure you
don’t know him better than I do?”
I laughed. “I hardly think so. What do you think of a mocha-flavored Madeira cake with chocolate, butter-cream icing?”
“That sounds scrumptious! I know he’d love that.”
“Good. Now, tell me what else he likes.”
“He likes me.”
She laughed, and I joined in. I wondered if my laugh sounded as hollow to her as it did to me. I was trying not to be judgmental about Candy’s situation with Kellen Dobbs, but it was hard . . . especially given my current circumstances.
“He likes animals,” she continued. “He likes to play chess and—”
“Chess?”
“Uh-huh. I try to play, too, but I’m not any good. I’m not much of a competitor for him.”
“What if I make your friend a square cake with white and dark chocolate squares . . . like a chessboard . . . with milk-and white-chocolate chess pieces?”
“You can do that?”
“I sure can,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t be disappointed with the final product, and that Mr. Dobbs wouldn’t be either.
“That sounds positively perfect!”
“When is your friend’s birthday?”
“In two days. Can you work me in?”
I started to tell her, “I positively can,” but I was afraid that would sound ungracious. Instead, I let a simple “Yes,” suffice. Candy asked me to deliver the cake to her at work on Wednesday, and I told her I’d be there by mid-morning.
We rang off, and I went into the kitchen to melt some chocolate. I got out my chessmen molds and put some milk chocolate chips in a glass bowl. While I melted the chips in the microwave, I got out my Mocha Madeira recipe, my favorite blue mixing bowl and my three-inch deep, nine-by-nine-inch square cake pan.
As soon as the chocolate was melted, I spooned it into my molds, tapped the molds onto the countertop a couple times to remove air bubbles, and then sat the molds in the refrigerator.
Before I could get out the cake ingredients, Ben called and invited me to dinner. I accepted his invitation and put away my blue mixing bowl. I could make the cake tonight or tomorrow morning and still have plenty of time to decorate it, especially with half my chess pieces hardening in the molds.
