Murder Takes the Cake Text

by Gayle Trent

  “Thank goodness I recognized you,” Mrs. Dobbs said. “You can’t change that tire here on the side of this busy interstate highway. You’ll get hit by a car…or one of those tractor-trailers.”

  “That thought had crossed my mind.”

  “You two grab your things and lock the car, and I’ll drive you to a service station.”

  Fortunately, we were able to find a garage that was still open and willing to tow my car and repair the tire. Unfortunately, I could’ve probably bought a small, third-world country for the same cost . . . plus maybe a quart of tequila. Does tequila come in quarts? I’m not sure—not much of a drinker—but you get my point.

  Violet and I sat down in the dusty waiting room. To my surprise, Janey Dobbs joined us.

  “Thank you for bringing us here,” I said. “But, please, don’t feel obligated to wait. I’m sure you—”

  “Of course, I feel obligated to wait! What if they’re unable to fix your car? How will you get home?”

  “Well . . . thank you,” I said, “if you’re sure . . . ”

  “We’re lucky you came along,” Violet told Mrs. Dobbs. “What’re the odds someone we know would be driving along that stretch of interstate at the very moment Daphne’s car broke down?”

  Mrs. Dobbs laughed as she pushed her curly brown hair back off her forehead. “It isn’t such a long shot. I prefer to think of it as serendipity.”

  “So do I.” I smiled. “What fortunate coincidence brought you in this direction today?”

  “Oh, I wanted to get out and enjoy some of the sites before winter sets in. That giant guitar thing, for one.”

  “You know, I’ve never been there. I’ve always thought it would be interesting to go.”

  “Me, too,” Violet said. “Maybe you and I could take the kids there one day.”

  “How old are your children?” Mrs. Dobbs asked.

  “They’re eleven. They’re twins—a boy and a girl.”

  “That’s marvelous. Kellen and I never had children. I’ve always regretted that.” She gave a quick, sad shake of her head as if that would dislodge her melancholy. “Do take the children to the guitar museum. I think they’d thoroughly enjoy it.”

  “Thank you. I will.” Violet gave Mrs. Dobbs a warm smile. Of course, thoughts of her children and their enjoyment of something always brought out Vi’s biggest, brightest smile. Mine, too, come to think of it.

  Mr. Burly—sorry, Mr. Addison, though he looked like a Mr. Burly to me—came into the waiting room wiping his hands on a blue paper towel. “We’ve got you ready to roll again, Ms. Martin.”

  “What happened to the tire?” I asked. “Did I run through some broken glass or something?”

  “I don’t know. You had a small puncture, but the object wasn’t embedded. We patched it, and the patch should last for the life of the tire.”

  “So I won’t need to buy a new tire when I get home?”

  “Not unless you run over some more sharp objects on your way.” Mr. Burly laughed at his own joke, and the rest of us smiled out of politeness.

  While he wrote up his invoice, Mrs. Dobbs stood. “Girls, I’m glad I was able to help.”

  “So are we,” I said. “Thank you so much. If I can ever return the favor, let me know.”

  “I’ll hold you to that,” she said, waving an index finger through the air.

  “Please do.”

  “Violet,” Mrs. Dobbs said, “it was a pleasure meeting you, dear.”

  “Trust me,” Violet said with a laugh, “the pleasure was mine.”

  Mrs. Dobbs left, and Mr. Burly handed me his bill. I handed him my credit card; and when he gave it back along with his receipt, Violet and I got in the car to resume our strange journey home.

  “I can give you some money on the tire repairs . . . and to help with gas,” Violet began.

  “Nonsense. Christmas is coming up. Buy me a vacation house on Lake Tahoe, and we’ll call it even.”

  “Ha, ha. It was lucky for us Mrs. Dobbs came along, huh?”

  “Yeah. Talk about your uncomfortably weird coincidences.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The cake I’m delivering tomorrow is for Candy. She works at Dobbs’ Pet Store.”

  “Huh. That is a coincidence. I wouldn’t call it ‘uncomfortably weird’ though.”

  “I would, because the real coincidence is that Ben thinks the cake is for Mr. Dobbs.” I cut a glance her way. “I think it is, too.”

  “And? Lots of people buy cakes for their boss.”

  “But everybody in town thinks Candy and Mr. Dobbs are having an affair.”

  “Just because—”

  “Yodel Watson said she caught them. It was in her journal.”

  Violet emitted an angry growl. “I wish that stupid journal had gone up in flames the night that old battleaxe died. It was filled with nothing but hatred, gossip and bitterness, and bitterness is what that book has left in Mrs. Watson’s wake.”

  “I know. I’m sorry I brought it up. It’s just . . . if Candy is having an affair with Mrs. Dobbs’ husband . . . ” I sighed. “I don’t know.”

  “That’s right. You don’t know. You’re making a cake for a client. You have nothing to feel guilty about.”

  “But it seems like I’m condoning their affair.”

  “You aren’t condoning anything…except maybe your business. A client called and asked for a cake and you made it, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Did your client say, ‘This cake is for my married boss, and I’m buying him a cake because we’re having a torrid extra-marital affair’?”

  I giggled. “No.”

  “Okay. End of guilt.”

  “You’ve got a lot of wisdom for a baby sister, you know that?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do.” With that, she turned on the CD player and cranked the volume.

  *

  I went to bed early last night and thus awoke early this morning. By now I had all my chess pieces completed, and they were in the refrigerator awaiting placement on the cake. I opened the freezer and took out the baking sheets containing the white and dark chocolate I had melted before going to bed last night. Using a heavy cardboard pattern and a small sharp knife, I cut the chocolate into one-by-one-inch squares. I placed the baking sheets back in the refrigerator until I was ready to place the squares on the cake.

  I then made the chocolate butter cream frosting and divided it into two bowls. I thinned one bowl to medium consistency for piping the cake’s borders. I carefully added enough water to the first bowl to render the icing of thin consistency for frosting the cake.

  I put a cake icing tip into a sixteen-inch featherweight decorator bag and added a generous amount of thin consistency icing. I turned the bag to where the tip would leave a combed effect to the sides of the square Mocha Madeira cake.

  Before I could begin icing the cake, the telephone rang. I’d neglected to put on my headset, since no one normally called this early. A knot was gathering in the pit of my stomach as I put aside the decorator bag and answered the phone. I hoped something hadn’t happened to hamper Mom’s going home from the hospital.

  “Daphne, good morning. I hope I’m not calling too early.”

  There was a vague familiarity to the voice, but I couldn’t place it. I was just happy this call wasn’t about Mom.

  “Not at all,” I said.

  “I trust you and your sister had no further problems getting home?”

  Janey Dobbs. “We sure didn’t. I can’t tell you how much we appreciated your help last night.”

  “Why, you’re welcome. I’m glad I was able to be where I was needed. I recall your telling me to let you know if you could ever return the favor.”

  “That’s right; I did.”

  “If this is too short notice, don’t you hesitate to say so; but today is my husband’s birthday, and I wondered if you could make him a cake.”

  I hesitated.

  “It wouldn’t have to be anything fancy, an
d I wouldn’t need it until late this afternoon.”

  “What kind of cake does Mr. Dobbs like?”

  “Oh, anything will do. White cake with white icing and a few icing flowers of some kind would be marvelous.”

  I had some peach and yellow roses in the freezer, so I could pull this off. “Would you like there to be any writing on the cake?”

  “Yes. ‘Happy birthday with love to my darling Kellen.’”

  That would sure fill up a quarter of a sheet cake. “Okay, Mrs. Dobbs. When and where would you like the cake delivered?”

  “Could you bring it to our house at around five-thirty this afternoon?”

  I told her I could, and she gave me directions to the house.

  After talking with Mrs. Dobbs, I washed my hands and resumed work on Candy’s cake. If both cakes were indeed for Mr. Dobbs, he would be getting two entirely different cakes…one “positively perfect” and one “anything will do.” For some reason, the prospect of making the “anything will do” cake left me feeling a little sad.

  *

  At ten a.m. I delivered the “positively perfect” chessboard cake to Dobbs’ Pet Store. I noticed that since my last visit, a bell had been installed above the door. I imagine they were getting tired of being . . . well, surprised.

  “Can I help you?” Mr. Dobbs asked. His voice sounded a tad gruff, and I wasn’t sure whether he was coming down with a cold or was aggravated about something . . . possibly about turning a year older.

  Before I could respond, Candy had scurried to the front of the store, put her arm around me and was rushing me down the hall to a back room.

  “She’s here to see me, Kel,” she called over her shoulder. She gave me a conspiratorial wink. “Right here.”

  She flipped on a light, and I saw that she’d brought me to a kitchenette-lunchroom combo. I placed the cake box on the table. Candy was practically hopping up and down in anticipation, so I decided to have a little fun with her.

  “Would you like to see the cake?”

  “If you don’t open that box, I’m positively gonna bust!”

  I laughed and opened the box, hoping the cake would meet her expectations.

  Candy let out a squeal of delight and pulled me to her in the tightest bear hug I’d ever received from a skinny person, with the exceptions of Violet’s twins. “It’s positively perfect!” She let me go so she could look at the cake again. “Oh, I love it! I do!” She put her hands over her mouth, and I could tell she was fighting back tears. “Oh, Daphne, this is the prettiest cake I’ve ever seen. Look at the rook . . . and the knight . . . oh, and the queen!”

  “So you’re happy with it?”

  “Happy? Honey, I couldn’t be more tickled. Thank you. Thank you so much.” She hugged me again. “Let me get you a check.”

  After her reaction, I’d have almost given her the cake for free. But Violet was right; I was running a business. I closed the cake box and waited for Candy.

  She returned to the room almost as radiate as a bride. “You do such good work.” She handed me a check. “I’m gonna tell everybody I know.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No, thank you. I can’t wait to see . . . my friend’s face when he gets a load of this cake.”

  I couldn’t help myself. I had to say, “He should certainly be pleased with how much thought you put into this.”

  “Oh, honey, you’re the one that did all the work. I just wanted something he’d be tickled with, you know?”

  I smiled. “I know.”

  I left the pet store and drove home to work on Mrs. Dobbs’ “anything will do” cake. It was obvious Candy truly cared about Mr. Dobbs. Did Mrs. Dobbs suspect their affair? If so, that could explain her lackadaisical attitude about his cake. All she’d seemed to be particularly interested in was the message: “Happy birthday with love to my darling Kellen.” Was Mr. Dobbs toying with the affections of both women? Did he care for Candy? Or was he merely having his cake and eating it, too?

  I know, I know. Bad analogy.

  *

  Mrs. Dobbs’ cake was in the oven when Myra dropped in. I took off my apron and joined her in the living room, bringing both of us a diet soda.

  “How’ve you been?” I asked, sitting on the sofa and placing my drink on a coaster on the side table.

  “I’m good. How about you, sweetie? I heard about your mother.”

  “I’m fine. Mom’s getting there. She’ll probably get to come home today.” I took a drink of my soda. “I’m not sure, though. I haven’t heard from Daddy yet.”

  “You keep me posted, and let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  “Thank you, Myra. I will.”

  “You look tired. Are you getting enough rest?”

  “No.” I sat my glass down. “Can I confide in you?”

  Myra leaned forward and suddenly reminded me of an eager puppy that was expecting a treat. “You know you can confide in me, dear. And whatever you tell me in trust will stay right here in this room.”

  “All right. Remember when we talked about Mr. Dobbs and how Janey Dobbs doesn’t like him working with Candy?”

  “Yeah.”

  I clamped my lips together as I tried to decide how to phrase my question.

  “Go on,” Myra urged.

  “Do you think Candy and Mr. Dobbs are having an affair?”

  “Of course, I do. The whole town does. Don’t you?”

  “I don’t know. I thought maybe it was possible that Candy had a crush on Mr. Dobbs but that he didn’t feel the same way.”

  Myra scoffed. “Darlin’, you’ve seen Kellen Dobbs. Do you think he’s one to make a young woman’s heart go pitter-patter?”

  “I wouldn’t believe he could make anybody’s heart go pitter-patter. He certainly doesn’t do a thing for me. Still, Candy must see something in him.”

  “Yeah. She sees dollar signs. She’s hoping he’ll leave Janey for her.”

  “But you told me everything belongs to Janey.”

  “It does. That don’t mean Kel Dobbs has told Candy that.”

  “Then you think Mr. Dobbs is playing Candy for a fool…stringing her along?”

  Myra gave me a half smile. “If the girl is having a fling with a married man, she’s a fool already. Don’t you think?”

  “For some reason, I feel sorry for her. I think she really cares about Mr. Dobbs.” I told Myra about the cake. “She was so excited. She reminded me of a little girl at Christmas. She was a cake decorator’s dream client.”

  “Maybe she does have feelings for the man.” She cocked her head. “But I still say she should’ve known better than to get involved with him. She’ll wind up with a broken heart and no job when old Kel decides to move on. Just you wait and see.”

  “Do you think Mr. Dobbs loves his wife or that he just stays with her for the money?”

  “You don’t cheat on somebody you love, Daphne.”

  “No, you don’t.” It was inevitable for my thoughts to stray to Mom and Dad. Did she love him? Was it possible her infatuation with Vern March had been a passing fancy or that she’d felt some sense of obligation to Vern because of their past history? Because of their son?

  I took another drink of my soda and tried to get my thoughts back on Mr. and Mrs. Dobbs. “How did those two get together in the first place?”

  “Kel and Janey? Oh, honey.” Myra arranged herself into a more comfortable, this-might-take-awhile position. “You see, Janey was dating this young man who was in a band. His name was Elvis. He—”

  “Elvis? Janey Dobbs was dating Elvis Presley?”

  “No, not that Elvis. This was Elvis Collins. He played bass guitar, and he wasn’t all that good. The only reason he was even in the band was because of his brother Phil. Phil played the drums and was the band’s lead singer.”

  My jaw dropped. “Phil Collins? Janey Dobbs dated Phil Collins’ brother?”

  “Yes, she dated Phil Collins’ brother; and, no, he wasn’t that Phil Collins. These were a
bunch of second-rate musicians who never amounted to much.”

  “Gotcha. Sorry for the interruptions.”

  “That’s all right. Anyway, Janey was pretty much dating a bum. Meanwhile, an industrious young fellow was working for Janey’s father in the snack food plant. He was in the accounting department. The boy knew how to manage money, and Janey’s daddy took a shine to him.”

  “I’m beginning to see where this is going,” I said, “but the majority of kids—in the United States, at any rate—would hate anyone chosen for them by their dad.”

  “True, but Janey was not the majority of kids. She was a relatively plain girl who’d rather die than be cut off from Daddy’s money.”

  “And Kellen?”

  “He’d had a rather lean upbringing. Now, all of a sudden, everything he’d ever wanted was within his reach.” She shrugged. “He’d probably never been in love and figured he could grow to love Janey as easily as he’d come to love her family’s fortune.”

  “Wonder if he ever did fall in love with her?” I asked.

  “That’s a question I can’t answer, honey.”

  The oven timer rang to let me know Mrs. Dobbs’ cake was done.

  *

  It was almost dark, and it was difficult to drive and try to read the directions to Janey Dobbs’ house. Eventually, I turned onto Maple Lane. It was a dead-end street, and Mr. and Mrs. Dobbs lived at the end of it. I followed the winding driveway up a hill that made me wonder how Mr. Dobbs ever made it into town on slick winter mornings. And then, I was in front of the house.

  No one could accuse the Dobbs of living in the low-rent district. While the other houses on the street had been impressive, the Dobbs’ house was the grandest of them all. The house was a two-story brick colonial that was six windows wide across the front. Given that the bottom windows were picture windows, I decided the two front rooms must be the living room and dining room.

  Of course, this was merely conjecture on my part. I had two way-smaller-than-picture windows in my living room and no windows in my dining room. I did, however, have plenty of windows in my kitchen. I figured Mrs. Dobbs did, too, though. I mean, doesn’t everyone have windows in their kitchen?