Battered to Death (Daphne Martin Cake Mysteries)

by Trent, Gayle

  Ms. Richards laughed. “He had some mood swings, that was for sure.”

  I wondered how extreme Chef Richards’s mood swings might’ve been and whether he could’ve initially lashed out at his attacker. Maybe the murder had been done in self-defense. I immediately rejected that theory on the basis that the blow to the head could have incapacitated Chef Richards long enough to let the other person get away. Drowning him in cake batter would have been unnecessary for someone who was simply hoping to escape with his or her life.

  Pauline hurriedly approached our table. “I hope I haven’t been keeping you waiting long. The official cake and confectionary art exhibit and competition medic insisted on giving me a tetanus shot, and that darn thing hurt worse than the wire I stuck in my finger.” She pulled out a chair and sat down beside Ms. Richards. “I probably blew my chances with the producers.” Her eyes widened as she turned to Ms. Richards. “I’m sorry. That was insensitive of me.”

  “Not at all,” said Ms. Richards. “I understand that up-and-comers are seeking every opportunity to better themselves. In fact, Jordan was discovered at a cake competition in Colorado.”

  “Really?” Pauline asked.

  “Oh, sure. There are typically producers on hand at these types of events, and one—the one who eventually produced Jordan’s show—watched him do a demonstration and thought he was particularly dynamic.” She smiled. “And when Jordan got a little caustic with an audience member, the producer was sold.”

  “So see? They might like it that you stabbed yourself,” Myra told Pauline. “It might prove that you’re quirky or something.”

  I took that opportunity to interrupt and introduce Pauline to Mark and Ben.

  Noticing that the last expected member of our party had arrived, our waitress hurried over to take our orders.

  After the waitress left, Ms. Richards decided to get down to business. She took a sip of her water, then folded her hands and asked softly, “Daphne . . . Pauline . . . why were both of your fingerprints found on the cake stand used to hit Jordan?”

  Pauline bit her lip. “I think I can answer that one. We—the students in Chef Richards’s Australian string work class—were all given cake stands to use for the duration of class.”

  “Yes, Jordan was particular about his classes and the supplies that were used,” Ms. Richards mused. “He supplied everything and incorporated the extra cost into the class fee. He only wanted to work with particular products, and he didn’t like for students to bring inferior ingredients in off the streets.” She shook her head. “I apologize for interrupting, Pauline. Please go on.”

  “Well, I was the first student to get to class, and I noticed that my cake stand was a little tight. . . . It didn’t spin as easily as some of the others.” She raised and dropped her shoulders. “I knew that in order to properly perform the string work techniques, I’d need to be able to make the turntable spin well, so I swapped mine out with another one. Apparently, it became the one Daphne used.”

  “Okay. That explains the prints,” Ms. Richards said. “It doesn’t explain why no third set of prints was found . . . unless the killer was wearing gloves.”

  “I’ve seen a lot of people wearing gloves during their demonstrations,” Myra said.

  “It’s not uncommon, especially when working with gel colors or kneading colored fondant,” I said.

  “Or gum paste,” Pauline added.

  “I suppose what I’m wondering is if any of you think this attack was planned as opposed to spontaneous,” Ms. Richards said. “Did anyone see Jordan arguing with anyone the day before he was attacked?”

  “I didn’t see him arguing with anyone,” I said. “But wouldn’t Fiona be the best person to ask about that?”

  Ms. Richards nodded. “She would be . . . if she and I could tolerate each other long enough to discuss Jordan.”

  “Why do you say that, Ms. Richards?” Mark asked. “Wouldn’t Fiona naturally want to get to the truth about who killed her boss?”

  “I believe she would . . . but not if she had to do it through me.” Ms. Richards sighed. “I have no idea what Jordan might’ve told her about me, but she thinks I lied about the reason I left him.”

  “The domestic abuse scandal?” I asked. “Sorry . . . I . . . I read about it online.”

  “Yes,” she said. “That is why I left Jordan. He’d become too unpredictable. I loved him—I still love him—but I couldn’t live with a man who couldn’t control his drinking and who got so violent when he drank.”

  “I understand,” I said. “But now that Chef Richards is . . . gone . . . wouldn’t Fiona want to help you bring his killer to justice?”

  “No. I do believe she’d help Jordan if she could. She’d work with the police. She wouldn’t even talk with me,” Ms. Richards said. “I saw her this morning, and she very definitively turned her head and walked in the opposite direction.”

  “Maybe she’d talk with me,” said Mark. “I’m an investigator. Maybe I could get Fiona to open up . . . to tell me what she knows about the murder, what she knew of Chef Richards’s life, who might’ve wanted to kill him . . . that sort of thing. I realize she’s already told her story to the police, but retelling after some of the shock has worn off might help her to remember something she might’ve previously omitted.”

  “That would be wonderful,” said Ms. Richards. “Thank you.”

  “Maybe the four of us could talk with her,” I said, indicating Ben, Mark, Myra, and me.

  “Five,” Pauline said. “My future is at stake here too.”

  AFTER LUNCH, THE five of us went in search of Fiona. When we couldn’t find her, we spoke to Kimmie Compton, who told us she thought she saw Fiona going upstairs. The front desk called Fiona’s room for us and got her permission for us to visit her in the seating alcove near the second-floor elevators.

  “What’s this about?” Fiona asked when we essentially surrounded her.

  In the elevator on the way up to Fiona’s room, we’d elected Mark as our spokesperson. Now he said, “Fiona, I’m Mark Thompson. I’m a special investigator.”

  He didn’t tell her he wasn’t with the police. Of course, he didn’t tell her that he was. He merely let her draw her own conclusions. Besides, Mark was special . . . particularly to Myra.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Thursday’s class,” Mark continued.

  “I’ve already told the police everything I could remember,” Fiona said.

  “I know you have,” he said gently. “But now that the initial shock has worn off, I’m hoping that your going over everything one more time might help us to uncover some little clue we’ve missed. Would you mind doing that for me?”

  “Of course not.” Fiona visibly relaxed.

  Man, Mark was good.

  “Thank you so much,” he said, taking a notepad and pen from his jacket pocket. “Fiona, did Chef Richards seem distracted in any way before class began Thursday morning?”

  “No. He appeared fine,” she said.

  “Had he been troubled about anything in the days leading up to his visit to Brea Ridge . . . or couldn’t you tell?” Mark asked.

  “Oh, I could always tell when something was bothering Jordan,” she said. “But he was fine. Everything was perfectly normal.”

  “So the two of you had a close working relationship,” Mark said. “You talked with each other if there was something upsetting either of you.”

  “That’s right,” said Fiona. “He came across as abrasive—and he could be on occasion—but, overall, he was a good person.”

  “His former spouse has indicated that Chef Richards had a drinking problem and was abusive to her. Were you aware of that?”

  Fiona pressed her mouth into a rigid line. “Lily Richards is a liar. Jordan did not have a drinking problem. He might’ve been a drinker when he was married to her, but who could blame him? She ran through money like there was no tomorrow, and she was a horrible flirt. Jordan was better to be rid of her.”

/>   Fiona’s description didn’t jibe with my initial impression of Lily Richards, but I remained silent. Better to let Mark do his job.

  “Did you realize that Ms. Richards is here in Brea Ridge?” Mark asked. “She came here to the cake show to ask questions about what happened to her former husband. Since she identified the body, I’m assuming she was still his legal contact. Do you know whether or not she stands to profit financially from Chef Richards’s death?”

  Fiona’s eyes widened. “I’ll bet she does! That gold digger!” She got up and began to pace. “Do you think she might’ve murdered Jordan herself . . . to get his money?”

  “Right now, I’m only fact gathering,” said Mark. “I don’t have enough evidence to go making accusations.”

  “What’re they doing here?” she asked, nodding toward Pauline and me.

  “Our fingerprints were on the cake stand that was used to hit Chef Richards,” I said. “Pauline and I are trying to help point the police in the right direction, now that we’ve determined why both our fingerprints were on the stand.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t think my cake stand spun well enough, and I traded it for Daphne’s,” said Pauline. “But I certainly didn’t hang around and clobber Chef Richards with it.”

  “Neither did I.” I frowned slightly. “Isn’t there a security camera in the kitchen?”

  “No,” said Ben. “I’ve spoken with the police about that. There are cameras in the ballrooms, in the restaurant, and in the hallways, but not in the kitchen.”

  “The killer must have worn gloves,” Mark said to Fiona. “Did you notice any of the students wearing gloves?”

  She shook her head. “Some of us prefer gloves all the time, and some of us don’t. I wear gloves, even when I’m not working with something particularly messy, because I feel it’s more hygienic. But I don’t typically notice who is and who isn’t wearing them.” She sat back down. “Just wearing gloves doesn’t make the killer one of the Australian string work students, though. . . . It doesn’t even make him—or her—a cake decorator. Anyone could’ve put on a pair of latex gloves from the box in the kitchen before killing Jordan.” Her eyes narrowed. “Are you positive Lily Richards didn’t arrive in Brea Ridge until last night?”

  “No,” said Mark. “I’m simply going on what I was told. But you can bet I’ll look into it.”

  17

  AFTER TALKING with Fiona, Ben and Mark decided to follow up on Lily Richards’s story that she’d arrived in town the night before. Myra, Pauline, and I returned to the cake show.

  “What do you think?” Pauline asked Myra and me. “Do you think Lily Richards killed her husband?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think she did. I’m inclined to agree with her that it’s more logical that a man did it. Chef Richards was no spring chicken, but he was fairly stout.”

  “Still, if the woman knocked him out first with the blow to the head, drowning him would’ve been a piece of cake.” Myra grinned. “Get it? Piece of cake?”

  “We get it,” I said. “Fiona sure doesn’t like Ms. Richards. I wonder what Chef Richards said about his former wife to make Fiona despise her so much.”

  “Chef Richards was Fiona’s mentor. Sometimes that alone encourages blind devotion.” Pauline shrugged. “Oh, well, I’m off to check on my cake. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  I was watching the door. It was nearing time for Alex to give his demonstration, and I hadn’t seen Violet and her family at the inn yet. Myra told me that she was going to snoop around a little and that she’d see me at Alex’s demonstration.

  I took a seat on a riser where I could get a better view of the ballroom entrance, and at last I spotted Jason’s red hair threading through the sea of heads. I stood and waved both arms.

  “Jason! Over here!”

  He looked up at the sound of his name, but he didn’t see me. Before I could try again, China York climbed the steps to greet me.

  “Hi, China,” I said. “Could you help me get Jason’s attention? Lucas and Leslie are supposed to help Alex with his cake decorating demonstration, and it’s almost time for him to begin.”

  “Sure,” she said. “I just want to tell you something first. Antoine de Saint-Exupéry said: Life has taught us that love does not consist in gazing at each other but in looking outward together in the same direction.”

  “Um . . . okay.” China often philosophized in such a way that I had no idea what she was talking about.

  “And there’s a Latin proverb that says: A man is not where he lives, but where he loves. Think about it, dear. Are you and Ben looking in the same direction? If so, the only thing that matters is where your hearts are at.” Before giving me a chance to respond, China said, “I’ll go tell Jason and Violet where you are and that you’re waiting for them.”

  “Thanks,” I said to her retreating back, watching her pigtails bob like a young girl’s as she tromped down the stairs.

  By the time Violet, Jason, Leslie, and Lucas got to the risers, I’d already climbed down so I could go with them to meet with Alex. After hugging me, Leslie and the two guys hurried on ahead of Violet and me.

  “Did China pass along any philosophical words of wisdom to you today?” I asked.

  “No . . . but then I don’t know her as well as you do,” said Vi. “What wisdom is she imparting unto you?” She waved her hands around in a gesture that was meant, I’m sure, to look mystical.

  “I guess I’d better start at the beginning, or else you’d be totally in the dark. Ben is considering taking a job in Kentucky,” I said.

  “What? You’ve got to be kidding!”

  “I’m not.” I took a deep breath. “And the worst part is that it’s with his old college girlfriend.”

  Her eyes widened. “Nickie?”

  “You know about Nickie?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “Brea Ridge is a small town.”

  “China seems to think—if I understood her message—that if Ben loves me, it doesn’t matter where he’s at,” I said.

  “True . . . but if I were you, I’d keep him as far away from Nickie as possible.”

  Great. Vi seemed to think that if Ben went to Kentucky, I was as good as dumped. Did she see something I didn’t? Could she tell that Ben wasn’t that crazy about me? Or did she know how much in love he had been—and maybe still was—with Nickie Zane?

  I was now eager to change the subject. “Chef Richards’s ex-wife Lily is here. She apparently came in to identify his body last night and then came to the cake show this morning looking for answers.”

  “I hope she gets some,” Vi said.

  “So do I. Even if Ben doesn’t go off to Kentucky, I might be going to the slammer if a more viable suspect doesn’t turn up.”

  “Have you told Mom and Dad about this mess with Chef Richards?” she asked.

  “No . . . and don’t you,” I said. “I’m innocent, so I’m sure to be exonerated . . . right?”

  She inclined her head. “On the off chance you’ve never seen an episode of Dateline, I’ll say yes.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Big help, sis.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m just worried about you, and I think Mom and Dad should know,” she said. “What if you end up getting arrested, and they see it on the news before you can break it to them gently? What if Mom has another heart attack?”

  I rolled my eyes. “One, if Mom ever has another heart attack, it will most assuredly be my fault somehow. Two, if I do get arrested, it’s unlikely it would make the news two hours away from here right off the bat. But in case it might, you can call and break it to them gently.”

  I wasn’t as close to Mom as Violet was. I was close to Dad, but my relationship with Mom had never been great and it had soured even more after Todd tried to kill me. Mom had defended him—said it was an accident, that Todd hadn’t meant to do it, that I know how I can be. . . . It still made me angry just to think about it. She hadn’t wanted me to divorce Todd. She’d wanted me to give him another chan
ce. I preferred not to give him or his gun a second chance.

  Before Violet and I could talk anymore about Mom or Todd or Ben, Leslie came running back to see what was keeping us.

  “Gosh, guys, hurry up!” she said.

  “Sorry,” I told her. “We’re old.”

  “I know,” she said. “But still, you don’t have to go that slow.”

  “I know?” I repeated incredulously. “I know?”

  “I’m kidding. You’re not that old.” Leslie giggled. “So, Aunt Daph, are you nervous about the awards ceremony? I am.”

  “So am I,” I said. “Did your mom tell you about Alex’s demo?”

  “She did. She said he wants Lucas and me to be there with him, right?”

  I nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Are you up to that, Les?” Violet asked.

  “Of course. I might be a little bit nervous standing up there in front of everybody, but I’ll do it for Alex,” she said.

  By that time, we’d caught up to Jason and Lucas, who were waiting for Alex in the demonstration area.

  Lucas, who’d overheard Leslie’s last comment, said, “I’m not nervous at all. I’m a natural born showman. All my teachers say so.”

  “Yeah, and I’m worried you’re going to find yourself in natural born detention because of it one of these days,” Violet said.

  “Aw, he’ll be fine,” said Jason. “I was a rowdy youth, and I turned out all right.” He winked at Lucas.

  “ ‘A rowdy youth’?” Lucas scoffed. “Who are you, Dad, Ward Cleaver?”

  At my surprised expression, Violet told me that the kids had been watching Leave It to Beaver and some of the other “oldies” on TV Land.

  “Thank goodness,” I said. “I thought we’d entered a time warp.”

  “Or a parallel universe,” Lucas said. “That’d be fun.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’ve heard those are a blast.”

  “Oh, good,” said Violet. “Here they come.”

  I turned to see Molly, Chris, and Alex making their way quickly toward us. Leslie and Lucas raced to meet them.

  “Are you excited?” Leslie asked.