“Babette,” I said quietly.
She shook her head. Then she stepped around me. She was the picture of dignified grace as she walked up to Daliah. “Your gluten free cake,” she said in an even tone as she handed Dahlia the pale purple box. "I hope you choke on it.”
Everyone gasped again, even Dahlia.
But she recovered quickly. She smiled at Babette with a cold expression on her face as Babette hurried outside. I ran to the door after her, but when I got outside she was already in the Bundt Baby van, pulling out onto the street, tears streaming down her cheeks.
I stood outside, watching her drive away and noticed my own fists were clenched in rage. I angrily headed back inside, ready to give Dahlia a piece of my mind, and though I didn’t know exactly what I would say, I figured it would be some kind of reiteration of Babette’s wish that she choke on the gluten-free cake.
When I stepped inside the living room, however, I noticed that everyone was crowded around Dahlia who seemed to be putting on some kind of weird performance. She was hopping around, holding her throat, making strange noises.
But no one was laughing. In fact, as I got closer, I saw she wasn’t dancing at all. To my disbelieving eyes, Dahlia was doing the very thing I was about to wish on her—choking on the gluten-free Bundt. She had a piece of it in her hand, and some spilling out of her mouth, which was now contorted in distress.
“Call 911,” someone screamed out in horror. “She’s choking!”
Dahlia’s eyes, once so cruel and smiling now looked terrified and confused. She was pale and sweating, clutching her throat and her stomach, her mouth dripping saliva. One of the guests attempted to Heimlich her, but it obviously didn’t work.
As we all watched helplessly, Dahlia fell to the floor and started to have some kind of seizure. Then she lay still, her eyes open--her lips, ironically, a perfect shade of Tiffany blue.
CHAPTER SIX
An ambulance finally arrived, but by that point there was nothing anyone could do to revive Dahlia. She was clearly dead. One of the paramedics called the police and a uniformed detective arrived not long after. The coroner and another two uniformed officers arrived not long after that.
By that point, the other guests and I had all been ushered out on to the patio where the girls were all comforting each other, sobbing and expressing their disbelief at how this could have happened. At a wedding shower of all places! It was unbelievable!
And truly, it was.
Though I had secretly wished Dahlia dead, in the very manner in which she died, seeing her actually choke to death on that Bundt cake was too horrible to imagine. I felt bad for ever having thought of such a thing.
I was standing up, looking through the sliding glass doors into the living room, watching as the bride-to-be and her mother spoke to the detective. Nearby, the coroner studied Dahlia’s body. He and one of the officers were starting to zip her into a big black heavy plastic bag, when the coroner bent down and put his nose right up near Dahlia’s mouth. He leaned in and seemed to be sniffing it. Then he looked over and spotted the purple Bundt cake she’d dropped on the floor. He picked that up and sniffed it as well. Then he called the detective over and they conferred.
The detective came out onto the patio a few minutes later and looked around, stroking his handlebar moustache. We all stared at him, waiting for him to say something, as he obviously had something on his mind. But he seemed to be taking his time.
Before he could speak, the blonde who’d been gossiping earlier, stood up. “Can we leave now?” She stood and grabbed her purse. “I have somewhere I have to be.” She started walking back into the house but the detective blocked her path.
“Sorry, Miss,” he told her. “You need to sit back down.”
Her face turned red in irritation and she refused to sit, though I noticed she didn’t make a move to leave, either.
“I really have to go,” she said. “I mean, I’m sorry about Dahlia’s accident and everything. It’s awful. Just terrible. But I don’t see how any of us can help at this point.”
“Hmn, yes, well, we’ll see about that.” He was looking around at all of the bedraggled of Holly Golightly wannabees. “We’re gonna need to take statements from all of you.”
“Statements?” the redhead said. “Why? We already told you what happened. It was an accident, right? Dahlia choked. I mean...it wasn’t a murder or anything. Was it?”
Some of the girls gasped, everyone looked at him waiting for an answer.
“So,” he continued, still stroking his big moustache, ignoring her question. “What we’re gonna do is to take all of your cell phones and video cameras and see what we have on there. And then we’re gonna take statements from all of you.”
Some of the girls handed over their phones, eager to help while others looked reluctant to part with them, even for a short while. The blonde was grumbling about it angrily.
“Don’t worry,” the detective said. “We just want any video you might have of the party. You’ll all get ‘em back soon.”
As if realizing that it was useless to fight, the blonde handed her phone to the officer, which caused the other reluctant girls to follow along and do the same.
“But you don’t really think that one of us is a murderer do you?” the redhead asked, aghast. “We were her friends.”
“Mmn, we’ll see,” the detective replied. Then he looked around as though searching for someone in particular. His eyes came to rest on me and didn’t move.
“You,” he grunted.
I looked at him surprised. “Me?”
“You work at the bakery? The one that made the cakes?”
I noticed he was looking at my Bundt Baby apron and realized it was useless to deny it. I nodded, nervously. “Yes, I work there,” I squeaked—probably sounding guilty of murder.
“Follow me, then,” he said. He walked back through the sliding doors into the living room.
I could feel the eyes of all the girls on me as I followed him back into the house.
Sure sure, blame the help.
By now, Dahlia’s body had been removed and the bride and her mother had been moved somewhere else—upstairs probably. Another officer was busy collecting evidence from the living room but the cake table remained untouched.
“Tell me about the cake she was eating when she died,” the detective said to me. “It was in its own box, separate from these other ones here?”
“Yes,” I nodded. “It was gluten-free. Babette, my boss, made it special for…for Dahlia. She was on a special diet and requested it.”
“Did she specifically request that it be almond?”
“Almond? I don’t know. I honestly can’t remember. Dahlia may have decided on the flavor herself. Or she may have left it up to Babette.”
“Hmn,” he said, touching his long moustache.
“Why? Is that important?” I asked, but he didn’t answer. “Was she poisoned?”
He looked at me warily. “Why would you say that?”
“Because you’re asking about the cakes. It makes sense. Plus, isn’t there some kind of poison that smells like almond?” I couldn’t remember what it was but I’d once read something about it.
“Hmn,” he grunted, not answering me one way or the other. “So, any of these other cakes here gluten-free?” He motioned to the dessert table.
“No. It was just that one. For Dahlia. Babette accidentally left it in the van when we were setting up and she went out to get it right before…before…” I let my voice trail off. I was unsure how to finish the sentence without making Babette look bad. Though, to be honest, I was pretty sure it already looked quite bad for Babette. First Dahlia practically comes out and says she’s going to steal her husband away from her. Then five minutes later Dahlia is dead from a cake she baked just for her.
The detective grunted as if reading my mind. “So I guess we need to talk to your boss. You know where she went?”
“No. She just drove off, upset.”
> “Right. After a big confrontation with the victim. You know anything about Dahlia sleeping with Mrs. Berwick’s husband?”
“No,” I said. I didn’t think I needed to mention Nana’s gossip about Doug.
“ Okay. Well, you can go for now but you’re going to have to come down to the station to give a statement. You can pick up your phone then.” He put his hand out and waited for me to give him my phone.
I had no idea if it was even legal for him to confiscate our phones that way but I decided not to fight it.
“Oh, wait,” I said as I was about to put the phone into his hand. “Can I just call my Nana first and tell her why I won’t be home on time?”
He shook his head no, but then frowned at my phone which was now all lit up.
“What’s going on there?” he asked. I looked down to see that the phone was in the middle of voice-dialing Nana’s number.
“Oh, sorry.” I reached over to press the ‘end call’ button, realizing I had to be more careful in the future. “I just installed voice dialing and when I said I wanted to ‘call Nana’ it must’ve interpreted that as…”
He frowned and pressed the ‘end call’ button again, since the phone was again attempting to dial Nana. “Mnph. Sensitive program,” he said, studying the phone.
“It sure is,” I agreed.
***
Later that day, after going home for a shower and a bite to eat and stopping in to see if Nana was home (she wasn’t) I went to the police station to collect my phone and give my statement.
The front desk was being manned by a tall, lanky surfer-looking guy who answered the phone just as I walked in.
My guess was that he was dealing with a pushy reporter, because he said, "No comment," several times and then, “We can’t release that information yet.”
Finally he hung up the phone and smiled at me. “Reporters,” he said rolling his eyes. “Now what can I do for you…Rosie?”
I looked at him, surprised that he knew my name.
“You don’t remember me I guess,” he said. “You used to baby sit for me sometimes when you were down visiting your grandma. Way back when. Steve Logan.”
I covered my mouth with my hands. “Stevie? I can’t believe it! Wait. Are you a…a policeman?”
“Nah,” he said. “I just work here answering phones. I usually work overnight when it’s dead quiet. But with all this craziness today, they asked me to come in and help with stuff. Are you here to give a statement?”
I nodded. “Yeah, and to get my phone. I was working at the party when she died.”
“Oh, okay, sure. They’re back here. Lemme grab it for you.” He walked over to a shelf behind him to look through a basket that held several phones. He picked them up one by one, checking their labels. “I remember your grandma said you were in town for awhile,” he said as he finally found the right one and brought it to me. “Here ya go.”
“Thanks.” I took it from him and peeled off the small piece of tape with my name on it. “Wait. You talk to my Nana?
“Sure. I see her around town. She was in my gourmet cooking class a few months ago. Don’t know why she needed the class though—man, her cooking. Have you ever had her chicken Paprikash? Man.” He shook his head, practically salivating at the memory.
“Yeah, she’s a great cook,” I said. “Too bad it’s not hereditary.”
Just then, Detective Sanders came out front and motioned me to follow him.
We went into his small office where I sat in a chair in front of his desk and answered his questions while he wrote down what I said. When we were almost done, he got a phone call and sat stroking his moustache, listening to what the person on the other end was saying.
Finally he said, “Okay, thanks doc,” and hung up. He made note on his notepad then looked at me. "Well, she was definitely poisoned. By the cake that you made her. Cyanide," he said.
“Well, like I told you,” I said, sitting up straighter. “ I didn’t make it. Babette did. But Babette would never purposely hurt anyone,” I said emphatically. “Have you even talked to her yet?”
He didn’t answer as he continued to stroke his handlebar moustache. “It’s surprising what people will do. Especially to their husband's mistress."
“But…even if that cake was poisoned, how do you know someone else at the party didn’t do it? Maybe someone else put something in the cake. I’m sure Dahlia had a lot of enemies."
“We’re looking into that. We’re looking into all the evidence. But from the footage we found on the cell phones and video cameras, it sure looks like your boss handed the cake to the victim herself. No one else at the party ever touched it.”
“Well then maybe someone poisoned it when it was in the van! Did you look into that?”
“Don’t you worry,” he said, standing up. “We’re looking at all the evidence. For now, you’re free to go.”
I got up and walked to the door, then I stopped and turned to him.
“You’re wrong about Babette, you know. Even if she wanted to kill someone, she’d never do it with her cakes. She loves them. They’re like her babies.”
He studied me, as though considering what I’d said. He was about to say something when his his eyes looked past me.
I turned to see what he was looking at. Or whom.
It was Babette. She was being led in, her head hung in defeat.
“Babette!” I cried, running up to her.
“Rosie!” she said, looking at me teary-eyed. “Make sure you feed Cupcake, okay?”
“Of course I will, but…”
“And keep the store open for me. I can’t let this destroy everything I worked so hard for.”
“But you’ll be out of here soon…” I started to say. Before I could finish, the officer behind her grabbed her arm and started to lead her away.
“Please,” she said, looking back at me, miserably. “I don’t know when they’re going to let me leave. Remember, it’s business as usual.”
I nodded then, looked back at the detective who was standing in the doorway of his office, looking at Babette.
Hmph. So much for waiting for all the evidence.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The chime on the glass door of Bundt Baby's tinkled happily as I walked into the store. Following me inside were my ‘helpers’ Nana and Birdie, though I suspected they were really there for the gossip rather than the good deed they claimed we were doing.
Since the murder the day before, they’d become the toast of the Sunrise Palms Senior Community coffee klatch. Not only did their granddaughter work with the killer, but she’d been there, watching as the actual murder happened! It was the most exciting thing that happened at their retirement community since……well… ever.
I stood in Babette’s empty store, looking out at the empty parking lot outside. It was clearly pointless to even think of opening the store, though of course I hadn’t said that to Babette when she made me promise to keep going with ‘business as usual.’ It would have broken her heart if I’d told her —though if she’d been thinking more clearly she would have known it herself.
After all, who would want to buy cake from a bakery where the owner was suspected of poisoning a customer? Not me. I wouldn’t even try their free samples, and that’s saying something.
“This place is a mess,” Nana frowned, as she followed me into the store and looked at the footprints all over the usually pristine, peach and white checked floor.
“The police…” I said, realizing that the cops must have come in the day before to collect their evidence. They obviously hadn’t bothered to clean up after themselves.
I headed back into the kitchen which was in even more disarray. All the ingredients we’d need to even try to bake the cakes were missing—as were the baking utensils, the flour, the eggs the butter, the fruit. Everything had been removed from the freezer. Even the garbage cans and whatever was in them, were gone.
“Boy, they’re thorough,” I said, with a resigned sigh. Nana
was about to say something back but was interrupted by the cuckoo clock, hanging high on the wall, that started chirping and gonging.
“Not thorough enough,” yelled Birdie. “That they left?”
I nodded and held my ears, waiting for it to stop.
“Well if she did go crazy and kill her husband's hottie, we know what drove her to it,” Nana said, serenely turning down her hearing aide.
We all stared at the ugly clock, waiting for the incessant chirping and loud gonging to stop but unfortunately, since it was 9 am, we still had 7 more full chirps to get through. Finally it went silent and Nana took a deep breath as she turned to me and clapped her hands together. “Well, the place isn’t going to clean itself.”
It sure wasn’t, I thought, as I grabbed the broom. Clearly I was going to have to do it.
***
The place was spic and span and I was just waiting for Nana and Birdie to get back from the market with the list of ingredients I’d given them. As I put the mop away and put on my Bundt Baby apron, I heard the tinkle of the door opening in front.
“Perfect timing, Nana,” I called out, walking out of the kitchen. “You just missed all the cleaning.” I smiled and looked up from straightening my apron to only find Mr. Evil staring at me. Mr. Gorgeous Evil.
“Don’t tell me you’re actually opening today. You realize you’re not going to have any customers after what happened," he sniffed.
Though I’d been thinking the exact same thing myself, the way he said it, all smug and cocky and gorgeously, made me feel the need to defend Babette and her store.
“Bundt Baby is open as usual,” I said primly. “The police will soon realize their mistake and Babette will be back baking at Bundt Baby before long."
“Wow. That’s some alliteration.” He looked at me pointedly. “And some denial."
I raised my chin in the air and stared at him. “If you don’t want to order something then…”
NOTHING BUNDT MURDER: A Culinary Cozy Mystery (A Rosie Kale Culinary Cozy Mystery Book 1) Page 3
