by Trent, Gayle
“I guess,” I said.
“Other than this Pauline Wilson, was there anybody else that Chef Richards picked on . . . someone who wasn’t afraid to give it right back to him?” China asked.
“There was a guy named Gavin Conroy who stood up to Chef Richards,” I said. “And Chef Richards backed off of harassing him. At one point, I even thought Mr. Conroy might be a plant to show that not everyone was browbeaten by Chef Richards.”
“Why would Chef Richards plant someone in his own class to stand up to him?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” I sighed. “I feel that I don’t know anything anymore. Even Thursday’s class is all a blur now. And I left in such a hurry, I didn’t see what happened once Chef Richards told us he’d see us all tomorrow . . . or those of you who are brave enough to come back. That’s how he put it. I all but sprinted to the door.”
“Then go in there to your kitchen, work on your cakes, and let your mind relax enough to help you remember,” she said. “You’re bound to have noticed something. . . . You’re just too upset to think about it right now.”
6
AFTER CHINA left, I felt composed enough to check the messages on my answering machine. The first was from Violet.
“Hey, Daph. I heard about Chef Richards,” she said. “I’m so sorry. Do you know what happened to him? I’m guessing with that temper he was famous for that he had a heart attack or a stroke. Call me when you get time. Love you.”
The next message was from Ben.
“Hi, sweetheart. I’m calling to see if you’re okay. One of my friends on the police force told me you’re one of the suspects in Jordan Richards’s murder. Call me when you get this . . . if you can. . . . Either way, I’ll see you after work.”
The last message was from Kimmie Compton, chairwoman of the first annual Brea Ridge Taste Bud Temptation Cake and Confectionary Arts Exhibit and Competition. Her message was professional and succinct.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Martin. The untimely death of Chef Richards has left us with some adjustments to make to the cake and confectionary arts exhibit and competition. Please call me back at your earliest convenience. Thank you.”
I wondered about those adjustments. Was I being adjusted out of the competition because I was one of the suspects in Chef Richards’s death?
Since Violet didn’t seem to know—or, at least, hadn’t when she’d called—that Chef Richards had been murdered, and since I wasn’t quite ready to talk with Ms. Compton yet, the first call I returned was Ben’s. That’s what I told myself, anyway. The real reason was that he was the person I most wanted to talk with. Fortunately, he was at his desk and answered on the second ring.
“Hi,” I said.
“How are you?” he asked. “I heard you were taken in for questioning by Baker and McAfee.”
“You heard correctly. One other student and I are the two prime suspects in Chef Richards’s death.”
Ben drew in a breath. “Then the other student has to be the killer.”
“That’s what I told Brea Ridge’s finest, but they’re not so sure. And I’m not either. Both our fingerprints were found on the murder weapon, which is a cake stand, so there are a few scenarios I can imagine in which both our prints would wind up on it,” I said. “What just dawned on me, though, is that neither Chef Richards’s nor his assistant Fiona’s prints were on the cake stand. One of them had to have distributed the supplies to the tables—and I’m not taking such a wild guess when I say Fiona—so why wasn’t there another set of prints on the stand?”
“Did either Chef Richards or his assistant wear gloves during the demonstration?” he asked.
“Both did during, but I find it hard to believe that whoever set up our tables wore gloves while doing so,” I said. “Why would they?”
“I don’t know. It’s worth looking into.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll see what I can find out tomorrow at the competition.”
“The good thing is the police had nothing to hold you on,” Ben said. “I’ll bring a pizza by when I get off work, and maybe we can work on figuring this mess out.”
“That’d be great. Thanks.”
After talking with Ben, I called Violet. She was out again, and the call went to voice mail. She’d eventually hear—probably on the evening news—that Chef Richards had been murdered, and then she’d call me all in a tizzy. Until then, I chose not to leave a message.
I wanted to work on the cakes I was entering into the competition, but I thought I should make sure I was still welcome in the competition, so I called Kimmie Compton.
“Kimberly Compton’s office,” a cultured female voice answered on the first ring.
“May I speak with Ms. Compton, please?” I asked.
“This is Kimmie.”
“Hi, Ms. Compton. This is Daphne Martin. I’m returning your call.”
“Good afternoon, Daphne,” she said. “Isn’t this business about Chef Richards simply dreadful?”
“It certainly is,” I said.
“He was supposed to do three demonstrations during tomorrow’s show alone,” she said. “That’s not even taking Sunday into consideration. I’m looking through my list of professional bakers and trying to get an idea of those I may call on to help throughout the day tomorrow. Are you taking part in the timed baking and decorating contest?”
“I am.”
“Okay, then perhaps you’ll be available to handle one of the demonstrations either before or after that one?” Ms. Compton asked.
“I’d be happy to help in any way I can,” I said.
“Wonderful. Thank you so much, Daphne. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll see where we’re at with regard to the demonstrations tomorrow and speak with you after you arrive.”
As I ended the call, I breathed a sigh of relief. Ms. Compton didn’t want to cut me from the competition. She wanted me to help take up the slack Chef Richards’s unexpected demise was causing with regard to the exhibitions. That had to mean that she, at the very least, did not suspect me in the man’s death and that she thought I was capable of demonstrating cake decorating techniques to her spectators. I was ready to hit the kitchen with gusto.
My first order of business was putting the finishing touches on the cake that I was entering in tomorrow’s wedding cake competition. As I arranged the completed orchids and roses on the second tier of the cake, I thought about Pauline Wilson.
Even though her fingerprints were also on the cake stand, I couldn’t imagine her picking it up and smashing Chef Richards over the head with it. It was even less likely that, having dazed him or knocked him out completely, she would have held his head in a bowl of cake batter until he stopped breathing.
As I’d told Ben, there were a number of ways both our fingerprints could have come to be on the same cake stand. Perhaps Pauline Wilson had arrived before me, decided she didn’t like the cake stand she’d been assigned for some reason, and switched hers with mine. She could have arrived early and helped Fiona—I couldn’t for an instant see Chef Richards doing his own setup work—distribute the supplies to each table. However, I hoped that was not the case because then it would mean that Pauline Wilson’s fingerprints were on every cake stand, and that would make me look even more suspect to the Brea Ridge Police Department.
I thought back to what I’d said to Ben about it being odd that neither Fiona’s nor Chef Richards’s fingerprints were on the cake stand. I could understand Fiona wearing gloves as she prepared the tables for class. After all, we each had a bowl of the perfect-consistency royal icing that Chef Richards had made—or that Fiona had made—so maybe she thought it was more sanitary to wear gloves.
The only thing I knew for sure was that I hadn’t killed Chef Richards. Either Pauline Wilson was guilty, or the killer had worn gloves. I found the latter to be the most likely scenario. Of course, I’d been wrong in the past. Maybe Pauline had killed Chef Richards. But why?
BY THE TIME Ben arrived with the pizz
a, I’d completed both the wedding cake and the three-dimensional superhero cake I’d made for the adult division of the character cake competition. Both were boxed up, and I was wondering how to fit them into my Mini Cooper.
“You look deep in thought,” Ben said, as he placed the box holding our ham-and-cheese pizza on the counter. “Having your fingerprints found on that cake stand is really weighing on you, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but that’s not what I’m puzzling over at the moment,” I said. “Right now, I’m wondering how I’m going to get this 3-D cake and the three tiers of the wedding cake, plus all the accessories I need to decorate my allotted space, into my tiny car.”
“I can help with that. You could almost fit your car into the back of my Jeep.” He grinned. “I’ll come by tomorrow morning and help you get everything to the inn.”
I threw my arms around his neck. “Thank you! Have I told you today that you’re the best?”
“Not today, you haven’t,” he said. “I was beginning to wonder.”
“Don’t wonder. You truly are the best.” I gave him a kiss designed to show him how much I meant that sentiment and to drive all thoughts of Nickie Zane and her stupid magazine from his mind.
“Whoa,” he said. “That was some kiss.”
I smiled. Mission accomplished. “That pizza smells delicious. We should eat before it gets cold.”
“I suppose.”
I went to the cabinet and got us a couple plates while Ben took sodas from the fridge.
“Did you have a good day at work?” I asked.
“Well, it was an exciting news day,” he said. “The fact that you were right in the midst of it did sort of put a damper on it for me, though.” He poured our sodas into glasses and put them on the kitchen table. “You?”
“I got to meet some new people, such as Officer Baker.” I put the pizza box and our plates in the center of the table. “And I got reacquainted with a couple folks I already knew.” I got us some forks. “Officer McAfee comes across as nice as pie outside of the jail, but he can be pretty imposing in an interrogation room.”
“I imagine he can.” Ben put a slice of the pizza onto each of our plates and placed them in front of our chairs. Then he came around and put his hands on my shoulders. “I know you’re not as all right with everything that has happened today as you’re trying to pretend.”
“I’m not,” I admitted. “But I’m not the wreck I was when China York arrived just after I got home.” I caressed his cheek. “I am starving, though. We can talk about it while we eat.”
We sat down and for the first couple of minutes we both just stuffed our faces. The pizza was so good and hot and cheesy and comforting. Maybe it was the starches and carbohydrates releasing chemicals into my brain and body, but soon I was feeling as if I could weather this storm, even though it was the worst one I’d been in to date. Sure, I’d previously found two dead bodies and one of my cakes had been suspected of killing a third, but this was the first time my fingerprints had ever been on an actual murder weapon. And, yes, my former husband had shot at me, but he had missed.
I swallowed my bite of pizza and looked at Ben. “Don’t you think that a cake stand is the most improbable murder weapon ever? I mean, did the medical examiner measure the dent in the cake stand and compare it to the wound on Jordan Richards’s head to make sure it was a definite match?”
He nodded. “Of course. But what that means to police is that it wasn’t a premeditated crime. The murderer used whatever weapon was at hand.”
“And someone planning to kill Chef Richards would have not only taken along a more suitable weapon but would have worn gloves,” I said. “That’s why Pauline Wilson and I are the prime suspects.”
Ben lowered his eyes but nodded.
“But what if the killer intended for it to look spontaneous?” I asked. “Then he or she might’ve worn gloves, used whatever could be found there in the kitchen—I mean, you know there’s most likely going to be a rolling pin in a baker’s kitchen, right? And . . . and . . .” I trailed off. “I’m not even buying that myself.”
“We’ll figure this out,” he said. “I say the first thing we do is take a serious look at Pauline Wilson. I’ve done a little preliminary work and put out some feelers already. I’ll let you know what I find out.”
“Thanks.”
He took my hands. “It’s going to be all right. We’ll get through this.”
“What if we don’t?” I asked. “What if the police zero in on me? What if they truly think that I killed Chef Richards?”
“One, I don’t believe they do. Sure, they have to ask you the tough questions and they have to take a serious look at you because your fingerprints were found on the murder weapon,” Ben said. “But if that’s all the evidence they have—a cake stand with your fingerprints and one other woman’s fingerprints on it—they can’t arrest you.”
“Somehow that doesn’t give me much reassurance. Even if I’m not convicted, if Chef Richards’s murderer is never brought to justice, people in Brea Ridge will still look at me suspiciously. My business will fail, and I’ll be ruined here.”
“Then we’ll move to Kentucky.”
I brought my head up sharply. “Does that mean you’ve made your decision about taking the job?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “I was only trying to lighten the mood a little and to remind you that you have alternatives.”
I studied his face, saying nothing.
“Seriously,” he said. “I have until the end of next week to let Nickie know what I’m going to do, and I’m not going to rush my decision.”
“Good,” I said.
He ran a hand through his hair. “Why do I feel that you actually mean anything but ‘good’?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Because I do actually mean ‘good.’ It’s an important decision, and it isn’t something you should rush either into or away from.”
“You don’t want me to take the job, do you?” Ben asked.
“I want you to do what’s best for you,” I said. “If that means Kentucky and Nickie Zane, then so be it.”
He grinned at my tone. “You’re jealous!”
“Yes, I am,” I admitted. “Now are you happy?”
“A little,” he said, his grin widening. “Yeah.”
“Did you love her very much?” I asked quietly.
“Not as much as I loved you,” he said. “I never loved any woman like I loved you.”
My heart leapt a little. And then I analyzed his statement. He’d said “loved.” Past tense. I’d said the L word last night, but he had not. Maybe he didn’t love me anymore. Maybe he’d thought he did when we started dating again, but maybe Nickie Zane had gotten him so entirely over me that she was the person who now maintained residency in his heart. After all, he and I had been apart for over fifteen years before I returned to Brea Ridge.
I got up, rinsed off my plate, and put it and my fork in the dishwasher. Ben came up behind me and put his arms around me.
“You really are jealous,” he said with a little chuckle that infuriated me.
“Like I said, if she makes you happy, then go for it.” My stiff posture and the hard edge in my voice probably screamed to him that I didn’t mean a word of that.
Then he laughed. He actually laughed!
I slammed the dishwasher shut and squirmed out of his arms. “I’m glad you’re amused by all this crap, because I’m sure not!” To my mortification, I began sobbing.
He pulled me back into his arms. “Shhh . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
I started to tell him not to flatter himself but figured that would be the proverbial cutting off the nose to spite the face. Instead I whimpered, “I just wanted to take an Australian string work class from an experienced celebrity chef . . . that’s all.”
“I know,” he said soothingly. “I know.” He led me into the living room where he sat down and pulled me onto his lap.
“I didn’t ki
ll Chef Richards.” I nestled against his chest. “Please make this day go away.”
“I wish I could, sweetheart.” He kissed the top of my head and held me tighter.
“Don’t let go,” I whispered.
“Never.”
I wondered if I could get that in writing, but I knew better. You get no guarantees in this life. You wake up in the morning expecting to finish up an Australian string work class and go to bed that night a murder suspect.
7
FIRST THING Saturday morning, Myra popped in. I was sitting at the kitchen table in my bathrobe.
“Hey, hon,” she said. “I just wanted to check in with you and see if you’re okay. I was going to come over last night, but I saw that Ben was here, and I didn’t want to bother you.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine. Your face is longer than a rainy three-day weekend.”
“Where do I begin?” I asked, as Myra pulled out a chair and sat down opposite me. “I’m one of the prime suspects in a murder investigation, and Ben is probably getting ready to leave me and start a new life in Kentucky.”
“Dang,” she said. “That’s a double whammy. The murder thing is bad enough on its own.”
“Want some coffee?” I asked.
“Nah. I just had some before I left the house,” she said. “Let’s start with first things first. Mark and I have been looking into Jordan Richards’s background. Did you know that last year he was arrested for assaulting his former spouse?”
“No, I didn’t. Maybe that’s why he mentioned Todd to me in class.” I scoffed. “Maybe he was a fan . . . thought Todd was a hero.”
“Maybe he did. Or maybe he thought Todd was stupid because he couldn’t worm his way out of the attempted murder charge. The only reason Richards didn’t do jail time was because his ex-wife dropped the charges before the case went to trial.” Myra leaned back and folded her arms over her chest. “I think we need to see where the former Mrs. Richards was yesterday morning, don’t you?”