Murder Takes the Cake Text

by Gayle Trent

  “That Fred guy. Tell her, Mom.”

  Violet nodded as she put oven mitts on and took the pizzas out of the oven. “When we were there earlier, he was asking all these weird questions about you.”

  “Like what?” I got the pizza cutter out of the cutlery drawer.

  “He asked me if your boyfriend minds all that baking you do.” Violet frowned. “I simply said ‘no,’ because I knew he was fishing to see whether or not you have someone in your life.”

  “Do you?” Leslie asked.

  “Do I what?” I asked.

  She rolled her eyes. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “No . . . not really. I mean . . .no.”

  “Sounds like a ‘yes’ to me,” Lucas said.

  “No,” I said. “I’ve gone on a couple dates but—”

  “With who?” Leslie asked.

  “Wait, tell me what else Fred said.” I didn’t like being in the hot seat. “He called and ordered a cake for his papaw’s birthday, by the way.”

  “He mentioned that,” Violet said. “He said you were making this totally cool snake cake for his papaw in two weeks.”

  “Two weeks? He told me next Sunday.”

  “Do you think the cake is merely a ruse to get to know you?” Violet began cutting the pizzas into squares.

  “I don’t know. Uncle Hal knows Fred’s grandfather, and he thought the guy’s birthday was in spring. But what should I do? Should I make the cake or not?”

  “Go ahead and make it,” Lucas said, snagging a square of pepperoni pizza. “If he doesn’t take it, we’ll eat it.”

  “Yeah,” Leslie said, “and next time, try to make sure your customers aren’t mental.”

  I wondered if I should tell them I was designing cakes for a guinea pig’s birthday party. I took a slice of the sausage pizza. Maybe I’d tell them later.

  *

  Hours later, the four of us were spread across the living room in sleeping bags much like I’d positioned us on the cake. Rather than being on the outsides, however, Lucas and Leslie were cocooned between their mother and me. The three of them were sleeping, but something had awakened me. What was it? My ears strained at the silence. I knew I’d heard something . . . something so out of place it had snapped my mind out of a dreamless sleep. All I could hear now was the breathing—and occasional snoring—of my companions.

  My eyes adjusted to the darkness and scanned the room. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary.

  Just then I heard the crash of metal outside. It came from Violet’s back door. Heart pumping, I eased out of the sleeping bag and crawled into the hallway, avoiding the windows.

  Please, God, don’t let me have brought some sort of calamity on Violet’s house . . . or even worse, her family.

  I thought about waking Violet and warning her, but I didn’t want to make a commotion and risk waking the kids. They were probably safer where they were.

  I flinched when I heard the sound again. I squared my shoulders and went into the kitchen. I took the meat cleaver from the knife block and tucked the cordless phone under my arm. Then I peered through the window of the back door. I couldn’t see a thing, but I could still hear that racket. It—whatever it was—was still out there.

  I got the cleaver ready, unlocked the door and flung it open. As I did so, someone got a firm grip on my cleaver-wielding wrist . . . from behind me. I struggled to get my wrist free.

  “Are you out of your freaking mind? What are you doing?”

  It was Violet.

  “There’s something out there,” I said. “It woke me up, and I—”

  “It’s the neighbor’s dog. He’s turned over our trash again.” She took the cleaver and put it back where it belonged.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.” She stuck her head out the door. “Come here, Rufus.”

  A shaggy brown dog appeared in the doorway, wagging its tail.

  Violet bent down to pat his head. “You’re a bad boy, you know. I should call animal control on you.” Instead, she opened the refrigerator and got him a hot dog. “Take this and go on home. And stay out of my trash.”

  Rufus took his treat and wandered away.

  Violet closed and locked the door. “I can’t believe you nearly cleaved poor Rufus. What’s up with you?”

  “The noise woke me up, and it scared me. I was checking it out, that’s all.”

  “You’re the one who’s usually pragmatic about this sort of thing. I’m not used to seeing you standing by the door with a cleaver. Give it another try.”

  “I’m telling you the truth.”

  “Daphne.”

  Vi was giving me her I-know-better look, and it reminded me to tell her she’s a really good mother.

  “You know, you’re a great mom, Vi. I’m proud of you.”

  “Thank you. Don’t change the subject. Why’d you get so freaked out?”

  I sighed and then broke down and told her about the writing on my walkway.

  “And you were planning on telling me this when?”

  “Uh . . . probably never?” I gave her what I hoped was a cute, innocent look. It didn’t work. I doubted it worked for Leslie and Lucas either.

  “I’m your sister. I should know these things. Do the police think you’re in danger?”

  “Shhh,” I whispered. “You’ll wake the children.”

  “Hardly. A plane could land in the front yard, and those two would sleep through it.” She pulled out a chair and nodded for me to sit. I did. She sat opposite me. “I’m serious. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t want you to worry.”

  “And that’s what worries me.”

  I glanced up at the clock. “It’s nearly four-thirty in the morning, Vi. You should go back to sleep.”

  “No, I should make us some coffee so we can talk this out.” She stood.

  “Please . . . we’ll talk about it tomorrow. I promise.”

  “I know better.” She put the coffee on and sat back down. “Are you scared? Do you think somebody’s out to get you?”

  “I don’t know. I have to admit I’m a little scared, but I think that might be what the person was trying to do—scare me into minding my own business.”

  “Who do you think did it?”

  “I have no idea . . . although China York says my subconscious knows.”

  “China York? What does she have to do with any of this?”

  I explained about her police scanner and her coming to help me clean off the walkway.

  “So now we have to ask ourselves,” Violet said, “was she sincerely wanting to help, or did she want to find out what you know . . . or what you think you know?”

  “Talk about acting out of character. Where’s the Suzy Sunshine who always believes the best about people?”

  “Suzy has children. Somehow the tigress mentality of motherhood makes you cast a suspicious eye on just about everybody.” She got up and got us some coffee, fixed the same way—heavy on the cream and sugar—the way we both like it.

  I blew on mine and then tasted it. Way too hot, but, oh, so good.

  “It was nice of Ms. York to come and help you,” Violet continued, “but how did she even know where you live?”

  “Does the police scanner give out the address?”

  “I guess they do.”

  “I’m surprised no one at Save-A-Buck told you. They all knew it when I was there getting the stuff to decorate the cake,” I said. “Joanne Hayden told them. Fred even offered to help clean it up. Thank goodness, that was already done. Not that I’d have accepted his offer, but I was glad to have a handy excuse.”

  “Did Ms. York say why she thinks your subconscious would know who messed up your walkway?”

  “No. She told me some mumbo-jumbo about allowing my subconscious to catch up with my here and now, but she said I’m the only one who knows how to make that happen.”

  “Sounds stupid to me. Wait here.”

  She came back with her laptop. “
Let’s see what we can find out about the workings of the subconscious.”

  While I drank my coffee, she logged onto her favorite search engine and typed in “Unlock Subconscious.” Naturally, she got a lot of freaky hits. Shaking her head in frustration, she went to a respected medical journal’s online site. Still, I had almost finished off my cup of coffee before she found anything to report.

  “It says here that during sleep our subconscious goes through processes of both perception and ideation, and that at times, there is recollection. So . . . go to sleep?” She frowned at me. “I don’t know. The best I can figure is that your subconscious picks up things you aren’t consciously aware of until you need to be. Does that make sense?”

  “No. Maybe. I don’t know, Vi.” I sighed. “While you’re on there, would you do me a favor?”

  “Sure. Want to check your e-mail?”

  “No. I want you to see if you can buy snake venom online.”

  “Okay, that might be the strangest request I’ve ever received.” She clicked keys. Then she clicked more keys. “Get this: some researchers think snake venom has medicinal value and could possibly slow cancer growth.”

  “How are they testing their theories?”

  “I don’t know. I’m looking to buy, not learn. Remember?”

  “Of course. Buy, buy.”

  She clicked some more. “Oh, my gosh! You’re not going to believe this.”

  “Try me.”

  “You actually can buy snake venom.” Now that her task was complete, her brain kicked in. “Um . . . why did you want to know that?”

  “Because the police told Annabelle that snake venom killed her mother.”

  She gaped at me. “Snake venom.”

  “Please don’t tell anyone.”

  “I won’t. Okay, I’ll probably tell Jason, but he won’t tell anybody.”

  “I figured you’d tell Jason.”

  “But if it was snake venom, you have to look at the people in town who have easy access to it.”

  I nodded. “Kellen Dobbs.”

  “And Candy.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  It was mid-afternoon on Saturday, and I felt as if I could go to bed and sleep all the way through the night. I could only imagine how tired Violet must be. I didn’t have two rambunctious children to care for.

  We had finally returned to our sleeping bags last night—or, rather, this morning—but I don’t think either of us did more than doze. Leslie and Lucas were awake by seven, hungry and wanting me to watch all their favorite cartoons with them. Violet and I threw together a breakfast picnic so we wouldn’t miss the shows. It was fun, but I was certain I’d sleep like the dead tonight.

  I had taken a digital photograph of the sleepover cake and was now uploading it to my web page. Man, it’s hard to update a web page when you’re experiencing brain fog. At least, it is for me. On the other hand, it’s hard for me to update a web page when I’m completely clear-headed.

  I’d just published the page when the doorbell rang. I wasn’t expecting anybody. My stomach was knotting up as I backed my chair away from the desk. I knew I’d locked the door behind me when I came home. Hadn’t I? And it wasn’t like an attacker would ring the doorbell in broad daylight on a Saturday afternoon. Would he?

  I tiptoed into the hall. Whoever it was had come to the front door. Most of my visitors use the side door off from the kitchen. I slipped into the living room and peered through the peephole. Peggy March stood on the stoop holding her brown leather purse with both hands.

  I opened the door. “Hi, Peggy.”

  “Hello.” She gave me a small smile. “I hope you don’t mind my dropping by. I realize I should’ve called first, but—”

  “That’s okay. Please come in.”

  She stepped into the living room. “You have a lovely home.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And a precious cat. I saw her outside. What happened to her eye?”

  “I don’t know. She was a stray.”

  “Aw.” Peggy sat down on the sofa. “I actually came by to thank you for telling me about Gloria Cline.”

  I dropped into the club chair. “I can’t believe Jonah didn’t know who his mother was. What did his birth certificate say?”

  “His birth certificate said his mother was Gloria March. See, even though her parents ran Vern off, they didn’t officially annul the marriage until after she had the child.”

  “But didn’t Jonah ever ask about his mom?”

  Peggy lifted a shoulder. “He said every time he brought it up, his father would say they had each other and that’s all that mattered. He’d say they didn’t need Jonah’s mother. Then Vern would be depressed for several days after they’d spoken about her. Finally, Jonah quit asking.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “Then when Vern and . . . and your mother, Gloria . . .got together . . . ” She bit her lower lip. “We all thought she was the Gloria.”

  “Makes sense, I guess.”

  “Oh, it did. Vern was happier than I’d ever seen him, when he was with her. And he’d never dated much before.”

  “Whoa,” I said with a humorless smile. “I didn’t know Mom was such a femme fatale.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t think she was. I—” She sighed. “This isn’t why I came. I don’t want to make you feel bad. I came to thank you.”

  I waved away her regrets. “It’s okay.”

  “No, it isn’t. I came to share my family’s good news, not to bring bad news about yours.”

  “Then tell me your good news.”

  “After speaking with you yesterday morning, I contacted an attorney. He’s going to find out if Gloria left a will.”

  “She’s dead then? I’m sorry.”

  “Yes, he determined that while we were talking . . .looked it up in an Internet database or something.”

  “What if she didn’t leave a will?”

  “He’ll go back to the Clines’ wills. They came to a tragic end—died when a plane they’d chartered crashed back in late April or early May of 1975. The lawyer told me that, too. In fact, I seem to remember hearing something about it on the news or reading about it in the newspaper. But it hardly meant anything to me at the time, and then Jonah’s dad had his accident . . . ”

  “Do you think the Clines made provision for Gloria’s child in their wills?”

  “Even if they didn’t, Gloria would have inherited as a surviving child.”

  “And even if Gloria left no will,” I said, “Jonah would have inherited as her surviving child.”

  “Correct. The attorney seems to think there might be something there for Joanne, provided all of Gloria’s estate wasn’t used for her medical care.”

  I smiled. “Well, I hope it wasn’t. And, even if it was, maybe Joanne can have some of her grandmother’s mementos. It would be a way of getting to know her, at least, a little.”

  Peggy smiled, too. “Yes, it would.”

  After she left, I got out my gum paste kit, turned on a TV channel devoted to classics, and watched episodes of I Love Lucy while making flowers. I hoped everything would work out for Peggy and Joanne, although I was beginning to doubt Joanne would ever learn to keep her mouth shut where I—or anyone else—was concerned. I did feel badly for her in a way. It was a shame about Jonah, his parents and their screwed-up life. Besides, if Vern and Gloria Cline’s parents had left them alone, he’d have probably stayed happily married to her and kept away from my mother.

  I wondered if Vern and Gloria had ever tried to reconcile, or if her parents and/or illness had prevented any such attempt from happening. I supposed I could ask Mrs. Dobbs, but it appeared to me she had enough to deal with right now without having to answer questions about her sister.

  I found myself pondering how Vern might have felt when the Clines’ plane went down. I knew he was sad for Gloria and her sister, but he had to have felt—on some level—a sense of relief that perhaps Jonah could finally reunite with his mother.
r />   *

  I was already in bed asleep, when the phone rang. I don’t know how many times it rang before I realized it wasn’t part of a dream; but the answering machine didn’t take over, so maybe it wasn’t as many rings as it had seemed.

  I rolled over and fumbled on the nightstand for the phone. “Hello?”

  “Daphne, it’s Candy. I’m sorry I woke you.”

  I struggled up onto my elbow and looked at the clock. It was ten-thirty. “What’s wrong?”

  “This is the first chance I’ve had to call you back. But if you’re sleeping . . . .”

  “No, it’s all right. What did you need to talk about?”

  “I’m sorry for the way Kel talked to you at the store.”

  “Candy, that’s all right. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “I know. But I felt I owed you an explanation at the very least.”

  “About why Mr. Dobbs was upset with me?”

  “It’s not only you. It’s everybody . . . including me. On Wednesday, he was acting like himself and was positively upbeat about his birthday. When he came in on Thursday, he was . . . different. And he has been ever since.”

  I propped myself up against the headboard of my bed. “Birthdays are usually a time for reflection . . . especially if it’s a significant year number or if there are special circumstances or something. Maybe Mr. Dobbs is taking stock of his life.”

  “You think he’s finally gonna ask his wife for a divorce?”

  I seriously don’t need to be hearing this.

  “He’s been unhappy for so long,” Candy continued. “I don’t know why he’s been wishy-washy for all this time. He—”

  “Give him a few days,” I interrupted. “It’ll work out in the end.”

  “I hope you’re right. I’ll let you get back to sleep now. Thanks for talking with me.”

  “Anytime. Goodnight.”

  I hung up the phone and slid back down into bed. I wondered before I drifted off to sleep again what had truly happened to Kellen Dobbs to give him such a dramatic attitude adjustment, especially toward Candy. Little did I realize how soon I’d find out.

  *

  On Monday morning, I went to Johnson City. There’s a neat little hobby shop there where you can get about anything you need to make whatever you want to make. Today I was looking for willow branches so I could weave a basket for Guinevere.