Murder Takes the Cake Text

by Gayle Trent

  Ben had said he was in the mood for steak, so I figured we’d be going to Dakota’s, since it was the only steakhouse in town. That meant I should dress casually, but I still wanted Ben to be impressed with my appearance, so I gave my clothes and makeup more consideration than usual. I wore a white, silk, wrap sweater and black wool pants. Casual, yet sophisticated.

  I tried to go for the “smoky eye” look but wound up looking raccoonish and had to wash my face and start again. This time I went with a more neutral, natural look for my face and eyes and added color via a dark red lipstick. Much better. More Elizabeth Taylor, less Rocky Raccoon. Not that I was Elizabeth—“The Last Time I Saw Paris”—Taylor, by any stretch of the imagination; but now I doubted I’d be accused of turning over the neighbors’ trash cans at night and foraging for food. Raccoons do that, don’t they? Or is it possums I’m thinking of? Or do both critters rifle through trash? Not that it mattered. I was satisfied with my appearance and hoped Ben would appreciate—albeit never, ever know—the mental acrobatics getting ready for this date had caused me.

  *

  The black-clad hostess led us to a booth at the right side of the restaurant and announced that our server would be with us momentarily.

  “So tell me about your day,” Ben said.

  He looked handsome, even more so than usual, and I wondered if he’d taken a little extra time with his appearance or had simply come straight from work. With men, you can never tell. He wore dark-denim jeans, a crisp, white shirt and a brown-tweed sport coat.

  “Are you sure you don’t want a stiff drink before I start telling you about my day?” I asked. “Better yet, start with yours. Tell me about your day.”

  “There’s not that much to tell about mine. Got up, went to work, took a beautiful woman to dinner . . . that’s about it so far.” He grinned. “I did do a little digging into Vern March’s past.”

  I leaned forward. “What did you find out?”

  “Hi!”

  I looked up at the dark-skinned young man approaching our table. He had a tribal tattoo on his right bicep, a silver ring through his left eyebrow and the smile of an angel.

  “I’m Jarrod, and I’ll be your server this evening. What can I get you folks to drink?”

  We gave Jarrod our drink order, and after the server left our table Ben told me what he’d learned about Vern. Vern had divided his time between here and Scott County, where his parents had lived. He had gotten a job here when he was sixteen, and that’s when he met Gloria.

  Ben shrugged. “And I guess you know the rest of the story.”

  “I do, and I don’t,” I said. “There are so many blanks. For instance, Peggy March told me Gloria spent time in a mental institution after having the baby. That doesn’t fit what I know about Mom. She’s been through a lot of tough times, but she doesn’t crumble.”

  Jarrod returned with our drinks, so Ben was spared from giving me his opinion on my observation. We ordered our food, and Ben abandoned the subject of Gloria and Vern.

  “So how was the rest of your day?”

  “I got a cake order.”

  He smiled. “That’s super.”

  “It is. I was beginning to wonder if anyone in this town would ever order a cake from me again.”

  “Who’s the intrepid customer?”

  “Candy, from Dobbs’ Pet Store. I’m making her a Mocha Madeira cake to look like a chessboard with chocolate chess pieces.”

  “Sounds delicious. When do you deliver the cake?”

  “Wednesday morning.”

  He nodded with mock graveness, a devilish smile playing about his lips. “I might have to go by the store Wednesday about lunchtime and pick up some treats for Sally.”

  “She didn’t say the cake was for Mr. Dobbs.”

  He laughed. “Bet she didn’t say it wasn’t though.”

  “She said the cake was for a friend.”

  Ben tried to keep from laughing again, and in that moment he reminded me of Michael Landon . . . Little Joe trying not to laugh at Hoss and get punched . . .failing, usually.

  “What?” he asked when I kept staring at him. “It’s the town’s worst, best-kept secret.”

  “What about his wife? Do you think she knows?”

  “She’d have to be blind or stupid not to know, and take my word for it, Janey Dobbs is neither.”

  “Wonder why she doesn’t divorce him then?”

  He shook his head. “Maybe she loves the guy. Or maybe it’s a money thing, or a matter of pride. Who knows?”

  “I feel sorry for her.”

  Jarrod arrived with my filet mignon and Ben’s prime rib. When he left, neither Ben nor I was inclined to resume the subject of the Dobbs’ marital woes. It appeared we’d both grown tired of that heavy conversation for the time being.

  “Tell me what’s been going on with you for the past twenty years,” I said.

  “I went to college not knowing what I wanted to be when I grew up, other than rich. You see how well that worked out.” He winked and took a bite of his baked potato, which was swimming in butter and sour cream.

  “When did you figure it out? What you wanted to be, I mean?”

  “Sometime during my first writing class my sophomore year. It was a great class . . . tough, but in a way that made me think. It was a challenge, but it was a joy to wrestle with rather than merely another cruddy class to slog through.”

  “I take it you had several sloggers?”

  “Almost all my classes were sloggers.”

  I laughed.

  Jarrod brought us drink refills and asked if my steak was okay, since I’d barely touched it.

  “It’s fine,” I said. “I’m more talkative than hungry tonight, I suppose.” Still, I took a bite of my steak before he walked away from our table. It was suddenly as if we were dining at Jarrod’s place rather than Dakota’s, and I didn’t want to hurt the young man’s feelings.

  He smiled and promised to check on us again in a few minutes.

  “During those tumultuous college years,” I began after Jarrod left, “was there a Lois Lane to your budding Clark Kent?”

  Ben chewed slowly. After he’d swallowed, he still didn’t answer straight away. I was starting to think the question had made him so uncomfortable he wasn’t going to answer it at all. I decided it was best to change the subject.

  “The food here is excellent.”

  “It is,” Ben agreed. “In answer to your question, there was a girl in college. I fell fairly hard for her; but to her, we were only friends. I watched her go from boyfriend to boyfriend, hoping she’d one day realize I was the man of her dreams. That day never came. Instead, she dropped out of school and married her chemistry professor.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged. “I guess it wasn’t meant to be. Sometimes lifelong bachelorhood is in the cards we Clark-types are dealt, right?”

  “Who knows? The right girl could be out there yet.” I took a drink of my soda and wondered whether or not I should’ve said that. I didn’t want Ben to think I was casting myself in the role of his “right girl.” On the other hand, I didn’t want to quell any interest he might have in me either.

  We dug into our meals and made small talk until we were finished eating. It wasn’t until Ben and I were on our way back to my house that I recalled what else I’d wanted to speak with him about.

  “Ben, do you have any friends on the police force, preferably besides Bill Hayden?”

  “Um, yeah, I have several friends on the force. Why?” He glanced at me from the corner of his eye. “Did you get a speeding ticket or something?”

  “No. Actually, I learned that parrot pee is clear.”

  “And that’s a crime?”

  “Of course not,” I said, rolling my eyes. “There was a stain on Yodel Watson’s living room carpet. I figured the parrot had been out of its cage and had an accident, but today I found out that parrot urine is clear like water. It wouldn’t have left a stain.”

 
“Then what do you think caused the stain?”

  “That’s what I want one of your police friends to look into. What if that stain was made by whatever poison killed Mrs. Watson?”

  “But I thought Mrs. Watson died in her den.”

  “She was found in the den. She wasn’t necessarily poisoned there.” I playfully slapped his arm. “You’re a reporter. You know this CSI kind of stuff.”

  He chuckled. “Okay. I’ll see if the substance was tested. If not, maybe they’ll go ahead and run a tox screen on it.”

  “See? I knew you knew that CSI kind of stuff.” My smile faded. “If the kind of poison that killed Mrs. Watson could be determined, maybe we could all put this nightmare behind us.” Another thought struck me. “Speaking of nightmares, do you know Ralph and Sue Stein?”

  “I sure do. I went to college with their daughter. They’re terrific people.”

  “Oh.”

  “You sound disappointed.”

  “I guess I am a little. I was rather hoping you’d say they were the kind of people who made their living off frivolous lawsuits.”

  “No. If Ralph and Sue filed a lawsuit, it would have to have merit.”

  I explained Violet’s predicament.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Ben said. “It sounds like a bad situation for everyone involved.”

  “There seems to be a lot of that going around.”

  Ben couldn’t stay after taking me home. He said he had to get up early and all that jazz. I sort of believed him, but I sort of wondered if I’d made him angry by bringing up the Steins and the fact that I hoped they were jerks. He’d said he went to college with the Stein’s daughter. Wonder how well he knew her . . . and if their relationship is what had caused him to rush to the Stein’s defense? Wonder if she was his “Lois Lane”? Or maybe the Steins really were Upstanding Couple of the Year. But, even so, Violet had not participated in any kind of fraud against them or anyone else.

  I heard Sparrow mewing as I went inside, so I put on a coat, grabbed a couple slices of prosciutto and went back out onto the porch. I sat down on the top step, and the cat peeped at me from around the side of the house.

  “Come here, Sparrow,” I encouraged softly. “I’ve got something good for you to eat.” I tore off a piece of the prosciutto and tossed it near the edge of the porch.

  Sparrow crept tentatively toward the meat, watched me for a second and then gobbled up the treat. I tossed another before she could run away. She snatched this piece up and practically swallowed it whole.

  When I tossed another piece of the prosciutto, I made sure this one landed about a foot closer to me than the previous two. With a wary look, Sparrow advanced and ate this morsel. I quickly tossed another. Again, with the third offering, I made sure it was a little closer to me. The cat stared at me for several seconds. Then her hunger triumphed over her suspicion, and she advanced. Piece by piece, I fed her the rest of the prosciutto. I didn’t urge her any closer though. For now, this first step toward trust was enough.

  Oddly enough, that made me think of Ben.

  *

  I went inside and took a warm bath, all the while thinking of what I should be doing rather than soaking in the tub. I should be making Candy’s cake. I should be calling the Steins and asking them to drop their lawsuit against Violet. I should be calling Uncle Hal to ask him if he’s feeling better after having to go to the doctor during last week’s hunting trip. I should be at the police station asking them myself to test that stupid yellow stain in Yodel Watson’s living room. The stupid yellow stain that would hopefully exonerate me and Daphne’s Delectable Cakes in Mrs. Watson’s death. I should be in my mother’s face asking her if she was also Jonah March’s mother. And I should be calling her a hypocrite for deriding my decision to leave Todd, a man who’d abused me since our so-called honeymoon.

  Daddy had never mistreated her. He’d loved her . . . and Violet and me . . . and he’d never been unfaithful to her or slapped her or shot at her or locked her in a bathroom. I know he hadn’t. He’d never been anything but a good husband and father. And she’d betrayed him. She’d betrayed us all. And she was still betraying me.

  As I wept into my bath towel, the telephone rang. I almost expected it to be Mom, my thoughts were so focused on her. Instead, it was Dad. Mom had suffered a heart attack and was in intensive care.

  After talking with Dad, I dressed in my favorite pajamas and went into the kitchen to await Violet’s call. Dad had called me first, which I found a bit odd—Violet and Mom were much closer than Mom and me. Maybe that’s why Dad called me first; he thought Violet would take it the hardest. She probably would.

  I took my apron from its hook and dropped it over my head. I tied it as I walked over to the counter to retrieve my headset. I got out my baking essentials, recipe and ingredients, and I mixed up Candy’s Mocha Madeira cake.

  It wasn’t that I wasn’t upset about my mother. I had an obligation to Candy, that’s all. Dad had asked that Violet and I not come up there until morning…which made sense. Mom was stable. There wasn’t anything we could do. Uncle Hal and Aunt Nancy were there to support Dad. Besides, baking was like therapy for me.

  I was pouring cake batter into my painstakingly prepared square pan when the phone rang. When you’re doing therapeutic baking, you know, everything must be precise.

  “Hello! Daphne’s Delectable Cakes!” I used my most professional, chipper voice when I answered the phone, even though I knew the caller was most probably Violet. It was, of course, and I wondered at myself, even became irritated at myself, for attempting to sound so nonchalant.

  “It’s me,” Violet said.

  I could tell she’d been crying, and I felt even lousier than I had to begin with.

  “Dad said he called you,” she said.

  “He did.”

  “Do you think she’ll be all right?”

  “Of course, I do.” I put the pan into the oven and set the timer. “You know Mom. She’s as healthy as . . . .” I couldn’t think of anything healthy. For the life of me, no clichés, no platitudes, nothing whatsoever came to mind. “She’ll be fine.”

  “I wanted to go up there tonight, but Dad told me not to.”

  “He’s right, you know. He has enough on his mind without worrying about his two girls driving up there this time of night.”

  “That’s exactly what he said.”

  “Just try to get some rest,” I said. “We’ll go up first thing in the morning. Can Jason take the kids to school?”

  “Yeah. That’ll be no problem. Are you sure we don’t need to go tonight?”

  “I’m positive. If Dad had thought we should be there, he’d have asked Jason to bring us tonight.”

  “That’s true.” She paused. “Are you okay?”

  “Oh, sure, I’m fine. I’m getting some baking done.”

  “I’ll come and stay with you if you need me to. That way, I’d be there already and we could—”

  “Don’t be silly. You need to be home with your family tonight, and I have work to do. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Okay then . . . if you’re sure.”

  “Positive. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight.”

  We rang off. I sank to the floor and sobbed until the oven timer went off.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Violet got to my house around six the next morning. Her little face was peaked, and there were deep purplish circles under her eyes. That’s one advantage I have over her, being the dark-complexioned sister. Still, the instant she saw me she told me I looked tired.

  “I knew we should’ve gone to the hospital last night,” she said. “Neither of us got any sleep anyway.”

  “Like I told you last night, I had to get caught up on my baking. In the cake pan there on the island is my client’s cake, and her chocolate decorations are in the fridge. All I have to do now is make the chocolate butter cream, frost and decorate.” I gave Vi a smug smile.

  “And that’s the only t
hing that kept you up last night?”

  I lost the smile. “No, but I don’t think you want me to rehash all my Mom-related angst, do you?”

  She frowned. “Not really.”

  “Then let’s go. And we’ll listen to my Mega Hits of the Eighties CD all the way there.”

  She almost smiled at that. “Can I sing?”

  “For as long as I can stand it.”

  “Mom is gonna be okay . . . right?”

  Closing my eyes, I nodded. “This is her twisted way of getting back at me for Thanksgiving.” I opened my eyes. “I didn’t pay enough attention to her then, so she’s forcing me to pay attention to her now.” I jerked my head toward the door. “We’d better hit the road.”

  Violet did sing all the way to the hospital. I even joined her on a couple songs from the Go-Gos and the Bangles. Our mood turned somber, however, when we got out of the car.

  We walked toward the hospital’s main entrance. Several small groups were clustered outside . . . some smoking, some talking in grave whispers, some weeping. Did I mention I hate hospitals? Even when I go to visit someone who’s had a baby—a joyous occasion—the air of suffering and dread that lingers over a hospital depresses me.

  I glanced at Violet. “She’s going to be okay.” Was I trying to reassure my sister or myself?

  At the front desk, we asked for Gloria Carter and were told she was moved out of the Coronary Care Unit and into a private room this morning. That was a relief. We strode to the elevator feeling better already.

  Mom was sleeping when we got to her room. Dad, Uncle Hal and Aunt Nancy were there. Dad told us in a hushed tone that Mom was doing much better.

  “Since your girls are here, Jim, I’m going to get a cup of coffee,” Uncle Hal said. “Anybody need anything?”

  “I’ll walk with you,” I said. “I could certainly stand to stretch my legs after the long drive, and I’d love a soda. I’m sure Vi would like one, too. Daddy, you need anything?”

  “A coffee would be nice.” He reached for his wallet.