by Gayle Trent
“I do,” she said firmly. “The police couldn’t seriously suspect you or that Jenkins woman of killing Jim. Don’t let this situation stress you out.”
“I’d love to believe you’re right about that, but this isn’t the first dead body I’ve stumbled across since I’ve been back in town,” I said. “The police have been asking around, slowly driving past my house, following me. Without another suspect, Myra and I are all they have.”
We said our good-byes, and I went back to piping tiny scrolls on the sides of the twelve-inch round cake.
The Chronicle’s original article stated police had confirmed that there had been no forced entry into Dr. Bainsworth’s office that night. That fact alone would pretty much negate the idea of a homeless junkie wandering into the building, wouldn’t it? I couldn’t imagine Dr. Bainsworth or the fastidious Bunni forgetting to lock the doors. So wouldn’t Dr. Bainsworth’s killer have to have been either someone Dr. Bainsworth knew and allowed into the office or someone who had a key?
I set my decorator bag on the island and retrieved the phone book from the table in the living room. I was going to call Bunni Wilson. If I played my cards right, she just might tell me what I wanted to know.
I dialed in Bunni’s number before returning to the kitchen, washing my hands, and resuming the scrollwork on the quinceañera cake. Bunni answered on the first ring.
“Good afternoon. Dr. Bainsworth’s office,” she said. “Oh . . . sorry . . . force of habit.”
“I understand completely,” I said. I introduced myself and reminded her that we’d met at Tanya’s Tremendous Tress-Taming Salon the day before.
“Oh, yes,” Bunni said. “How can I help you, Daphne?”
“Myra Jenkins—she’s the other lady who was in the salon yesterday—”
“I know Myra,” she said, interrupting. “She’s one of our patients. I know all our patients.”
“Of course,” I said. “Well, she and I are in a bit of a pickle.”
“Because you found Dr. Bainsworth?” she asked.
“Yes.” I sighed. “Bunni, I’m afraid that if she and I don’t figure out who did this, the police will try to blame us.”
“I still don’t know how I can help you,” she said.
“First of all, I want you to know that I realize how very valuable you were to Dr. Bainsworth,” I said, “and I don’t want you to betray any confidences. But, on the other hand, I don’t want his killer to get away either. How well did you know his wife?”
“You think it was her too?” Bunni asked, a note of excitement creeping into her voice.
“I’m not sure, but I recall you saying yesterday that Dr. Bainsworth thought maybe she was having an affair,” I said. “I’m thinking he might have been right.”
“I knew it,” she said vehemently. “I knew that piranha was cheating on poor Dr. Bainsworth. Then she used his friendship with Jill to give her the excuse she needed to divorce him and take everything he had.”
“But it worked,” I said. “Everything in the divorce was going her way. Why would she want to kill Dr. Bainsworth?”
“Because he was about to uncover her deception,” Bunni said. “His private investigator had been tailing Angela for weeks.”
“Private investigator? He’d hired a private investigator?”
“That’s right,” Bunni said. “Dr. Bainsworth thought Angela had been cheating since before she accused him of having an affair with Jill, and he hired this man to prove it.”
“What was the detective’s name?” I asked.
“Mark Thompson,” she said.
That’s why there were so many messages from Mark in the trash can, I mused. “Mark had found out something, hadn’t he?”
“Yes, he had. He and Dr. Bainsworth were trying to figure it all out and decide how to best use whatever information Mark had uncovered.”
“You don’t know what information Mark had found?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” Bunni said. “That wouldn’t be appropriate. Dr. Bainsworth never burdened me with his personal problems. Our relationship rose above that.”
“Of course,” I said. “Who besides Dr. Bainsworth had a key to his office?”
“I’m the only other person Dr. Bainsworth trusted with a key to the building.”
“What about Angela?” I asked. “Did Dr. Bainsworth change the locks after the two of them separated?”
“No. . . . So I suppose it’s possible she had a key . . . and the police said there was no forced entry into the building. . . .” Her voice trailed away.
I hurried to undo whatever damage I might have done. “Please know I’m not accusing Angela in any way. I simply wondered if she had a key.”
“I’m accusing her,” Bunni said. “Mark Thompson found something that would turn the tide of the divorce back in Dr. Bainsworth’s favor, and she killed him because of it.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “There were photographs of jewelry in Dr. Bainsworth’s waiting room, and the police found a diamond earring. Was he looking into a side business?”
“No,” she said. “I don’t know anything about any jewelry. I just know that Angela Bainsworth killed my—killed her husband. Thank you for calling, Daphne. Good-bye.”
And she hung up. Okay. So I had successfully turned the secretary’s—if not the police department’s—suspicions to someone other than Myra and me for the murder of Dr. Bains-worth. That was good, right?
I dialed Myra. She didn’t answer, and I left her a message.
Next, I called directory assistance and got the phone number of the private investigator, Mark Thompson. He wasn’t available to take my call either, so I asked his secretary to have him give me a call.
A sharp rap on my kitchen door startled me, and I flubbed the scroll I’d been working on. I removed my plastic gloves and stepped over to peep out the window. It was Scottie. He was dressed in a Loyola sweatshirt and jeans, so he didn’t look as Elvis-like as usual.
“Hey,” I said, opening the door. “Are you here to make sure the cake looks all right before Friday? I still have a couple of last-minute—”
“I’m not worried about the cake,” Scottie interrupted, and brushed past me and into the kitchen. “I don’t have a doubt in the world that the cake looks fantastic. I just came by to ask you out.”
“I appreciate the offer,” I said, “but I have a lot of work to do this evening.”
“Aw, come on,” Scottie said. “I’m only here for a couple more days, you know.”
“I do know.”
“But that doesn’t mean I have to walk out of your life completely, though.” He stepped closer to me.
“I think it’s great that we can still be friends after you leave. In fact, do you have any brochures with you? I’d love to mention the EIEIO on my website with a photo of the Cadillac cake so visitors to my site could contribute to your cause.” I heard a car door slam. “Let me see who that is.” I flung open the door. “What do you know? It’s Ben! Hi, Ben! Look who’s here.”
Ben gave Scottie an icy stare. “Does your cake look all right?”
“Flawless,” Scottie said, folding his arms. “Daphne is a woman of many extraordinary talents. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Ben narrowed his eyes but didn’t say anything.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll deliver the cake and begin setting everything up at five thirty Friday.”
Scottie smiled. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I said.
“If I told you I have a stack of brochures back at the hotel, would you come with me to get one?” he asked.
“Nope. I have plans with my niece and nephew tonight,” I said. “Could I stop by and pick up a brochure from you tomorrow? You could simply leave it at the front desk for me.”
“Sorry,” Scottie said. “We ran out of brochures at the concert Sunday night. But I’ll bring you by the information.”
“Thanks.” I gave him what I hoped was a very professional smile. “Is there anythi
ng else I need to know about setting up the cake on Friday?”
“Just remember what I told you.” He nodded at Ben and left.
“This is a nice surprise,” I said after the door closed behind Scottie. “What brings you by?”
“Him. I saw the car and decided to stop,” Ben said. “I don’t like that guy in the least.”
“Well, he and all the rest of the Elvises will be gone in two or three days,” I said with a smile.
“What did he mean when he told you to remember what he said?” Ben asked.
I looked into Ben’s fathomless blue eyes and debated about lying. No dice. Ben has always been able to tell when I was lying. “He told me that when he leaves, it doesn’t have to be permanent. I let him know I’m not interested in anything but friendship.” I slid my arms around Ben’s neck. “You’re the only one I want hanging around here.”
Ben kissed me softly. “I’m glad.”
“You know, I have to wonder about Scottie’s motives. Maybe he killed the dentist, and he wants to hang around me to find out what Myra and I know.”
“Or it could just be that you’re beautiful.” He frowned. “Still, don’t dismiss that thought about him being the killer. It pays to be cautious.”
I took his hand and led him into the living room. “You look a little worn-out,” I said as we sat on the sofa. “Did you have a busy day?”
“Busy, but productive,” he said. “You?”
“Busy, but I don’t know how productive it was.” I went on to tell Ben about going with Myra to snoop around—and ultimately help clean—Dr. Bainsworth’s office. I explained about the brochure and coins. “Plus Myra found photographs of jewelry, but Angela says the pieces aren’t hers.”
“Maybe they’re pieces passed down through Dr. Bainsworth’s family,” Ben said. “He could’ve had the pieces stashed in a safe-deposit box somewhere and chose not to tell Angela about them.”
“She did tell me she wasn’t into jewelry.”
Ben shrugged. “Then it’s possible he knew Angela wouldn’t want them and kept them either for posterity or in case he ever needed to sell them.”
“Good point,” I said. “It appears to be common knowledge the guy was having financial difficulties since his wife initiated divorce proceedings. He could’ve intended to sell some of the jewelry.”
“That would be my guess.” Ben laced his fingers behind his head and closed his eyes. “Check the Chronicle’s online classifieds to see if any of the pieces are listed there.”
“I’ll do that. Bunni, Dr. Bainsworth’s secretary, didn’t know about the jewelry either. Of course, jewelry wasn’t the only thing I think he kept her in the dark about. She thought the man was a saint.” Before I could comment further, the phone rang and I realized I’d forgotten to remove my headset. I answered, “Daphne’s Delectable Cakes.”
“Hi, hon,” Myra said. “Can’t talk but a sec because I’ve got a date with John. Don’t worry about Bunni and Angela. I doubt Bunni will confront her or anything.”
“I hope you’re right,” I said. “Bunni did tell me the name of Dr. Bainsworth’s private investigator. I left a message for him to call me back.”
“Dr. Bainsworth had hired a private investigator?” Myra asked. “That’s interesting. By the way, I found Jill Fisher. You and I are having coffee with her at my house tomorrow morning at nine.”
“That’s interesting too,” I said. “How’d you get her to agree to talk with us?”
“It was easy. I asked and she said yes. See you tomorrow morning.”
When I disconnected from the call, I noticed Ben was giving me a bemused frown.
“What?” I asked.
“You have been a busy investigator, haven’t you?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Did I mention Myra has a date with one of the EIEIO members tonight?”
“Which one?” asked Ben.
“His name is John. He’s at least twenty-five years younger than her.”
Before I could fully entertain Ben with Myra’s romantic ups and downs with the Elvises, Violet, Lucas, and Leslie arrived. The twins were bubbling over with stories about their day at school, but Violet was quiet. Other than exchanging pleasantries with Ben, she didn’t have much to say.
“What time would you like me to come back for them?” she asked me.
“I’ll bring them home,” I said. “Give me a curfew so I won’t get them home too late. I realize tomorrow is a school day.”
“Is eight o’clock okay?” Vi asked.
“That’ll give us plenty of time.” I considered her wan face. “Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m just a little tired. Jason has been out of town for the past couple of days, and I never sleep well when he’s away,” she said.
“Yeah,” Leslie said. “You should hear them on the phone when he calls at night. ‘I miss you.’ ‘No, I miss you more!’”
Lucas clutched his throat and made gagging sounds.
“Knock it off, you two,” Violet said. She turned to me. “I think I’ll go home and soak in the tub until I’m as wrinkly as a raisin.”
“You do that. We’ll bring you some cake balls,” I said.
As Violet left, Lucas grinned slyly at Ben. “Are you helping us make cake balls? It’ll be great not being outnumbered by girls for once.” He glanced at me. “No offense, Aunt Daphne.”
“None taken,” I said. “I think it’d be cool to have another man in the kitchen too if you can talk Ben into staying.”
“Well, I haven’t fed Sally yet,” Ben said, but when Lucas’s smile faded, he wavered. “But she’s in the fenced backyard. I think she’ll be fine for a little while longer.”
I gave Ben a quick hug and whispered, “Thank you.” Turning back to Lucas and Leslie, I said, “All right then. Let’s get washed up and started on those cake balls.”
The kids raced to the bathroom sink to wash up while Ben and I washed our hands in the kitchen. We then donned aprons and plastic gloves, sat down around the table, and began crumbling the pieces of peanut butter and banana cake I had left over from carving the Cadillac cake.
“That cake is pretty,” Leslie said, eying the tier of the quinceañera cake I’d left on the island.
“Thanks,” I said. “Before we get too far into making cake balls—and as soon as I’m sure the icing has set—I need to box it up and put it in the fridge.”
“Is it part of a wedding cake?” she asked, her eyes sliding from me to Ben and back again.
“No, sweetheart,” I said with a smile. “It’s for a quinceañera.”
“That’s like a sweet sixteen party for Latin American girls, isn’t it?” she asked. “I saw it on Selena Gomez’s show once.”
“You’re right,” I said, “but quinceañeras are for fifteen-year-olds.”
“What do the boys have?” Lucas asked. “Do they have big parties with fancy cakes on their fifteenth birthdays too?”
“I . . . I’m not really sure,” I said.
“You bet they do,” Ben said. “Their aunts who are cake decorators make them enormous cakes shaped like their favorite action heroes—you know, like a life-sized Superman cake.”
“No way.” Lucas scoffed.
“Oh, yeah,” Ben said insistently. “You don’t believe me?”
Lucas and Leslie shared a look and then they both laughed.
“Okay,” Lucas said. “Keep going.”
“Good.” Ben’s smile broadened as he continued spinning his tale. “They invite all their friends, and they eat gigantic pizzas the size of tractor tires. Then they play video games all night.”
Leslie giggled. “If they eat that much pizza, they’ll be too full to have any cake.”
“Nonsense,” Ben said. “Everybody knows they eat the cake for breakfast.” He winked at me.
I shook my head. He was gorgeous, and it meant the world to me that he was taking this opportunity to get to know my niece and nephew. But if I wound up having to make a life-sized Superman c
ake and pizzas as big as tractor tires because of his outlandish story, I might just punch him in the arm. Hard.
CHAPTER
Thirteen
SINCE MYRA and I were having coffee with Jill Fisher at Myra’s house at nine A.M., I got there at eight thirty in order to hear about Myra’s date with John before Jill arrived. For the life of me, I couldn’t picture Myra with the skinny, red-haired Elvis impersonator. Cecil had seemed far more in keeping with what I imagined would be Myra’s “type.” And he was much closer to her age. Myra, a cougar? I guessed anything was possible. Especially after seeing her the night of the EIEIO concert.
Myra greeted me at the door dressed in jeans and a yellow crewneck sweater but with rollers in her hair. “You’re early.”
“I came by to see if you need any help,” I said.
At her raised brow, I admitted, “And to see how your date with John went.”
She grinned. “It went super. He’s the sweetest little thing.”
“Did you wear the Ann-Margret getup?” I asked.
She shook her head. “No. He asked me to be myself, and I was. Mainly, I was afraid my wig would clash with his hair. His hair is a color that looks like something of a cross between a carrot, a sunset, and a clown wig—but don’t tell him I said that. It looks good on him. Anyway, after everything was said and done, it felt pretty nice to be Myra Jenkins instead of AnnMargret.”
“So where’d you go?” I asked.
“We went to one of the steakhouses over there in Bristol. John requested to the hostess that we have a table that was as private as possible.” She blushed. Myra actually blushed.
I giggled. “Did he hold your hand?”
She nodded. “And we talked for so long I was afraid the restaurant manager was going to ask us to leave.”
She motioned for me to follow her into the bedroom. The bed was neatly made—a floral comforter and shams were further adorned by half a dozen decorative pillows. The room contained a walnut armoire and a matching dresser, vanity, and chest.
Myra sat at the vanity and began taking the rollers out of her hair, and I sat on a pale mauve slipper chair by the window.
