Battered to Death (Daphne Martin Cake Mysteries)

by Trent, Gayle

“A van?” I asked. I’d recently done a Cadillac, so a van should be easy enough.

  Alex nodded. “A cake delivery van.”

  A wide smile spread across my face. “What a wonderful idea! Thank you, Alex! You’re a genius.” It was a genius idea. I could put my logo on the van and get a little local publicity for the people in Brea Ridge who might not have heard of me yet. This kid was smart. I looked at Molly. “Do you decorate?”

  She shook her head. “No, but Alex does. Or, at least, he used to.”

  “Used to?” I turned to Alex. “You don’t anymore?”

  He shook his head and looked down at the table.

  “Oh, look,” Molly said to Alex. “Here comes Uncle Chris.”

  A nice-looking man was approaching us. I could see the resemblance to Molly. Like her, he had dark-blond hair and brown eyes. Both were tall and lean. Alex had black hair and eyes, and he seemed a little short for his age. He obviously took more after his father’s side of the family.

  Molly introduced Chris and me, and then she asked Chris to take Alex to look at the cakes that had already been set up.

  “Careful that he doesn’t bump into any of the tables or touch anything, though!” she called after them. She smiled at me. “I appreciate your considering Alex’s idea. That was sweet of you.”

  “Actually, he had a terrific idea. If I have time, I’m going to decorate the cake delivery van with my logo on it,” I said. “It’s an excellent marketing tool!” I took a sip of my coffee. “You said Alex used to decorate cakes. Why doesn’t he do it anymore?”

  “Alex has a mild form of autism called Asperger’s syndrome,” said Molly. “People with AS tend to have trouble communicating with others, socializing, and controlling their behavior. Unlike classic autism, children with AS tend to have an average or above-average IQ, and they often have a knack for mechanical things. That’s what Alex did with cakes. He made these beautiful creations—especially for a child his age—and he added little touches like lights and movement.”

  “How wonderful,” I said. “But why did he quit decorating?”

  Her mouth tightened. “It was Jordan Richards. A few months ago Alex entered a cake decorating competition near our home. His design was a haunted house, complete with flashing lights, sounds, and ghosts that went back and forth across the windows. But rather than award Alex first place like he deserved, Chef Richards accused him of cheating. He said no eleven-year-old child could make something like that on his own.” She took a steadying breath. “Alex went ballistic. He knocked the cake off the table and then turned the table over, destroying the other two cakes that were on it in addition to his own. He ran screaming from the room, and he hasn’t been interested in cake decorating since.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “What a horrible thing for Chef Richards to do to him.”

  “Well, if you’ve spent any time with the man whatsoever, then you know that Jordan Richards was a horrible person.” She blinked away tears. “I brought Alex to this competition hoping that Chef Richards would apologize to him. I’d made a video of Alex preparing his entry—the haunted house. After Alex’s tantrum, I didn’t have time to show anyone then, but I was going to show it to Chef Richards this weekend. . . . Of course, I get to the inn and find out that someone killed the sorry creature before we got here.”

  “If you think it would help, I’ll watch the video and give Alex some encouragement,” I said.

  “Thank you, Daphne, but I doubt it would do much good. After Alex’s meltdown last year, his doctor had to put him on antidepressants. He’s just not the same child that he was. He had this brilliant creative outlet, and Jordan Richards took that away from him. It was up to Chef Richards to give it back.”

  “But you can’t simply give up because Richards is dead,” I said. “What about another kid who decorates? My niece, Leslie, is entering a cake in the competition. Do you think she could befriend Alex and possibly get him interested in the art of decorating again?”

  “I don’t know. It would be worth a try,” Molly said.

  I looked at my watch. “She and her mom are bound to be here by now. I’ll go find them. You find Alex and Chris, and then come over to where the children’s division cakes are located.”

  “I will,” she said. “Thanks.”

  I spotted Violet first. She was hovering near Leslie and twisting her scarf in her hands.

  “Why are you killing that poor scarf?” I asked quietly when I came up beside her.

  She started. “Daphne! You scared the daylights out of me. I’m a nervous wreck.” She looked around the ballroom before returning her gaze to me. “I don’t know if Leslie was ready for this yet.”

  I looked over at Leslie, who grinned and waved as she touched up her cake, which had been—very expertly, I might add—made to look like a cheeseburger and fries.

  “Leslie is fine,” I told Violet. “I think it’s you who wasn’t ready.”

  “Oh, hardy-har,” Violet said. “The cakes are judged twice, by the judges but also by popular vote. Votes are tabulated based on how many pennies are in the cups beside the cakes.” She chewed her bottom lip. “I’m considering getting a five-dollar bill converted into pennies and—”

  “Violet!” I interrupted.

  “Oh, I’m not serious,” she said.

  Yes, she was.

  “Unless I see someone else doing it,” she continued. “If that happens, then you bet I will.”

  I strolled over to Leslie and gave her a hug. “This looks terrific, sweetheart. You’ve really outdone yourself.”

  She shrugged. “What can I say? I learned from the best.”

  “I do love you so.” I dug in my purse for as many pennies as I could find and dropped them into the cup by her cake. I only had about seven, but I made a mental note to get some more later.

  Leslie stood back and placed her hands on her tiny waist. “So what do you think, Aunt Daph? Size up my competition and give me your honest opinion about my chances.”

  For a twelve-year-old, she could be incredibly mature. That said, I needed to get a better look at the competition before I decided how honest to be in my answer. Maturity is one thing; telling a child you don’t think her cake will win is another. I’m happy to say that after looking at the other cakes—and setting all bias aside while doing so—Leslie’s was easily the best of the bunch.

  There were other children’s cakes that had been sculpted into items, like her burger and fries. One cake had a teddy bear, and another was a stack of pillows. But none of the other cakes matched Leslie’s in the difficulty of the techniques she’d used or the overall neatness of the cake. Most of the other cakes in her age group were either single or double-tiered traditional cakes with roses and borders. They were pretty, and they were skillfully done. But I felt sure Leslie would win or at least place in the competition. I told her so.

  She threw her arms around my waist and gave me a squeeze. “Thank you, Aunt Daphne!”

  “You’re welcome, but you did this all by yourself,” I said. “You should be proud.” I turned to see where Violet was and noticed that she was mentally counting the pennies in the cup next to the stack-of-pillows cake. “Violet, there’s someone I want to introduce you and Leslie to.”

  “Who?” Violet asked. “It’s not one of the judges, is it? That wouldn’t be fair . . . would it? Would it be fair?”

  “No, it wouldn’t,” I said. “Besides, their cakes are like ours. They’re judged by their numbers—no names. The judges aren’t supposed to know who submitted what cake.” I saw Molly, Alex, and Chris approaching us. “Here are the people I wanted to introduce you to. They’re coming this way now.”

  Alex held back. He seemed a little intimidated by Violet and Leslie. I wasn’t sure if that was because there was now more than one of us and the three of us were too many for him to handle at once, or if perhaps he was more comfortable with adults than with children closer to his own age.

  I quickly made the introductions. “
Leslie, Alex can decorate cakes too. His mom said she had a video of a haunted house he made, complete with lights and movement. She said there were even little ghosts that went back and forth in front of the windows!”

  “Way cool!” Leslie said. “Can I see it?”

  “In a little while,” Molly said. “First, tell us about your cake.”

  As Leslie was explaining to Molly, Alex, and Chris how she’d made her cake, Myra approached me.

  “How are you holding up?” she asked. “I saw that nasty little Clea Underwood interviewing you on TV a few minutes ago. She’s a piece of work.” She scoffed. “Clea Underwood. Who ever heard of such a name? Whenever I hear it, I think ‘clean underwear.’ There’s old Clean Underwear on television again.”

  I grinned but almost immediately turned serious. “Was the interview that bad?”

  “It wasn’t too awful bad. I thought you handled it gracefully. I was proud of you.” She gave a dismissive sniff. “Nobody takes that little twit seriously anyhow. She’s probably like Beulah Breckinridge.”

  “Beulah Breckinridge?” I asked. “Who’s she?”

  “Oh, honey. Beulah Breckinridge always went around Brea Ridge like she’d just stepped out of a bandbox. She acted like her . . . well, like her bodily functions . . . smelled like rose petals—if you know what I mean—and that she was above all the rest of us. Well, one day Beulah was in a car wreck and broke her leg. Her dress was so tight that the EMTs had to cut the thing off of her. And wouldn’t you know it? Beulah Breckinridge’s panties were full of holes, and her bra was dingy.” Myra finished with a nod that indicated that this anecdote should make sense to me. It didn’t.

  “That makes Beulah like Clea because . . . ?”

  “Because she’s all flash and no substance,” Myra said. “She looks nice on the outside, but on the inside, she’s all holey panties and dingy bras.” She patted my shoulder. “Don’t you let her get to you.”

  “Okay,” I said, still unable to make much sense of Myra’s analogy. “I won’t.”

  “And another thing—Mark and I are making some headway into this case.” She took my arm, pulled me away from the group, and lowered her voice. “First of all, we looked into that assault case where Jordan Richards’s wife dropped the charges. She also dropped him. She divorced him, and one website said she took a ton of money with her.”

  “Do you and Mark think she might’ve come here and confronted Chef Richards or something?” I asked.

  “We’re looking into it,” she said. “We’re also looking into the other woman whose fingerprints were on the cake stand.”

  “Pauline Wilson,” I said.

  “Yep,” said Myra. “In college, little Miss Pauline was a shoplifter. So, she has a darker side than you’d initially thought.”

  I inclined my head. “Just because she shoplifted a time or two when she was in college doesn’t mean she killed Chef Richards.”

  “No, but it shows you very good and well that she’s not all goody-goody either,” she said.

  China joined us. “I heard that last part about Pauline Wilson. Myra’s right, Daphne. All you know for sure is that you didn’t kill Jordan Richards. The only fingerprints on the murder weapon are yours and hers. You have to keep an open mind.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

  “So will I,” said Myra.

  I glanced at my watch. “It’s almost time for me to get started in the timed cake competition. Four of us have an hour to decorate a cake with a beach theme using only the supplies we’ve been given. Wish me luck!”

  “Good luck,” Myra said. “I’ll be mingling to see what else I can find out.”

  “Me too,” China said.

  Knowing that Cagney and Lacey were on the case, I returned to Violet, Leslie, Alex, Molly, and Chris to let them know where I was going.

  “Ooh, I’m coming to watch,” Leslie said.

  “Alex, would you like to watch Daphne compete in the timed cake decorating competition?” Molly asked.

  Alex nodded. Behind his back, Molly gave me a thumbs-up. I thought that must mean we were making progress.

  As I walked toward the competition area, I overheard two celebrity chefs talking about Chef Richards.

  “Did you hear that somebody drowned him in cake batter?” the man asked. “If that’s not poetic justice, I don’t know what is.”

  “Poetic justice would’ve been if they’d drowned him nude in a bathtub filled with batter,” the woman said. “He was always quick to disgrace anyone he could. The tables would’ve really been turned on him then.”

  They both snickered.

  “I just wonder who’s going to get that plum TV spot he’s giving up,” the man said.

  She grinned. “I hope it’s me.”

  “And I hope it’s me,” he said.

  “Hey, maybe they’ll pick us both,” she suggested.

  His mouth turned down at the corners. “You know, that’s not a bad idea. Let’s do a demo tape and send it in.”

  They were excitedly making plans as I continued on to the competition area. There was certainly no love lost among Chef Richards and the two of them.

  9

  WHEN I got to the area where the timed decorating competition was to be held, there were four long metal tables placed about two feet apart. A place card indicated that I was at the table at the far right. I was glad. I didn’t want to feel I was the center of attention. Plus, I would be less nervous if I felt that not every other contestant in the competition was peeking to see how my cake was coming along. This way, there would be only one other contestant who would have a clear view of me. I glanced at the table to the left of mine. The place card said PAULINE WILSON.

  Adjoining each metal table were smaller tables on each side that gave the decorator additional workspace. At the corner of the main tables, there were covered cake plates. Without looking, I knew the cake plates contained the two-tiered cakes we would be decorating in the competition. There were also items from our sponsors: molds for shell-shaped candies and chocolates, cookies, flavored fondant, icing, gel color, piping bags, and candies. There were chocolate and candy disks as well as a hot plate and two double boilers for melting them. Of course, we also had spatulas, cake tips, a fondant rolling pin, and some other decorating doodads.

  Each contestant had also been given a sketchpad and pencil to use to rough out his or her design prior to the commencement of the decorating. However, the design was part of the timed competition, so no decorator was able to sketch out his or her design until the official had read the rules and had said we could begin.

  Kimmie Compton arrived just before the competition to ensure that everyone had the requisite items and that we were all ready to start. Assured that her competitors were ready to begin, Ms. Compton made a brief announcement to the audience who’d gathered in the metal folding chairs and risers approximately five feet in front of our tables. Ms. Compton announced that we—the competitors—would have one and a half hours to complete a beach-themed cake using only the items in our individual workspaces. Then she sounded a bell for us to begin.

  I quickly uncovered my cake to see what I had to work with. I had a ten-inch round and an eight-inch round, two-tiered cake. I wanted to do something different from the traditional tiered cake. I didn’t want to make a beach-themed wedding cake. I wanted to do something different. And I also had carving on the brain. This competition would be a good opportunity for me to practice my carving prior to the demonstration I’d be giving later in the day.

  I stared at the cake for a moment, and then I flipped opened the sketchpad. I decided to cut the ten-inch layer to make a boat. I drew a circle and then dissected the sides to leave the long, rounded rectangular center. That would form my boat. I divided one of the sides in half to make a triangular front for the boat. I did the same thing with the eight-inch round layer, so that I could give the boat more dimension. This would make the top portion slightly shorter than the bottom, which
would give me a space for the seats and windshield. The rest of the cake would form the waves and, possibly, a stretch of shoreline.

  Once I’d sketched out my design, I separated the cakes and began carving. It came together even better than I’d hoped. I was only about half an hour into the competition, and I had my cakes carved and my boat well under way.

  I heard muttered curses behind me and figured Pauline Wilson wasn’t enjoying the ease of seeing her design come together as quickly as mine had, but I didn’t have time to worry about her. I knew I had precious little time to finish getting my boat together and finish my cake. One never knew what could go wrong at the last minute, so wasting time thinking about the competition was not an option.

  Once I’d completed the carving of my boat, I crumb-coated it, and then I covered it in white fondant. I melted candy disks in the double boiler and poured the melted candy into the seashell molds. Hey, I was no fool, and I guessed that not using one of the biggest sponsor’s gifts would result in a points deduction.

  While I was waiting for the candy in the molds to harden, I made fondant figures—a boy and a girl—to go into the boat. I also took some of the remaining cake and carved it to look like water rising up on the sides of the boat. This, too, I crumb-coated and then covered in blue fondant.

  I looked at the clock and saw that I had fifteen minutes remaining. My figures were blond—representing Leslie and Lucas. I had time to make one more . . . a brown-haired boy . . . for Alex. I then placed the figures into the boat, scattered the shells around the crushed-cookie “sand” covering the cake board, and then painted USS Alex as the name of the boat. I didn’t want Alex to have any doubt that I was including him in my creation. I wondered if I should have named the boat the USS Armstrong and utilized Lucas’s and Leslie’s surname instead, but I would make it a point to explain the reason behind the USS Alex later on. I felt confident my niece and nephew would understand.

  I was taking one final look at the cake trying to determine what—if anything—else it needed when the timer went off.