The Diva Takes the Cake

by Davis, Krista

  Goose bumps rose on my arms. I stood before my sister, totally confused. Did she want reassurances that Craig must be innocent? Did she want me to tell her what she already knew—that she had to tell Wolf? I took the easiest route and hugged her.

  Her head on my shoulder, Hannah half-whispered, half-sobbed, “Did I marry a killer, Sophie?”

  My poor sister’s body trembled, and even though we were in open view of anyone passing by, I let her cry on my shoulder to get it out of her system. She lifted her head, and although I suspected that she had indeed married a murderer, the thing that surprised me was how well her makeup had stayed in place. She didn’t even have raccoon eyes. Making a mental note to ask the makeup artist what brand of mascara she’d used on Hannah, I said comfort ingly, “Is there any other reason you’re worried?”

  She sniffed, but neither of us had a tissue. Waving her fingers in front of her face like a beauty pageant winner, she said, “Before the wedding, it didn’t mean anything. I didn’t know Stan was in the shed. He was afraid of Stan. I could see it in his eyes. And now he wants to run away. Not even attend the funeral. Like he needs to get out of town.”

  How she was able to see anything in that poker face of Craig’s was beyond me.

  “You have to help me, Sophie. I can’t face going anywhere with him until I know the truth.”

  That was easy enough to accomplish. “We’ll just say that Wolf insists you stay in town until they’ve solved the case.”

  Tears welled in her eyes, and she choked out words. “I don’t want to be one of those women who disappears on her honeymoon.”

  “Calm down, Hannah.” I admit to the fleeting thought that we could have avoided this mess if she’d only put off the wedding in the first place. But I quickly banished it and said instead, “You’ll stay here with us. We’ll make a little slumber party of it. You and Jen and I can sleep in the family room tonight. We’ll,” I searched for something to say, “make popcorn and watch a funny movie.”

  “It’s my wedding night,” she wailed. “How could I possibly explain that to Craig?”

  “We’ll think of something.” I said it with false confidence, since I hadn’t the foggiest notion what kind of excuse we could concoct. “But first, you have to inform Wolf.” We dodged around the side of the house and spied Humphrey scuttling ahead of us. I had a hunch he’d been watching. Too bad he hadn’t kept as close an eye on Craig.

  Hannah stuck by me like a frightened child as we made our way into the backyard. Mars and Dad watched the police from a safe distance. Near the potting shed, Craig spoke animatedly with the dreadful Detective Kenner, but Wolf came toward Hannah and me as soon as I beckoned to him.

  Surprisingly, Hannah kept her emotions in check while she told Wolf what she’d seen. When she finished, I relayed Jen’s story about the argument between Craig and Stan.

  Wolf ran a hand over his face. “What is it about your potting shed? Everyone and his brother was in there today. Are you sure of the time, Hannah? Most people don’t seem to be able to remember if they saw someone in the morning or later in the day.”

  “Someone must have seen the killer,” I insisted. “The people with the ice bar or—what about the string quartet?”

  “None of them noticed anything unusual.”

  Hannah swallowed hard. “It was after I went upstairs to get dressed.”

  “Was it before or after you shouted down to Natasha and me?”

  “After,” she murmured. “Here he comes.”

  Craig slid his arm around Hannah, and she stiffened at his touch. “Hannah, darling, I feel like I’ve neglected you. We can’t let this mar the start of our lives together.” He pulled her closer. “The good news is that Detective Kenner has some ideas on the identity of the killer. I don’t think it will be long before they make an arrest. Maybe we can leave for our honeymoon after all.”

  I thought Hannah might be sick. “Dad,” I called. “Isn’t it time for you and Hannah to have a bite to eat? Hannah’s looking a little peaked.”

  She tensed, but I knew she’d be okay with Dad. Besides, I wanted a minute to speak to Wolf.

  My little plan didn’t work. Instead of taking Hannah into the house, Dad and Mars joined us.

  “Think whoever did this is the same person who killed Emily?” asked Mars.

  If Wolf had any hunches, he didn’t let on, saying only, “It’s too early to tell.”

  “It looks to me,” said Craig, “like whoever did it killed Stan in self-defense. After all, Stan had that gun in his hand.”

  I couldn’t help wondering if that was what Craig had intended. Had he placed the gun by Stan’s hand after he was dead?

  Wolf listened to Craig’s statement passively. “It’s getting dark out here, Sophie. Do you have any spotlights you could turn on?”

  Since Dad hadn’t taken my cue, I rescued Hannah myself by asking her to help me turn on lights. She readily agreed and minutes later, the tiny lights on the sunroom ceiling twinkled, along with the festive lights the guys had strung across the backyard earlier in the day.

  Hannah met me midyard when we were done. “It’s gorgeous,” she whispered. “Like a garden wonderland. The hotel never would have been so magical.”

  “Next time,” I said.

  Hannah laughed so hard that tears flowed again. I figured it was cleansing for her.

  Mom found us laughing. “Girls! That’s hardly appropriate. Hannah, some of the guests are ready to leave, given the circumstances and all. Would you come cut the cake, please? After what we’ve been through, posing for lots of pictures would be morbid. At least the photographer can get a decent photo of you and Craig cutting the cake. Oh, but you’ve changed out of your dress.”

  I could tell Hannah was panicking at the thought of being near Craig with a knife. “Play along,” I said softly. “Mom will be with you every second.”

  Mom and Hannah crossed the yard to the cake with Craig, and I strolled over to Wolf. The cops had set up lights inside the shed, and they silhouetted his broad shoulders. I tapped his arm, and he instinctively moved away from the shed with me.

  “Hannah’s scared. Craig wants to leave for the honeymoon, and she doesn’t want to go. Could you tell them not to leave?”

  “I’m sorry, Sophie. I can ask, but I don’t have the authority to prevent anyone from leaving the area yet.”

  “So fake it. If you don’t, I’ll pretend and tell Craig you said so.” Under the romantic lights, thoughts of Stan and Craig faded. Wolf stood close enough for me to smell the fresh scent of soap. I wanted to clarify what he’d seen between Mars and me. I longed for a sign. A hint that things weren’t over between us.

  My fingers brushed his in the semidarkness, and I turned my face upward to him.

  His expression had been benign when he observed Craig, but I could see a mixture of pain and resignation now. “I have work to do. And you need to figure out what you want.”

  Natasha’s shrill trill cut through the dark. “Sophie, we need a hand. Stop flirting with Wolf.”

  He winced, and I knew he’d take ribbing for that. I wished we had been flirting. “I should get back.”

  He nodded and I took off my slingback wedding shoes and walked across the lawn to Natasha, who waited by the wedding cake. “Where did you put the cake knife? I can’t find it anywhere.”

  It had been a very long day. I was tired and hungry and in danger of becoming grumpy. “It’s next to the cake, Natasha. If you had bothered to look, you would have seen it.”

  “Really, Sophie. It’s not like you baked the cake or did any of the hard work for the wedding. If I hadn’t been around to pick up the pieces, this never would have come off. And now you can’t remember what you did with the cake knife?”

  I hadn’t lost my mind entirely. The server lay on the table where I’d left it. But the long knife that had cut wedding cakes in our family for generations was gone.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  From “THE GOOD LIFE”:

&nbs
p; Dear Sophie,

  I have looked at every cake topper in town. They range from shabby to gaudy. Are fresh flowers the only alternative?

  —Topless in Topsail Beach

  Dear Topless,

  Make your own topper. Initials and monograms are always in style. Dress them up with rhinestones for bling, or diamond glass glitter for subtle sparkle. Or wrap them with ribbon for a classy look.

  —Sophie

  I fetched a knife from the kitchen, certain the cake knife had been brushed off the table in the commotion. We’d find it in the morning when the light was stronger. The lights that sparkled above provided a romantic glow but weren’t strong enough for a major search.

  I handed the new knife to Hannah, who stood by the cake, a safe arm’s length from Craig. The photographer told Craig to place his hand over hers. I thought Hannah might spit up on the four-tier cake adorned with sugar blossoms and delicate string work that must have taken Natasha days. In spite of the photographer’s efforts to coax a smile, the toll of Uncle Stan’s death showed on Hannah’s strained face. The entwined C and H topper seemed almost ironic at the moment.

  I backed away, wondering how on earth I could help Hannah. And then, in what felt like slow motion, the second cake tier slid forward, initiating an unstoppable avalanche of buttercream, raspberries, and spice cake. The interlaced initials crashed to the ground and broke in half. Icing covered the photographer’s shoes. My mother held her hands over her mouth in horror, and Natasha immediately shouted, “What happened? Who pushed it?”

  Daisy wagged her tail and closed in on the yummy dessert that splayed across the grass. When Jen tugged her away, buttercream frosted Daisy’s dark lips.

  I held my breath, wondering how Hannah would take another wedding disaster, but she broke into gales of laughter, which clearly offended Natasha. But I suspected they reflected hysteria, not mirth.

  Biting back the impulse to remind Natasha that I had warned her the cake would melt, I displayed my worst side by leaving the cleanup to Natasha. I fled to the sunroom, where I heard thumping in the den.

  I peered in and found Darby crawling on the floor amid the contents of her suitcase. “Lose something?”

  She shrieked and clapped a hand to her chest. “You scared me!” Her face twisted like she might cry, and she plopped onto the sofa. “Y’all,” she said southern style, “are such nice people. I’ll always be sorry we brought our troubles into your lives.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Uncle Stan was never an easy person to get along with. I guess it’s not a nice thing to say, but I’m not surprised that someone wanted to kill him.”

  “Do you know something?” I sat in the desk chair. “Do you know who murdered him? Was it Craig?”

  “I don’t know what to think, except that none of this would have happened if we hadn’t come.”

  “Did you tell Wolf about Stan?”

  “Who?” she asked.

  “The detective.”

  “The cute one with the silver temples?”

  “Yeah, that one.” The one I’d thought I’d have a romantic weekend with.

  “He and that other detective grilled Robert and me.”

  That figured. They knew Stan best. “Are you saying he had enemies and that one of them followed him here?”

  “Honest to goodness, Sophie, I don’t know. I’m as confused as you are. What you don’t realize is that Stan—”

  Just then Robert appeared in the doorway. In his slow odd way, he said, “Darby? I hope you’re not boring Sophie with old stories.”

  “Of course not.” She straightened her skirt in a nervous gesture. It was clear she knew something, and I had to get it out of her before Robert whisked her back to New Jersey. But I couldn’t pry in front of him. I bowed out as gracefully as I could and found myself caught in the foyer with Mom and Hannah, saying good night and apologizing to guests as they left with favor boxes.

  I closed the door behind the last one and heaved an enormous sigh of relief. The day couldn’t end soon enough.

  “Where’s Jen?” I asked.

  “In your bedroom with Daisy, watching a Disney movie.” Mom wiped cake frosting off her sleeve. “Your brother has told me a million times how gifted she is and I know she’s one smart little girl, but, honestly, I don’t think it’s good to expose her to mature material. Where did she ever pick up iced as slang for murder?”

  Hoping to find a leftover filet mignon, I ventured into the sunroom. The food had been cleared away, but Mars, Nina, and Bernie lounged on the wicker furniture. Wineglasses rested on nearby glass-topped wrought-iron side tables. They ate their entrees watching the backyard, which had taken on an eerie quality. The lovely lights strung overhead twinkled in a light breeze. But underneath, a harsh glare lit the potting shed and dark figures moved about as if in a horror film.

  “Good show?” I asked sarcastically.

  “Best seat in the neighborhood.” Mars craned his neck to look back at me. “Pull up a chair.”

  Macabre as it was, I did just that. But before I sat down, I dragged my weary legs to the kitchen and loaded a plate with leftovers from the bulging refrigerator.

  I returned to the sunroom and cut into the cold steak. It was still juicy and unbelievably tender, and the asparagus was perfect.

  “Eww, Sophie, I know you ignore Nat when she criticizes your housekeeping, but there’s crud in the bottom of my glass,” complained Mars.

  Like I needed a lecture on cleaning right now. “So get a fresh one.”

  “Yuck. I drank some of this stuff.”

  Nina took the wineglass from Mars and peered into it. “It’s not one of Sophie’s wineglasses. These are the wedding rentals. And that’s not just crud. Someone must have dumped this into your drink.”

  “Mars?” I asked, afraid of his answer, “how do you feel?”

  “Fine.”

  “Did one of the waiters pour your wine?” asked Bernie.

  Mars shifted uncomfortably. “Natasha brought it to me. You know, suddenly I don’t feel so good.”

  Déjà vu set in. I wondered if I could stay awake and on my feet long enough to get Mars to the emergency room. “Why would she poison you?”

  Nina held her wineglass elegantly but lifted an eyebrow in a rascally fashion. “Wanda seems to think marriage is on the agenda.”

  Mars sputtered. “Marriage? To a woman who flaunts a bodybuilder in my face? Come on, don’t any of the rest of you find her obsession with Kevin the Hulk and Morbid Mordecai a bit odd?” He cupped a hand to his forehead. “Sophie, feel my head. Am I hot?”

  I set my plate on the table in time to see my mother in the doorway looking in at us. She didn’t say a word, but from her satisfied expression I knew she’d heard Mars’s request. She winked at me and retreated along the hallway.

  I picked up Mars’s wineglass. Tiny balls and plantlike bits rested in the bottom. I sniffed. The wine overpowered another familiar smell. Using two fingers, I scooped out some of the detritus and rubbed it between my fingers. “Chamomile,” I announced.

  Mars smelled my fingers. “Are you sure?”

  Bernie leaned over to sniff and declared, “Definitely chamomile.”

  “Like you would know,” Mars grumbled.

  “Actually, I do. It grew on a farm where I lived as a child. I used to pick it with the gardener and sip the tea on cold winter nights.”

  Mars felt the sides of his face. “You’re certain?” he asked me.

  “I’m certainly astonished that you think Natasha would try to hurt you.”

  “I was being silly, but . . .”

  His voice faded as Craig’s rose in anger. “Why are you being so difficult? Uncle Stan would want us to go.”

  “No, he wouldn’t.” They must have been in the foyer. Hannah’s voice also came through loud and clear. “Any normal person couldn’t enjoy a vacation the day after a family member was killed. Stan would expect his loved ones to give up a vacation, bury him, and find out w
ho killed him.”

  “Darby and my dad will take care of that.”

  “How can you be so cold? Aren’t you the least bit upset?”

  Craig sounded as tired as I felt when he said, “You can’t begin to know my pain.”

  Uh-oh. Would Hannah fall for that softer, beset-upon Craig?

  “I’m not going and that’s final.” Someone pounded up the stairs and we heard a door slam.