The Fatal Funnel Cake
Page 1
MORE PRAISE FOR
THE FRESH-BAKED MYSTERIES
“Washburn has a refreshing way with words and knows how to tell an exciting story.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Delightful, [with a] realistic small-town vibe [and a] vibrant narrative . . . A Peach of a Murder runs the full range of emotions, so be prepared to laugh and cry with this one!”
—The Romance Readers Connection
Other Fresh-Baked Mysteries by Livia J. Washburn
The Pumpkin Muffin Murder
Killer Crab Cakes
The Christmas Cookie Killer
Murder by the Slice
A Peach of a Murder
The Gingerbread Bump-off
Wedding Cake Killer
The Fatal
Funnel Cake
A Fresh-Baked Mystery
LIVIA J. WASHBURN
AN OBSIDIAN MYSTERY
OBSIDIAN
Published by the Penguin Group
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New York, New York 10014
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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,
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Copyright © Livia Reasoner, 2013
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Washburn, L. J.
The Fatal funnel cake: a fresh-baked mystery/Livia J. Washburn.
p. cm.—(Fresh-baked mystery)
ISBN 978-1-101-59531-2
1. Newsom, Phyllis (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Baking—Fiction. 3. Weatherford (Tex.)—Fiction. 4. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Title.
PS2573.A787F38 2013
813'.54—dc23 2013020028
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
Contents
Praise
Also by Livia J. Washburn
Title page
Copyright page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Recipe
Author's Note
About the Author
Excerpt from Wedding Cake Killer
Dedicated to the State Fair of Texas and to Big Tex for all the joy you gave to adults and kids alike.
Chapter 1
Sam Fletcher came into the living room, sat down on the sofa, looked at the television, and said, “I just don’t get cookin’ shows.”
From the other end of the sofa, Phyllis Newsom glanced over at him. “That’s because you’re not a cook,” she said. “I’ve never understood the appeal of fishing shows.”
“Me neither,” Sam said. “Now, I like to fish, mind you, but the idea of sittin’ there and watching some other fella sit in a boat and fish—well, that’s just not something I want to spend a lot of time doing.”
Carolyn Wilbarger, who was sitting in one of the recliners—but not reclining—had her knitting in her lap. Without looking up from her needles and yarn, she said, “At least it’s not NASCAR. Why in the world anyone would sit there and watch a bunch of cars drive around and around all day is just totally beyond me.”
From the other recliner, Eve Turner added, “Anything is better than those awful reality shows where people sit around and yell at each other all the time.”
“They should make a reality show about us,” Sam said.
The three women all turned their heads to look skeptically at him, even Carolyn. She said, “A reality show about a bunch of retired schoolteachers living in a house in Weatherford, Texas? I don’t think that’s what TV producers consider dramatic, Sam.”
“We’ve got plenty of drama,” Sam said. “Why, you could make a whole show just about Phyllis and the way she—”
He stopped in midsentence, and Phyllis was glad he had understood the warning look she was giving him.
For more than six months now, ever since the tragic events following Eve’s wedding and honeymoon, there had been an unspoken agreement in this big two-story house on a shady side street in Weatherford: No one talked about murder.
Of course, it was hard to forget how that ugly subject had come up on a number of occasions in recent years. More than once, a member of this very household had fallen under suspicion, and it was thanks to Phyllis’s efforts that the actual killers had been uncovered. Sam was probably right, she thought. Some sensationalistic television network probably could make a series about the murder cases in which they had all been involved. But the chances were that everything would be changed for TV and the results would be dreadful. Not only that; it would draw way more attention than any of them wanted. From what Phyllis had seen, becoming a celebrity often ruined a person’s life.
So it would be just fine with her if no one ever mentioned the word murder around her again.
Sam, bless his heart, knew that, even though he had forgotten for a moment. So now he changed the subject by saying, “What show is this, anyway? I know I’ve seen that gal before.”
“Of course you have,” Phyllis said. “I don’t see how anyone could have missed seeing her in the past few years. This is The Joye of Cooking, and that’s Joye Jameson.”
“Nice-lookin’ young woman,” Sam said.
Carolyn said, “Hmph. Trust a man to reduce everything to physical appearance.”
Phyllis felt like she ought to come to Sam’s defense, so she said, “Well, you can’t deny that she is attractive.”
That was true. Joye Jameson, who was in her midthirties, Phyllis estimated, had a wealth of thick, wavy auburn hair that framed a heart-shaped face with a dazzling smile. At the moment she wore an apron over a green silk blouse that went well with her hair and coloring an
d matched her eyes. The apron had a sunburst design embroidered on it.
With the camera on her, Joye stood at a counter covered with mixing bowls, spoons, a rolling pin, and the other utensils and accoutrements of the project she’d been working on during today’s show. Smiling that unshakable trademark smile directly into the camera lens, she said, “That buttermilk pie we put in the oven a while ago ought to be just about ready. Let’s have a look at it, shall we?”
She turned and went along the counter, and the camera angle changed to show her opening an oven. Using pot holders, she reached in and took out a glass pie plate that she placed on a cooling rack on top of the counter.
“I think it looks beautiful,” Joye said as yet another camera took an overhead close-up of the pie, which did indeed look good with its lightly browned crust and filling. The shot went back to Joye as she continued, “Of course, we’ll have to let it cool before we cut it, but we have another one just like it that I baked earlier today. A couple of tips about serving this heavenly pie. If you want to avoid a messy, crumbly pie, let it cool to room temperature before slicing. I know what you’re thinking—you like your pie warm with ice cream. If that’s the case, you can either have a messy slice, or put that slice in the microwave and warm it up a little before putting the ice cream on top. And the last but not least important tip about serving: Don’t lick your fingers between each served piece.”
She turned, revealing that while the camera had been pointed elsewhere, someone had placed a second pie on the counter. It was already cut into pieces. Joye took one of them out with a pie server and put it on a fine white china plate decorated with flowers around its edge. She picked up a fork, cut off a bite, put it in her mouth, chewed, and closed her eyes for a second in obvious pleasure before she said, “Oh, my, that’s good.”
There was a close-up of the piece of pie with a bite missing, then another shot of the whole pie that had just come out of the oven. “Now, remember, if you’d like a copy of the recipe, it’s on the website,” Joye went on. “And if you’d like tickets for the show here in Hollywood, you can request them through the website as well.”
Applause came from the previously unseen studio audience as a camera panned over them, then went back to Joye.
“Now I have a special announcement,” she said. “In two weeks the show will be going on location to Dallas, Texas, for the big State Fair of Texas. For those of you unfamiliar with it, it’s a spectacular fair held every fall with cooking and arts and crafts competitions galore! We’ll be showcasing some of the winners, and I’m very excited about sampling some of the best cooking in the great state of Texas.”
Carolyn had lost all interest in her knitting for the moment. “Did you hear that?” she asked Phyllis.
“I heard,” Phyllis replied. She couldn’t stop herself from leaning forward a little on the sofa. Joye Jameson’s announcement definitely had caught her attention.
Joye went on, “One thing we’re going to be doing . . . Do you know what a funnel cake is? Do you know, Hank?”
The camera that had been on Joye swiveled around so that it showed another of the huge, bulky TV cameras, along with the burly, shirt-sleeved man running it. He grinned and shook his head. Phyllis couldn’t tell if he really hadn’t heard of funnel cakes before or if he was just playing along with Joye.
“How about you, Reed?” she asked, and the camera moved to another man, this one wearing a suit and a headset. He didn’t look particularly happy about being on television, but he forced a smile and shook his head.
“A funnel cake is a delicious deep-fried treat that’s poured from a funnel into hot oil,” Joye continued as the shot returned to her. “I’m sure a lot of you have had them. They’re a legendary snack at state and county fairs all over the country, along with corn dogs and cotton candy and lemonade. The ones at the State Fair of Texas are supposed to be some of the best, so we’re going to find out. I plan to try the winning recipe from this year’s funnel cake competition. Won’t that be fun?”
More applause from the audience indicated that they agreed with her. Either that or the APPLAUSE sign was flashing, Phyllis thought, then scolded herself for being a little cynical.
“So if you’re in Dallas in a couple of weeks, or anywhere in the vicinity, I hope you’ll drop by and see us. We’ll be broadcasting live from the fair every day!” Joye’s smile threatened to overwhelm the screen. “In the meantime, I’ll see you tomorrow, and remember . . . always find the joy in life every day!”
More applause, more shots of the happy audience. One of the cameras pulled back to reveal the set with cameras, boom microphones, and crew members arrayed around it. Joye picked up her fork and resumed eating the piece of pie she had taken a bite of earlier. Credits began to scroll up the screen as a young woman with long brown hair, wearing jeans and a sweater, came out from the wings to talk with Joye. The shot switched to a graphic of the show’s website address and some fine print that Phyllis didn’t bother trying to read.
“Isn’t there a cookbook called The Joy of Cooking?” Sam asked.
“Yes, there is,” Phyllis said as she used the remote to mute the sound on the TV.
“But she calls her show The Joye—with an e—of Cooking?”
“That’s right.”
“And she can get away with that?”
Carolyn said, “Joye is her name. How could anyone complain about that?”
“I’m not complainin’. Just strikes me as a little strange, that’s all.”
“Cooking shows strike you as strange,” Carolyn said with a dismissive note in her voice. “You said so yourself.” She turned to Phyllis, pointed a finger, and went on, “You heard what she said.”
“I did,” Phyllis said.
“You know what that means. We have to go.”
Sam said, “To see that show?”
“No, to the state fair,” Carolyn said. “Why don’t we make a week of it? We can enter some competitions, check out all the exhibits—”
“Maybe ride some of the rides on the midway,” Eve suggested.
“I think we’re all too old for roller coasters,” Carolyn said.
Eve smiled. “Speak for yourself.”
Phyllis was glad to see that. It had taken quite a while for Eve to start getting over everything that had happened, but she was beginning to get some of her usual feisty nature back. If Eve wanted to ride a roller coaster, that was just fine.
But she might have to ride it by herself. There was no way Phyllis was getting on one of those things.
She said, “I have to admit I’m intrigued by that funnel cake competition. I’ve never made any before. I think it would be fun to give it a try.”
“I think I’ll stick to the more traditional baking contests,” Carolyn said. “I’ve got a new cookie recipe I’d like to try out.”
Something occurred to Phyllis to temper her enthusiasm. She said, “There’s just one problem. The fair is in Dallas. That’s a pretty long drive to be making every day, and think of the traffic.”
“My cousin lives in Highland Park,” Carolyn said. “That’s just right up the freeway. She’s been asking me to come visit her. Her husband passed away last year, you know, and her children are all grown and gone, so she has that big empty house. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”
“You don’t think we’d be imposing?” Phyllis asked.
“No, I don’t. It certainly won’t hurt to ask.”
“That would make it a lot easier,” Phyllis admitted.
Sam had gotten up and gone over to the computer desk in the corner, evidently having lost interest in the conversation about the state fair. Now he turned the desk chair around to face his housemates again and said, “You know what? They have other kinds of cookin’ contests besides the ones for pies and cookies and funnel cakes and stuff.”
“Like what?” Phyllis said.
“Why in the world would we be interested in a Spam cook-off?” Carolyn wanted to know.
“Well, I wasn’t necessarily thinkin’ about you ladies . . .”
Carolyn’s eyes widened. “You?” she said. “You’re going to enter a cooking contest?”
“I was thinkin’ about it. I’ve fried up many a panful of Spam in my time. And you and Phyllis seem to get so much fun out of these competitions, I figured why not give it a try?”
“Why not indeed,” Phyllis said. “I think it’s a fine idea, Sam.”
“I still think it’s odd,” Carolyn said, “but you can do what you want, I suppose. Then it’s settled. If my cousin agrees to let us stay with her, we’re going to the state fair.”
Phyllis nodded and said, “We’re going to the state fair.”
Chapter 2
Carolyn’s cousin Peggy Stockton was more than happy to have Carolyn visit . . . and her three friends, too. So two weeks later the four of them packed up, loaded their luggage in the big trunk of Phyllis’s Lincoln, and set off for Dallas.
Under normal conditions the trip would take between an hour and a half and two hours, Phyllis knew. The thing was, you never could tell what sort of traffic you’d encounter along the way. It usually wasn’t too bad in Fort Worth—although it could be if there was a wreck or construction—but in Dallas it was almost a given that there would be a traffic jam somewhere. Because of that, Phyllis had asked Sam if he would mind driving. Her nerves weren’t meant for sitting at the wheel of an unmoving car stuck in traffic.
“Sure,” he’d said. “I don’t much like that bumper-to-bumper stuff, either, but I can handle it.”
At least they didn’t have to be at Peggy’s house at any particular time, so they didn’t have to worry about that. Carolyn had told her cousin they would be there sometime around noon but insisted that Peggy not go to any fuss over them.