by Trent, Gayle
I giggled. “The little guy put his fist over his head and still had to jump up to hit the other one?”
“Oh, yeah, honey, Slim was the tallest boy in the class,” she said. “Buck managed to hit Slim twice, and then Slim’s nose started bleeding. Either Slim walked away after that or a teacher broke up the so-called fight—I can’t remember which—but people pretty much left Buck alone after that.”
“I guess so,” I said. “How did you hear about the fight?”
“Carl Jr. told me. He was proud of Buck. They’d always been good friends, and Carl Jr. was tickled that Buck had stood up for himself.” She nodded. “Still, that story proves my point. Just because something is little doesn’t mean it won’t bust your nose and make you bleed. That little demon dog out there might not have big fangs, but they’ll break the skin just the same.”
“But, Myra, I think the poor thing was just hungry and lost. Maybe it belongs to somebody around here.”
“Maybe it does,” she said. “And if you want to babysit the thing, have at it. I don’t want any part of it.”
“All right,” I said. “It might find its way home now that it’s had something to eat.”
“Let’s hope so.” She stretched. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, but before I go, you can give me some of that leftover roast beef you mentioned earlier,” I said.
We both laughed.
“Did you overhear anything about the murder today?” I asked.
“Not a lot. The people who were there at the cake show mainly to look at the cakes or to participate in the competitions didn’t have much to say about Chef Richards,” she said. “The others—like Clean Underwear—were there trying to sensationalize his death and see if they could find a juicy story—make that a juicier story than the one they already knew.”
“I know,” I said. “It’s sad how little we’ve been able to uncover.”
“I agree. I still think the best bet is one of the students—maybe that Pauline.”
“Maybe.” I frowned. “You didn’t hear any gossip about anyone Chef Richards might have been having an affair with, did you?”
“An affair? Who’d want to have an affair with that creep?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I thought maybe his assistant, Fiona, might. It seems farfetched, I know, but I’m grasping at straws.”
Myra tilted her head back and looked up at the ceiling. “I didn’t hear of any torrid affairs. But it’ll give me something to work with tomorrow.”
“Oh, by the way, did you see the figure molding demonstration?” I asked.
She looked back at me. “No. What happened?”
“I heard some producers talking. Lou Gimmel—the guy who did the demo—might be the country’s next celebrity chef.”
Myra’s mouth turned down at the corners. “Then I definitely need to check him out tomorrow. And I’ll have Mark look into his background too.”
13
I HAD NO need of Myra’s roast beef to get back to my house. When we opened the door, the little dog was gone. I hoped it had found its way back home. But if it had no home, it would make a terrific companion for Myra. Seriously. The two of them just needed to come to an understanding . . . get to know each other . . .
I fed Sparrow, and then I called Violet.
“What’s up?” she asked when she answered.
“I just wondered if Molly said anything to you about Alex’s dad today,” I said. “I think it’s great that her brother has taken such a strong role in the boy’s life, but no one mentioned his dad at all.”
“She didn’t say much,” Vi said. “When Jason met Chris, he thought Chris was Alex’s dad. Molly corrected the misassumption and then said, ‘Alex’s dad isn’t with us anymore.’ I don’t know if that means he’s dead or that he’s just not part of their lives.”
“Either way, it has to be tough,” I said. “I’m glad Molly has Chris in her life.”
“So am I. It’s a shame, though, that they live so far away from each other.”
“They do?” I asked. “I thought they were from the same town . . . maybe even lived together.”
“No,” Violet said. “While we were talking over lunch, we learned that Chris lives in a suburb of Atlanta, and Molly and Alex live in North Carolina. Chris had this weekend off and decided to come to the cake show with Molly and Alex.”
“I’m glad Alex got along so well with Leslie and Lucas,” I said. “I think they did him a lot of good, especially Leslie.”
“Yeah. She even managed to convince him to start baking again. Of course, he might’ve just been telling her that, but I hope not.”
“I hope not too. Molly said his personality really changed after he quit,” I said. “Well, I’d better hang up. I promised Steve Franklin I’d make some brownies and cupcakes for the Save-A-Buck and get them to him by the first of the week. Since Ben had to go back in to work, I thought I’d go ahead and get that job taken care of early.”
“I’ll let you get to it. If you have any that turn out ugly or get smooshed or anything . . . ”
“I’ll bring any rejects to you guys in the morning,” I finished for her. We both laughed.
After talking with Violet, I went into the kitchen, got out my favorite blue mixing bowl, and made a double batch of chocolate fudge brownies. While the brownies were in the oven, I went into my home office and booted up the computer. I checked my e-mail and website stats—visits were up considerably since I’d won the timed decorating competition!—and then I did a search for Chef Richards. I hoped to see for myself if there was any gossip about his having an affair with Fiona or anyone else. If not, maybe there was something about rivalries he might’ve had with other chefs.
There was nothing on any of the more credible sites that listed anything other than well-known facts about Chef Richards—where he was born (Massachusetts), how old he was (sixty), and where he studied (Le Cordon Bleu in Boston). However, the more reader-generated blog forums had plenty to say about the notorious baker.
“Rudest man I’ve ever met!”
“. . . not even as good as I’d heard he was. His assistant did all the hard work.”
I wondered if the assistant this person was referring to was Fiona. I scrolled down.
“All of his assistants have been better than he is,” another poster said. “I hear he changes them like other people change their undershirts, but they’re all more skillful than he is. And yet he takes all the credit for their work.”
Another commenter said that she saw a woman at a cake show in Maine throw water in Chef Richards’s face. “The woman said it was an accident, but no one believed her, and she got ejected from the venue! LOL! Who could blame her, though? He was so insulting!”
The timer went off on the oven, and I went to the kitchen to take out the brownies. I put them on a wire rack to cool. I realized I could very easily waste the entire night reading “I hate Chef Richards” posts on the Internet, but that wouldn’t get me any closer to learning who had killed him. The only post that had possibly helped at all was the one that indicated that Chef Richards had changed assistants often. I should ask Fiona how long she’d been working for him.
I took out my recipe for pistachio cupcakes. I thought they might be a novel purchase for some residents who were up for trying something other than the typical vanilla and chocolate varieties.
As I scooped out a cup of cake flour and leveled it with the back of a knife, I realized that I hadn’t seen Gavin Conroy—the baker Chef Richards had called sloppy—at the competition today. I dumped the flour into the mixing bowl and wondered if Chef Conroy had left after learning that class wouldn’t take place on Friday. Didn’t he have a cake entered in the competition? I tried to remember how he’d done in class. I thought he’d seemed to get the hang of string work pretty quickly and had done a decent job. Maybe he had been at the show today, and I simply hadn’t noticed.
I added the rest of the ingredients to the bowl and loo
ked up at the clock. It was after nine o’clock. I wouldn’t be making it back to the Brea Ridge Inn tonight. And that was okay. I decided I’d rather stay at home anyway.
I wondered what had been so pressing that it had necessitated Ben’s working late into the night. Had it been a new development in Chef Richards’s murder case, he’d have told me. Wouldn’t he? What else could possibly be going on in Brea Ridge right now that was more important than that? Unless whatever it was wasn’t going on in Brea Ridge but in Kentucky.
Once the cupcakes were baking, I returned to the computer and looked up the name “Gavin Conroy.” I found a football player, a CEO, and a martial arts expert. I didn’t find a pastry chef. Had he been a plant hired by Chef Richards to be in the class after all?
I did a search for “Lou Gimmel” and found, not surprisingly, that he was the darling of his hometown. He ran a small but successful bakery there, served on the city council, and mentored children from area schools. He deserved his shot at stardom, and I was genuinely happy for him.
Before I logged off of the computer, I went to the All Up in Your Business website and looked once again at the photo of the collegiate Ben with Nickie Zane. Fortunately, the oven timer dinged, and I had no more time to torture myself with the photo. I shut down the computer and went to get the cupcakes.
THE NEXT MORNING, I delivered five packages of four iced brownies and six packages of four pistachio cupcakes to the Save-A-Buck. (I had saved one of the boxes of brownies for Lucas and Leslie.) Since the small, family-owned grocery store didn’t have an in-house bakery, I supplied the store with baked goods on commission. They were displayed on a table at the front of the store.
I got out of the car, retrieved a shopping cart, and loaded the packages of brownies and cupcakes into it. When I wheeled the cart into the Save-A-Buck, I saw that a poster board sign had been stenciled with BAKED GOODS PROVIDED BY DAPHNE MARTIN, AWARD-WINNING CAKE DECORATOR and taped over the table.
I caught the eye of my favorite cashier, Juanita, jerked my thumb toward the sign, and said, “What’s up with that?”
Juanita smiled. “Do you like it? We heard about your winning the beach cake competition yesterday, and we thought we should brag about you. Congratulations!”
“Thank you,” I said with a laugh. “I’m not so sure I’d go as far as to call myself an award-winning decorator because of that, but I guess it’ll work.”
“Of course you should call yourself an award winner,” she said. “You did win, did you not?”
I nodded. “I did.”
“Then embrace it,” said Juanita. “Feel special.”
“Thank you.” I had a hard time embracing my successes and feeling special. The years I’d been married to Todd had made me feel anything but. Even though I was now out from under his control, I could still hear his taunting, malicious voice in my mind. It was hard to ignore. In fact, it was almost easier for me to accept failures than it was to bask in the glory of wins.
“I heard about Chef Richards,” Juanita said. “I know his death must have cast a shadow over the cake show. I’m sorry for that.”
“Me too,” I said. I was also sorry that I was a suspect in his murder, but I didn’t say that. If Juanita—and the rest of the Save-A-Buck staff—didn’t know I’d been questioned about Chef Richards’s death, I didn’t want to be the one to spread the news.
“I get off work early today, so I’m hoping to get to the inn in time to see all the cakes,” she said.
“They’re gorgeous . . . especially the wedding cakes. The sculpted cakes are great too. And wait until you see the kids’ cakes! You’ll find it hard to believe that kids in their particular age groups made those cakes.” I smiled. “My niece Leslie made a cake that looks like a cheeseburger and fries. It’s fantastic.”
Juanita clasped her hands together and pressed them to her chest. “I can hardly wait to see them all.”
I glanced at my watch. “I’d better get going. The ballroom doors open in fifteen minutes.”
“I will look you up when I get there,” she said.
As I left the Save-A-Buck, my cell phone rang. It was Ben. “Good morning,” I answered.
“Where are you?” he asked. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything is fine. I just dropped off some pastries at the Save-A-Buck, and I’m on my way to the inn,” I said. “Is everything okay with you?”
“Yeah . . . I just got here and wanted to surprise you, but you weren’t in our room,” Ben said. “And unless they did a superspeedy job of cleaning it this morning, you didn’t sleep here last night.”
“No, I decided to stay at home and get some baking done.” I unlocked the door to the Mini Cooper with my key fob. “It wouldn’t have been the same without you there anyway.”
He blew out a breath. “I just thought it would be nice for you to be here. You’ve been under a lot of stress, and I hoped that staying here last night would help.”
“Are you upset with me?” I asked.
“No,” he said, although I wasn’t entirely convinced. “You had work you needed to do.”
“As did you,” I reminded him.
“Right. Yeah. No, that’s fine,” Ben said. “I’ll see you when you get here.”
“Okay.” As I drove to the Brea Ridge Inn, I wondered about Ben’s attitude. He’d sounded disappointed that I hadn’t spent the night in the room he’d reserved. I supposed he’d felt that he’d given me a gift and that I’d rejected it. I’d be sure and express my gratitude when I saw him this morning and tell him again that it simply didn’t feel right to stay there alone.
When I stepped into the lobby, I was stopped by Molly. She looked as if she was about to burst with excitement.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
She took hold of my upper arms. “Alex is doing the demonstration for the children’s group today.”
My eyes widened. “That’s wonderful. Are . . . are you sure he’s ready?”
“I hope so,” Molly said, dropping her hands from my arms. “Chris ran into Kimmie Compton at the bar last night. The poor woman was stressing out over the fact that the person who’d been scheduled to do a decorating demo for the children today got sick and had to cancel.”
“So Chris volunteered Alex for the job?” I felt like that might not have been the best idea in the world, but then, what did I know? Alex’s mother and uncle knew the child. I’d only met him yesterday. Still, it seemed to me that a child who’d suffered a traumatic experience at his last decorating event—so traumatic that he’d had to go on antidepressants—shouldn’t be in front of a crowd the next time he picked up a pastry bag.
“Well, Chris didn’t exactly just sign Alex up.” She frowned. “But he did tell Ms. Compton that Alex might be willing to do it. So then Chris came upstairs and told Alex that Ms. Compton needed his help, and Alex said he’d do it.”
“He isn’t nervous about it?” I asked.
“I think he was at first, but I went out last night and got him some of the things he’d need to practice with—fondant, icing, tips—and he picked it up right where he’d left off,” she said. “It was as if he’d never quit. Chris told him that the bad man who’d said mean things to him last year wouldn’t be here today and that we’d all be at the demonstration to support him.”
“Of course we will.”
“Do you think Lucas and Leslie would stand at the table with Alex?” Molly asked. “They wouldn’t have to do anything . . . just be there.”
“I think they’d be happy to help,” I said. “I’ll call Violet and make sure Lucas was planning on being here today.”
“Thanks.” She smiled. “I’d better get back upstairs and see if he needs anything.”
As Molly got into the elevator and waved goodbye, I called Vi. I told her about Chris volunteering Alex for the children’s demonstration.
“Molly said that Alex readily agreed, but she said she’d like Lucas and Leslie there for moral support,” I said.
&n
bsp; “Of course,” Vi said. “I only hope that Alex is ready to do it. To get up in front of a crowd of people and give a demonstration is tough even if you’re totally prepared, much less if you’re an eleven-year-old child. To do it when you haven’t practiced cake decorating in months is something else entirely.”
“Tell me about it,” I said. “I was a nervous wreck myself yesterday, and I’ve been decorating every day. And then to see how seamless Lou Gimmel made it all look . . . well, that made me feel even worse about my performance.”
“You did great,” she said.
“Spoken like a good sister.”
“I am, aren’t I?” She chuckled. “We’ll be there in about half an hour. I wish there was a way we could let Alex know that it’s okay to back out if he isn’t comfortable doing the demo.”
“I think Leslie will tell him if she senses any hesitation at all on his part,” I said. “Like her mom, she’s pretty intuitive and has a good head on her shoulders. Oh, and by the way, tell the kids that I have a box of brownies for them.”
“Just for them?” Violet asked.
“There’s one for each of you in the box,” I said.
“All right, then. I thought I was going to have to storm the Save-A-Buck and take what was rightfully mine,” she said with a laugh.
For some reason, her comment made me imagine myself dressed as a Roman soldier taking my sword and shield and heading for Kentucky.
14
I PUT MY phone away and went into the ballroom. I checked on my superhero cake, Leslie’s sculpted cake, and my wedding cake. All of the above were fine—no spectator damage, no damage caused by settling or changes in room temperature or anything weird. That was a huge relief. I’d have been mortified if any of our cakes had been marred.