Battered to Death (Daphne Martin Cake Mysteries)

by Trent, Gayle

  “Sure,” I said. “But that happened a year ago. It isn’t likely she’d come after him now. Is it?”

  “That might be what she wants us to think.” Myra nodded, trying to appear sage. “That could be a major part of her plan.”

  “It could be.” I was in an agreeable mood this morning. Or, at least, I wasn’t in an argumentative mood. Sometimes the best thing I can do is simply go along with whatever Myra dreams up.

  “Now, what’s this about Ben moving to Kentucky?” she asked.

  I sighed. “He’s got a job offer from a new magazine, and the position would require him relocating.”

  She shook her head, her face showing her obvious skepticism. “He’s not going anywhere, hon. Why in the world would he? He’s the boss over at the Chronicle, he’s got a beautiful woman here who loves him to pieces, and he’s lived in Brea Ridge all his life. Don’t get all up in the air over that one, Daphne. You’re adding to your worries for no reason.”

  “I wouldn’t be so concerned about it if his old girlfriend—who is gorgeous, by the way—weren’t the one offering him the job,” I said.

  Myra’s arms dropped to her sides. “What’s her name?”

  “Nickie Zane.”

  Myra’s eyes dropped from mine to her lap.

  “Myra, what do you know?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know anything . . . except that you’d better get ready to go to the cake show. Don’t you have to be there pretty soon?”

  “Yes, but I want you to tell me what you know about Ben and Nickie Zane first,” I said.

  “Honestly, I don’t know a thing,” she said, pushing back her chair.

  Myra never admitted to not knowing something. That meant she knew something, all right. She just didn’t want to tell what she knew.

  “I’ll see you at the show,” she continued. She gave me a quick hug and then hurried toward the door. “Oh, and Daphne, why don’t you wear that emerald-green silk blouse you look so pretty in?”

  I nodded. “I’ll do that.”

  She knew something . . . something big. I got the distinct impression she was telling me to fight for my man . . . in green silk.

  FORTY MINUTES LATER, I was dressed in the emerald silk blouse, a matching green-and-black-print skirt, and black boots. I was satisfied that my hair and makeup looked as good as I could get them, and I was resigned to the fact that my cakes were also as good as they were going to get. There was no time for any final tweaks.

  I boxed up the superhero cake and was carrying it out to the car when Ben arrived.

  “Good morning, beautiful,” he said. “Need any help with that?”

  “Good morning,” I replied. “Actually, I’ve got this one. It’s the wedding cake that’s going to give me fits.” I put the cake into the passenger seat of my car. When I straightened, Ben pulled me to him in a tight hug.

  “Nothing is going to give you fits today,” he said. “I don’t want you to worry about anything . . . not the cake competition, not Jordan Richards . . . not anything.”

  Not Kentucky wasn’t said but was implied.

  “You’re right,” I said. “Whatever happens will happen, right? I’ve done the best I can with the cakes. If I’m a winner, then great. If I’m a loser, then I’ll deal with it.” That comment also applied to more than just the cake competition.

  “Whether or not your cakes place in this competition, you, Daphne Martin, are a winner.”

  I kissed him gently. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said. “Let’s go get that wedding cake.”

  Ben was taking all three tiers of the wedding cake in separate boxes on nonskid foam to the Brea Ridge Inn. He was also taking all the accessories I needed for the wedding cake display table. Entries for the three-dimensional cakes didn’t get their own tables, so I didn’t have many accessories for that one.

  When we were all packed up, I turned to Ben. “Please drive carefully.”

  “I won’t go over eighty, and I’ll try to keep my hairpin turns to a minimum.”

  “Don’t joke about hairpin turns when you’re transporting a wedding cake,” I said.

  He laughed and gave me a quick kiss. “I’ll drive like an old lady. Happy?”

  “Not particularly. Have you ever seen Myra drive?”

  Ben’s eyes widened. “You’d better never let Myra Jenkins know you referred to her as an old lady.”

  “It just slipped,” I said. “It’s an indication of how nervous I am.”

  “I thought you weren’t going to worry about anything today,” he reminded me.

  “You told me not to worry. I didn’t expressly agree to go along with that.” I took a deep breath. “See you at the inn.”

  “All right.”

  When we arrived, the front entrance to the Brea Ridge Inn was a madhouse. Cars, trucks, and vans were crowding in, people were honking their horns, pedestrians were making obscene gestures . . .

  I was contemplating the traffic and wondering what to do when Ben rang my cell phone. “Follow me,” he said.

  “Follow you where?” I asked.

  “Trust me.”

  He pulled around the side of the inn to the guest parking area. He parked in front of one of the rooms. I impatiently maneuvered my Mini Cooper into the spot next to him. We were wasting valuable time.

  I quickly got out of the car and opened the passenger-side door of his Jeep. “Ben, we can’t park here. This area is for guests only.”

  He grinned as he took a key card out of his wallet. “We are guests. I reserved a room weeks ago, before it got filled up.”

  Tears pricked my eyes. “Ben . . . ”

  He winked. “You didn’t think I’d let my girl down, did you? I knew this place would be crazy this morning. This entrance keeps us out of that mess out front.”

  The words “I love you” were the first to spring to mind. Instead, I said, “You really are the best.”

  “I know,” he said, with a smile. “Are we starting with the wedding cake?”

  I nodded.

  “Then let’s get everything inside and start setting up,” he said.

  Before we carried in the cakes, we took in the tablecloth and accessories. Ballrooms A and B had been combined to form one huge exhibition hall. Twenty-inch round metal tables had been set up in the wedding cake competition area. There had been one assigned to each contestant. I found my table located in what I thought was a pretty favorable spot. It was in the middle, not so close to the front or far from the end as to be forgotten by the time spectators had seen all the cakes.

  I picked up the cards bearing my name and number. There were two number cards: one that also bore my name and was to be pocketed until after the cakes had been judged, and one bearing only my number. There was also a card on the table instructing passersby FRAGILE—PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH. I put the cards on the floor and then spread my tablecloth—an ivory vintage lace—onto the table. Next came my round, half-inch-thick plywood cake board, which I’d covered with white fondant embossed with hearts and scrolls. I then returned the FRAGILE card and the number card to the table.

  “Are we ready for the cake now?” Ben asked.

  I nodded. “I’ve got a collapsible cart in my trunk that we can use to wheel it in.”

  “Great,” he said. “The fewer trips we have to make, the better.”

  I trailed behind Ben as we walked to the car.

  “Come on, slowpoke. What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Looking for any bumpy or tight places where we might have trouble maneuvering the cart,” I said.

  He shook his head. “You’re really paranoid about this cake competition, aren’t you?”

  “I have to be,” I said. “One slip and all the hard work I’ve put into these cakes is lost.”

  “You’ve got a point.”

  I got the cart out of the car, set it up, and double-checked it to make sure all its parts were locked into place before we began placing the wedding cake tiers o
n it. I’d brought along a repair kit with extra icing, roses, orchids, and pastry bags and tips, just in case. I prayed I wouldn’t have to do any touch-ups.

  We returned with the boxed wedding cake tiers and noticed immediately that there was an argument under way a few tables over from mine.

  “You meant to bump me!” a man shouted. He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place him. I’d probably seen him at another cake competition somewhere.

  “I did not,” said a woman. “You’re being ridiculous. Now leave me alone or I’ll call security and have you thrown out of here.”

  I could place her. It was Pauline Wilson. She was certainly no shrinking violet today. Had her behavior in class simply been an act?

  “Daph?” Ben asked. “Everything okay?”

  I turned my attention back to Ben and my own cake. “Fine. It’s just . . . that’s Pauline Wilson.”

  “The woman whose fingerprints were found on your cake stand . . . or rather, the cake stand?” he asked.

  “That’s the one,” I said.

  “I thought you said she was timid,” he said.

  “It appears she got over it.”

  Ben helped me lift the bottom tier of the cake onto the table. I used a box cutter to remove the box, and then we slipped the cardboard from beneath the cake and discarded it. I centered the tier onto the cake board.

  “That’s gorgeous, sweetheart,” Ben said.

  I smiled. “Thank you, but wait until you see it finished.”

  We put the second and third tiers of the cake in place. I had a minor touch-up to make on one section of the scroll border. But overall I was pleased with how my cake and table looked. I placed one of the extra orchids onto the table as an additional decoration, and then I stood back and took a photograph.

  “One for the scrapbook, huh?” Ben asked.

  I smiled. “Yep.” I moved around to take one from a different angle.

  Actually, the photos were proof that the cake was in excellent condition when I left it. If sometime during the day the cake suffered any damage, I wanted to be able to show the judges how the peach-and-white confection had looked when I’d walked away from my table.

  Assured that the wedding cake was as close to perfect as I could possibly get it, Ben and I went to get the superhero cake and set it up on the long narrow tables dedicated to the novelty cakes. Similar tables were set up for competitors in various age groups—I thought of Leslie when I saw those—and for those who had made figures and flowers from gum paste. I didn’t see Leslie and Violet yet, but then, I had arrived early.

  “You’re going to do great,” Ben said, standing back with his hands on his hips, surveying my superhero in all his red-caped glory. “This is fantastic.”

  I smiled. “I think you like this cake even better than you do the wedding cake.”

  “Well, I do love my comic book characters,” he said with a grin.

  “And I like my heroes,” I said. “Thank you again for coming through for me today. You’ve outdone yourself.”

  “The day isn’t over, you know,” said Ben. “But I do have to cut out on you for a little while. I need to run by the office. I’ll be back by later on.”

  “Okay.” I squeezed his hand. “I really do appreciate you, you know.”

  He kissed my cheek. “I know.”

  I watched him wind his way through the tables to the double doors at the back of the ballroom. I was thinking about how handsome he was . . . how thoughtful . . . how much I wanted him to stay in Brea Ridge . . . when I was jarred out of my reverie by a shrill, perky voice to my left.

  “Daphne Martin, hello! I’m Clea Underwood, Channel Two lifestyle and entertainment reporter! How are you?”

  I’d seen Clea Underwood on television before, but I hadn’t realized she’d look like a bobblehead in person. Her head seemed huge in real life when you considered it in relation to her overly skinny body. The hand and arm Clea stretched out toward me seemed like some sort of raptor’s talon. The talon clutched a microphone.

  I pasted on a smile. “I’m doing well, Clea. How are you?”

  “I’m terrific! I’m thrilled to be the celebrity host of the first annual Brea Ridge Taste Bud Temptation Cake and Confectionary Arts Exhibit and Competition.” She gave the cameraman a wide smile. “I’m here with Daphne Martin, owner of the local bakery Daphne’s Delectable Cakes, which Daphne runs out of her home. Daphne, what cakes, if any, have you entered in the competition?”

  “I have an entry in the wedding cake competition and one in the three-dimensional or novelty cakes competition,” I said.

  “Well, good luck to ya! It’s great for all of us when one of our own comes out a winner!” She smiled at the camera and then made an almost comical tragic expression. “But already our first annual cake and confectionary arts exhibit and competition has been marred, hasn’t it, Daphne? Celebrity chef Jordan Richards was found murdered yesterday morning, isn’t that right?”

  My smile faded. “Yes, Clea. That’s true.”

  “And weren’t you taken in for questioning about that, Daphne?” Clea asked.

  “I was. In fact, all of the students in Chef Richards’s Australian string work class were questioned.”

  “I see.” She gave the camera a look that I couldn’t quite read before turning back to me. “However, your fingerprints—and those of another student—were found on the murder weapon, if I understand correctly. Do I understand that correctly, Daphne?”

  I glanced around the ballroom, wishing someone would come to my rescue or that the floor would open up and swallow me . . . or her. Although if the floor opened up and swallowed me, Clea Underwood would undoubtedly crawl into the hole with me to ask if the floor opening up beneath me was proof of my guilt.

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss the investigation into Chef Richards’s death,” I said. “I feel confident, though, that the Brea Ridge Police Department will soon find the guilty party and bring that person to justice.”

  “Right . . . My sources tell me that—”

  “Excuse me, please.” Clea and her sources were cut off by Kimmie Compton. “I need to borrow Daphne. Could you please finish this later, Clea?”

  “Of course.” Clea gave her cameraman the slash-across-the-throat sign, indicating he should cut off the recorder. Then the two of them moved on away from Kimmie and me, but Clea kept watching me like a cat staking out a bird in a nearby tree.

  “Thank you for rescuing me,” I said. “I didn’t realize that little woman was such a barracuda!”

  Kimmie laughed. “I thought you were handling her quite well from what I could overhear. I need to let Ms. Underwood know in no uncertain terms, however, that she’s here to cover the show, not the death of Jordan Richards. We are all saddened by that, but . . . well . . . the show must go on.”

  Kimmie was a beautiful woman, tall and thin, with a sense of humor but who nonetheless would not put up with any nonsense. Today she wore a red suit with a large jet brooch on the lapel.

  “Speaking of the show going on,” Kimmie continued, “would you mind taking Chef Richards’s place in the cake carving demonstration today? He was scheduled to do several demos this weekend, and I was able to find replacements for all but that one.”

  “I’ll be happy to do it,” I said.

  As Kimmie Compton walked away, I caught Clea Underwood gazing at me suspiciously. I was going to have to watch out for her. Before the reporter could pounce, I hurried in the opposite direction.

  8

  I WAS THRILLED to be leading the cake carving demonstration—it would be wonderful for business—but I was sorry that I was only doing it because Chef Richards was dead. And I hoped no one would attend the demonstration just to get a look at one of the main suspects in his murder.

  Thanks, Clea Underwood.

  Having not been prepared to do the demonstration beforehand, I walked over to the corner of the ballroom where a coffee and tea cart had been set up in a sort of snack area. There were
baskets of pastries and fruit on a nearby table. I poured myself a cup of coffee, sat down at one of the small tables provided, and did a search for cake carvings using the Internet browser on my phone.

  I noticed a young woman a few feet away with a boy who looked to be about ten or eleven years old. It seemed she was having a tough time getting him interested in anything that was going on around him. I decided to try to help her out.

  “Hi,” I called over to the mom. “I was wondering if you guys could give me a hand. I’ve just been asked to do the cake carving demonstration later today—the person scheduled to do it can’t—and I have no idea what I should make. Do either of you have any ideas?”

  With a little prodding from her, the boy accompanied his mother to my table.

  “I’m Daphne Martin,” I said to the mom. “Do you and your son live around here, or are you just in town for the cake show?”

  “I’m Molly, and this is Alex.” The woman looked down at her son. “Alex, can you say hello to Ms. Martin?”

  Alex raised his right hand in a wave.

  “Hey, Alex,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”

  “We’re glad to meet you too,” said Molly. “We live about an hour away, and we drove in night before last to check out the town before coming to the show.”

  “Not much to see, huh?” I asked.

  Molly laughed. “Not much. We’d be happy to help you pick out your design, though. Wouldn’t we, Alex?”

  Alex nodded.

  They sat down beside me, and I began scrolling through cake designs. Ms. Compton had returned after I’d agreed to do the demonstration and informed me that she had checked the kitchen. Before Chef Richards had died, he’d made two large pound cakes for the carving demonstration. She had no idea what he’d intended to make with the batter he was found in, but I would have cakes to use in the cake carving exhibition.

  “The design should be something relatively simple,” I said. “I don’t have a lot of time, but I want to be able to give a good demonstration of how to carve a cake as well as how to crumb-coat it, cover it in fondant, and decorate it.”

  “Van,” Alex said.