Killer Wedding Cake (Daphne Martin Cake Mystery)

by Gayle Trent

  Killer Wedding Cake

  A Daphne Martin Cake Mystery

  Gayle Trent

  Grace Abraham Publishing

  Bristol, Virginia

  Copyright © 2015 by Gayle Trent

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  Gayle Trent

  Grace Abraham Publishing

  Bristol, Virginia 24202

  www.gayletrent.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Book Layout © 2014 BookDesignTemplates.com

  Killer Wedding Cake/Gayle Trent. -- 1st ed.

  ISBN 0-9741090-9-6

  Cover art by Wicked Smart Designs

  http://www.wickedsmartdesigns.com/

  Editing by Jeni Chappelle

  http://www.jenichappelle.com/

  PRAISE FOR THE DAPHNE MARTIN CAKE MYSTERIES

  “One day I found myself happily reading . . . mysteries by Gayle Trent. If she can win me over . . . she’s got a great future.” —Dean Koontz, #1 New York Times bestselling author

  “Both Gayle and I are fascinated with the ins and outs of baking and decorating and the convoluted backstories that make it all so exciting; the crème de la crème for a mystery writer. A must read for cake bakers and anyone who has ever spent creative time in the kitchen!” – Kerry Vincent, Hall of Fame Sugar Artist, Oklahoma State Sugar Art Show Director, Television Personality

  “Entertaining…and tasty read” – Entertainment Weekly

  “For people who love a tasty cake and a cozy murder mystery, Murder Takes the Cake is a delicious read.” -Suzanne Pitner, Suite101.com

  “The breezy story line is fun to follow…Daphne is a solid lead character as she follows the murder recipe one step at a time to the delight of sub-genre readers.” – Harriet Klausner, The Mystery Gazette

  “I absolutely was startled to find out whodunnit at the end and it was not one of those lame-o choices so the author could hurry and finish up. I could identify with Daphne’s relationship with her family. I think this was the part I liked best. Daphne has a cautious and teeth gritting relationship with her mother, a loving warm one with her father and her sister. And the cake baking and decorating!!! I didn’t get the recipes in the copy I reviewed, so will get the book just for those. This is one of my criteria for a cozy, it makes me want to learn how to do the activity that’s the basis of the character and story……This one makes me want to learn how to decorate cakes. Four frosted beans!” – Vixen’s Daily Reads

  “…a sweetly satisfying mystery that’ll have you licking your lips for more!” – Christine Verstraete, Searching for a Starry Night, a Miniature Art Mystery

  “Murder Takes the Cake has all the right ingredients for a delicious read.” – Ellen Crosby, author of The Bordeaux Betrayal

  OTHER BOOKS IN THE DAPHNE MARTIN CAKE MYSTERIES

  MURDER TAKES THE CAKE

  DEAD PAN

  KILLER SWEET TOOTH

  BATTERED TO DEATH

  KILLER WEDDING CAKE

  CHAPTER ONE

  For what seemed like the millionth time, I sat at my computer, scrolling through images of wedding cakes. I decorate cakes for a living, but this was my wedding cake.

  And Ben’s, of course. Our wedding cake.

  So I’d been agonizing over the design for months. Now the wedding was less than two weeks away, and I absolutely had to get the design nailed down and start making the decorations.

  I heard a knock at my side door. It had to be a friend or family member. A stranger would’ve rung the front doorbell. I pushed away from the desk and went through the kitchen to answer the door. My sister Violet, neighbor Myra, and friend China were standing in my carport. I was concerned. Had you known these three, you’d have been worried too.

  Myra pushed ahead of the other two and came into the kitchen. She was an attractive widow in her early- to mid-sixties who lived in the house directly to my left.

  “This is one of them interventions, Daphne. We’re worried that you’re never going to get your wedding cake picked out and we’ll all be standing around eating snack cakes or doughnuts at the reception, and you’ll be crying because you didn’t get your cake made.”

  China, an older lady who’s always reminded me of a cross between Willie Nelson and a wood nymph, gave Myra a sharp look. “We don’t give a fig about what we’ll be eating at the reception.” She patted my arm. “It’s you we’re concerned about.”

  Violet merely smiled. I didn’t know whether the other two had induced her to tag along on this “intervention” or if it was the other way around. Either way, my sister knew her arguments would be made by the two veterans. She didn’t have to say a word.

  “So, let’s get to it,” Myra said. “Let’s design your wedding cake.”

  “Actually, I was just looking at cakes online.” I invited the trio to join me in my home office-slash-guest room.

  I sat back down at the computer and scrolled through the images. I was uncomfortable having the three interveners literally breathing down the back of my neck, but I knew they meant well.

  “Go back! Go back!” Myra leaned over my shoulder and pointed at the screen. “I liked that one with the purple flowers on it. Let’s get a better look at that.”

  “But her colors are pink and white,” said Violet.

  “She could do purple and pink.”

  “I think that purple one is a little too showy.” China raised both her eyebrows and her shoulders.

  Myra huffed. “You think everything’s too showy.”

  Granted, Myra and China were as different as night and day with regard to showiness. Myra liked to wear trendier clothing while China was happy with her jeans and flannel shirts. Myra got her hair done on a regular basis, which included covering her gray and adding highlights, at Tanya’s Tremendous Tress Taming Salon. China’s iron gray braids hung to her waist, and I’d only seen her hair styled differently once—when a group of us had gone to see some Elvis impersonators.

  China pointed out a white-on-white design. “That’s simple and elegant. I like it.”

  “How about that one that looks like a wedding dress?” Myra asked.

  “All it would take is for one of the men to drink too much and go to wanting to eat the boobies.”

  Myra gasped. “China York! I cannot believe you just said boobies!”

  I couldn’t believe it myself, but it was awfully funny. And China was right. I didn’t think a wedding dress cake was the way to go.

  “That’s it,” Violet said softly. “The five-tier blush colored cake with the white and rose colored accents.”

  “You’re right.” I enlarged the image. “That’s beautiful. And I can embellish it with the Australian string work I’ve been practicing since that class I took in the spring.”

  I spun around in my chair and looked at Vi. The younger of the two of us, she was blonde, dainty, and bubbly. I was none of the above. It was like I was her polar opposite—tall, athletic build, brown hair and eyes, and rather serious.

  “That’s it.” She gave me a nod. “That’s your cake.”

  “I know.”

  She laughed and hugged me. Then I hugged Myra and China too.

  “Why didn’t you guys do this a month ago?” I asked.

  “Well, we thoug
ht for sure you had this under control,” Myra said. “But when Violet told me at the Save-A-Buck this morning that you didn’t have a clue as to how you wanted to do your cake, we thought it was time to step in.”

  So it had been Violet’s idea—or at least her suggestion. I squinted at her, and she gave me the charming little pixie expression that had, thus far, kept her from ever getting a speeding ticket. I merely shook my head. I was, in fact, happy to have the burden lifted and to have chosen a design for the wedding cake.

  Steve Franklin, the manager of the Save-A-Buck, must’ve had a sixth sense that someone was talking about his store because he called only seconds after Myra mentioned it.

  “Hi, Steve,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

  “We’re getting low on baked goods.”

  The Save-A-Buck didn’t have a bakery, so I took cakes, cookies, brownies, candies, doughnuts, and sometimes breads to the store to be sold on consignment. If and when the items were sold—and they almost always were—I got a check.

  “I’d like eight round, single-layer cakes—six birthday and two plain,” he continued.

  “Four white, four chocolate?”

  “Yeah, that’ll work. I’d also like a few boxes of chocolate chip cookies, some oatmeal raisin cookies, and some snickerdoodles.”

  “How about brownies?”

  “Sure. They always sell well.”

  “When do you need these?” I asked.

  “Let’s see…it’s Tuesday, so can you have everything here by Thursday?”

  If I baked around the clock, I could. “Yeah. I probably won’t be at the store first thing Thursday morning, but I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

  “Thanks, Daphne. I appreciate you.”

  “Sounds like a big order,” Myra said when I ended the call.

  I nodded. “Apparently, the Save-A-Buck is completely out of baked goods.”

  “We’d better go and let you get to it.” China nodded toward the door. “After you, ladies.”

  Myra acted as if she wasn’t entirely ready to leave, but she did. Violet kissed me on the cheek and said she’d give me a call later. And China told me to let her know if I needed anything.

  After seeing them to the door, I washed my hands at the sink, got out my favorite blue mixing bowl, and decided to start with the brownies. If I baked two large pans, I could cut them into two-inch by two-inch squares, and have enough to make five half-dozen boxes. I set the oven to preheat and then got out my pan, a large spoon, my brownie recipe, and the ingredients I needed.

  As I mixed up the brownies, I thought about how far I’d come these past few months in Brea Ridge. I’d been working as a secretary for a government housing regulatory agency in northeast Tennessee when my ex-husband Todd had fired a pistol at me.

  What grievous crime had I committed to deserve being shot at, you ask? I’d gone four-tenths of a mile out of my way to a bookstore on my commute home from work. I hadn’t asked to visit the bookstore—hadn’t got Todd’s approval—and when he’d checked the odometer on my car, he knew I’d gone somewhere other than to work and back.

  I’d known by the time I got home that I’d be in trouble. Todd had always checked my odometer when I arrived home from work. But at some point during that day, I’d decided I was tired of it. I wanted to go to the bookstore, and I did. You want to know what book I bought?

  Regaining Your Self-Respect: A Ten-Step Plan.

  So I’d stood up to Todd and declared, “Yes! I went to the bookstore!”

  And he’d pulled out a pistol and shot at some point slightly above and to the left of my head. I admit I hadn’t seen that coming. I’d been expecting him to slap me or shove me, not pull out a gun. I’d called the police, and Todd had been arrested and eventually sentenced to seven years in prison.

  Even then, I’d stayed in Tennessee for another five years. By the end of that time, I’d worked twenty years at the housing agency and could retire with enough retirement benefits to return to Virginia, buy a small house, and operate Daphne’s Delectable Cakes out of my home. Even better, I got to spend more time with my adorable twin nephew and niece, Lucas and Leslie.

  And I’d reconnected with Ben Jacobs, my high school sweetheart. Ben had never married, and I knew he was the man I should’ve married twenty years ago. Dating Todd and ultimately marrying him had been the worst mistake of my life.

  But I wasn’t dwelling on past mistakes today. I was making brownies. And I’d finally chosen a design for our wedding cake and could concentrate on that as I worked.

  From the corner of my eye, I noticed Sparrow—the one-eyed Persian cat I’d inherited with the house—run by in a streak of gray and white fur. She was a tad on the feral side, and I imagine it had freaked her out to have so many people here earlier this morning. She must be on a recon mission to make sure our guests were gone.

  “It’s just you and me again, kid!”

  Soon it would be her, me, Ben, and Ben’s golden retriever, Sally. He and I had introduced the pair a few weeks ago. That had ended with Sparrow hissing from beneath my bed and Sally peeking under the dust ruffle wagging her entire lower half while she barked excitedly. Ben and I had decided to try again later. Maybe after the honeymoon.

  I spread the brownie batter into the pan, opened the oven door, and slid the pan inside. The oven was cold. It wasn’t that it hadn’t heated up all the way yet—it was completely cold. And here I was with a pan of brownie batter that I needed to get baked. I called Myra.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind about the cake already,” she said, by way of answering.

  “No. My oven won’t heat. I have a pan of brownie batter and no oven.”

  “Well, bring the pan over here. I’ll go ahead and preheat my oven. What do you need it set on—three-fifty?”

  “Yes, please. Thank you!” I ended the call, put a lid on my brownie pan, and hurried out the door to Myra’s house.

  Bruno met me at the door. He was a tan Chihuahua who could’ve slept in one of my shoes. Myra had met the teensy terror a few months ago when he’d barked and growled at her from her front porch. She’d called me frantic because “this vicious dog” wouldn’t let her into her house. I’d taken over a piece of ham, and it had calmed the savage beastie right down. She began feeding him, and he stayed. He still acted as if he owned the place, but he had a more legitimate claim to do so now.

  “Hello, Bruno,” I said.

  He danced around on his back legs, thinking I had a treat for him because I usually did. This time, however, I’d only thought to bring my pan of brownies.

  “Sorry, buddy. I’ll get you something when I go back.”

  “Put the pan there on the counter and come take a load off while we wait for the oven to finish pre-heating,” Myra said.

  I did as she said, but I touched the front of the oven as I passed by to make sure it was getting hot. Sorry, but I was feeling paranoid. Thank goodness, the oven was warm.

  Then I went in and collapsed onto the sofa beside Myra.

  “Honey, you look plumb tuckered out,” she said.

  “It’s not that I’m tired. I’m just aggravated. I don’t know what’s wrong with my oven.”

  “It’s probably the heating element. It’ll be all right.”

  “Are you sure you don’t mind me using your oven? I’ll pay you in a box of brownies.” You wouldn’t know it from her trim frame, but Myra loved sweets.

  “I didn’t mind to begin with, but I doubly don’t mind now.”

  Bruno raced into the living room and hopped onto the sofa between us.

  “I need to make two pans—one to go in as soon as the others come out. And I’ll call the appliance guy when I get home.” I considered this for a second. “I don’t know an appliance guy. Do you?”

  “Yep. McElroy Haynes. Best appliance guy around here. I’ll get you his number before you go.”

  A click came from the direction of the kitchen.

  “That’s the oven,” she sa
id. “Want me to put the brownies in?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll do it. Would you mind seeing if you can find Mr. Haynes’ number?”

  “I’m on it.”

  I slid the pan of brownies into the oven, and she returned with the phone number.

  “He’s kinda crotchety, but tell him I told you to call. And tell him I said he was the best in the business.”

  I smiled. “I could just offer him brownies. Along with his payment, of course.”

  “I doubt it’d do you a bit of good, but you can try. Besides, you can’t give away all your brownies. You have to sell some at the Save-A-Buck.”

  Setting the timer on my phone to alert me in twenty minutes, I told Myra I’d be back with the other pan soon.

  I hurried back across the yards to my house to get the next batch of brownies underway but stopped short when I noticed a blue pickup truck parked in my driveway. I slowed my pace and approached cautiously.

  The truck had Tennessee tags. There was no one inside it, and I’d left my door unlocked.

  I didn’t want to overreact. I still had a lot of friends in Tennessee. Maybe it was one of them. Besides, there was no indication that the person was actually inside my house. He—or she—could be a salesperson going door to door and had chosen my driveway as a good parking spot.

  Thinking it best to err on the side of caution, I opened the door slightly. “Hello?”

  “Hello.”

  That voice chilled my blood. It belonged to Todd Martin, my ex-husband.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I froze. I hadn’t heard that voice in nearly seven years, but it chilled me to the bone. I began to hyperventilate and backed away from the door.

  “Come here! Daphne, I’m not going to hurt you.”

  I had to move, had to get away. But then Todd burst through the door and grabbed my shoulders.

  “P-please let me go. I-I’m sorry…for what you’ve been through.”