Murder Takes the Cake Text

by Gayle Trent

  “Good one,” I said with a laugh. I got my tomato soup and moved on over into the baking supplies aisle.

  I wondered if I’d got a peek at the “old Fred” Mr. Franklin had talked about . . . Fred before the car accident had ruined not only his personality but his life. So Fred was Walt Duncan’s grandson. Who knew?

  At least now I could rest assured that Uncle Hal hadn’t somehow used Fred’s snake or its venom to kill Yodel Watson. The autopsy said death by venom, not strangulation by a python.

  I was still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that Fred was Mr. Duncan’s grandson as I put the sugar and cake flour into my cart. Since Fred’s snake was a python, that ruled Fred out as a suspect in Mrs. Watson’s murder, too. Unless, of course, Fred knew other snake owners who had venomous snakes. I’d have to give Uncle Hal a call to see what he knew about Fred.

  *

  Banjo greeted me as soon as I walked into Dr. Lancaster’s office.

  “Come in!”

  I smiled. “Hi, Banjo.”

  “Come in!”

  “Good morning,” the receptionist said. “How can I help you today?”

  “Annabelle Fontaine wanted me to check with you on the status of a new home for Banjo.”

  “We haven’t found anyone yet. In fact, we’re thinking of keeping him here in the office. Someone is here every day—even when the office is closed—to feed and check on the animals.”

  “Oh, it would be nice if he could stay here.”

  “Yeah.” She pulled a string, causing a tiny bell in Banjo’s cage to ring. “He’s really growing on us. He’s such a sweetheart. Aren’t you, fellow?”

  “Cash, check or credit card?” Banjo asked.

  The receptionist and I laughed.

  “See? He’s learning new words here and everything,” she said.

  “I’ll be sure and pass that along to Annabelle. She’ll be delighted Banjo is doing so well.” I tilted my head. “May I ask you a silly question?”

  “I don’t know if I’ll be able to answer it or not, but feel free to ask.”

  “Someone told me people shouldn’t feed live rodents to pet snakes because the rodent could hurt the snake. Is that true?”

  “Yes, depending on the size and type of snake and the size of the rodent. What type of snake do you have?”

  “I don’t. I became interested in the subject through a friend who has a major grudge against Kellen Dobbs for feeding live rodents to his snakes.”

  “Is your friend Belinda Fremont?”

  I nodded.

  “Dr. Lancaster treats Mrs. Fremont’s Satin Peruvians. She’s discussed the matter with Dr. Lancaster, and he’s tried to speak to Mr. Dobbs about it on more than one occasion.”

  “I’m guessing speaking to Mr. Dobbs didn’t do any good?”

  She shook her head. “No big surprise there, though. Mr. Dobbs does what he wants.”

  “Somehow, I’ve gathered that. Well, thanks for the update on Banjo. Keep me posted on any changes in his whereabouts, would you please?”

  “I sure will.”

  *

  My final stop of the morning was Dobbs’ Pet Store. The bell above the door heralded my arrival, but neither Candy nor Mr. Dobbs came to greet me. That fact, given what I’d read in Mrs. Watson’s journal, made me feel incredibly awkward. There was no way I was going looking for them. Hoping to stay as far away as possible from any inappropriate pet shop behavior, I walked over to the snake cages.

  The snakes looked harmless at the moment, either coiled up or stretched out in their aquariums . . . not moving. I wondered if they were sleeping. Since they don’t have eyelids, it was hard to tell.

  “What can I get for you?”

  I started at the sound of Mr. Dobbs’ voice. Not only was it loud, but it was nearly touching me. I could feel his breath on the back of my head. I slowly turned.

  Mr. Dobbs wasn’t allowing me any personal space whatsoever, especially since the snakes were now at my back. I took a step sideways to put a bit of distance between him and me.

  “They’re fascinating, aren’t they?” I asked, jerking my head toward the snakes. “I heard something about snakes this morning that I found hard to believe.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I heard you should never feed your pet snakes live rodents because the rodents can hurt the snakes.”

  “Did you come here to question me about what I feed my snakes, or did you come to buy something?”

  “I came to get some vitamins for my cat,” I said.

  “Good. I hoped you weren’t sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.” He stalked into the cat supply aisle and returned with a bottle of chewable vitamins. “Here you go. On the house. Consider it a gift for not getting involved in things that don’t concern you.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  When I got home, there was a basket of flowers on my porch step. I quickly got out of the car so I could get a closer look and find out who they were from. They were beautiful and oh, so colorful: yellow mums, white roses, orange lilies, purple aster, red carnations and yellow daisies. I plucked the card from its holder. It read: “Sorry I hurt your feelings. I do trust you and hope you’ll let me buy you dinner this evening. Ben.”

  I smiled to myself, happy that things were okay between us again.

  I unlocked the door and went back to the car to get my groceries. It had been a wild morning, that was for sure. I put away the groceries and checked my answering machine. There were four new messages.

  The first was from Violet. “Hi, it’s me. Call me when you get a chance, okay?”

  The next message was from Ben. “Hi, it’s Ben. Give me a call when you get in, would you? Thanks. Bye.”

  The third message was from Mr. Franklin at Save-A-Buck. “Good morning, Ms. Martin. I was wondering if you could do a few cakes for the store. I understand you are doing a birthday party for Mrs. Fremont, so if you don’t have time right now, then perhaps you can do them once you have finished with the party. Please give me a call so we can discuss. Thank you so much, and have a great day.”

  The final message was from Candy. She was nearly whispering. “Hi. I heard what Kel said to you this morning and I’m ever so sorry he was rude. He can be plumb darn touchy sometimes. I’ll give you a call back later on, okay?”

  I called Ben first. I know the dating experts would’ve probably told me to make him wait, but . . . aw, heck, I didn’t want to. I’m forty years old. Who has time to play mind games?

  We made plans for dinner and, despite my run-in with the testy Mr. Dobbs, I found myself in a delightful mood. After talking with Ben, I tried Violet. Her phone went straight to voice mail so I left her a “tag-you’re-it” message. Since Candy had made it apparent she didn’t want me to return her call, I called Mr. Franklin.

  “Ms. Martin,” Mr. Franklin’s voice boomed when he came on the line. “Thank you for calling back so promptly.”

  “You’re quite welcome. What can I do for you?”

  “I realize you’re currently obligated to Mrs. Fremont, but—”

  “How do you know that? I only met with Mrs. Fremont yesterday, and we don’t even meet to go over my design ideas until next week.”

  “Right . . . well, good news travels fast, as they say.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Now then, might you have time to prepare some cakes for Save-A-Buck?”

  I was still irritated with him. Within nine days, I’d gone from being a pariah to being the “It Girl” of baking. But I wasn’t going to turn my back on this opportunity. “Sure, I can make some cakes for Save-A-Buck. How many would you like and when do you need them?”

  “Could you get me ten cakes—the same as you brought the last time—by next weekend?”

  “I can do that, Mr. Franklin.”

  “Thank you. If you could bring the cakes to the store on Friday morning, that would be wonderful.”

  “Shall I put them in plain white boxes?”

  “Ex
cuse me?”

  “As opposed to boxes bearing my logo.”

  “Heavens, no, don’t use plain boxes. We’ll be delighted for our customers to know Save-a-Buck is a patron of Daphne’s Delectable Cakes.” He paused. “Friday then?”

  “All right, I’ll see you then.”

  Two cakes for clients this week, a potential new client with a lot of clout, and a cake order from Save-A-Buck complete with logo boxes. And a date with Ben this evening. I was feeling extremely pleased with the way this week was progressing. Violet’s call made things even better.

  “Hi. Jason has to go out of town for a couple days for a conference related to work, and the kids and I were wondering if you’d like to come for a sleepover tomorrow night.”

  “I’d love to. We haven’t done that in ages.”

  “Terrific. I’ll tell Lucas and Leslie. They’ll be thrilled.”

  “Where’s Jason going?”

  “Chicago. He’ll be back on Monday.”

  “Good. Oh, hey, I passed along the Cline information to Peggy March. She seemed happy about it.”

  “Wonder why she’d never looked into the matter herself? If you had a child and both her father and grandfather were dead, wouldn’t you want to know if she had any other family out there?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe not if I wanted to keep the child to myself. Maybe Peggy figured Joanne had her and her family and that was enough. Maybe she felt Joanne didn’t need her dad’s family, particularly since the child’s paternal grandmother had never appeared to have any desire to be in her life.”

  “I guess that makes sense.”

  “At least now, hopefully, Peggy and Joanne can gain something from Gloria Cline, even if it’s just closure.”

  “And, at least now they know the truth about our mom,” Violet said.

  “Exactly. So what time do you want me to come over tomorrow?”

  “Is five okay?”

  “Five is wonderful. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “So are we.”

  After talking with Violet, I went into the office to check Save-A-Buck’s previous order: three yellow, four white and three spice cakes. Still, I thought this time, they could use a couple of chocolate cakes; so I made this order for three yellow, two white, two chocolate and three spice cakes.

  I went to the kitchen, donned my apron and went to work. I made the chocolate cakes first, and I increased the recipe enough to make two bitty cakes—one for tomorrow’s sleepover and one to be put in the freezer. Of course, the cakes for Save-A-Buck would have to go into the freezer, too, until next week, when it was time to frost them. I put the cakes into the oven, set two timers and went back into the office to e-mail Bonnie. She and I had several days of catching up to do.

  Unfortunately, as I was booting up the computer, the phone rang. It was Fred from Save-A-Buck. Surprise left me nearly speechless.

  “Uh . . . what can I do for you, Fred?”

  “My papaw’s birthday is coming up. I was wondering if you could make him a cake with a picture of a snake on it.”

  “Yes, I could do that. Would you want the snake to look kind of scary or more along the lines of something funny?”

  “I think a funny one would be good, don’t you?”

  “I think so, yes. What about if I make you a round cake with the border being a snake with the snake’s head in the middle of the cake?”

  “That’d be awesome. Could you write, ‘Happy Birthday, Papaw’ on it?”

  “I can. When will you need the cake, Fred?”

  “Um . . . next Sunday, if that’s okay.”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  We discussed flavors, and Fred chose a red velvet cake with vanilla butter cream icing. I decided phone call interruptions weren’t such a bad thing after all.

  *

  Before getting ready for my date with Ben, I called Uncle Hal. Aunt Nancy answered the phone.

  “Hello, dear. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, Aunt Nancy. You?”

  “I’m doing well . . . running your uncle all over town to this sale and that.” She giggled.

  “Is he there?”

  “Yes . . . hold on a second.”

  Uncle Hal came on the line. “Hey, baby girl, what do you know?”

  “First of all, tell me how Dad’s doing. He calls and updates me about Mom; and even though he says he’s fine, I’m not so sure.”

  “He is doing fine. Your daddy is a tough old bird.”

  “Does he need me to come up and help with Mom?”

  “Honey, if he needed you to come up, he’d say so.”

  “No, he wouldn’t. That’s why I’m calling you . . . one of the reasons anyway.”

  “All right. I’ll keep an eye on him and if it appears he’s wearing himself out, I’ll give you a call.”

  “Great. Thanks. The other thing I wanted to tell you is that Mom was never married to Vern March.”

  “No, I didn’t think so.” He kept his voice casual for Aunt Nancy, as if we were still talking about Dad.

  “It was Gloria Cline he married when they were young.”

  “Okay. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Have you heard from your MRI yet?”

  “Yep, baby girl. That’s looking peachy.”

  “Thank you, Uncle Hal . . . for everything. Oh, one more thing—what do you know about Walt Duncan’s grandson, Fred?”

  “I believe he used to be a good kid before he was in that car wreck. I know Walt worries, but he doesn’t say too awful much. Why?”

  “It seems to me he has a Jekyll and Hyde thing going on. Every time I saw him in Save-A-Buck last week, he acted like a total jerk. Today when I was getting groceries I saw him and asked him about his snake, and he acted nice. In fact, he called later to ask me to make a cake for Mr. Duncan’s birthday.”

  “You must be in demand if he’s calling that far in advance.”

  “He said his papaw’s birthday is next Sunday.”

  “Either that boy’s memory is slipping—which is possible, given his condition—or mine is,” Uncle Hal said. “I seem to recall Walt’s birthday being in the spring.”

  I didn’t have a response to that. Perhaps Fred’s memory was fuzzy . . . or maybe he knew better than Uncle Hal when his own grandfather was born.

  “It’s probably all right,” Uncle Hal continued, “but you be awful careful where that boy is concerned. He’s not stable.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  After talking with Uncle Hal, I called Annabelle and updated her on Banjo’s living arrangements.

  “I hope they do keep him at Dr. Lancaster’s office,” she said. “That would be such excellent company for him.”

  “I agree. It’s evident the receptionist has fallen for him already.”

  Annabelle laughed. “The little charmer. By the way, I got a call from the police department. The yellow stain on Mother’s carpet was snake venom.”

  “How could that be?” I asked. “Do the police think there was a snake in the house?”

  “They’re not sure, but they do believe snake venom caused her death.”

  “How do you feel about that?” What was wrong with me? I had suddenly turned into Barbra Walters.

  “Horrible. I hope she didn’t suffer.” Her voice broke.

  “I hope so, too.”

  “The officer I spoke with said he doesn’t think she did.”

  “That . . . that’s a comfort then.”

  “Yeah . . . I guess.”

  Our conversation had become so awkward I didn’t want to prolong it. “I have to go. Please let me know if you need anything or if there’s anything I can do.”

  “Just be careful, Daphne. Someone you know might be a killer.”

  I’d considered that idea more than once. My hands finally stopped shaking as I was putting on my makeup, when Ben arrived.

  “I love your house,” he said, stepping into the kitchen. “It always smells like vanilla.”

 
“That’s one of the few fringe benefits I have in this business.” I smiled. “Help yourself to anything in the fridge, while I finish getting ready. I’ll be out in a second.” I went back to the bathroom to finish doing my face.

  I heard Ben open the refrigerator door. “Anything interesting happen today?” he asked. He sounded as if his head was buried inside the appliance.

  “I had a lot of interesting things happen. How about you?”

  He closed the refrigerator door. “Nah, my day was fairly boring.”

  “I spoke with Annabelle Fontaine,” I said as I returned from the bathroom.

  Ben had got a bottle of water and was leaning against the counter. “How is she?”

  “She’s coping. She did say the police had informed her of the cause of her mother’s death.” I held up a hand. “Don’t worry—I acted completely ignorant about the snake venom.”

  He took a swig of his water. “Any leads they’re discussing with her?”

  “She didn’t mention anyone in particular . . . or any particular motive, for that matter. She did remind me that the killer could be someone we know.”

  “Statistically speaking, that’s almost a certainty.”

  “Thank you for the reassurance.”

  Ben spread his hands. “I’m sorry, but it’s true. In a town this size, what are the odds Mrs. Watson’s killer was a drifter . . . a drifter carrying snake venom who went unnoticed by everybody else in town?”

  “Since you’re starting to freak me out a bit, let’s change the subject to one I’m more comfortable discussing,” I said. “You. Did you ever work for one of the larger newspapers?”

  “Are we talking The Washington Post or The New York Times, or do you mean a smaller larger newspaper?”

  “Either. You know what I mean. I feel you have too much ambition to work on a small town newspaper. So why do you remain where you are? Are you writing the Great American Novel? Are you waiting for that one big local story to propel you into the national media?”

  “Daphne, we’ve discussed this.”

  “I know we have, but I’d like a more satisfactory answer that what you’ve given me before. I’d like the truth.”