by Gayle Trent
“Snake venom.”
“Did you say ‘snake venom?’”
“That’s what I said.”
“But it’s November. Aren’t snakes supposed to be hibernating or something right now?”
“If they’re wild, then yes.”
I racked my brain for plausible possibilities. “Do the police think the warmer weather has allowed snakes to stay active longer? You know how in the spring sometimes we’ll have an especially nice day and snakes will come out from wherever they’ve been hiding and sun themselves on rocks? Or maybe this particular snake was hibernating under Mrs. Watson’s house, and—”
“The police don’t think the snake got there by accident,” Ben said.
“They think somebody put it there? Do they think this person was trying to scare Mrs. Watson or that . . . you know . . . he actually meant to kill her?”
“Mrs. Watson’s death is being officially ruled a homicide. That’s something else I need you to keep between us, though. I’ve been promised an exclusive when the perpetrator is caught.”
“How can you be so calm about this? Somebody right here in our very own town is going around killing people with snakes.” I considered that. “How is that even possible? How do you get a poisonous snake to bite someone without getting bitten yourself? Can you train a snake like you can train a dog? ‘Sic ‘em, Hissy!’ I don’t get it.”
“That’s the other odd thing. While respiratory failure due to snake venom poisoning has been ruled the cause of death, Mrs. Watson had no evidence at the autopsy of having been bitten by a snake. There was a suspect puncture wound on the back of her neck; but there was only one wound, not the two wounds you’d expect to see resulting from a snake bite.”
“Maybe the snake lost one of its fangs.”
“Daphne,” Ben began, his voice sounding like that of a scolding father.
“I’m serious! That’s possible, isn’t it? The police should at least talk with Dr. Lancaster to see if any of his clients have a one-fanged snake.”
“Are you hysterical? Do you need me to come over?”
“No . . . yes . . . maybe . . . I don’t know.” I took a steadying breath. “I’m pretty shaken, but I’m not hysterical. This whole thing is simply bizarre, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I do think it’s bizarre. And I have the exclusive . . . the exclusive . . . and I’m not only talking about the local newspapers.”
It bugged me a little that he was so thrilled with his scoop. There was a lot more to be taken into consideration here.
“What about Annabelle, Mrs. Watson’s daughter?” I asked. “Have the police told her?”
“I’m sure they have. I figure they’d want to ask who her mother knew who might’ve had a snake.”
“How do you know something like that? I met a woman today who I wouldn’t have dreamed owns six guinea pigs, but—”
“You met Belinda Fremont?”
“How’d you know?”
“How’d I know you were talking about Belinda Fremont, or how’d I know she has six guinea pigs?”
“Both.”
“She’s the only person in town, as far as I know, who has six guinea pigs. And, since she’s friends with my editor, the paper makes a fuss over it every time one of Mrs. Fremont’s pets wins one of those ‘cavy’ things.”
“But, still, if you met Belinda Fremont on the street, would you say, ‘Now there’s a guinea pig owner if I ever saw one’?”
“If I talked with her for five minutes, I would.”
“Good point.”
“And, Daphne, I know your heart is in the right place, but do not discuss any of this with Annabelle Fontaine.”
“All right. But what is she calls and wants to discuss it with me?”
“Daphne.”
Again, there was the scolding dad note in his voice. I found it terribly aggravating.
“Never mind,” I said. “I won’t blow your precious exclusive and, in fact, I wish you’d never told me.”
“I—”
“You don’t even have to bother to say it, Ben. I know you wish you hadn’t told me either. I have to go. I’ve got work to do.”
He tried to say something—apologize, more than likely—but I cut him off again, told him goodbye and hung up. What was I supposed to do if Annabelle called? Of course, if she told me what happened to her mother, then I wouldn’t be breaking my word to Ben. Would I?
I sighed and wondered how I’d gotten myself into this mess. My mind veered back to Yodel Watson’s murderer and his one-fanged snake. I remembered Walt Duncan carrying his grandson’s snake into Dr. Lancaster’s office. I hadn’t seen the snake; it had been too far back in the carrier. But Mr. Duncan didn’t have a full set of teeth. It was conceivable that his grandson’s snake could be snaggletoothed as well.
Ben was right. I was being silly.
My mind drifted over to Dobbs’ Pet Store and I recalled seeing Kellen Dobbs milking that rattlesnake on the morning I went to get Sparrow some food. And it dawned on me. The autopsy revealed that venom had killed Mrs. Watson, not a snake.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I took my gum paste kit into the living room, opened the armoire and turned on the television. I sat on the floor and placed my kit on the coffee table. There was a game show on TV, but I wasn’t paying much attention to it as I took out a linen kitchen towel and spread it on the table. I then took out my rose petal cutter, oval cutter, calyx cutter, orchid cutter and ball tool. I’d already colored some gum paste light green for the kiwis and grapes, dark green for the calyxes; and I had some white and pink marbled gum paste for the roses and orchids. I figured that even if Belinda Fremont decided she didn’t like my design idea, I could still use the pieces for something. When stored properly, gum paste decorations will keep for months. Besides, working with the dough would calm my frazzled nerves.
I decided to start with the roses. I rolled a piece of gum paste into a marble-sized ball and then began to flatten it into a teardrop shape.
I thought about Ben. After hearing how excited the newspaper editor got about Mrs. Fremont’s Satin Peruvians winning a cavy championship, I could see why Ben would want meatier articles. This article on the death of Mrs. Watson, provided the murderer could be determined, could be a boon to his career.
Mrs. Watson had said in her journal that Ben wanted to work for one of those “fancy” newspapers in Knoxville or Charlotte. But Ben was forty years old. If he’d wanted to work for a bigger newspaper, he’d have left here years ago.
I flattened the smaller part of my teardrop-shaped dough into a round petal and then curled the petal around itself to form the center bud. I stuck a bamboo skewer into the bottom of the bud and then stuck the skewer into a block of Styrofoam.
I tried desperately to understand Ben’s position. Was he working on a novel? Had he been hoping all these years that some fantastic story would come along and propel him to journalistic stardom?
I took my mini rolling pin out of the kit and rolled out a large square sheet of dough. I rubbed a dab of cornstarch onto my rose petal cutter and cut out a petal. I covered the rest of the sheet with plastic wrap. Placing the petal in my left hand, I took my ball tool in my right hand and rolled it around the petal, ruffling the edges slightly as I went.
I also found it odd that even though Annabelle was friends with Belinda Fremont, who had to be one of the richest people in town, there was no mention of any “Belinda” in Mrs. Watson’s journal. Of course, I hadn’t read the entire book. The Gloria Carter story had stopped me in my tracks. But I’d have thought Mrs. Watson would have spoken about her daughter’s friend with a fair amount of frequency. On the other hand, the journal wasn’t your typical journal. It was more a tabloid that only wanted to report the ugly side of life. In fact, the only place I’d seen Annabelle mentioned was in connection with the story about Myra and Carl at the steakhouse. Violet was right about that book—it was filled with hatred and bitterness, and that’s what it had left in
Mrs. Watson’s wake.
But was the book enough to make someone kill Yodel Watson?
I placed the petal over an inverted egg cup to rest and cut another petal. Once again, I rolled the ball tool around the petal, ruffling its edges.
I made a mental inventory in my head. From what I knew so far, who had something against Mrs. Watson?
Fred, the produce guy, hated Mrs. Watson because she got him demoted at work. Plus, Fred has some mental problems and—as I had witnessed firsthand—some extreme anger issues. I decided to go to Safe-A-Buck tomorrow and ask Fred if he had a snake. What? It’s not that unusual a question. Is it?
Kellen Dobbs and Candy had a grudge against Mrs. Watson because, although every other person in town guessed the two were having an affair, Mrs. Watson had seen proof of that fact with her own two eyes. Mr. Dobbs might have been afraid Mrs. Watson would tell Janey. A divorce would ruin Mr. Dobbs financially. And Mr. Dobbs has plenty of snakes.
I replaced my resting petal with the new one on the egg cup and attached my finished petal to the rose bud. I cut another petal and started the entire process again.
Who else would want to kill Yodel Watson? An image of Uncle Hal floated into my mind. But why would Uncle Hal want to kill Mrs. Watson after all these years? Even though there is no statute of limitations on murder, Uncle Hal hadn’t killed Vern March.
Someone had.
I hate when my mind argues with me. While I had to agree that it appeared someone had tampered with Vern’s car causing the brakes to fail and, thus, causing his accident, Vern’s death had been ruled exactly that—an accident. It was never proven that anyone severed the car’s brake lines.
Besides, if Uncle Hal had wanted Mrs. Watson dead, he’s had plenty of opportunities over the years. Why would he do it thirty years after the fact, just before Thanksgiving?
Maybe Ben killed her because he got tired of waiting for that fantastic story to happen. Maybe he decided to create his own fantastic mystery story wherein he would help solve the crime and be a hero.
Maybe I killed her. Maybe I was so sick of her incessant criticisms of my cakes that I put snake venom in . . . Nope. I couldn’t come up with anything to implicate myself. She didn’t touch the cake I made. Now if I could convince the rest of the town that I’m innocent, maybe I could grow myself a thriving business.
Maybe Belinda Fremont could help me do precisely that.
*
I’d barely finished putting away my flowers, fruit and gum paste supplies when Myra called.
“Hi, darlin’,” she said, excitement practically jumping through the phone line. “You busy?”
“No. What’s going on?”
“Well, after you left, I called Tanya Talbot of Tanya’s Tremendous Tress Taming Salon to make a hair appointment for tomorrow.”
“Tanya’s Tremendous Tress Taming Salon?”
“Yeah. Tanya’s mother is an English teacher. She told Tanya people remember catchy titles with alliteration.”
“I see . . . although I’d hate to have to answer the phone in that salon.”
“It’s okay. They just say, ‘Tanya’s, can I help you?’ But I didn’t call to tell you I made myself a hair appointment. I called to tell you that Tanya knows all about the Dobbs-Fremont feud.”
“She does?”
“Oh, honey. You see, when I called, I told Tanya I wanted my hair to be pretty for Christmas, what with all the parties and everything going on. Then I said, ‘Speaking of parties, Belinda Fremont is having a birthday party for one of her guinea pigs. Isn’t that sweet?’ And Tanya said, ‘Sweet . . . yeah.’ She said it like that. Like she didn’t think it was all that sweet. I’m not so sure it is, either, but, hey, Belinda Fremont can do whatever she wants to with her money.”
“I’m with you there.”
“So then Tanya said, ‘It’s all I can do to throw together birthday parties for my kids.’ I said I remembered them days sure enough, and then I drew Tanya back to talking about Belinda because, honey, if there’s anybody who’s Yodel Watson’s successor in the gossip department, it’s Tanya Talbot. So I said, ‘I wonder where she gets stuff for those little guinea pigs of hers? I’ve heard she won’t shop at Dobbs’.’ And Tanya said, ‘That’s the truth. She wouldn’t give Kel Dobbs air if he was stopped up in a jug.’ And I said, ‘Why’s that?’ And she said, ‘Because she went in there one time and there was a pitiful little hamster cowering in a cage getting ready to be devoured by this big ol’ snake!’”
“Ewww. That is pitiful,” I agreed, “but maybe the poor hamster was sick or something . . . and the snake was starving . . . ”
“Who knows? But to hear Tanya tell it, Belinda Fremont lit into Kel Dobbs and let him have it with both barrels. She accused him of feeding all sorts of little creatures to his snakes and said she’d have him boycotted by the hamster lovers, the American Cavy Breeders Association, the American Rabbit Breeders Association, the Humane Society and everybody else she could think of.”
“Wonder what Mr. Dobbs thought of that?”
“He didn’t back down. Tanya did say that he lost some business because of it, though.”
“I guess he did. Like I said, I realize the snakes have to eat and that they don’t eat snake chow or whatever, but you’d think he’d feed the snakes when his shop was closed so it wouldn’t upset his patrons.”
“You’d think,” Myra said. “Still, from what I’ve always heard of Kellen Dobbs, he’s gonna do what he’s gonna do whether anybody else likes it or not.”
*
I got up early the next morning. It seemed to be my new routine. Get up, get dressed and get out of the house before seven a.m. But this particular morning I wanted to catch Peggy March before she left for work.
She was certainly surprised to see me.
“I’m really sorry for coming by so early. I won’t take but a minute of your time,” I added, as she took a curler out of her hair and looked at her watch. “I only wanted to tell you what I learned about Vern March’s wife.”
“Come in,” she said, “but I have to finish getting ready.”
“Of course. I’ll talk from the hallway.”
“That’ll be fine.”
I followed her down the hall, where she went into her bathroom and closed the door.
“I went to the Scott County Courthouse yesterday. Vern was married to Gloria Cline, not Gloria Carter . . . not my mother.”
“Good for you, dear. I know you’re relieved.”
“I am.”
“Cline . . . Cline . . .why does that name sound familiar?”
“Cline’s Cakes & Snacks.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Gloria is . . . was . . . I’m not sure she’s still living . . .anyway, Gloria is one of the snack cake Clines, I guess you could say.”
The bathroom door slowly opened, and Peggy stood there with a mascara wand in her hand. “Are you telling me that Jonah . . . and now Joanne . . . should be . . . ‘well-provided for?’”
“The possibility of an inheritance is certainly something you should look into, Mrs. March.”
She smiled. “Believe me, I will. Thank you. Thank you for coming and telling me this.”
I hoped Peggy would benefit from my news about Gloria Cline. I didn’t know whether or not Gloria was still living; but whether she was or not, it could be a good thing for Joanne. She stood to gain either a grandmother or some shares in a snack cake factory. Either way, she no longer had a reason to hate me and spread malicious lies about my baking. I still got mad enough to bite a nail in two when I thought of my little visit from the Department of Agriculture.
I wanted to go by Dr. Lancaster’s office next, but I knew it wasn’t open yet, so I went on over to the Save-A-Buck. Juanita was there and in her usual cheery frame of mind. She smiled broadly and waved when I walked into the store. I got one of the half carts since I didn’t need too many groceries . . . mainly my staples: confectioner’s sugar, shortening and cake flour.
I caught a glimpse of Fred stocking in the soup aisle and decided tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich would be delicious for lunch.
“Good morning,” I said.
Fred grunted in my general direction. I, naturally, took that as an invitation to chat.
“Fred, do you know anything about snakes?”
He put the can he was stocking on the shelf and turned to me. “A little bit. Why?”
“I’ve got a friend who’s on the outs with Mr. Dobbs because he only feeds his snakes live rodents. Is there anything else snakes will eat?”
“I get frozen.”
“Excuse me?”
“For my snake. There’s a company I found online that sells frozen mice.”
“Oh. Uh . . . maybe I should mention that to Mr. Dobbs.”
“Whatever. ‘Course, he has different kinds of snakes in his store. Maybe some of his snakes won’t eat dead mice.” He scrunched up his forehead. “In the books I’ve read, though, they say it ain’t good to feed live rodents to snakes, because the snakes could get hurt.”
“The snakes could get hurt? That’s hard to believe.” Fred narrowed his eyes. I added quickly, “I do believe you, but . . . wow. I never knew that. What kind of snake do you have?”
“A ball python.”
“Do they make good pets?”
“Yeah. I’ve had Rusty for five years, and he ain’t been to the vet but one time and that was the other day.”
“Is he okay?”
“Yeah, he was constipated is all.”
Eww . . . too much information.
“You have to keep an eye out for that.” He laughed. “I had to work, so my papaw had to take him. Papaw wasn’t too thrilled about that, let me tell you.”
“Papaw’s skittish around Rusty, huh?”
“Sure is.”
“Wait a second. I ran into Walt Duncan taking his grandson’s snake to the vet. Is Mr. Duncan your papaw?”
“Sure is.”
I smiled. “Small world.”
“Yep, but I wouldn’t want to have to paint it.” He chuckled. “Stole that from Stephen Wright . . . you know, the comedian.”
