by Gayle Trent
“‘It is not,’ China said. ‘You saw me copy that recipe out of McCall’s when we were both at the beauty shop waitin’ to get our hair done!’
“‘So what if I did?’ Yodel asked. ‘I subscribe to McCall’s. How was I supposed to know you’d be making a similar cake?’
“China got right up in Yodel’s face and hollered, ‘It’s the same cake!’
“Yodel said it wasn’t. She said, ‘I put almonds and a splash of vanilla in mine. Otherwise that cake would be boring and bland.’
“At this point, the preacher tried to intervene. ‘They both look delicious,’ he told them, ‘and I’m sure there are enough of us here to eat them both.’
“Yodel and China were like two snarling dogs, and I don’t believe either of them heard a word he said. China had already set her cake on the table, but Yodel was still holding hers. China calmly placed her hand on the bottom of Yodel’s cake plate and upended that cake right on Yodel’s chest.”
I giggled. “Really?”
“Really. And then China walked to the door and said, ‘I’ve had it with her. I won’t be back here until one of us is dead.’ And she ain’t been back to church since.”
“Wow,” I said. “That’s some story.”
“Makes you wonder if China finally got tired of sitting home by herself on Sunday mornings.”
Seeing how serious Myra looked, I stifled my laughter. “Do you honestly think this woman has been nursing a grudge all these years and killed Mrs. Watson rather than simply finding herself another church?”
“There’s not another Baptist church within ten miles of here.” She finished off her soda. “People have killed for crazier reasons than that, haven’t they?”
“I suppose, but—”
“And if it wasn’t China York, I can think of a few other folks who had it in for Yodel.”
“Come on. I’ll admit she’s been a pain to work with on these cakes, but I have a hard time casting Mrs. Watson in the role of Cruella de Vil.”
Myra got up and put her empty soda can in the garbage. “I didn’t say she made puppy coats. I said there were a lot of people who’d just as soon not have Yodel Watson around.”
I WAS RELIEVED when Myra left. She seemed to be a good person, and I liked her, but she could be a bit much. Everything was so dramatic with her. She even had me wondering whether or not poor Mrs. Watson died of natural causes.
I got up and walked down the hall to my office. It had a sofa bed so it could double as a guest room if need be. It also held a desk, a file cabinet, and a bookcase full of cookbooks, cake decorating books, small-business books, marketing books, and one photograph of me with Lucas and Leslie. The photo had been taken last year when I was at Violet’s house for Christmas.
I booted up my computer. As always, I checked my e-mail first. E-mail is a procrastinator’s dream come true. There was a message from my friend Bonnie, still holding down the fort at the company I’d worked for in Tennessee:
Hey, girl! Are you up to your eyebrows in cake batter? I can think of worse predicaments. We get off half a day Wednesday. I can hardly wait. Do you have tons of orders to fill before Thursday? I hope so. I mean, I hope business is off to a good start but that you have time to enjoy the holiday, too. I really miss you, Daph. Write when you can and fill me in on everything, especially whether or not any of your neighbors are HAGs!
I smiled. HAG was our acronym for Hot Available Guy. It wasn’t a flattering acronym, but it worked.
I marked the e-mail as unread and decided to reply when I had better news to report. As I deleted my junk messages, I thought about Bonnie. We had met while I was taking culinary classes at a local college. She was taking business courses and was desperate to get into the field I wanted out of so badly. One evening, we were two of the oldest people in the student lounge. That night even the faculty members present were in their twenties! Bonnie and I were both in our early thirties, and after that initial meeting we had fun people-watching over coffee before all our evening classes.
When a job opened up at the company I worked for, Bonnie applied and got the job. It wasn’t long after that my college days came to an abrupt end. Not believing that I could actually be good—make that, great—at something, dear hubby Todd came by the school one evening and saw Chef Pierre. Admittedly, Chef Pierre was impressive in every way, but Bonnie and I had already dubbed him a HUG—Hot Unavailable Guy. Chef Pierre was married, had three young children, and was devoted to his lovely wife. Todd couldn’t get past the chef’s stellar looks, though. I was the chef’s star student, so Todd thought I had to be sleeping with the man and made me drop out.
But I’d already been bitten by the baking bug. I watched TV chefs, bought cake decorating books, rented how-to videos, and practiced decorating every chance I got. I’d practice on vinyl place mats. And I’d tell myself “Someday.”
Now it seemed my “someday” had come. I was an excellent cake decorator, I’d finally taken a chance, and I was finally tuning out Todd’s taunting voice in my head. I was believing in myself for the first time in years. I knew I could make this business work.
I started when the phone rang.
“Hey, I heard about Mrs. Watson. You must’ve freaked out when you found her,” my sister said as soon as I picked up.
“How’d you know?”
“I saw Bill Hayden’s wife at the school when I picked up Leslie and Lucas this afternoon.”
Bill Hayden. Officer Bill Hayden. Married . . . and with children. He must be older than he looked.
“Why didn’t you call me?” Violet asked.
“I don’t know.” Because you’re perfect, and in three years when you turn forty, all you’ll have to be concerned about is laugh lines? Because I didn’t come back home to have a babysitter? Because I promised myself I wouldn’t be the one thorn in your bouquet of roses? “Myra came over as soon as I got home, so I really didn’t have a chance to call.”
“No, I don’t suppose you did. Did you tell her about Yodel?”
“Yeah. Should I not have?”
“Eh. I guess it’ll be in the paper tomorrow anyway.”
“Plus, it’s a really small town, Vi. There were probably a dozen messages on Myra’s answering machine when she got back home. I mean, you heard it at the school, right?”
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Violet said. “I’m merely cautioning you to be careful of what you say to Myra.”
“With Myra I find myself mostly listening.”
“I know that’s true.” Violet laughed. “Just be careful. As a witness in a homicide investigation, you have to watch what you say to the general public.”
“A homicide investigation? The coroner didn’t send the woman’s body to Roanoke for autopsy until this afternoon. The results couldn’t possibly be in.”
“No, of course not, but Joanne told me Bill said there were indications of foul play. They believe Yodel was poisoned.”
“Is that ethical?”
“He only told his wife, Daphne.”
“And she told you and who knows who else. What is it with small-town drama?”
“Excuse me, Ms. Big City. I forgot how boring we must be to you now.”
“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Vi. I just think Officer Hayden should learn a bit about confidentiality, that’s all.”
“Please don’t get him in trouble.”
“I won’t. I—”
“Let’s just talk about Thursday. What time will you be here?” Violet asked.
“I was thinking eleven, but I can come earlier if you’d like.”
“No. Eleven’s good. Mom’s spending the night, so I’ll have plenty of help in the kitchen.”
“Then eleven it is.”
After hanging up with Violet, I went out the kitchen door to sit on the side porch. It was cool outside, but I was feeling a little sorry for myself and I always felt better in the big wide open than I did in an empty house.
Violet had a lot to be proud of. She’d
been married for the past fifteen years to a dreamboat of a guy. She had gorgeous eleven-year-old twins. She was a successful Realtor. She had a lovely home. She had curly, blond hair, blue eyes, and a bubbly personality—as opposed to my straight, dark brown hair, brown eyes, and more serious demeanor. And she had a great relationship with our mom.
I, however, had been married for ten years to an abusive manipulator who is currently serving a seven-year prison term for assault with a deadly weapon after trying to shoot me. Fortunately, he’d missed, and, in my opinion, he was sentenced to far too little time simply because his aim was off. He’d called it a “mistake.” Whether he meant shooting at me or missing, I have no idea. Mom called the whole ordeal a mistake, too. Neither of them could understand why I filed for divorce.
“He said he was sorry,” Mom had scolded me over the phone. “You made the man angry, Daphne. You know how you can be. A person can only take so much.”
I’d hung up on her. A person could only take so much. That was nearly five years ago. Of course, Mom and I had talked since then, but our conversations were more strained than baby food.
I heard a plaintive meow and looked up to see the fluffy gray and white, one-eyed stray sitting a short distance away.
“Me too, baby,” I told the cat softly. “Me too.”
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Table of Contents
Cover Page
Back Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Contents
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
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Daphne’s Kitchen Recipes
How to Make a 3D Cake Template
Murder Takes the Cake
Chapter One