by Gayle Trent
“Will Dr. Bainsworth be okay?” I asked.
“No. He’s dead.”
At that, Myra just flat-out started to cry.
“IT’S GONNA BE okay,” the younger officer—Officer Kendall—told Myra, trying to reassure her, as he eased us into the back of the patrol car. “I called the station and we have a doctor on call who happens to be there right now. We had a patient fall against his toilet and chip a tooth, so we called in the dentist.” He smiled at Myra. “So, you’re in luck. Since we need to take you to the station for questioning so Crime Scene can go over Dr. Bainsworth’s office, you get some free dental work on behalf of the Brea Ridge Police Department.”
“Yay,” Myra said sarcastically.
I glared at her.
“Wha?” she asked. “He’s had his hans in a prisoner’s mouf and maybe a toilet.”
“You’re talking like Scooby-Doo,” I said.
“You ought to know . . . Raphne.”
I sighed and rested my head against the back of the seat. I shuddered to think what might be on it—blood, spit, snot, vomit—and decided I’d scrub my scalp raw in a scalding shower as soon as I got home. I thought about whether or not this was the worst night of my life. Sadly, this night didn’t even make my top-ten list.
I suppose number one on the list would have to be the night my ex-husband shot at me. Fortunately, he missed . . . which is why he’s now serving time for attempted murder in a Tennessee prison and why I moved back to my hometown in Virginia to start life anew at the tender age of forty.
If you’re wondering why he shot at me, it was because the mileage on my car wasn’t where it should have been at the end of the day. On my way home from work, I’d gone four-tenths of a mile out of my way to a bookstore—which turned out to be eight-tenths of a mile after I got back on the route home, naturally—so I knew I was busted before I’d even gotten home. But I was so tired of having my every move controlled . . . tired of having to ask permission to stop at the grocery store or to schedule a hair appointment . . . tired of being told what to do and when to do it . . . tired of signing and turning over my paycheck to someone who wouldn’t even allow me to have a checking account or a credit card . . . tired of not being able to voice an opinion . . . I was just plain tired. So, I did it. I knew there’d be a price to pay, but I was at the point of being willing to pay it. And the title of the book I’d bought? Regaining Your Self-Respect: A Ten-Step Plan.
So, you see? This night was cake compared to that one.
Cake. I almost laughed at the irony of my thoughts. That’s my claim to fame here in Brea Ridge—Daphne’s Delectable Cakes. Well, that and seeing dead people. Not like the kid in that movie with Bruce Willis but rather literal dead people. Since I’d set up shop here, my first customer had been murdered, and a bagger from the town’s grocery store had been poisoned. Neither of those incidents had anything to do with me; they were just wrong-place-wrong-time situations. Like tonight.
Myra elbowed me in the side. “You awake?”
“Yes.”
She nodded toward the windshield to show me that we’d arrived.
The officers parked the squad car and opened the doors to remove Myra and me. Officer Kendall, the nice one, said Dr. Huffington would fix Myra’s tooth while they were interrogating me.
Officer Halligan punched in a code, and we entered the jail. We were in the back part, so we walked down a concrete floor past holding cells on the way in. It wasn’t pleasant. In fact, it was downright creepy. The entire area smelled like urine and sweat. A few disheveled, drunken people (mainly men) yelled things (mainly obscenities) at us as we passed by their cells. I so did not want to wind up sleeping over at this establishment.
An oversized man barreled down the hall and exuberantly greeted Myra. “Hey, Ms. Jenkins! Remember me? Mark Huffington?”
Myra’s eyes widened. “Btter?”
“Yeah!” He laughed. He looked at me. “Back in the day, Myra’s son Carl Jr. and the other kids called me Butter—you know, short for ‘butterfingers’—because I couldn’t hold on to a football or a basketball to save my life.” He chuckled again, reminding me of a cross between John Candy and Christian Slater. “Better hope I’m not as clumsy with a drill, eh, Ms. Jenkins?”
I recalled Myra saying that Carl Jr. had attended Abingdon High School. They hadn’t moved to Brea Ridge until he was in college.
Poor Myra looked terrified as “Butter” led her away. I didn’t feel much more at ease as I stepped into the interrogation room and heard the heavy metal door slam shut behind me.
CHAPTER
Two
MYRA AND I spent the next several hours at the police station. We were fingerprinted, so our prints could be compared with others found in the office. They questioned me, then waited for Dr. Huffington to fill Myra’s tooth and for her anesthesia to wear off so they could talk with her alone and understand what she was saying. After interrogating us separately, they questioned us together. This after leaving us alone in the interrogation room for an hour or so to see if we would say anything incriminating. We’d both seen enough crime shows to know better than to say anything at all to each other.
Naturally, our stories matched up. We were telling the truth. And we had both—separately and jointly—told the exact same story, down to where we’d picked up the dental props because we’d heard something in the office. They had then taken our formal, sworn statements. Finally, they’d agreed we could be released. Officer Kendall had kindly offered us a ride to the dentist’s office to pick up my car.
“It’s been a long night,” Officer Kendall said as he ushered Myra and me into his patrol car. “I’m used to it. I work twelve-hour shifts from six P.M. to six A.M. every evening. But I reckon you ladies are tuckered out.”
“We’re tuckered, all right,” Myra said.
“I could probably take you home rather than to the dentist’s office,” he said. He turned to look at me. “Is there somebody who can drive you over to pick up your car later today?”
“No,” I said. “I mean, yeah, somebody could, but I want to get my car now.”
“You’re sure you’re up to driving home?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” I insisted.
“How about you, Ms. Jenkins? Would you like me to take you home?” he asked.
“Gosh, no,” Myra said. “After being out all night, can you imagine what god-awful things folks would say if I came rolling up in a police car? I’d rather take my chances with Daphne.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said. “You so give me the warm fuzzies.”
Officer Kendall drove us back to . . . well, to the scene of the crime, where yellow police tape had been affixed across the front door.
I ran my hands over the knees of my jeans. “How did Dr. Bainsworth’s assailant get in?”
“The crime scene techs said there was no sign of forced entry,” Officer Kendall said. “They figure either Dr. Bainsworth allowed the person or persons in, that the murderer had a key, or that someone had neglected to lock all the office doors when they left yesterday.”
“Then you think it might’ve been an inside job,” I said.
“It’s too early to form a definitive conclusion at this time,” he said.
“I wanna go home,” Myra said.
“All right. Let’s go.” I thanked Officer Kendall for the ride as he let us out of the patrol car.
We got into my car, and I started the engine. It felt good to be behind the wheel—back in control—of something. I noticed that Officer Kendall followed us for a while to make sure I was okay to drive.
After I had seen Myra safely home, I drove the few remaining yards to my house and pulled into the driveway. The sun hadn’t come up yet, but the sky showed that it was considering doing so. I was so weary it was all I could do to put one foot in front of the other as I walked to my front door. I still wanted that shower, but I didn’t know if I could stay awake long enough to manage it. I fumbled as I tried to put my key into
the lock.
“Well, hey there, pretty mama,” a warm, mellow voice said from behind me.
I turned around quickly to see who had sneaked up on me. It was Elvis. Elvis Presley. And it appeared as though he’d just stepped out of a pink and white 1955 Cadillac Fleetwood with whitewall tires. This was the young, thin Elvis, and he was wearing black leather pants, a matching jacket, and a white and black striped shirt.
I was so tired I simply started laughing, and I couldn’t stop. Tears flowed down my face, and I couldn’t catch my breath. The fact that I was so exhausted I was seeing Elvis and a pink Cadillac should have had me worried, but, oddly enough, I found it hilarious. I guessed it beat pink elephants.
Elvis frowned. “What’s so funny, darlin’? Was it something I said?”
“It’s everything you said. Either the paperboy has really stepped up his game, or I’m hallucinating. That, or I’m dead. Are you Elvis?”
“Well, yeah . . . I mean, no. I’m an Elvis impersonator and a member of the Elvis Impersonators’ Evangelical Interdenominational Outreach. . . . We’re a national charity organization otherwise known as the EIEIO.”
That sent me into another fit of laughter, and Elvis chuckled right along with me this time.
“The founder’s last name was MacDonald,” Elvis said.
I had called my boyfriend Ben when we were leaving the police station and told him briefly what had happened to Myra and me. Moments later, Ben pulled up to find me and Elvis huddled together laughing hysterically with me holding my door key.
He got out of his white Jeep. “What’s going on?”
I held up my hand. “Do you see this guy?”
“Yeah,” Ben said.
“Does he look like Elvis?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Ben said, planting his hands on his hips.
“Thank goodness,” I said. “I haven’t lost my mind.”
“Is it so strange to find an Elvis look-alike at your door?” Elvis asked.
“It’s not even light out yet,” Ben said.
Elvis tilted his head. “You’ve got a point there, buddy. But I was just driving by and I saw this young lady pulling into her driveway, and I stopped.” He shrugged. “I was planning on talking with her sometime today anyhow. I got her name from Aaron, one of our local boys. When I saw the sign in her yard, I knew I was in the right place.” He shrugged. “Seemed like this was as good a time as any since she was here and I was here.”
“What did you want to see me about?” I asked him. “Are you looking for a cake?”
“Well, I just told you about the EIEIO. We’re in town this week at the Brea Ridge Hotel for a convention, and we’d like you to make us a cake for next Friday night’s gala.”
I turned and unlocked the door, then invited Ben and Elvis in and stifled a yawn as the men followed me inside.
“What’s the EIEIO?” Ben asked.
“The EIEIO is a group of missionaries who dress up and perform as Elvis,” I explained.
I sat my purse on the counter and took a magnetized notepad off the refrigerator door. “How many people will your cake need to serve?” I asked as I slid the bowl of last night’s popcorn on the island over to make room to write.
“Well, there are twenty-five of us in town for the convention. Those who have wives or girlfriends will bring them to the gala.” He looked up at the ceiling as he calculated. “Some of our event coordinators will be there. Let’s make it seventy-five just to be on the safe side.”
“All right. Is there a particular design you’d like?” I asked.
He grinned. “Yes, ma’am. A pink Cadillac.”
I smiled. “I should’ve known it would be that or blue suede shoes.”
“Yep.” He stuck out his hand. “Just dawned on me I haven’t properly introduced myself. I’m Scottie Phillips.”
I shook his hand. “Daphne Martin.”
Ben extended his hand. “And I’m Ben Jacobs.”
I looked at Ben as he and Scottie shook hands. “What are you doing here this time of the morning?” I asked Ben.
He glanced at Scottie and then back at me. “We’ll talk about it after you finish your business here.”
“Okay.” I turned my attention back to Scottie. “What flavor cake would you like?”
“Can you make a peanut butter and banana cake?” he asked. “You know, Elvis loved his peanut butter and bananas.”
“I’ve never made one before . . . but if there’s a recipe out there for peanut butter and banana cake, I can certainly make it,” I said.
“You are an angel,” he said with a smile.
“She certainly is,” Ben said.
Scottie gave me his cell number and told me to call him if I had any questions. He invited Ben and me to a performance at the Brea Ridge Hotel on Sunday night, and then he left.
Ben wanted lots of answers as soon as Elvis—I mean, Scottie—left. But I simply couldn’t talk about last night’s ordeal yet.
“Thanks for coming over, Ben, but, please, can we wait until I’ve taken a shower to get into it?” I asked. “I was scared half to death, then I was in the back of the squad car. And then I had to mingle in the jail with other people who’d been hauled in.” I shuddered. “I really need to bathe.”
“Of course. Sorry.”
“Do you mind opening a can of food for Sparrow and putting it into her bowl?” I asked. “She won’t eat it unless you go into the living room, though.”
“Is she ever going to get used to me?” he asked as he opened the small can of food and dumped it onto her plate by the kitchen door.
“Eventually.”
I heard him toss the can into the recycle bin before going into the living room to wait for me. I took my nearly scalding shower, washed my hair, rinsed, repeated . . . repeated . . . and repeated just one more time for good measure. Then I scrubbed my body with a loofah and even went over and under my fingernails with a nail brush.
I towel-dried my hair and dressed in black yoga pants, a teal sweatshirt, and shea-butter-infused lavender socks. I didn’t figure I’d win the Damsel of the Day award, but then, I wasn’t vying for it. I was more tired than I thought by now and was hoping to answer Ben’s questions so I could turn the ringer off on my phone and go to bed.
I walked past Sparrow furtively eating her breakfast in the kitchen. She looked up at me as if to admonish me for being out all night. Cats can look so haughty and condemning. Then, as if her expression hadn’t spoken volumes, she nonchalantly went back to eating.
I went into the living room and found Ben sitting on the couch watching an early morning news show. I sat down beside him, and he put his arm around me.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Hi,” I said. “Now, are you going to tell me what brings you by so early this morning?”
“I just wanted to check on you and make sure you’re okay. You want to talk about it now?”
“There’s not much to say.” I stifled a yawn and nestled my head on his shoulder. “Myra lost a filling . . . we called the dentist . . . and he said he’d meet us there. . . . So we . . . went to his office . . . and found him. It was terrible. I thought he was only unconscious.”
“And you said earlier on the phone that he died from a blow to the head. Did the police find the murder weapon?”
“Not that I know of. They weren’t exactly forthcoming with Myra and me.” My eyelids were so heavy. I went ahead and let them shut. “Tell me they’ll find whoever did this.”
“They will,” he promised.
WHEN I AWOKE, I was lying on the sofa covered with a fleece throw. There was a note from Ben on the coffee table.
Hi, sweetheart. You’re obviously exhausted. I’ll be back later with dinner.
—Ben
I looked at the clock. It was nearly two in the afternoon. I rubbed my eyes and went into the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee. While the coffee was brewing, I cleaned up the Scrabble game and the almost-untouched refreshments. What should h
ave been a night of relaxing fun had turned into a nightmare. Poor Dr. Bainsworth. I wondered who’d want to hurt him. He’d seemed really nice over the phone, super-indulgent toward Myra. . . . I couldn’t dwell on that now, though. After a long dry spell, I had work to do. And since baking is the best form of therapy I’ve found yet, I was glad I’d found Elvis and his crazy cake order on my porch that morning.
I took my coffee and the notes I’d made about Scottie Phillips’s Cadillac cake into my office and turned on the computer. Carving the cake wouldn’t be easy, especially with the fins and all the other angles. Still, a template would help. I just hoped I could find a peanut butter and banana cake recipe.
To my surprise and delight, there were a number of peanut butter and banana cake recipes online. I scanned several until I found the one I felt would both taste the best and be the best consistency for carving. I made myself a grocery list and printed the recipe.
Before shutting off the computer, I checked my e-mail to see if anyone had requested a cake quote. No one had. That made me realize that “the King” and I hadn’t discussed my fee. I decided to give him a call before heading out to the Save-A-Buck. Unfortunately, I got his voice mail. I left a message quoting a price and went on to the grocery store. Right now, any business was business. Plus, while I was at the Save-A-Buck, I could talk with the manager, Steve Franklin, about making some cakes and cookies for the store. The Save-A-Buck is a smaller store and doesn’t have an in-store bakery, so Mr. Franklin allows me to bring in baked goods with my logo and contact information on the boxes and sell them on consignment.
I went into the bathroom, splashed some water on my face, and then put on a little makeup. I still looked pale and tired eyed, but at least I was wearing mascara and lipstick. People couldn’t accuse me of not trying. I pulled on my boots, coat, and gloves, grabbed my purse off the counter, and headed out.