Dead Pan

by Gayle Trent

  “They don’t. But I’ve got reservations about your opening that envelope. I would like to go to dinner sometime this evening.”

  “Okay. It can wait.”

  “Thank you. By the way, you look incredible.”

  “Thanks. You clean up well yourself.”

  He looked fantastic. He was wearing a white shirt, khakis and a navy sport coat. He sort of looked like a newscaster . . . a really handsome newscaster. I’d tune in.

  As we walked into the restaurant, I felt happy. I was optimistic we were going to have a delightful evening. That feeling lasted until after the waitress had brought our drinks and taken our meal orders. It was when she was walking away that my warm fuzzy feelings dissipated. That’s when I looked up and spotted Cara Logan and a man who could be none other than John Holloway approaching our table.

  Chapter Seven

  “What--?” Ben didn’t have the chance to finish his question.

  “Hi!” Cara smiled broadly. “John, I’d like you to meet Daphne Martin. Or have you two met already?”

  “No, I haven’t had the pleasure.” Dr. Holloway, a short, thin man with a round face and round glasses, shook my hand.

  “Oh. I thought you might’ve met Daphne since she catered your holiday party,” Cara said.

  “No, darling. Dr. Broadstreet handled the planning of that event.”

  “Besides,” I said, “I was only responsible for the cake.”

  Cara turned to Ben and squeezed his hand. “John, I do believe you’ve met Brea Ridge’s local newspaper reporter. I didn’t know he and Daphne were an item, though.” She wagged her finger at me as if I’d been a naughty girl.

  “Yes, I’ve met Mr. Jacobs,” Dr. Holloway said. “Good to see you again.”

  Ben nodded. His jaw muscles were clenching, cluing me—and, unless Cara and Dr. Holloway were only semi-conscious, them—that he was grinding his teeth.

  Obviously, Cara was indeed only semi-conscious because the next words out of her mouth were, “Mind if we join you?”

  I did not utter a sound. I simply sat and looked at Ben.

  “Darling, I think perhaps we’re intruding,” Dr. Holloway said.

  “Aw, come on,” Cara said, swishing her hair off her shoulders. “You’re not still miffed at me for my intrusion earlier today, are you, Benny?”

  “Intrusion?” Dr. Holloway asked.

  “Yes. It appears Benny here thought I was trying to steal his story this morning,” Cara said. “I tried to explain he and I are working different angles and venues, but I don’t think I ever quite persuaded him.”

  Ben finally turned his glare upon Cara. “Trying to photograph a grief-stricken mother at her son’s funeral is reprehensible, no matter what angle or for what venue you’re working, Ms. Logan.”

  “Cara?” Dr. Holloway looked to his companion for an explanation.

  “Oh, John, I wasn’t hiding in the bushes or anything. I merely thought my readers would appreciate a visual to help them understand the community’s sense of loss over this young man’s death.”

  Dr. Holloway nodded as if that made perfect sense. And, of course, the way Cara was spinning it, it almost did.

  “But what about Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals?” I asked. “Won’t reader sympathy toward Fred and his family reflect badly on them . . . make the company and its doctors out to be villains?”

  “Excellent point,” Cara said. “Here’s why it won’t. Mr. Duncan was a medical anomaly. For some reason, the drug that practically saved the lives of numerous others failed to be effective in this one isolated case.” She smiled and wrapped her arms around John. “That’s the medical mystery my article will solve. And, as for the BRP doctors, they’re heroes . . . particularly John.”

  Dr. Holloway blushed and gave Cara an “aw-shucks-golly-gee” look.

  “Excuse me.” Ben got up and made a beeline for the restroom.

  I smiled stiffly at Cara and Dr. Holloway. I realized the polite thing for me to do would be to invite them to sit down, but I was afraid that doing so might make Ben’s head explode.

  “Daphne, it was a pleasure meeting you, but I believe Cara and I should hail that hostess and get a table before the restaurant becomes too crowded.”

  I smiled. “Of course. It was nice to meet you, too, Dr. Holloway.”

  “Say our goodbyes to Benny for us, won’t you?” Cara asked.

  “I will.”

  Benny. Ben had always hated being called that. Benjamin was acceptable. He’d even answered to BJ for awhile in high school. But never “Benny.” Cara seemed to be a pro at pushing people’s buttons.

  They departed and easily located the hostess. She was at the front of the restaurant at her usual post.

  As she was leading Cara and Dr. Holloway to an available table, Cara turned and waved to me over her shoulder. I was saved from returning the gesture by the waitress bringing our food.

  Ben returned, said he wasn’t feeling well and asked if we could get our food put in to-go boxes and leave. Naturally, I said yes. He signaled the waitress and asked for the check and the boxes.

  Within minutes, Ben was dropping me of at my house. I asked if he’d like to come in.

  “I can reheat our meals, and we can eat in the kitchen . . . just the two of us,” I said. “I’ll even light a candle.”

  “No, thanks, Daphne. I really do need to go on home.”

  “Okay. I hope you get to feeling better.” I was thinking that maybe if he didn’t get to feeling better, Dr. Holloway might have something that would fix him right up; but I knew way better than to express that thought. As things now stood, I didn’t know if Ben was genuinely ill or if he was merely angry with me. For what, I couldn’t fathom . . . unless it was the simple fact I had the audacity to be acquainted with Cara Logan.

  With my to-go box in one hand, my key in the other and my black velvet wristlet hanging from my arm, I made my way to my side door. It’s the one just off the driveway which opens into the kitchen, and it’s the one I use most often.

  As I put the key in the lock, I heard Sparrow meow. Even though she had food in her bowl, the smell of my dinner had drawn her out. She brushed against my leg.

  I opened the door and turned on the kitchen light. “Come on, Sparrow. Let’s go in.” I stepped into the kitchen and held the door open. “Come on.”

  I stiffened in anticipation as she cautiously but daintily eased up onto the step to peer into the kitchen. She looked up at me and back to the interior of the kitchen. She put one white-tipped paw into the kitchen before turning and leaping off the step.

  Since she’d made such a valiant effort, I opened my to-go box, tore off a piece of my chicken breast and put it in Shadow’s bowl. She certainly didn’t hesitate before pouncing on that.

  I transferred my food to a plate and heated it in the microwave. While the food was heating, I went into the bedroom and changed into my pajamas.

  I returned to the kitchen, removed my plate from the microwave and placed it on the kitchen table. I poured myself half a glass of white wine and even lit a couple votive candles. I didn’t need Ben to have ambience and enjoy my unevenly reheated meal.

  I got a napkin, knife and fork; and, while I was at it, I snagged the envelope Ben had brought earlier. Before I sat down, I put on a classical music CD to play softly. Did I mention I was determined to have some stupid ambience?

  I sat down, took a sip of my wine and tasted the chicken. It wasn’t bad. It would probably have been much tastier when it was first served, but even being cold and reheated hadn’t ruined it.

  I removed the articles from the envelope.

  At approximately five-thirty yesterday afternoon, a two-car accident on Fox Hollow Road left nineteen-year-old Fred Duncan in serious condition. Mr. Duncan swerved to miss a car that had crossed over into his lane. He then struck a utility pole.

  An eyewitness had seen a car weaving from lane to lane on Fox Hollow Road mere minutes prior to the accident and had phoned the police. The
eyewitness, Donald Harper of 301 Fox Hollow Road, had arrived at his home and exited his vehicle when he heard the crash. Harper, a certified paramedic, had his wife call 9-1-1 as he raced to the scene. Prior to the arrival of police and ambulance personnel, Harper administered first aid to the victim.

  Neither Harper nor Duncan was able to get the other driver’s license tag number. The vehicle has been described as a black, four-door BMW sedan. Police are seeking the driver, who fled the scene. Anyone with information regarding this case is asked to please contact the Brea Ridge Police Department.

  The second article featured an interview with Fred and a follow-up on his condition. First there was a recap of the accident and another plea for anyone with information to come forward.

  When asked what he recalls about the accident, Fred Duncan responds, “Not much. I was running an errand for Mr. Franklin, my boss at the Save-A-Buck. All of a sudden, I saw a black car coming right at me. I jerked the wheel to the right. I don’t remember anything after that.”

  Mr. Duncan remains in guarded condition at Brea Ridge Memorial Hospital with a head injury.

  Harper. Donald Harper. I’d look up his phone number tomorrow. While I was at it, I made a mental note to ask Mr. Franklin what kind of errand Fred was running when he had the accident.

  I finished eating and blew out my candles. I refrained from making a wish. I was stuffed, but I still managed to straighten the kitchen up before going into the living room to relax. I opened the armoire and got the TV remote. I stretched out on the sofa and cuddled up in a plush blanket as I began to channel surf.

  The phone rang, and I muted the television before answering. I didn’t go into the “Daphne’s Delectable Cakes” spiel because most of my cake customers call during the day.

  “Hello, Ms. Martin. This is Carol Duncan. Fran wants to help you cater Mrs. Fremont’s party, and I’m willing to help out, too.”

  Was this the same Carol Duncan who’d had breakfast here Friday morning? The same Carol Duncan who’d shot laser beams out her eyes at me the entire time she was here?

  I took so long to respond, she thought I’d hung up.

  “Ms. Martin?” she asked.

  “Um . . . yes, Mrs. Duncan, I’m still here. But I’m afraid I can’t afford to pay very much for this catering help. That’s why I was hoping to hire a high school student. You know, I could pay a nominal fee, and the student could gain knowledge of baking and catering, get some work experience and have an employment reference later on.”

  “Oh, I understand your position, but I’ll work for free.”

  “I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that,” I said.

  “Nonsense. I know my way around a kitchen right well. I believe I could be a valuable asset to you in making sure this party is successful.”

  “I’m sure you could, Mrs. Duncan, but I honestly can’t afford to pay you.”

  “I’ve already told you I’d do it for nothing.”

  “But why would you do that? It’s a lot of work.”

  “B-because.” Mrs. Duncan cleared her throat. “Because I’ve always wanted to see inside that big house.”

  *

  I got up at around seven o’clock the next morning, had a cup of coffee and a biscotti (I really need to lay off those things, but they are so good), and got dressed. Myra had called last night after I’d hung up from talking with Carol Duncan. She’d learned at Tanya’s Tress Tamers that there was, in fact, a medical research facility in Haysi. So, going on what we knew—that there was a medical research facility and a great little fabric shop in Haysi—we decided a road trip was in order to determine why Fred might have been going there so often. From what I could see of his room, he wasn’t big into sewing.

  I put on jeans, a white mock turtleneck, a green wool blazer and a pair of black ankle boots. Should the car break down, I didn’t want to be underdressed for a trek in the country near “the Grand Canyon of the South,” which is also known as Breaks Interstate Park. It’s a beautiful place but, man, is it rugged. At least, it looked rugged in the pictures I’d seen. And I don’t do rugged terribly well . . . especially in the winter. In fact, I was packing a blanket and some granola bars into the back of the Mini Cooper when Myra arrived.

  “We are coming back today, aren’t we?” she asked.

  “Yes. This is just in case something happens.”

  She looked into the back of the car and cocked her head. “Like what? A rock slide?”

  “I hadn’t even considered a rock slide. You don’t suppose . . . ?”

  “No, I don’t,” she said. “Sorry I mentioned it. Everything will be fine. Even if there was a rock slide—which there won’t be—surely someone would find us before we could eat twenty-four granola bars. Don’t you think?”

  “Myra, ‘better safe than sorry’ is a cliché, but it’s a cliché for a reason.”

  She nodded. “Yeah. I think I’ve heard you say that a time or two before.” She smiled. “Are we all set then?”

  “I just need to feed the cat before we go.”

  I stepped back into the kitchen and got the bag of dry cat food. I filled Sparrow’s bowl and then set an additional butter bowl full of food on the porch, too.

  Myra arched a brow. “In case we don’t get back?”

  “Exactly. Violet’s first thought might not be to check on the cat.”

  “Good thinking. Well, since you’ve got all the bases covered, shall we go? Do I need to sign a waiver or something first?”

  I pressed my lips together. “You think I’m neurotic, don’t you?”

  “Only in a good way.” She patted my arm. “I think it’s nice that you’re so thoughtful and cautious. Martha Stewart would be proud.”

  We got into the car, and I backed out of the driveway. “Since the drive there is a little over an hour, I found us an abridged book on tape to listen to,” I said. It’s an Agatha Christie mystery.”

  “See? You do think of everything. However, I’d like to chat awhile first, especially since I’m not sure I want to have thoughts of being buried at the Breaks with John Swift’s silver running through my head if we do, in fact, encounter a rock slide.”

  “John Swift’s silver? You mean, Jonathan Swift, the writer?”

  “No, I don’t mean Jonathan Swift, the writer. I mean John Swift, the ship captain.” Myra settled back in her seat, and her voice took on that once-upon-a-time timbre favored by storytellers the world over.

  “Legend has it,” Myra said, “that John Swift left the sea for a life of trading among the Cherokee. Sometime after the French and Indian war, old Johnny met up with a man by the name of George Munday. Now Munday was a Frenchman taken prisoner during the war, and he spoke the languages of several Indian tribes. Munday told our Johnny about a rich silver vein in the wilderness.”

  “The wilderness?”

  “Have you ever seen Breaks Interstate Park?” she asked.

  “Only in pictures.”

  “It’s pretty wild. Back to my story. This Munday fellow told John Swift that he and his family were mining the silver when a band of Shawnee attacked and killed Munday’s father and brothers. I reckon because he could speak their language, they kept Munday and made him a slave to work in their silver mines in Kentucky.

  “Munday talked John into going back with him to find the mine. The legend speaks of a journal John kept recording all their adventures. They found the silver and mined it for years. Then the American Revolution broke out, and the British put poor, old John in prison. By the time he got out, he was old and blind and didn’t know where the silver was anymore.”

  “So why is his treasure believed to be at Breaks Interstate Park?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. It’s as good a place as any, I reckon.”

  “Well, that was a let down.”

  “Want me to make something up?”

  “Yes, especially since you won’t let me listen to my book.”

  “Fine. You know about Paul Revere and that bunch in Boston
that had a lookout for the British? Well, they weren’t the only ones. Minutemen everywhere were at the ready. Since John was English but had American sympathies, he figured that wouldn’t go over well with the British army. So, he began to grab up bags of silver in hopes of hiding it and laying low until after the war. See, he’d met himself a little woman, and they’d built a little cabin, and they were all fixed up to get married and live a little-house-on-the-prairie life.

  “Well, wouldn’t you know it, John made one too many trips to the mines after bags of silver. He got caught. The British confiscated that last bag of silver and threw poor John in prison. His little woman tried to visit, but he sent her away.”

  Myra placed a hand on her chest. “‘Go away from me, my dear Mary,’ he told her. ‘You must not see me like this. Live in our little cabin, and I will come to you anon . . . after these red coats let me out of prison.’”

  “Anon?” I asked.

  “Yes, anon. Would you let me tell my blasted story?”

  “Yes. Please continue.”

  “But the British didn’t release John until he was old and blind and pitiful. And poor Mary was even more pitiful because she’d had to keep up the little log cabin and forage for food and wash her clothes in the creek and all that jazz without her man or any electricity. She probably even had to chop wood, for goodness sake! The end.”

  “The end? Didn’t John ever make his way back to her?”

  “No, he was blind and didn’t have directions. Besides, she had all she could handle taking care of the wood chopping and cleaning and scrounging for food and cooking the food and mending her clothes. She didn’t have time to take care of an old, blind man. Give her a break already.” She thought a second. “And that’s why they call it the Breaks Interstate Park. There. Now the end.”

  “You still didn’t tell me why people think the money is buried there.”

  She sighed. “Because that’s where Mary’s cabin was. Happy?”

  “No. If all the silver was there, wouldn’t she have known it and used it to have a better life?”

  “Good grief. Is there no pleasing you? First, she was waiting for John to come back. By the time she realized he wasn’t coming, she’d forgotten where the silver was. Besides, no amount of money would’ve given her a better life because she couldn’t have used it to buy the stuff that would have made her life better because it had not been invented yet—electricity, dishwasher, washing machine, dryer. I know they try to romanticize all that olden days junk on television, but that’s a lot of hooey. Times were hard. People worked from daylight to dark and probably had callused calluses. No, thanks.”