by Trent, Gayle
I spotted Fiona near the wedding cakes and went over to say hello.
“Did you enter a cake in the contest?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I’d have liked to, but with Chef Richards’s demanding schedule, I didn’t have time to make one.”
“I’m sorry about that,” I said. “I think you’d have done a wonderful job. How long had you worked with Chef Richards?”
“About three and a half months,” Fiona said.
“You said he had a demanding schedule.” I inclined my head. “So he had you working some pretty long hours?”
“Yes, we did work long hours, and he traveled extensively,” she said. “And, of course, wherever he goes—or rather, went—his assistant went too.”
“I imagine a career like that would make having a personal life almost impossible,” I said.
She shrugged. “I didn’t have much of one anyway. My parents and siblings are scattered throughout the country, and I haven’t had a partner since before I began working with Chef Richards.” She lowered her eyes. “I’d hoped the sacrifices I was making would advance my career. I’d like to open my own restaurant someday . . . manage a staff . . . do all the pastries myself.”
“That’s terrific, Fiona.” I placed my hand gently on her arm so she’d raise her eyes back to mine. “You can still realize that dream, you know.”
“I’m not so sure,” she said. “Jordan had so many connections . . . connections that I don’t have without him.”
“But you’re great at what you do,” I said. “Your talent and hard work will open doors for you.”
“I used to think so,” she said. “But I saw how Jordan could make or break careers with a single phone call. He could be brutal. Still, without him, I wouldn’t know where to begin to find investors for my restaurant.”
I didn’t have a clue where to tell her to look, so I merely reiterated my confidence that she could realize her dream even without Jordan Richards. Then I changed the subject. “Did you ever meet Chef Richards’s ex-wife?”
“Lily?” Fiona asked. “I’d met her once or twice. I didn’t actually know her, though. Why?”
“I heard talk that he’d been abusive to her,” I said, glancing around to make sure no one would overhear us. “I wondered if she might be the one who bashed him over the head with that cake stand.”
“I highly doubt it,” she said. “From everything I heard about her, she moved on and never looked back.”
“I wish his murder were something as simple as a domestic dispute,” I said. “Doesn’t it make you nervous to think that there’s a killer at large . . . probably right here at this cake show with us?”
Fiona laughed. “No. I don’t think we have a thing to worry about, Daphne. It’s not like there’s a serial killer out there destroying all the cake decorators of the world. He merely—for whatever reason, and I’d imagine it’s a personal reason—did in one horrible guy. I’m sorry it happened, but I’m not afraid the murderer might kill one of us next.”
I smiled. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I’m letting my imagination get the best of me.” I noticed Kimmie Compton posting the schedule of events and excused myself from Fiona.
“Good morning,” I said as I approached Ms. Compton. “I thought I should come over and get a peek at the lineup today.”
She turned and smiled. “It’s another jam-packed day. I think it’ll be fun and exciting. Plus, there’s the awards ceremony. That will begin at four this afternoon.”
“Yeah . . . I’m not sure I’m ready for that.”
“I doubt you have anything to be concerned about,” Ms. Compton said. “I haven’t seen the judges’ notes—and, of course, the entries are anonymous—but I know you do fantastic work, Daphne.”
“Thank you,” I said. As Ms. Compton walked away, I scanned the list of events.
“Hmph.”
I turned in the direction of the derisive grunt. It was Gavin Conroy. “Hi,” I said to him. “It’s Daphne Martin. . . . We were in Chef Richards’s Australian string work class together.”
“Of course. I remember who you are.”
“I didn’t see you yesterday and thought you might have left Brea Ridge,” I continued.
He shook his head and then emitted a long, drawn-out breath. “No, I stayed here in town. As a matter of fact, I’m rooming here at the inn, but I avoided the competition yesterday out of respect for Chef Richards.” He jerked his head toward the events schedule. “And, just as I expected, there’s no tribute to be paid to him today or anything. It’s business as usual . . . and I think that’s tacky.”
“I suppose it would’ve been nice had there been time to coordinate a tribute on such short notice, but I don’t think anyone could’ve possibly had time,” I said. “I didn’t realize the two of you were friends.”
“We weren’t friends,” Gavin said. “But we were colleagues. All of us were his colleagues. And I think it’s a shame that his work isn’t being honored here.”
“I believe his work is being honored,” I said. “Fiona did an Australian string work demonstration yesterday using the techniques we learned in Chef Richards’s class.”
“Did she mention him at all during the demo?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “But it was obvious she was very nervous. I don’t think she enjoys being in front of an audience. Still, everyone knew it was to have been his demonstration. I took over one of his demos yesterday as well. And, no, I didn’t mention Chef Richards as I worked either. I merely told the audience what I was doing. Like Fiona, I was nervous.”
Gavin expelled another breath and shook his head.
“If you’re so concerned about honoring Chef Richards’s memory, Gavin, why don’t you do a memorial yourself ?” I asked. “I doubt Ms. Compton would mind.”
“I might just do that.” He stalked away.
“Who was that?” Ben asked as he approached from the direction in which Gavin left.
“He’s Gavin Conroy, the guy that Chef Richards criticized for being a slob in class the other day,” I said. “Now he’s acting all sanctimonious because no one at the cake show is honoring Jordan Richards’s memory.”
“Chef Richards just died Thursday evening,” Ben said. “What did that Conroy guy want—for the event to be canceled?”
“Either that or a tribute given,” I said. “I told him that if he was so concerned about it, he should host a memorial himself.”
“Good for you. But, given what you’ve told me—and what I’ve heard here—about Chef Richards, the sloppy guy will probably be the only one to show up if he does host a memorial.” Ben stepped closer to the schedule of events. “It looks like you have a fairly relaxing day today. I don’t see your name on here anywhere.”
“Nope. No demonstrations or anything from me,” I said. “All I have to do is hang around, watch other people’s demos, and wait for the awards ceremony.”
“That’s great. . . . Right?”
I shrugged. “I’m actually nervous about the awards.”
“But you’ve already won the timed cake competition,” Ben pointed out. “Even if you don’t win in your other divisions, you still leave here a winner.”
I smiled. “I guess. How’d your work go last night? Did you finish everything you had to do?”
“Pretty much.” He turned back to the schedule. “Wait, this isn’t the Alex we met yesterday doing the kids’ demonstration, is it?”
“It sure is. His mom told me about it when I first got here.”
“Does she think it’s wise to put him in the spotlight at the first cake show he’s attended since he was bashed by Chef Richards for being too good at his last competition?” Ben asked.
“Molly thinks he’ll be fine,” I said. “Frankly, I’m concerned about him too. But his mom says that as long as we’re there to support him—and that as long as Lucas and Leslie are willing to help him—Alex will be all right.”
“I hope he will be. That’s a lot of pressur
e for any kid,” he said. “But a kid with Asperger’s Syndrome who hasn’t decorated a cake in months . . . ?” He spread his hands and widened his eyes in exaggeration.
“I know. But we have to trust that Molly knows him well enough to be aware of what he can and cannot do,” I said.
I spotted the three judges—two women and one man—gathered around my wedding cake. I clutched Ben’s arms. “Oh my gosh, there they are.”
“Who?” He looked around the ballroom, oblivious to the cause of my alarm.
“The judges,” I hissed. “They’re grading my cake right this very moment! See them?”
Ben smiled at someone behind me. “Hi, guys.”
I whirled to see Myra and Mark.
Myra took my shoulders. “Honey, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost or something.”
“They’re grading my cake, Myra. See their scorecards?”
She nodded her frosted blond head. “I’m on it.”
“No, wait . . . ” It was too late. She was on her way. I put my hand to my forehead and groaned.
Mark, a broad man in his early to midsixties with a gray buzz cut and bushy eyebrows, chuckled. “Once the gun has gone off, you can’t take the bullet back, Daphne.”
“I know. I just . . . ” I sighed. “I know.”
Mark patted me on the back, and I nearly stumbled. The man didn’t know his own strength. “It might be better just to turn away,” he said.
I knew he was right. And yet I stood there watching in horror as Myra approached the judges and began talking with them. It was apparent that they were trying to nicely shoo her away, but she was insistent.
Mark’s gravelly voice drew my attention back to him. “I’ve been looking into the backgrounds of the various students who signed up for Chef Richards’s class. I took a look at Fiona too. Other than the shoplifting charge Pauline Wilson received when she was in college, all their records appear to be clean.” His eyes suddenly widened, and I spun around to see what Myra was doing.
She was facing the judges with her hands on her hips. It appeared they were arguing.
“Oh, no,” I groaned. “Oh, no. My cake is going to be disqualified.”
“I’ll go run interference,” Ben said.
“Here’s something interesting I learned,” Mark told me as Ben walked away. “One of the students—Gavin Conroy—once applied to become Chef Richards’s assistant. He didn’t get the position.”
“He must’ve really idolized Chef Richards, even though the chef treated him like crap,” I said. “Conroy was pretty upset this morning because there was no memorial planned for Chef Richards. He was disgusted that it was, as he said, business as usual.”
“Did Mr. Conroy give you any indication during the class that he thought so highly of Chef Richards?” Mark asked.
I shook my head. “In fact, it was the opposite. I got the impression that he didn’t like Chef Richards any more than the rest of us did—maybe even less. But he was the one person who wasn’t afraid to snap back at Chef Richards. At one point, that made me think that Richards had planted Conroy in the class to prove to us that he could take insolence as well as he could dish it out.”
“You don’t think that anymore?” Mark asked.
“No,” I said. “I’d already decided that Chef Richards was too cocky to plant someone in one of his classes who would stand up to him. But, then, with your news about his applying for the job of Chef Richards’s assistant, I think that theory is completely bogus. Don’t you?”
“Probably. Maybe Conroy is one of those people who feel that once a person is dead, they couldn’t have been as bad as they seemed,” he said. “He could have been raised not to speak ill of the dead. Or it could be that he’s feeling guilty over his treatment of Chef Richards in class on Thursday. How insolent was he with Richards?”
“Gavin Conroy only gave back as good as he—and the rest of us—got. If anyone should’ve felt guilty over the way he treated people, it was Chef Richards,” I said. “That man was unbearable.”
Ben returned with Myra.
“What did you do?” I asked her.
“I simply strolled by to see what was happening,” she said.
“You didn’t tell them that was my cake, did you? That could disqualify me.”
“Of course, I didn’t tell them it was your cake. This is not my first investigation, nor my first time going undercover.” She winked at Mark.
Mark closed his eyes and shook his head. Ben patted him on the shoulder.
“I simply commented on what a lovely cake it was,” said Myra.
“It didn’t look like that was all you were saying from our vantage point,” I said. “It looked like you guys were arguing.”
She shrugged. “Well, they asked me if I could look at the other cakes while they were judging yours, and I said that I’d wait. They didn’t want me to do that, but I pointed out that the workmanship on your cake was so much better than that on the other wedding cakes that I wanted to study yours. I told them that I wanted to take photographs of your work so I could learn to duplicate it. I said I was a beginning cake decorator—which is just a tiny white lie because I made Mark a cake just last week and swirled the icing around on the top real fancy, and it looked nice. Didn’t it, Mark?”
“It was gorgeous, dear,” said Mark.
“That’s when I went and got Myra and told her it was time for her medication,” Ben said.
Ben and Mark had a hearty laugh over that, but Myra just glared at them.
“I might’ve been able to find out some good stuff from those people had I been allowed to linger,” she said.
“Thanks, Myra,” I told her. “You’re doing well in your investigation. I only hope you can find Chef Richards’s killer before the day is out.” I turned my attention back to the schedule of events. “I see that Pauline Wilson is doing a gum paste flower demonstration in just a few minutes. I’d like to see that.”
“I’ll go with you,” Myra said.
“I think I’ll wander around and look at the cakes a little bit,” said Ben. “Mark, care to join me?”
“Sure,” Mark said.
“They’re up to something,” Myra noted as they walked away.
“More than likely,” I said. “Maybe they have a good lead on a suspect, and they’re going to take the guy down.”
“Without me?”
I should’ve been commended for not laughing out loud. “That’s probably just wishful thinking on my part, Myra.”
“Yeah . . . you’re probably right.”
15
WHEN WE arrived at the demonstration area, Pauline was placing RESERVED signs, black-and-white head shots of herself, and small bags of chocolates on each front-row chair.
“What’re you doing?” Myra asked her. “Trying to catch yourself a man?”
Pauline gave her an icy stare. “No.”
“Because I’d never thought about it, but it makes sense . . . other than the fact that most of the men here are only at this cake shindig because their wives or girlfriends dragged them here,” Myra said. “But, in theory, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, so if he sees that you can bake a decent cake . . . ”
“This row is reserved for invited guests,” Pauline said.
“Oh, well, now, that makes more sense. Who are they? Local National Reservists? Marines?” Myra was still fully fixated on the premise that Pauline had reserved the front row for eligible bachelors.
I didn’t think so. I was right.
“They’re television executives, producers, and directors,” said Pauline. “They sometimes come to these kinds of events looking for new talent. And now that Jordan Richards is dead, they’ll all be looking for somebody new . . . somebody to be the next darling of the baking world.”
“Well, I’ve seen Jordan Richards on TV plenty of times,” said Myra. “I doubt he was anybody’s darling.”
I introduced Myra and Pauline before saying, “Good luck with the
producers.”
Her face softened slightly. “Thank you. I don’t know whether or not I’m what they’re looking for, but I won’t know if I don’t try, will I?”
“That’s absolutely right.” I smiled. “You’re braver than I am. I wouldn’t dream of inviting producers to my demo. If I’d had the slightest inkling they were in the audience, I’d have been a nervous wreck. Or rather, I would’ve been even more nervous than I was already.”
“So you have no interest in becoming a celebrity chef?” Pauline asked.
“None. I had more than my fair share of fame—or, I should say, notoriety—in Tennessee once.” I was talking about my experience with Todd and the news coverage of that entire mess. “That was plenty.”
“You’re talking about . . . ” Pauline glanced at Myra, not wanting to reveal too much if Myra wasn’t already aware of the situation. “About what Chef Richards mentioned in class?”
I nodded. “During that time, I had cameras in my face everywhere I went. I hated it.”
“But this would be different,” Pauline said. “It would be something good.”
“I don’t think it would be for me,” I said with a smile. “But for you, I think it could be wonderful. Again, I wish you the best. I’m looking forward to watching your demonstration.”
“So am I,” Myra said. “And you never know. One of those producers might be an eligible bachelor. I’m not seeing a ring on your finger.”
As Pauline laughed, a woman in a tailored navy suit approached us. She had short, dark-blond hair, and blue eyes that were accentuated by the suit.
“Excuse me,” the blonde said in a soft, cultured voice. “Are either of you Pauline Wilson? I was told she’d be doing a gum paste demonstration here shortly.”
“I’m Pauline. Are you one of the television executives?”
“No, I’m Lily Richards. Jordan was my husband.”
Pauline’s eyes cut to me and back to Lily. “And you’re looking for me?”
“Yes,” said Ms. Richards. “I’d like to speak with both you and Daphne Martin.”
“I’m Daphne Martin.” I was guessing the police had mentioned to Ms. Richards that the fingerprints found on the murder weapon belonged to Pauline and me, but if that’s what she wanted to talk with us about, I wasn’t going to hurry the conversation along.