Killer Sweet Tooth

by Gayle Trent

  I TURNED DOWN my bed and eased between the cool sheets. If I didn’t doze off right away, I’d watch some TV. Something funny.

  I propped my pillows against the headboard, but before I could lay my head back, the phone rang. It was China.

  “Hi, Daphne. I’m just calling to check in on you and to see how everything is going. You sound tired.”

  “I am,” I admitted. “So far, it’s been a trying week. And it isn’t showing signs of getting any better.”

  “Myra told me that you and she were going to check out the Sunoco,” China said. “I take it that visit didn’t turn up anything new?”

  “No. The Elvis who Hot Lips—I mean, the clerk—spotted could’ve been old or he could’ve been young. He had a medium build. He was wearing sunglasses. . . . In short, he could be any one of the EIEIO members, or he might not be any of them.” I sighed.

  “What’s next on your agenda?” she asked.

  “We’re going to try to get more information about the dentist,” I said.

  “I’ll rack my brain and see what I can come up with,” she said. “Have you talked with Ben yet?”

  “Not yet. We keep leaving messages but missing each other.”

  China said, “This spat is weighing on him.”

  “You think so?” I asked.

  “I know so. Millie, a friend of mine who delivers newspapers, said the Chronicle folks say he’s been grouchy as a bear with a sore paw all day,” she told me.

  “That’s not like Ben,” I said quietly.

  “I know it’s not.”

  “What do you think, China?” I asked. “Should I apologize again, or should—”

  “No indeed, you should not. You’ve already apologized. It’s up to him to accept your first apology. If he doesn’t, then that’s just too bad for him.” She huffed. “You didn’t dodge a bullet—literally—from that first man of yours to wind up groveling to another one. You deserve better than to have to do that.”

  I smiled. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. The right one will come along for you, Daphne. It might be Ben, and it might not. But don’t kowtow to anybody.”

  I digested that in silence for a moment before asking China what she’d thought of Dr. Bainsworth. “I’ve heard that he was married but that he had one affair after another. Did you know him? Did he strike you as that kind of person?”

  “I knew Jim Bainsworth. I’d known him since he was a boy,” she said. “He always acted like he was entitled. So, no, I wasn’t surprised to learn that he was a skirt chaser.”

  “What do you mean by entitled?” I asked.

  “You know, he acted like he deserved to have more than everybody else did, like he was special, like the world owed him something. A man like that comes across as if he’s doing everybody else a big favor just by being there. He probably thought his wife was lucky to have him, no matter how he treated her, and I imagine he felt the same way about his girlfriends.”

  “Humph. Sounds like Dr. Bainsworth was a real jerk,” I said.

  “He was, in a lot of ways. But in other ways, he could be sweet and caring,” China said. “And he was an excellent dentist. Dr. Farmer will have a hard time measuring up in my book.”

  “Wait,” I said. “You didn’t like Dr. Bainsworth, but you continued seeing him as your dentist?”

  She chuckled. “I never said I didn’t like him. I recognized his faults, but he had some good traits too. One of those good traits was that he was a great dentist. Of course, if I’d been his wife, I’d have killed him.”

  AFTER SPEAKING WITH China, I wasn’t as sleepy anymore. Her comment about killing Dr. Bainsworth had she been his wife had been said in jest, but I couldn’t get it out of my head. I needed to talk with Angela Bainsworth.

  I checked the clock and saw that it was still early enough to call Violet. I dialed her number and asked her for Angela’s contact information.

  “Why do you want to talk with Angela?” she asked.

  “Myra and I need to learn everything we can about Dr. Bainsworth and why someone might’ve wanted him dead,” I said. “I figure the man’s ex-wife would be the best source of that information.”

  Vi sighed. “The divorce process has been horrible for her. It really took its toll in the beginning, and she’s only now starting to get over it. Or, at least, she was. And now Jim is dead. Isn’t there any other way you can find out what you need to know?”

  “There might be,” I said. “But right now it looks as if Myra and I are the police department’s main persons of interest. I’d like to at least be able to point them in another direction. Wouldn’t you, if you were in my position?”

  “Of course. You know I’d do anything to help you.” She blew out another breath. “How about this? I’ll call Angela first thing in the morning to see if you and I can talk with her. Maybe we can meet her for lunch or something.”

  “How did we go from you asking if there was another way to gain insight into Dr. Bainsworth’s life to you arranging for the two of us to talk with Angela over lunch?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “You reminded me that you’re in trouble.”

  I could hear the unsaid again in her tone.

  “And I want to help you out,” she continued. “Besides, Angela might be more forthcoming if I’m there since she and I are acquainted.”

  “Are you sure you’re not just going with me in order to find out who’ll be putting Dr. Bainsworth’s house on the market now that he’s dead?” I asked.

  “Daphne! That’s a terrible thing to say! If you don’t want me to go with you, I won’t.”

  “I’m sorry, Vi. It was a joke. I didn’t mean to be snotty. It’s been a rough week and it’s only Monday.”

  “I know, but don’t alienate the people who care about you,” she said. “I’ll call Angela tomorrow morning and then let you know what she says. I’m sure she would like to see this crime solved, too, even if she was divorcing him.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “And for the record, auction houses usually deal with estate sales.”

  “I said I’m sorry,” I told her, thinking how much she could be like Mom sometimes.

  “I’m sorry too,” she said. “But you reminded me of Mom when you said that. Sometimes it seems as if she’s always looking for an ulterior motive.”

  My jaw dropped, and I gave an indignant squeak. “Me? I sound like her? You’re the one who’s talking like Mom with that self-righteous attitude that somebody has to bail stupid Daphne out again.”

  “She is not self-righteous,” she said, “and the only reason any of us would feel like you need to be bailed out of trouble again is because you seem to be a magnet for it.”

  “Apparently, I broke a bunch of mirrors at one time or another,” I said. “Please don’t worry yourself about any difficulties I get myself into. I’ll find a way to extract myself from them on my own.”

  “You called me and asked for my help,” Vi reminded me. “I offered it, and you got all huffy with me.”

  I digested this in silence for a full three seconds. Then I started to cry.

  “You’re really upset,” Violet said. “I didn’t realize this situation was that serious.”

  “I guess I’m just weary and fed up.” I went on to explain that if I read between the lines in that day’s Chronicle story, the police didn’t have sufficient evidence to charge Myra or me with Dr. Bainsworth’s murder—or anything—yet. But they had been following us around and asking questions about us, and we were afraid they’d come up with some sort of motive if we didn’t get involved with the investigation.

  “That’s not your job, Daphne. It’s the responsibility of the police department to discover who killed Dr. Bainsworth. Do you think they’re too stupid to do their jobs?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “But people won’t talk with them as readily as they’ll talk with Myra and me. Police officers are intimidating. They make people nervous.”

&n
bsp; “That’s true enough, I guess. What’s Ben saying?” she asked.

  I couldn’t bring myself to tell Violet that Ben and I had a falling-out. So I said, “Not much, but he confirmed that Myra and I are currently the only suspects in the murder.”

  “That’s ridiculous. There’s no way they could seriously suspect either one of you. Try to get some sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow as soon as I talk with Angela,” Violet said.

  “Thank you. I appreciate your help. Really, I do.”

  I AWOKE TUESDAY morning feeling refreshed, well rested, and a little Doris Day. Not only about the dentist’s murder investigation but about Ben too. After all, our high school romance hadn’t panned out. Maybe he and I just weren’t meant to be. I didn’t have the time or the energy to mope. I’d wasted enough time in my life hoping a man I was with would come to care about me. I wouldn’t do that anymore.

  Que sera sera . . . whatever will be will be.

  So now you understand the Doris Day reference and hopefully won’t think I had what was referred to as “a nervous breakdown” when I was growing up.

  Anyway, I hopped out of bed and straightened it up before I left the bedroom. I took my clothes and went into the bathroom. I peered into the mirror. I looked much better this morning than I had yesterday morning. From now on, self-pity was verboten.

  I took a lingering scented bath, and then I dressed in dark denim jeans and a pink cowl-neck sweater. I applied my makeup with care, and I swept my hair up into a ponytail.

  I went into the kitchen and removed the sheet cakes from the refrigerator to allow them to warm to room temperature before decorating them. I fed Sparrow and then made my own breakfast. Since I was being especially kind to myself, I opted for a ham and Swiss omelet and a slice of whole wheat toast. I was humming under my breath as I cleaned up my breakfast dishes, strode to the pantry, and took out five party trays.

  I placed the trays on the kitchen table and took the brownies out of the refrigerator. I cut the brownies into two-inch squares and arranged them and the cookies on the trays while white and dark chocolate was melting in two double boilers. I’d left a circular space in the middle of each tray for the pretzels. I stirred the now-melted chocolate, opened a bag of pretzels, and dipped the pretzels in the confection.

  While the pretzels were cooling on waxed paper, I went to my office to check my e-mail—sadly, no new cake orders or quote requests—and printed off labels for the cakes. Upon returning to the kitchen, I tinted some vanilla buttercream green and iced the cakes smooth. Since these were to be football-themed cakes, I decided to go the simple route and make them all look like football fields. I piped a simple white shell border on the tops and bottoms of all five cakes, and then I piped yard lines with thin white icing. I numbered the yard lines and added plastic goal posts and footballs. When I’d finished, I put the cakes in Daphne’s Delectable Cakes boxes with the flavor and ingredient labels on them.

  I placed a combination of each type of pretzel on the party trays before putting the lids on the trays. Fait accompli!

  I removed my apron, grabbed my jacket, and began loading the party trays and cakes into the backseat of my car. During my last trip into the house, Sparrow made her usual escape out the door. I figured she’d be waiting for me on the porch when I returned.

  I noticed a patrol car driving slowly past my house. I recognized Officer Halligan. He was peering at me, so I smiled broadly and waved at him.

  It was still early, and there wasn’t much traffic on the road. But on my way to the Save-A-Buck, I was stopped at a traffic light and noticed a silver BMW in the parking lot of an abandoned restaurant. I could see that there was a woman in the car and that she was with someone. I couldn’t make out anything about the other person but the woman’s profile was clearly visible. She leaned toward her passenger, and it appeared they were kissing. I wondered why the couple would be sitting outside a deserted restaurant. It was for sale, so maybe she and the man were planning on buying it or something. Still, it struck me as odd that they would be there alone this early on a Tuesday morning. My imagination was ignited, and I decided they were getting ready to start a new life together. They were going to open this restaurant with the proceeds of the big house they’d sold, or they were getting a small business loan. This had been their dream ever since they’d first married, and now they’d decided to go for it.

  The light turned green, and my movie-of-the-week scenario had to end. I drove on to the Save-A-Buck. I went inside and got two shopping carts and a bagger to help me bring in the party trays and cakes. As the bagger and I were bringing the carts back in, Mr. Franklin spotted us.

  “Daphne, good job,” he said. “Wait just a second and I’ll set up a table for those. Josh, will you give me a hand please?”

  With a nod, Josh hurried off with Mr. Franklin.

  I saw that Juanita was at her usual register and went over. “Good morning,” I said. “I left a message for you yesterday.”

  She smiled slightly. “Yes. I got the message but it was too late to return your call.”

  “Are you feeling all right?” I asked.

  “Yes . . . much better today,” she said. “Are the damas and the fountain I brought okay?”

  “They’re terrific,” I said.

  “Good.” She looked down at her hands. “I’m sorry about yesterday, I just . . . I saw . . .” She pressed her lips together and seemed to be weighing her words before she spoke. “I saw that you still had company, and I didn’t want to interrupt. And I suddenly felt . . . unwell.”

  “That’s fine, Juanita. I’m just glad you’re feeling better.”

  Mr. Franklin and Josh returned with a white table. They placed the table at the front of the store with a banner proclaiming FRESH BAKED GOODS. I arranged the party platters and cakes on the table, waved good-bye to Juanita, and left.

  After I got home from the Save-A-Buck, I decided to mix up the quinceañera cakes for Juanita’s sister and then cover the Cadillac cake with fondant while they were baking.

  Soon the quinceañera cakes were in the oven, and my house smelled of vanilla. I got out a tub of white buttercream-flavored fondant and some pink gel color. I put on disposable gloves and worked the tint through a large mound of fondant. When I had it the cotton-candy color I was going for, I placed the mound of fondant on a sheet of waxed paper in the middle of the island. I took off the gloves and laid them aside. Using a rolling pin, I wrestled the fondant into a huge, smooth oval. I gently lifted it off the waxed paper and draped it over the cake. As I was working it into all the creases and crevices that defined the shape of the car, there was a knock at the kitchen door.

  “Come on in,” I called.

  Myra came in, shrugged out of her jacket, and hung it on a peg by the door. “That’s as cute as it can be,” she said as she sat on one of the stools and watched me finish covering the Cadillac cake. “I can hardly wait to see it finished, and to see everybody’s reaction to it at the dinner on Friday.”

  “Me too.” I took a pizza cutter from the utility drawer. “Wait a sec. I thought you said Cecil was boring when he wasn’t performing as Elvis.”

  “Oh, he is, honey. Duller than dirty laundry,” she said. “The literal kind, not the gossip kind. But Cecil’s not the only Elvis in town, you know.” She grinned. “Last night I got a call from John. You remember him from yesterday?”

  “I remember. He was the young redhead who couldn’t seem to keep the dates straight, right?”

  “That’s him.” She lifted one shoulder. “And he’s not that young. He’s older than he looks . . . a little skinny for my tastes, but he was awfully sweet over the phone.”

  “Won’t that be uncomfortable?” I asked. “Going to a party on Friday with your new Elvis when you know your old one will be there too?”

  “It might be,” she said. “But Cecil had his chance. He can’t imagine a tomato like me would linger long on the vine without getting plucked.”

  “I guess not.”
>
  “Besides,” she said, “they’ll both be gone in a few days. I need to make a little hay while the sun shines. Why are they hanging around so long anyway?”

  “From what I can gather, they have this convention somewhere every year to plan the following year’s missions and go over the budget, fund-raising ideas, and whatever else Elvis missionaries do,” I said. “But speaking of the suspects being gone in a few days, were you able to find out anything?”

  “Yep. I called both our dry cleaners, but neither of them took in a blue suede jacket over the past couple days.”

  “So we need to check with out-of-town cleaners,” I said.

  “I called a few of them, too. One was closed on Tuesdays, but I left a message. I’m thinking that coat is gonna be a dead end,” she said. “Not even the real Elvis would’ve hung on to a costume with a murder victim’s blood on the sleeve.”

  Nodding, I cut the excess fondant from around the cake with the pizza cutter.

  “Besides,” she said, “what idiot would take a bloody jacket to the dry cleaner when he had to know the police would be looking for it?”

  “Excellent point,” I said. “Were you able to get anything from talking with Tanya?”

  “Oh, honey.”

  I closed my eyes, thinking that on the one hand I didn’t have time for one of Myra’s long, drawn-out stories. But, on the other hand, she might have valuable information. “Would you like some coffee before you begin?”

  “Oh, no, thanks. Looks like you’ve got your hands full anyway.” She folded her arms. “Do you know Bunni Wilson? She’s Jobab Harris’s sister. Their mother insisted on giving them Bible names, but she didn’t want to pick the same ones most other people do, so she chose a couple of names that were way out there.”

  I tried not to ask, but it was like trying to stifle a sneeze. I simply couldn’t stop myself. “Joe Bob and Bunny are Bible names?”

  “Yeah. They’re in the Old Testament. Only Jobab is one word, and Bunni is spelled with an i. That’s why Ms. Harris felt it would be a good girl’s name.” She nodded. “Of course, jobab means ‘desert’ . . . which might explain the man’s personality. He’s as dry as the Sahara during a heat wave.”