by Gayle Trent
“Hi, Fran. It’s Daphne. I found Rusty’s feeding schedule in Fred’s notebook.”
“Great. I checked the small freezer in Aunt Connie’s garage, and there are still a few mice in there.”
“Eww,” I said.
She giggled. “You get used to it. When was Rusty’s latest meal?”
“Four days ago.”
“Good. That’ll hold him for about another week and a half.”
“Hey, does the acronym HMRA mean anything to you?”
“Afraid not,” Fran said.
“Oh, well. We’ll figure it out later.”
“Okay. Thanks for calling about Rusty.”
We hung up, and I headed for my office. Before I could get there, though, the doorbell rang.
I went to the living room and opened the door. Myra was standing there in a pink track suit and sneakers.
“Did you get it?” she asked. “Did you get the other remote?”
I grinned. “I got it. Are you ready to rock?”
“I am about to rock. Salute me!”
I laughed as Myra came inside.
“Am I interrupting anything?” she asked.
“No. I was getting ready to try to find an acronym on the computer, but this will be way more fun.”
“What acronym? Maybe I’ll know what it is.”
“It’s HMRA,” I said. “Does it sound familiar?”
“Did you say ‘HMRA’ or ‘AMRA’?”
“‘H’ as in happy. Have you heard of it?”
“I’ve heard of AMRA. That’s Abingdon Medical Research Association. Yodel Watson once went up there and took a round of weight loss drugs. They didn’t work though.” She frowned. “Of course, all those Watsons were always big people, and I reckon it was just their cross to bear that they stay that way. I heard that one time the doctor put one of those belly band things on Yodel’s sister Harmony. They told her to stick to liquids for a few days.”
“How did she do?” I asked.
“Oh, honey. She went straight home and put biscuits and sausage gravy in the blender, and she lived off that stuff and chocolate milkshakes. I heard that when she went back for her first checkup, she’d broke that belly band half in two.”
“Is that even possible?”
Myra shrugged. “I’m only telling you what I heard. Now, are we gonna jam or what?”
“We’re gonna jam,” I said, getting the game set up.
“Good. Who’s your person?”
“I’m Jessie Lax. Who do you want to be?”
“I want you to show me all of them so I can decide.”
In the end, Myra chose über Goth Lizzie Bourdain because “they call her guitar an axe, and it’s fancy.”
Chapter Five
The first thing I did when I got up the next morning was set out the eight cakes I needed to decorate. I put the cakes, the butter cream and the fondant on the island; and then I made myself a bowl of cereal. I felt guilty the entire time I was eating my cereal, though, because I could hear Sparrow on the porch crying for her breakfast.
After eating and putting my bowl and spoon into the dishwasher, I pulled my plush yellow robe embellished with daisy appliqués tighter around myself and braved the cool December morning air with Sparrow’s food. She must’ve been starving because she didn’t run away and wait until she was positive I’d gone inside before returning. This morning, she dug right in with me still standing there beside her. I bent slightly and stroked her head. She didn’t purr, but she didn’t run away either. I smiled to myself as I went inside to shower and dress. Sparrow and I were definitely making progress.
After I’d dressed and had my second cup of coffee, I was ready to face the day. I decided to start with the four birthday cakes. I had some flavored fondant I’d ordered at the Oklahoma Sugar Art Show—fondant has a yearlong shelf life, by the way, when stored in airtight packaging—and I wanted to use the fondant to make some fun birthday cake decorations. I had grape, tutti-frutti, strawberry and white chocolate.
As I formed 3D balloons using the grape, tutti-frutti and strawberry fondant, I found myself thinking about Fred’s funeral. The funeral was taking place at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. I wondered if Mr. Franklin would attend. I wondered if he’d allow his employees to attend. Surely, the man would be decent enough to at least send flowers.
What was his problem anyway? I realized he had issues with Fred, but people generally put their petty differences aside at a time like this. Don’t they?
Mr. Franklin had always struck me as a reasonable, somewhat kind man. Could his gruff demeanor simply be hiding his grief?
I placed the balloons on one of the round cakes and then attached blue-colored string piping. I piped top and bottom borders and then wrote “Happy Birthday” on the cake in green script. One down, seven to go.
For the next birthday cake, I decided to make ribbon roses using the strawberry fondant.
Luckily, I’d remembered to put on my headset because China York called.
“Good morning,” I said. “How are you?”
“I’m fit as a fiddler on the Fourth of July,” she said. “Are you busy?”
“I’m never too busy for you.”
“Good. I want you to make me a Christmas cake.”
“What flavor would you like?”
“Chocolate, I reckon, with vanilla icing.”
“All right. How would you like it decorated?”
“I want either a Bible or a cross. We aim to remember the reason for the season, you know.”
“I can make it a sheet cake with a Bible and a cross on it if you want me to.”
“Nah, I don’t reckon we need to be tacky about it.”
I pressed my lips together to keep from giggling. When I regained my composure, I said, “I have a cake pan in the shape of a cross. What do you think of that?”
“Why, I’d like that fine. Can I get me some purple roses on it? Purple represents royalty, you know.”
“I’ll put a cluster of roses right in the center. Would you like me to write ‘Merry Christmas’ on it?”
“No, I want you to write ‘Happy Birthday’ on it. I always make Jesus a birthday cake; but I figure since you can probably use the work, I’ll let you do it this year.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate that.”
“Can I pick it up on the 24th?”
“If that’s when you want it, that’s when I’ll have it.”
“I’ll pick it up that morning then. So, how’s your investigation into Fred’s murder coming along?”
That one threw me. “Murder?”
“Well, sure. You don’t reckon it was an accident or a coincidence or some other nonsense that all them people got sick at the same time, do you?”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
“Of course, you do. You just ain’t ready to own up to it yet. Well, I’d better go. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Wait,” I said. “Have you heard anything about why Mr. Franklin from the Save-A-Buck is acting so weird about Fred’s death?”
“I’ve not heard anything; but from what I’ve seen, Steve Franklin is acting like a man with a guilty conscience.”
“You don’t think he contaminated the food at the Brea Ridge Christmas party, do you?”
“No, but something about Fred is eating at that man. Maybe it’s because he demoted Fred after Yodel Watson made that stink about the produce department being unorganized a while back.” She clucked her tongue. “I don’t know what it is he’s feeling guilty about, but I know he’s feeling guilty. I’ve seen enough people carrying around that burden to know it when I see it.”
“Huh.”
“I’ll let you get back to work now,” China said, “and I’ll do the same.”
As soon as we hung up, I wrote down her cake order and delivery date.
Could China be right? Was Steve Franklin suffering from guilt over something concerning Fred’s death?
*
A
fter decorating the cakes for Save-A-Buck and placing them in Daphne’s Delectable Cakes boxes, I sat down with a stack of magazines and catalogs to get some ideas for Belinda’s New Year’s Eve party.
Dessert bars are a growing trend. One magazine article stated, “Good options are desserts that are portable and not too sticky so guests can take their desserts, mingle and then return.” The same magazine stated that cupcake towers and petit four towers are also gaining popularity. Some people like to include a monogram or initial on their petit fours.
Belinda Fremont would love white petit-fours with the initial F in gold, I thought. I wrote that suggestion down on my notepad.
The article suggested mini pies and tarts to provide an alternative to cakes and candies. Themed cookies were another suggestion.
I made notes on all of this. I was guessing that—knowing Belinda from her guinea pig Guinevere’s birthday party—she was going to want some of all of the above for both her human guests and her cavies. I went to my office and booted up the computer. Somehow I was afraid organic cookie recipes for guinea pigs might be hard to come by, but you’d be surprised at how quickly I found a recipe for “vegetarian biscuits” for guinea pigs. The author said she developed the recipe by combining a carrot cake recipe with a recipe for scones. Go figure. You really can find anything on the Internet.
*
I was preparing my portfolio to take to Belinda’s house when the phone rang.
“Daphne’s Delectable Cakes,” I answered. “How can I help you have a sweet day?”
“This is so unfair!”
“Fran? Is that you?”
“Yes, and I’m so mad at my mom.”
“Are you driving?” I asked. Teens on the phone while driving are scary enough. Angry teens on the phone while driving make me want to hide under the bed. Dust bunnies notwithstanding.
“No,” she said. “I’m in the parking lot at the mall. I need to find a black dress for tomorrow.”
“Okay, good. Are your doors locked? Because I don’t want some thief catching you unaware and either rob you or jack your car while we’re talking.”
“I’m locking the doors now.”
I heard the click and felt relieved.
“Wow,” Fran continued, “you really take this crime stuff seriously, don’t you?”
“Well, not to sound like your mother, but ‘better safe than sorry’ is a cliché for a reason.”
“Speaking of her, I am so totally mad at her. She says she’s not letting me help you with the investigation into Fred’s death anymore.”
“Really? Did she say why?”
“She thinks you’re a busybody and that you’re only doing this to help your boyfriend score another popular newspaper article.”
“No, really,” I said, “tell me how she truly feels. I can take it.”
“That is how she feels!”
“Fran, I was being sarcastic. It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay! How can she do this to me? This is important to me, and I’m not gonna let her ruin it! She ruins everything!”
“Calm down,” I said. “It’s not that bad.”
“It is totally that bad! She’s never wanted me to be a criminologist, but she cannot stop me from pursuing my dream. She can’t!”
“Would you please hear me out?” I asked softly.
“Yeah, sure. I’m sorry.”
“How would your mom feel about your helping me prepare to cater a party for Belinda Fremont?”
“The Belinda Fremont . . . with the mansion and the award-winning hamsters?”
“Guinea pigs, actually. Satin Peruvian guinea pigs.”
“Are you serious? About the catering, I mean.”
“Yes. I would get the help I desperately need with this party, you would learn something about baking and make a few bucks, and we could—when we have time—compare notes on the investigation.”
“All right.”
“Don’t mention this to your mom yet,” I said. “I’ll ask her permission for you to be my paid assistant—” I affected a haughty accent. “—with regard to the Fremont affair.” I returned to my normal voice. “In the meantime, you go home and make nice with your mom.”
“Got it. You so rock, Daphne.”
We hung up and I picked up my portfolio and headed out the door. The last thing I wanted to do was come between Fran and her mother. But I really did need help with Belinda’s party, and maybe the arrangement would placate Fran and help her feel she was still in the investigation “loop.” I wasn’t even sure I was in the investigation loop—or that I wanted to be—but, at least, Fran would know as much as I did.
It’s bemusing how the name “Belinda Fremont” opens so many doors in Brea Ridge. Of course, when I got to Belinda’s house, I remembered why.
Belinda’s home is modeled after Crane Cottage on Jekyll Island, Georgia. It’s an elegant, white home patterned after an Italian Renaissance villa. Belinda’s house even copies the enclosed courtyard with formal garden surrounded by arcaded loggias.
I pulled up to the gate and pressed the intercom button. “Daphne Martin to see Mrs. Fremont.”
Belinda’s gatekeeper/assistant—whom I’d once mistaken for her husband—replied, “Mrs. Fremont is expecting you, Ms. Martin. Please come on in.”
The gate slowly opened, granting me entrance into the fairytale kingdom. I drove onto the white and terra cotta brick mosaic drive. The last time I was here it was to deliver cakes for Guinevere’s birthday party—one cake for the human guests, and one for the guinea pigs and their guests. You see, Guinevere, Lancelot, Morgan, Arthur, Beatrice and Merlin are the champion Satin Peruvian guinea pigs. They have their own suite on the second floor. I’m hoping they’ll invite me to a sleepover sometime.
I never cease to be impressed by Belinda Fremont’s poise and put-together appearance. Maybe she has what some people call an “old soul,” because even though she’s only about 35, she has the sophistication and polish of someone older. I wish I had that much sophistication, and I’m lucky to get polish on my nails once in awhile.
Unlike my first meeting with Belinda, I didn’t bring cake samples. As I quietly explained to her (it’s nap time for the cavies, you know) when we’d sat down in her Victorian inspired parlor with the uncomfortable Louis Quatorze furniture, I’d prefer to get her ideas for the dessert bar and then bring samples next week so she can see how the flavors will mesh.
“Very good,” she said. “But early next week. How about Tuesday morning at eleven-thirty?”
“That’ll be great.” I penciled the date and time in my notebook.
“So what are my options?” Belinda asked.
“Naturally, there will be a variety of fresh fruits for both the cavies and the humans,” I said, remembering how important Vitamin C is to a cavy’s diet.
“Naturally.”
“I also found a recipe for cavy cookies.”
Belinda clapped her hands. “That’s wonderful! My darlings have never had cookies before.”
“I’ll bring them a sample when I come back on Tuesday so they can decide whether or not they like them. If they’re not happy with them, I’ll modify the recipe.”
Belinda smiled broadly. “Excellent.”
I went on to outline the current trends. I was correct in thinking Belinda would adore white petit-fours with gold Fs on them. She also wanted a mini cake tower and a mini tart tower. As for the cake, she requested a “simple three-tier affair with sparklers in the top.”
I told her I’d be happy to oblige and that I’d ask the fire department to be on standby.
“Oh, Daphne, what a wit you have,” Belinda said with a laugh. “Oh, and I’ll need some things that are sugar free. Richard’s sister is coming, and she’s a diabetic.”
“Would you like the cake to be sugar free?”
She flipped one thin wrist. “One tier, perhaps. Either the top or middle . . . but be sure and let me know which it is. Maureen doesn’t need a great deal of cake.
She’s single again, and Richard is hoping this will help her meet some people.”
“All right,” I said. “Anything else I should know?”
“I think that should do it . . . at least, until we talk again on Tuesday.”
*
I was on my way to the Save-A-Buck to deliver the cakes when my cell phone rang. It was Ben.
“Hi, beautiful,” he said. “Would you like to go with me to Dakota’s tomorrow night?”
“I’d love to.” Dakota’s is the only steakhouse in Brea Ridge. It’s independently owned and, during the summer, the proprietor buys the restaurant’s produce from local farmers. Even now some of the items on the menu—apple butter and peach chutney for the biscuits, for instance—were made and canned locally.
“I thought we’d need a pick-me-up after Fred’s funeral tomorrow,” Ben said.
“Thank you. You’re awfully thoughtful, you know.”
“Oh, I know.” He chuckled.
“By the way,” I said, “could you look in your archive room and make me a copy of any articles mentioning Fred’s car accident?”
“Why do you want that?”
“Just curious. Fran was telling me about the accident, and I’d like to see a more timely account.”
“I probably wrote the articles myself, Daph. What do you want to know?”
“I’d like to read the eyewitness’ testimony, that’s all.”
“All right. I’ll dig it up.”
“Thanks. I’d better go. I’m at the Save-A-Buck.”
“All right. I’ll see you tomorrow at the funeral, and afterwards we’ll finalize our plans for going to Dakota’s.”
We said our goodbyes, and I hurried to enlist the aid of two baggers who’d come outside to return carts to the store. With their help, I managed to fit all eight cakes into three carts. The young men helped me push them inside before returning to their original task, and I discretely tipped them.
There was no one in Juanita’s line, so she came over and helped me unload the cakes onto a display table near the front of the store.
“How are you?” I asked.
“I’m good. I took some food over to Mrs. Duncan before I came to work this morning.”