by Gayle Trent
Pipe small dots on the sides and top of the cake using tip number 4 (or smaller). Use light pressure to achieve smaller dots.
Use a strand of pearls (from your hobby or craft store) to further adorn the cake. Estimate the length of each side of the cake. Cut the pearls to size and gently place strand against the outside of the top border. Repeat for the inside of the top border. Repeat on the bottom border, placing pearl strands above and below the border.
Top the cake with a sprig of your favorite artificial flowers. Pipe a large mound of icing in the center of the cake and insert the flowers into this mound.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
First of all, I give thanks to God for the many blessings He has given me. Three of those blessings are Tim, Lianna and Nicholas. You encourage, support, help, cheerlead, advise and provide constant TLC. You guys are phenomenal.
Next, I’d like to thank my helpers: Stephanie Burnette, Cake Decorator Extraordinaire; Sheriff Fred Newman and Elaine Smythe of the Washington County Sheriff’s Office for schooling me a little in police procedure; Linda Dobkins, Critique Expert; Jungle Adventures for their tutelage on snakes; Lisa McCarty of the Scott County Virginia Star for information about and a photograph of the Scott County courthouse; Gary Hagy of the Division of Food and Environmental Services for coaching me on home baking regulations; and to Teena Haynes (pre-reader, cheerleader and prayer warrior).
For providing unlimited inspiration, I give a tip of the toque blanche to Chef Duff Goldman of Ace of Cakes and Charm City Cakes; to Sylvia Weinstock of Sylvia Weinstock Cakes; to Nati of Nati’s Cakes (located in Victoria, Australia) and a founding member of the Yahoo group, 3 Cakertiers; and to Cake Central.
For being my guinea pigs (my apologies to Guinevere), sounding boards, and on occasion whine indulgers, my heartfelt appreciation goes out to Retta and Wayne (my parents); Betty and Roy (my husband’s parents); Joyce, Kay, Kathy, Nancy S., Nancy Y., Faye, Ingrid, Anna Lee, Ella Ruth and Dottie (best little Bible study group in Bristol and possibly the world); Brenda and Margaret (writing buddies with great talent and big hearts); Beverly and Linda (readers and friends); Sally, Sandra, Ellen, Jan, Maureen and Donna (new friends and sources of tremendous encouragement met at the Sisters in Crime Mystery Bookfest in Roanoke, Virginia in March of 2007); and the Blue Ridge Pens, a supportive writing group I don’t get to see enough of.
Thank you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Gayle Trent is a full-time author. She lives in Bristol, Virginia with her husband, daughter and son.
Gayle previously worked in the accounting and legal fields, and her last such job was as secretary to a Deputy Commissioner in the Virginia Workers’ Compensation Commission. Though she enjoyed the work, it was a long daily commute and she felt she wasn’t spending enough time with her family. Now she writes while her children are at school; and thanks to a crock pot and a bread machine, can often have dinner ready when everyone gets home.
“I think it’s important to be here for my children…to take part in school functions and to be an active part of their lives,” Gayle says. “I can certainly sympathize with moms who work outside the home—been there, done that—but I would encourage everyone to make time to visit their children’s schools, to have lunch with them [at school] occasionally, to get a feel for who their friends are…little things like that.”
Gayle loves to hear from readers who can contact her via e-mail at [email protected] or via one of her Web sites: http://www.gayletrent.com or http://gayle24202.tripod.com. If you share an interest in cake decorating, please visit Daphne’s Web site, available via click-through from either of Gayle’s sites or at http://www.gayle24202.tripod.com/id9.html.
Coming Soon!
Another Daphne Martin Cake Baking Mystery
DEAD PAN
Excerpt
For the second time in as many months, I found myself telling a police officer, “I just brought the cake.”
“Yes, ma’am, and the lab has already tested remnants of that cake and determined it’s not the cause.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” It was also a relief to be dealing with Officer McAfee rather than Officer Hayden this time. Officer McAfee appeared to be on the backside of thirty and didn’t seem to rush to judgment the way young Officer Hayden had.
“Nevertheless, ninety percent of the folks who attended the Brea Ridge Pharmaceutical Christmas party are violently ill today,” Officer McAfee said.
“Right. As I said, I just brought the cake. I didn’t stay for the festivities.”
“Lucky you.” His brown fingers fumbled with a small blue notebook. “You didn’t notice anything unusual going on?”
“Like Momba Womba spiking the punch?” With a name like Daphne, I’m entitled to a Scooby Doo reference now and then, especially when I’m nervous. I can’t remember what Momba Womba really did, although I do remember he was a witch doctor. I’m fairly sure he didn’t spike any punch, or else Shaggy and Scooby would’ve been in big trouble.
Officer McAfee’s dark eyes widened as he leaned forward in my kitchen chair. “You saw somebody spike the punch?”
“No, no . . . I didn’t see anything.”
He stood up. “If you think of anything—anything at all—that might’ve made those people sick, call me.” He handed me his business card. “This is deadly serious, Ms. Martin. Fred Duncan is in the hospital in a coma today.”
“Fred Duncan?”
“Yeah. You know him?”
“He works at the Save-A-Buck.”
“Right.”
I walked Officer McAfee to the door. “That’s terrible. Do the doctors think he’ll be okay?”
He shook his head. “It’s not looking good.”
I’d barely had time to put our coffee cups in the dishwasher before my neighbor Myra was at the door. I invited her in and we went to sit in the living room. I felt I might as well be comfortable for my inquisition.
“I thought I saw a police car over here,” Myra said, kicking off her loafers and dropping into my pink and white checked club chair.
“You did. You did see a police car.” The Looney Tunes reference was lost on Myra. She was like a bloodhound with a scent to follow.
“What were they doing here?”
I sat down on the couch. “The Brea Ridge Pharmaceutical Company had their Christmas party last night.”
“Were you there? Did it get rowdy? Was there a drunken brawl?”
“I delivered a cake, but I left before the party started.”
“So you didn’t get to see the brawl?”
“As far as I know, there was no brawl.”
“Then why were the police here?”
“A lot of people who were at the party got sick.”
“From your cake?”
I held up my hand. “Definitely not from my cake. Officer McAfee said the lab tested remnants of the cake, and it was fine.”
“Remnants? I thought only carpet came in remnants. Huh.” She folded her legs up under her. “That Officer McAfee is a good looking man, ain’t he? He reminds me of Malcolm Winters from Y and R. Of course, he’s on that crime show now, so there you go.”
“There you go,” I echoed, as if her train of thought made one iota of sense.
“What was it that made everybody so sick?”
“They don’t know yet. Fortunately, the company had some drugs on hand that lessened the symptoms for most of them. They couldn’t help poor Fred Duncan, though.”
“He still sick?”
I nodded slowly. “He’s in a coma.”
“Fred Duncan is in a coma?” She scoffed. “Bet he’s fakin’.”
“Myra, you can’t fake a coma.”
“Oh, honey, you can. I did it one time. Me and Carl had this big fight and he stormed out. I wanted him to find me passed out on the bedroom floor when he got home so he’d feel really ashamed for how he’d left.”
I merely stared at her with my mouth hanging open.
“I took a couple of s
leeping pills and laid down on the floor,” she continued. “I don’t know how long I’d been asleep before Carl got home, but he was plenty worried when he finally got me revived. He called an ambulance and everything. And that wasn’t like Carl. Normally, he was so cheap, he’d have just pitched me in the back of the Buick, turned on the four-way flashers and took me to the hospital himself.” She smiled smugly. “Even with our insurance, that trip cost us a pretty penny. They checked my heart and everything.”
“You didn’t tell the doctor you took the sleeping pills?”
“Nah. That showed up in the blood work later. But by then, they’d gone over me with a fine tooth comb. I even got to have a CT scan. Let me tell you, Carl Jenkins never dared storm off and leave me again.”
“I guess not.”
“So, you see? You can fake a coma.”
*
Despite Myra’s assertions to the contrary, I did not believe Fred Duncan had faked his coma. I felt horrible for him and his family. His grandfather and my uncle were hunting buddies, and I knew Fred’s near fatal car accident and resulting brain damage about a year ago had taken a considerable toll on the Duncans. My niece and nephew were convinced Fred was “crushing on me big time” after he asked my sister a ton of questions about me at the grocery store and then ordered a cake for his grandfather. He’d ordered a birthday cake; and since Mr. Duncan’s birthday was still months away, Fred’s mother had called and canceled the order.
All of this pondering somehow led to my hopping in my little red Mini Cooper and heading to the hospital. And I hate, hate, hate hospitals.
I approached the two elderly women volunteering at the reception desk.
“I’m here to see Fred Duncan.”
One of the women tapped Fred’s name into the computer before directing me to the ICU waiting area. The halls were lined with potted peace lilies. I spotted the door with the sign reading “Chapel” and considered going in to say a prayer for Fred. The chapel would be an excellent place to hide while I steeled myself to actually go and see Fred. On the other hand, if there was a grieving family in the chapel, that would be a terribly awkward situation . . . especially if it was Fred’s family. I took a deep breath and went on to the ICU waiting room.
A nurse approached and quietly asked who I was there to see. I told her, and she led me back to a cramped room where Fred lay hooked up to a number of beeping, whirring, whooshing gadgets. A tired-looking woman sat in a straight-backed chair by the bed and held Fred’s hand.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Daphne Martin.”
“The cake lady.” She smiled wanly. “Now I can see why Fred ordered his papaw a birthday cake five months early. I’m Connie Duncan.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Duncan. How’s Fred?”
Connie looked at her son. “Not very well, Daphne. Would you talk to him . . . let him know you’re here?”
“Of course.” I moved closer to the bed. “Fred, hi, it’s me, Daphne. You’d better hurry up and get well before the Save-A-Buck goes broke. You know they can’t run that place without you.” I looked from Fred’s ashen face to Connie’s.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“Can I get you anything? A cup or coffee or a soda maybe?”
“Coffee would be nice. Would you walk down to the cafeteria with me?”
“Sure.”
Connie went by the nurses’ station to inform them she’d be back within five minutes, and then we headed for the cafeteria.
“I heard about the party,” I said as we walked. “Actually, Officer McAfee of the police department stopped by and asked me about it. I told him I only delivered the cake and didn’t know about all those people getting sick.” I bit my bottom lip. “For the record, the lab confirmed there was nothing in the cake that caused the illness.”
“I know, sweetie. This isn’t your fault.”
“What happened? How did all those people get sick?”
“I don’t know. I only wish that if one of us had to be sick, it had been me instead of Fred. He’s been through so much already.”
“Do you work at Brea Ridge Pharmaceutical?”
“Yes. I’m the bookkeeper.”
“I simply can’t understand how everybody—at least, everybody infected—got so sick so fast. Even if they contracted some sort of virus, it usually takes a few days to incubate, doesn’t it?”
“You’d think,” Connie said. “But the medicine Dr. Holloway gave out when people started getting sick appeared to help everybody except Fred.” She looked at me. “Why didn’t it help Fred?”
“I wish I knew.”
We’d arrived at the cafeteria. While Connie got her coffee, I stepped over to the soda machine to get a Diet Coke. I popped the tab on the can and took a drink. She rejoined me and we started walking back toward the ICU waiting area.
“I was impressed by how you found out who killed Yodel Watson,” Connie said. “I read about it in the papers.”
I grinned. “I wasn’t all that impressive. I’m dating the guy who wrote the article, so he might’ve fudged a bit.”
“No,” she said, “I don’t think so. I think you were very brave. You set your mind to finding out what happened to that old woman, and you did it. I admire you for that.”
“Thank you.” Why do I have a huge knot of dread gathering in my stomach? Dread not even Diet Coke can wash away?
She nodded and stirred her coffee. “I want you to do that for me.”
I stopped walking. “Excuse me?”
She’d taken a couple steps ahead of me and had to turn around to face me. “That’s what I want you to do for me. Find out what happened to Fred.”
“The police are already investigating, and—”
“But you’re Fred’s friend. You know him.”
Not exactly.
I started walking again and she fell into step beside me. “But I’m not a detective by any stretch of the imagination.”
“Yes, you are! You solved that other crime and put a killer in jail.”
Yeah. Not looking forward to testifying in that case. Certainly don’t want to get tangled up in another messy situation.
“Mrs. Duncan, I’d love to help you . . . really, I would . . . but the police are doing everything they can. I’m sure they’ll resolve this as quickly as they can.”
When we entered the ICU waiting area, the nurse on duty rushed toward Connie and propelled her in the direction of Fred’s room. Not knowing what else to do, I followed.
The nurse spoke in a hushed but urgent tone. “Fred is in some significant distress, Mrs. Duncan. We’re doing everything we can do.”
“Distress? What do you mean? What kind of distress? Will he be all right?”
If you’ve ever seen a soap opera or a movie-of-the-week, then you’ve heard the beep. As soon as I heard the beep, I closed my eyes.
Please, no. This can’t be happening.
When I reopened my eyes, a nurse was pulling the curtain around Fred’s bed and the doctor was approaching Connie.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Duncan. We did all we could do.”
Connie screamed, dropped her coffee, and threw herself into my arms. “They’ve killed him! They’ve killed my baby! You have to help me, Daphne.”
“I will,” I said, patting her back. I have to. It’s my fault you went for coffee.
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title page
Copyright Page
Table of Contents
AUTHOR’S NOTE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
Daphne’s Recipes
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Coming Soon!