Dead Pan

by Gayle Trent

  Most of the houses on this road had obviously been around for years. While some had updates, I could tell they had been constructed back in the late sixties or early seventies and, judging by their continuity, by the same developer. They were single-story ranch style houses. I could even tell when more of the land was sold to make way for new houses later on. These houses were split-level homes and duplexes. A couple of the duplexes had been modified to become one home, but I could see where there had once been two units to the houses.

  Then I rounded a curve and saw the McMansion. Oh, no, that hadn’t been there for thirty or forty years. It looked like somewhere a doctor might live. Dark red brick went on for what seemed like miles in both directions. There was no porch—no one living in this home had time to relax. Three super-sized windows with rounded tops dominated the second floor of the house, and an enormous chandelier was visible even from the road. The first floor had a white door encased by narrow windows and a couple picture windows whose interior views were concealed by shades. A BMW sat in the driveway. A black BMW sedan.

  Anyone with any sense would have turned around—preferably in someone else’s driveway—and gone home. I plead a stress-induced insanity with a possible blackout situation; because the next thing, I knew, I was parked in the McDriveway.

  There was time to back out, I know, but see the above insanity/blackout defense. Because, once again, the next thing I knew, I was ringing—you guessed it—the McDoorbell.

  Dr. Holloway came to the door. His hair was messed up and his glasses were a tad askew. I was interrupting something. Probably making out, but who knows? Cara might have been trying to McMurder him. I was having serious suspicions about her.

  “Hello, Daphne. What are you doing here?”

  I smiled; but it was so fake it made my face hurt, so I quit. So what now? Do I try to sell the doctor a cake? Do I tell him I’m looking for Cara? Say I’m investigating Fred Duncan’s accident which happened over a year ago and is no longer relevant anyway because the young man is dead? Once again, see insanity/blackout defense. “Dr. Holloway, I think Cara is responsible for the people at your party getting sick.”

  “What?” he asked.

  “Who’s there?” Cara asked, coming to the door carrying a glass of wine. “Daphne? I thought that was your voice I heard. What’s going on? Are you making a move on my boyfriend right in front of me now?”

  “Darling, Daphne is making a serious accusation against you,” Dr. Holloway said, “and I think she might want to reconsider it.”

  “You’re right,” I said, “I might. But first I’d like to speak with the two of you.”

  Dr. Holloway stood aside and allowed me entrance into the stone foyer. There was a staircase to the right and the living room to the left. I stepped onto the plush beige carpet of the living room and turned back to look at Cara and Dr. Holloway. He closed the door and began walking toward me. I backed further into the living room. When I felt a coffee table at my calves, I turned and sat down on the brown leather sofa.

  “You have a lovely home,” I said.

  “Thank you. Please say what you came here to say so Cara and I can finish our lunch.” Neither he nor Cara sat.

  “All right. I apologize if I’m off track or out of line here, but I was at your office earlier today meeting with Dr. Broadstreet and his wife, Dorothy. We started talking about how someone might have infected people with the virus other than putting it in the food.”

  “I don’t see how this involves me,” Cara said, flipping her tousled hair over her shoulder.

  “Have you ever heard of a product favored by automotive workers, artists and manufacturers which coats their hands so their skin will come clean and won’t absorb the chemicals they’re working with?” I asked.

  When they shared a glance, I knew I was right. I also knew I was in trouble. I was in the McMansion with the shades drawn on a godforsaken strip of road few people traveled, and no one had a clue as to where I was.

  “You probably don’t,” I said, rising to my feet. “It was a silly assumption. But, when Ben got sick after Cara touched his hand at the restaurant, I just . . . well, I guess I jumped to conclusions. If that was an Olympic event—jumping to conclusions—I could probably be a gold medalist!” I gave a little laugh. “Sorry I interrupted your . . . your lunch.” I jabbed my thumb toward the door. “I’ll be on my way.”

  Cara stepped closer to me. “I don’t believe you will. Your accusations—no matter how unfounded—could ruin John and me.”

  “Well, since you two are the only people I told, there’s no need to worry about it, right? I mean, are you planning to do an article about it?”

  “No, and neither is Benny.”

  “Oh, is that what you’re afraid of?” I asked. “That you’ve been scooped?” I shook my head. “No, not at all. Ben always verifies the truth of his articles before they’re printed.” I stared at Cara. “As I’m sure you do.”

  “Of course.”

  “Besides,” I said, “you’d never intentionally cause John or his company harm, would you, Cara?”

  She looked at him. “No. You know I wouldn’t.”

  “I mean good grief, you covered up the accident involving Fred Duncan a year ago and didn’t even report it. Instead you gave the paper a fluff piece on hauntings.”

  “The piece on hauntings is what I was sent to do,” Cara said, peering from me to Dr. Holloway. “I didn’t know Fred Duncan or anyone else would be on the road that day, I swear. It was an odd time of day, I was on my way to the mill . . . .”

  “So you didn’t cover for Dr. Holloway,” I said. “You caused the accident and covered up for yourself.”

  “I never said that!” she cried.

  Dr. Holloway swallowed convulsively. “You said you had nothing to do with Fred Duncan’s car accident.”

  “I didn’t.” She glared at me. “She’s the one who said I did.”

  “But I asked you that night because it happened shortly after you left here,” he said, “and you said it wasn’t you. I didn’t care if it was—I’d have helped you get out of it or get a reduced sentence or something—but you swore it wasn’t you.”

  “And I just told you again it wasn’t me, John!” She placed her hands on her hips. “Who are you going to believe? Me or her?”

  “You claimed you didn’t even know Fred Duncan,” he continued mechanically. “That’s what you said after he became sick. ‘How was I supposed to know he was the one with the brain injury?’ you asked me when he didn’t get better.” He slowly blinked and turned his head toward Cara.

  An image of a turtle flashed through my mind. But suddenly, he turned into a snapping turtle.

  “Your lies have cost me my career!” he shouted, moving toward her. “How could I be such a fool? She might bend the truth a little with others, I thought, but she’d never lie to me. She loves me.” He shook his head. “And I loved you.”

  Cara started to cry. “Don’t, John. Everything is fine. We can spin this.”

  “That’s always your answer, isn’t it?” he asked. “‘We can spin this. I’ll make the reporter sick, you can make him better, and you’ll be a hero again. Fred’s death was really no big deal.’ And I went along with it.”

  “And it worked,” she said. “I went on TV, people started calling the office. It’s going fine. As long as we don’t let her ruin it all now. Let’s just get rid of her and be done with it.”

  “Oh, yeah, Cara, let’s do that. Let’s add premeditated murder to everything else. At this point, my career might be sunk, but I’m not in prison. And I’m not going.” He took a long deep breath. “I’m calling 9-1-1.”

  Cara’s eyes widened. “No! You can’t!” Then her eyes narrowed. “You will not pin this whole thing on me, John Holloway. I’ll swear up and down that you planned the entire thing and that you knew I caused Fred Duncan to wreck last year and didn’t say anything and that you gave me the bacterium to infect Ben Jacobs even after you knew someone had di
ed from it. Now what are you gonna do?”

  He calmly picked up the phone. “The right thing . . . for once.”

  She slapped the phone out of his hand and turned on me. “You! This is all your fault!” She picked up a lamp with a large terra cotta base and hurled it at my head.

  I ducked, and the lamp smashed against the picture window directly behind me. At the sound of breaking glass, I was fairly certain both the window and the lamp had shattered, but I didn’t dare turn to look. I was too busy keeping an eye on Cara and wondering what she was going to do next.

  Dr. Holloway grabbed her from behind. She elbowed him in the stomach; and when he bent forward, she hit him in the face with the back of her fist. That was a move I, too, had learned in self-defense class.

  “This isn’t over!” she cried before running out the front door.

  I stood where I was, still unsure the coast was clear. When I heard the BMW roar out of the McDriveway, I decided to hazard a peep out the window. She was leaving. I wouldn’t have been very surprised if she’d driven the BMW through the house. I’m guessing only her sense of self-preservation kept her from doing so.

  I picked up the phone which was lying on the carpet in front of John Holloway. “I’ll go ahead and call 9-1-1.”

  After making the call, I looked at Dr. Holloway. His glasses weren’t broken, but I was afraid his nose might be.

  “You really should have that looked about,” I said.

  He merely turned and climbed the steps.

  I went outside and locked myself in the Mini Cooper until Officer McAfee arrived.

  *

  As I drove home, I was struck by the irony of Cara fleeing the scene of one crime on Fox Hollow Road only to be caught there in another crime over a year later. Of course, I didn’t stick around for the capture; but Officer McAfee assured me she’d be caught before she got out of Brea Ridge.

  I pulled into the driveway, happy this mess had been resolved. The first thing I noticed when I stepped onto my walkway was that Sparrow was at the edge of the porch. She looked twice her normal size. I realized that was because her hair was standing up.

  “What’s the matter, Sparrow?” I asked softly.

  She was close to the side door where I’d normally go in. I felt we’d been making progress in our relationship, but I wasn’t dumb enough to test it yet. If something had scared her, she might scratch me if I reached out to her.

  I decided to go through the front door and check on her after I had lunch. I looked through my key ring for the front door key as I went around to the front. Before I could unlock the door, I heard a crash on the side porch followed by Sparrow’s yowl.

  I hurried back to see what had happened. Cara was standing behind an overturned trash can wielding a tire iron. Sparrow was nowhere in sight.

  “If you hurt my cat,” I said, “so help me, I’ll—”

  “You’re not calling the shots here!” she screamed. She kicked the trash can out of her way and advanced slowly toward me.

  “The police are looking for you, and they’ll be here any minute.”

  With a guttural growl of fury, she ran toward me with the tire iron over her head ready to strike. “If I go, I’m taking you with me. You ruined everything!”

  I dropped my purse and keys onto the porch. When Cara got close enough, I grabbed the wrist of the hand with the tire iron. Cara retaliated by pulling my hair. That’s when I head butted her. Afterwards, I couldn’t believe I did it. But my head was already hurting from the hair pulling, so I just went Keifer Sutherland on her.

  When my head slammed into her nose, she dropped my hair and the tire iron. The tire iron barely missed my shoulder and landed with a clang on the porch. I grasped her other wrist to keep her from picking something else up. Her nose was bleeding pretty badly, though, and I think most of the fight had gone out of her.

  I heard a car pull into my driveway. I didn’t dare look to see who it was, but I desperately hoped it was not John Holloway coming to help Cara.

  “O M G!” Fran yelled as she eased up beside me. “Are you okay?”

  “Speak in words, rather than letters,” I said. “You’ve been texting too much. Call 9-1-1, would you please?”

  “Sure.”

  I glanced at her from the corner of my eye. Her eyes were huge—or as Leslie would say, ginormous. “Everything’s all right.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Officer McAfee arrived and took custody of Cara within minutes of Fran’s call. I was thrilled; my arms were exhausted. They found Cara’s car one street over from mine.

  Fran was really impressed I could “kick butt.” I told her that taking self-defense lessons from a retired Marine living in my apartment building in Tennessee had paid off enormously. She’d come to bake, but I suggested we take the day off and start fresh tomorrow morning.

  Myra had been out Christmas shopping, so she was none the wiser . . . yet. Neither was Violet. But in a town the size of Brea Ridge, word travels fast; and I knew I’d have to answer a lot of questions before long.

  After the police and Fran had left, I picked up my purse and keys and took them into the house. I came back outside, sat on the step and called for Sparrow. She didn’t come. I put my head on my knees, closed my eyes and waited. When everything was quiet, I felt Sparrow brush against me. I looked down and saw that she appeared to be fine. I stroked her gently and saw that she had only been scared, not hurt.

  Against my better judgment, I picked her up. She didn’t particularly care for it, but she tolerated a quick hug. Then I got up, opened the door, and she went inside.

  When Ben arrived about an hour later, Sparrow and I were sitting on the kitchen floor. She was eating a trout China York had brought her. China had heard about my ordeal over the scanner. She’d brought muffins for me, and a trout for the cat. Seriously, she brought a trout.

  Ben could see us through the open door, so he didn’t knock. Sparrow looked up, saw Ben and darted under the kitchen table.

  I got up and opened the door. “Hi.”

  He stepped inside and crushed me to him. “Are you okay?” He held me at arm’s length to look me over.

  “I’m fine, Ben. Let me wash the trout off my hands, and I’ll join you in the living room.”

  When I got to the living room, Ben was sitting on the sofa looking at the picture Fred had drawn. I sat beside him, and he put his arm around me.

  “That’s new,” he said, nodding toward the picture.

  “Mm-hm. Fred Duncan drew it. His mom had it matted and framed for me.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Thanks.” I sighed and rested my head against his shoulder. “I hope Violet will still let me take Lucas and Leslie shopping on Monday. She was against me investigating Fred’s death from the very start, and I promised her all along I’d stay out of it.”

  “You can’t help it,” Ben said. “You’re nosy.”

  “Gee, you say the sweetest things.”

  He laughed. “I’m kidding.”

  “As if.”

  “Besides, why wouldn’t Violet let you take the kids shopping?” he asked. “You’re like Lara Croft or something. They’d have their own personal bodyguard.”

  “You so exaggerate. I just don’t want her mad at me. I’d hate to have to live like Steve Franklin and his brother.”

  “What about Steve Franklin and his brother?”

  “They haven’t spoken in years,” I said. “Mainly because Steve’s brother Robby stole Steve’s girlfriend, dated her for a few days and then dumped her.”

  “I remember Robby Franklin,” Ben said. “He was a jerk. Still, it doesn’t sound as if the girl was worth ruining a relationship over. What happened to her?”

  “She left town. And, no, it doesn’t sound like she was the best girl in the world, but Steve Franklin really loved her. He was heartbroken when she left, and he never found anyone to fill that void. Can you imagine that?” I looked up at Ben.

  “Yeah, actually, I can.�
�� He smiled. “Maybe Steve will luck up and his girl will come home, too.”

  THE END

  Recipes

  Many thanks to Holly Clegg, author, the trim&Terrific cookbooks

  Apple, Brie, and Brown Sugar Pizza

  Oh my goodness….this is the absolute best!! Imagine a thin crisp crust topped with rich, creamy Brie and cinnamon apples. This pizza could be served for brunch, a snack or a light dessert. It is hard to beat or resist hot out of the oven—even a house full of 20 year old boys were grabbing for another piece. Miniature pizza crusts are a fun way to serve these pizzas.

  Makes 8 slices

  1 (13.8-ounce) can refrigerated pizza crust

  4 ounces Brie, rind removed and thinly sliced

  1 large baking apple, peeled, cored, and thinly sliced

  3 tablespoons chopped pecans

  3 tablespoons light brown sugar

  1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

  1 Preheat oven 450°F.

  2. On top of pizza crust, arrange Brie and apple slices concentrically around crust. In small bowl, mix together remaining ingredients, sprinkle over apples.

  3. Bake 10–12 minutes or until cheese is melted and apples are tender. Slice, serve.

  Nutritional information per serving:

  Calories 193, Calories from fat (%) 33, Fat (g) 7, Saturated Fat (g) 3, Cholesterol (mg) 14, Sodium (mg) 328, Carbohydrate (g) 26, Dietary Fiber (g) 1, Sugars (g) 10, Protein (g) 6, Diabetic Exchanges: 1 1/2 starch, 1 medium-fat meat

  Terrific Tidbit: I prefer Granny Smith apples as they are tart and compliment the Brie. Any large, thin round, unbaked pizza crust may be used.

  Sweet Potato Praline Coffee Cake

  Hot out of the oven, this scrumptious, melt-in-your mouth, eye-appealing recipe is hard to beat and best of all, it tastes equally as good after being frozen. The sensational praline topping glazes the top making every bite a yummy one. A personal favorite.

  Makes 12 servings