"Thanks for the warning," she smiled.
I paged through the glossy photos in the cookbook. There were cakes that looked like circuses, swimming pools, insects, hats, cartoon characters. I started having a case of baking terror. "You know, Aunt Maggie. I could always drive into Houston and buy something and bring it back. They'll never know."
"You'll know."
I sighed.
"You could make a cake out of rubber bands," suggested Zach.
I nodded. "That's original, but not too tasty." I turned the page and spotted the cake labeled "Beginner's Crocodile Cake." How kind of them to have a cake that was supposed to be easy enough for people like me. I grabbed a pen and started writing down the ingredients I would need. Surely I could stir up some green frosting and turn it into something.
CHAPTER TWO
That evening as I checked my email, I had a message from "weatherguy," Leo Fitzpatrick. We had met last October while I had been helping my aunt do her paranormal ghost hunt out at the abandoned tuberculosis hospital on the edge of town. For a while I wasn't sure if I could trust him, especially when he became a suspect in the murder of my ex-husband's partner, Oliver Canfield. He seemed to keep showing up in the wrong place at the wrong time, but in the end he turned out to be a pretty decent guy. It also didn't hurt he was six feet tall and the handsomest man I had met since my husband.
Now I was embarking on the rest of my life, and that included beginning to date. Leo Fitzpatrick was a part of this. Since our finding each other in a pretty dark and scary place, we had spoken on the telephone and emailed, and he had come back to Pecan Bayou a couple of times, staying at the Sinclair Arms, our local hotel. Returning the favor, Zach and I visited him and his nephew, Tyler, in Dallas, and we also stayed at a hotel. Each time we went out it was either with the boys or for a few hours while the boys stayed with a babysitter. Having a long-distance relationship worked for me because even though I really wanted to date again, something kept holding me back.
My time with Barry and the trust he betrayed changed my attitude toward love and marriage. Why couldn't men wear white and black hats to make it easier to tell the good guys from the bad? It would make it so much simpler for all of us in the trenches. I read Fitzpatrick's email.
Dear Betsy,
There is a jazz festival in Dallas next month, and I would love to have you come and visit. Could your dad babysit? Tyler will be at a weekend grief support camp for children who have lost a parent. I miss her too, but they don't have one of those for brothers.
Fitz
I was touched by his honesty. Tyler was a sperm-donor baby, so when his sister took her own life, Leo stepped up to be a combination uncle and father to her son. Reading through his message, I could surmise that he wanted to spend the weekend with me and that he wanted our get-together to be without either his son or mine. Up until this time, the physical side of our relationship had been pretty close to platonic. Taking the boys out of the equation changed things. As long as it felt like we were on a "playdate," I felt perfectly safe. If Fitzpatrick even tried to come near me, Zach would squeeze in between us with some sort of need. Without my fifty-pound protector there, things would be different, and I felt a mixture of terror and delight over the thought of it.
Maybe I could just drive over for the day and make my exit before nightfall. I could make something up, like I have to teach Sunday School or help with a science project that was due on Monday. I tapped my fingers on the keyboard for a moment and then hit reply.
Dear Leo,
Sounds great, but let me check my schedule.
Betsy
That was easy. I didn't say no, but I didn't exactly rush into his arms – and oh how nice that would be. I just needed a little more time to think this out. According to his email, I had several weeks. I had to admit it was time to make some changes in my life, but I also needed to make sure they were changes that would be good for me and Zach. After Barry, I wasn't sure about my own judgment of men, but also having a man like my father in my life, I knew they weren't all bad. Some of them were downright pleasant to be around.
On Sunday afternoon I decided to tackle my first attempt at the crocodile cake. I propped the cookbook open on the counter and looked at an adorable picture of a little bitty crocodile in a bed of raffia straw. It would be so simple. I would bake a couple of cakes in Bundt cake pans. From there I would cut the Bundt cake in three equal pieces and then take one of those pieces and cut it in half sideways. Then I would arrange the three equal pieces to look kind of like a snake. Then take one of the cut halves and make the tail and take the other and cut it into four pieces to make the feet. So easy. It was kind of like sewing with food.
I measured, stirred and poured a box of chocolate cake mix into my Bundt pan and put it into the oven. I needed malted milk balls, a large marshmallow, gummy spearmint leaves, green gumdrops and white yogurt-covered pretzels. The marshmallow, cut in half, would be the eyes, with malted milk balls for the pupils. The spearmint leaves went on his feet for claws, and green gumdrops went on his back for whatever those bump things are on dragons. The yogurt-covered pretzels would be stuck in the head section along where the mouth would be, to look like teeth. For his slimy scaly skin, I would tint some white icing green. I had some multicolored fruit snacks that I could substitute for gumdrops and some real pretzels to make the teeth on my practice crocodile.
As I scoured the cabinets for malted milk balls, Zach came running in with his book of world records. His small frame was swallowed up by a Houston Astros T-shirt he got when my dad took him to an Astros game last year. Zach had been struggling with Little League, and my dad thought it would be a good idea for him to see what baseball was like on a professional level. Zach took it all in, including the overpriced souvenir stand.
"Hey Mom, how long would you say I could go without sleeping?"
"Well, when you were a baby I think you might have been working on that world record." I closed one cupboard door and opened another, still in search. He stood still, waiting for my attention. "Okay, what's the record?" I asked.
"I don't know. It's not in here anywhere. Why is that?" he asked.
"Maybe because if you go without sleep, you die. It's not healthy." I took down the baking powder, now looking to see if the malted milk balls were in the back of the cabinet.
"How do you know that?" he said, looking at me as if I might be making this stuff up.
"I just do. You're a growing boy, and you need all the sleep you can get. What's another record you could break?"
He sat down at the kitchen table and leafed through the pages. "Uh, I could stack the most Legos. Umm, it looks like this guy stacked twenty-one Legos in fifteen seconds."
My hand landed on a crunchy cellophane bag. I had found them at last. The malted milk balls had probably been up there since last Christmas, but they would work for a practice cake. If I hadn't found them I was going to have to use salad olives instead. This would be much more pleasing to the palate.
"That sounds pretty good, Zach. Why don't you go practice?"
He slammed the book shut with a loud pop and ran out of the room again. Life is pretty exciting when you go from adventure to adventure, I thought. The buzzer on the stove went off, and I busied myself preparing the cake to transform into a crocodile. I carefully cut each piece as per the instructions and then angled them just so to make the little crocodile's body. I felt pretty good as I put the frosting over the S-shaped cake. I started sticking the gummy fruit snacks on the back when all of a sudden the cake split. There was a noticeable crack where the sections should have met. Chocolate brown came gaping up between the green icing, making it look like some sort of ghastly roadkill. This would never do. I tried sticking a little icing in between, but still the cracks appeared. How could I make it look like a cute little crocodile when it was starting to look like it had been run over by a pickup truck? I tried attaching toothpicks to it, but by the end of my handling, the delicate cake looked like a
sad pile of sod. I had finally made something worse than the smiley face cake. An exploding brown worm.
I looked at my now icing-spattered cake cookbook. There were cakes in there that would bring Rachael Ray to tears. There had to be cake design tips that the Happy Hinter needed to add to her portfolio. I knew just who to ask about this, and that was my friend Pattie at PattieCake's Bakery. If anyone could make a crocodile cake, it was Pattie. If anyone could make a cake stick together, it was also Pattie.
CHAPTER THREE
The next day, with my slightly sticky cookbook under my arm, I entered the shop on Main Street with the pink-striped canopy. PattieCake's had been in business for about five years, and during that time I had seen the number of patrons gradually increase year by year. Today, as I walked in, there was a line of people at the counter taking home boxes of cupcakes, donuts, brownies and all those things diet doctors warn against. The smell of fresh yeasty dough, melted butter and that rich aroma of something sweet coming out of the oven hit me and washed over my senses like a warm blanket.
I could see Pattie up at the counter, her long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore a pink-striped apron covered with splotches of flour and a little bit of blue icing near the midsection. Pattie wasn't overweight, but she wasn't skinny either. I don't know if I would feel comfortable visiting a bakery with a rail-thin baker.
She was in her early thirties and had been a year ahead of me in school. For as long as I could remember, she had been baking. Her mom was a cafeteria lady at our elementary school, and that was probably where Pattie started with her culinary artistry. Her father had been in and out of trouble for years and still lived in a trailer outside of town. Pattie worked during the day and lived with her retired mother. After years of working in a kitchen, her mom had no interest in more long days on her feet.
The bakery that had formerly been named Shorty's Donuts was put up for sale by Shorty's children when he passed away. They wanted to sell the business fast, and Pattie mortgaged her mother's house to qualify for the loan. With that much at stake, Pattie proved to be a savvy businesswoman. She went to the junior college in Andersonville to learn about running an efficient and successful enterprise and brought what she learned home to the bakery.
Between her father's troubles and looking after her mother, Pattie hadn't had much time for a man in her life. She dated a few guys off and on, but none of them worked out. Pattie hadn't ever been a part of the popular crowd in school, probably because her mother was that nice lady in a hairnet scooping mashed potatoes in the cafeteria. She had been taller than most of the girls growing up. My friendship with Pattie started after high school as we both struggled with the men in our lives. I really liked her. And even though we were only acquaintances in school, she had always been nice to me. Pattie was one of those people that no matter what life threw at her, she would face it and move on.
Pattie flashed her friendly smile my way as she bagged up a bear claw. In spite of the crowd drooling at her counter, she still knew I was here. I so hoped she would have some time to help me with my crocodile cake. I looked at the line. There were only two people in front of me now.
I realized I was standing behind our town librarian, Martha Hoffman. Martha was in her forties and was wearing a navy blue blazer that covered her ample behind over a navy floral skirt and flat, efficient shoes. Next to her was Vanessa Markham, the other blogger from the paper. She was beautiful in a way that was a bit different from the standard appearances of the women in Pecan Bayou. Her blonde hair had multiple golden tones streaked into it, and today over her slim frame she wore an outfit consisting of a tan cotton blouse, tan pants and tan three-inch heels. She accented the tan combination with a large gold chain necklace, gold earrings and sunglasses that I could pretty well bet hadn't been bought at the corner drug store.
She was stunning, at least when it came to appearances. Rocky had me proofread her column one time. She had written that the new Gucci bag was ideal and that wearing it to any occasion would make you ideal for any occasion. Until then I had no idea Rocky had been cleaning up her weekly contribution to the paper.
"Her writing style is the worst product of the public school system I have ever seen," Rocky said to me that day. "But the content she turns out is right on target for women's fashion. This is the kind of stuff I could never write." The final product was very popular among the Pecan Bayou readers. Having our very own fashion guru was pretty big-city for our little town.
Vanessa Markham was pointing to a tray of loaded German chocolate cupcakes that Pattie quickly scooped into a pink-striped box and topped them with wax paper. The librarian pointed to a tray of Napoleons for her box.
Martha held her rounded hands together in front of her. "So, Pattie, I know I can count on you to come to my Authors Night. You're such a genius with baking. I know I can't go but a few days without coming back here for more of your delicious goodies. Your new cookbook will be a great addition to our evening. Please consider being a part of it. Vanessa here is going to talk about her incredible chick-lit book. Her book got picked up by the Houston Stars publishing company, and distribution is about to expand outside of Texas."
Vanessa Markham broke off a piece of Napoleon that Martha offered her, using her red-lacquered fingernail to slide it between her lips. "Yes, I'm very excited. Of course my pen name is Vanessa Scarlett. Doesn't that sound so much more exciting than Markham? Well, that and Peter is already an established writer, so I went with Scarlett."
Pattie smiled softly. "I'm so flattered you would even ask me. We just printed out our cookbook to sell here at the store. I'm not exactly published, you know."
Martha Hoffman held her pink-striped box to the blazer covering her ample bosom. "Yes, we know, but you have to admit you have something here." She waved her hand across the packed display case of baked goods.
"Well, thank you," said Pattie. She glanced over in my direction, and then what came close to an evil smile came across her face. "But as long as you are scouting out authors, we have another standing right here with us."
"Who's that?" Martha said, pushing her glasses up with her free hand and glancing around the bakery.
"Why, Betsy here. Her book has actually been published by a real publisher."
"Betsy?" Both women turned around and focused their eyes on me. I waved meekly, still holding on to my sticky cookbook.
"Hi," I said. "I'm Betsy Livingston."
"Hello," said the little librarian. "You've written a book?"
"It was published a couple of years ago. It's a helpful hints book. I write the Happy Hinter column in the newspaper."
Vanessa Markham uttered a gasp in recognition of me. "Oh yes! We haven't formally met. You're the other blogger at the paper."
"Right." I nodded.
"And what's your book called?" Martha asked, shaking her head as if I was just another child trying to check out books without a library card.
"The Happy Hinter, same name as the column," I answered, almost apologizing for the lack of creativity in titling my book.
"I don't recall us having anything by that name at the library," Martha Hoffman stated, as if I was probably mistaken about being published because it didn't exist on her shelves.
"Probably not. It was published by a small press. I've only sold about 500 copies so far. Really, I'm sure your evening is already full, so you don't need to add me to your author list."
Pattie scowled. "Betsy, you have a great book, and if I deserve to be there, then so do you. Isn't that so, Martha?"
Martha bit her lower lip as if she had just been outmaneuvered in a chess game.
"Yes, I suppose we could add her to the end of the program. I'm sure your presentation would be fairly short, Miss Linson."
"It's Livingston," I corrected her.
"Martha, that's the deal then. I don't speak unless Betsy gets to speak, too."
Martha looked at her watch. "I have to get back. Well, I guess I'll get two for one today," she
said, trying to sound cheerful about her new speaker but not really making it work. The two ladies both rushed a goodbye and headed out the door.
"First thing," I said to Pattie. "I need a box of donuts for the Pecan Bayou Police Department."
Overdue for Murder (Pecan Bayou) Page 2
