by Trent, Gayle
“Oh.” Ms. Richards’s face softened into an expression that wasn’t quite a smile. “This is a bit of luck, then. Do either or both of you have just a minute to talk?”
Pauline nodded. “Let’s step over here behind the demonstration table, where we can have a little privacy.”
I started to excuse myself from Myra, but the expression on her face told me that there was no way I was keeping her from being privy to this conversation. The four of us walked over to the demo area. I was well aware—as I assumed Pauline must be—that people were starting to take their seats in the audience, and I prayed that Lily Richards wouldn’t make a nasty scene. My mind raced as I began mounting a defense before the woman even began speaking.
“Thank you for taking this time,” Ms. Richards said. “I know you’re both very busy. I remember very well all the events I attended with Jordan, and I realize that things can get hectic in the blink of an eye.”
I struggled for something to say. “Chef Richards was a talented man.”
Ms. Richards nodded slowly. “He was. I realize everyone is in a rush, so I’ll get right to the point. The police told me that your fingerprints—both your fingerprints—were found on the cake stand used to hit Jordan over the head.” She held up her left hand. “I’m not here to accuse anyone of anything. I merely want to know what happened to my . . . to Jordan.” She took a steadying breath. “I viewed the body last night . . . and, frankly, I find it hard to believe that even after smashing Jordan over the head with a cake stand, a woman could . . . could do that to him. Jordan was strong. He’d been in the military. He kept in good shape.”
My eyes flew to Pauline. She looked as helpless as I felt. She and I hadn’t discussed the fact that our fingerprints were found on the murder weapon, and now it was not only the elephant in the room, but there was an entire circus going on around us. Myra was leaning in as wide-eyed as a barn owl, Ms. Richards was fighting back tears, and I heard someone I presumed to be a television producer exclaim, “Yum, chocolate!”
“I . . . I . . . ” After those two failed attempts, Pauline said nothing.
I managed to say, “I’m so sorry for your loss, Ms. Richards.”
“Yes. So am I,” said Pauline, appearing grateful that I’d given her the words she might’ve been groping for. “I really should get ready for my demonstration, though.”
“Of course. I simply wondered how Jordan was acting on Thursday during the class,” Ms. Richards said. “Did it appear anything was wrong?”
“How could you tell?” Myra blurted.
To my surprise, Ms. Richards laughed softly. “You’ve got a point. Jordan was always a bit abrasive. But did it strike any of you that there was anything out of the ordinary going on with him?”
“I didn’t think so,” I said. “I’d only just met him, but I didn’t get the impression that he was concerned or upset about anything.”
“Thank you. I’ll let you go now,” she said.
“Wait. Could we talk later?” I reached into my purse and handed her a business card. “This has my cell phone number on it. Like you, I’d love to figure out what happened to Chef Richards. Maybe if we could talk it over together, we could come up with an answer.”
“I’d like to try,” Ms. Richards said. “Could we perhaps meet for lunch?”
“That would be great,” I said.
“I’d like to join you too,” Pauline said.
“As would I,” said Myra.
Pauline frowned. “But I didn’t think you were in our class, Ms. Jenkins.”
“I wasn’t.” Myra lifted her chin. “But I am a private investigator, and I would be happy to offer my expertise in this matter.”
I looked at Myra and felt like Ethel Mertz, wondering what Lucy Ricardo was going to do next.
“I appreciate your help, Ms. Jenkins,” Ms. Richards said. “I’ll look forward to seeing all of you at lunch, then.”
“I’ll let you get ready for your demonstration,” I said to Pauline. “Good luck.”
“Thank you,” she said.
Myra and I went and found seats on the risers well behind the reserved front row.
“What do you think of Ms. Richards coming to town?” Myra whispered.
I shrugged. “I suppose she’s still listed as Chef Richards’s personal contact or something. She seemed genuinely upset about his death.”
“Wonder if she’s the primary beneficiary to his estate?” Myra asked.
“I don’t know. I imagine she probably is. She seemed like a class act, though, don’t you think? I wonder what she ever saw in him.”
“Well, don’t you forget, we were just talking last night about looks being deceiving,” she said.
“What I can’t figure out is, if she’s still going by the name Lily Richards, why couldn’t Mark track her down?” I asked.
“That’s a good question,” said Myra. “I’ll send him a text and see what he says.”
I nodded and tried to act like I was paying attention to Pauline as she set up her materials for the gum paste demo. I was actually thinking about Lily Richards and Pauline and Fiona and Gavin Conroy and the other students in the class and wondering which one of them—if any of them—had killed Jordan Richards. Ms. Richards had said she didn’t think the killer was a woman, and I was inclined to agree . . . unless she was telling us that because she was the killer and was trying to throw us off her trail.
Still, my fingerprints and Pauline’s were the only ones found on the cake stand. Had someone used that particular cake stand in order to set one of us up? Or was it merely the most convenient object with which to hit Chef Richards?
I sighed, and Myra patted my hand.
“Everything will be all right,” she said, giving me her infamous wink-nod combo. “Now that Lily Richards is in town, the killer is bound to turn up.”
“What makes you say that? Do you think he’ll want to hurt her too?” I asked.
“I don’t know. But in a bunch of those detective movies—especially the old ones—the police inspectors are always saying to ‘searchay the female.’ That means find the woman.”
Cherchez la femme. Once again, I felt I should have been commended on my ability to stifle a giggle.
“So now that the woman is here,” Myra continued, “another piece of the puzzle will fall into place. Just you wait and see.”
Fortunately, the front row began filling up, and Myra focused her attention on seeing if she recognized anyone famous.
“What do you want to bet that’s some of Pauline Wilson’s family or somebody she’s paid to come here and pretend to be TV producers so we’ll all think she’s a big shot?” Myra asked.
“I doubt it,” lowering my voice in the hope that Myra would take the hint and lower hers. “I heard some producers talking during Lou Gimmel’s demonstration yesterday, so I know there are some here.”
“Yeah, but they showed up on their own,” she said. “They didn’t have to be wooed to his demonstration with chocolate.”
“I don’t want to break it to Pauline, but I think they’ll probably end up going with Lou. . . . That is, if they’re truly interested in anyone from our little corner of the world. I’m sure they sent out feelers to the Oklahoma State Sugar Art Show as well as to events hosted by the International Cake Exploration Societé,” I said. “I doubt there’s a shortage of chefs who want to be in the spotlight.”
“Speaking of which, were you just blowing smoke when you told Pauline you wouldn’t want a gig like that?” Myra asked.
I shook my head. “After Todd tried to kill me, the media was all over me. I was much easier to get to since Todd was in jail without bond, so they bugged me to death. Then there was the trial and the endless questions. I never want to go through anything like that again.”
“But Pauline’s right—a TV show would be different,” she said.
“Not for long,” I said. “Some gossip columnist would find out about Todd, and I’d have to relive the entire thing all over
again.”
“I see your point,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
I gave her a one-armed hug. “I’m not. I’m happy with my life here in Brea Ridge.”
She grinned. “I’m happy you’re here too . . . although, if you ever do get on TV and need an assistant, I’d be glad to help out.”
“I know you would,” I said. “Oh, look. Clea Underwood is taking one of the reserved seats. I wonder if Pauline invited her, or if she invited herself?”
“The little snot probably just stole somebody else’s chair,” said Myra. “She likes to act like she’s a big shot, but she’s far from it.”
“Well, Pauline only put RESERVED signs in the chairs,” I said. “Clea probably thinks that means VIPs and that she’s certainly one of those.”
She scoffed. “VIP, my butt.”
Pauline gave herself a detailed introduction, and I really had to wonder about her timidity during Thursday’s Australian string work class. Had that been an act? Had she thought that if she appeared to be über vulnerable, Chef Richards would be nicer to her? If she had thought that, she’d been wrong.
“Today I’m demonstrating how to make a gum paste calla lily,” she said. “They’re one of the loveliest . . . ” She put her hand up to her mouth and said in a stage whisper, “Albeit easiest gum paste flowers to make.”
She kneaded the pre-made white gum paste prior to applying gel color.
“As you can see, I’m using this toothpick to apply yellow gel to my gum paste. This will be used to create the center of my calla lily.” She put on plastic gloves and kneaded the gel into the gum paste until the color was uniform. “Now I’m taking what I’ll need to make a cone-shaped center to my flower, and I’m putting the rest in this plastic wrap to keep it from drying out so it’ll be pliable when I need it later.” She raised an index finger. “Always keep gum paste either in plastic wrap, in use, or drying.” She winked.
“I hope they don’t put her on TV,” Myra whispered. “She’ll make people puke with that fake, peppy, yippee attitude.”
“Before you guys got here, I prepared a slurry using warm water and a little dollop of gum paste,” Pauline said. “The slurry is a sort of glue that will help us make the gum paste adhere to itself and to other substances. I also pre-made my wire hooks.”
As Pauline was talking, she was shaping her ball of yellow gum paste into a rounded, tapered cone. She then inserted a wire hook into the center of the cone.
“Since I want the center of my calla lily to seem pollinated, I’m going to brush a little slurry onto the cone and then roll the cone in this finely milled cornmeal.” She held up a little dish to show us that it was, indeed, filled with cornmeal. As she’d stated, she rolled the cone around in the cornmeal until it looked . . . well . . . furry.
“Who’d want to eat that mess?” Myra asked.
“I doubt anyone would,” I answered. “Most people don’t eat gum paste flowers.”
“They don’t? Why have them, then?”
“For decoration,” I said.
Myra shrugged.
“Of course, we have to allow the center of the flower to dry for three or four days before we can make the rest of the flower,” Pauline said. “You don’t want to sit here with me for that long, do you?” She laughed. No one else did. She continued. “That’s why I made some of these centers beforehand and brought them with me today. Now let’s make our petal.”
Pauline unwrapped a ball of lavender-colored gum paste. She took the plastic rolling pin and flattened the dough into a thin sheet. She then used a sharp knife to cut the gum paste into a teardrop shape.
“If you’re uncomfortable using guesswork when making your gum paste flowers, there are all kinds of gum paste and fondant cutters on the market to help guide you along,” she said.
Her words made me feel guilty and ashamed that I had to use the cutters rather than the knife to make my orchid petals. I knew it was merely because I wasn’t that experienced a decorator yet, but I felt that if Pauline could whip out a knife and cut a calla lily petal just by eyeballing it, then I should be able to do it too.
She placed the petal on a foam board and began ruffling the edges with a ball tool. “See how pretty this makes your flower?”
“Ain’t this the one you told me was a shrinking violet in class?” Myra asked.
I nodded.
“The shoplifter . . . ?”
Again, I nodded.
“Interesting,” she mused.
“With a little bit of slurry all the way around the bottom edge of the petal, I’ll attach it to the center piece,” Pauline said. “And to make our flower fan out prettily, we’ll wrap a bamboo skewer around the edge like so.”
Myra made a pfft sound. “Prettily. La dee dah.”
“At this point, we would have to let the flower dry and harden for a couple of days. But, once again, I made one beforehand so we could do this last step.” Pauline smiled as she produced another lavender calla lily with a flourish. “We’re going to take a little luster dust—you can see here that I have yellow, orange, purple, and red—and with a dry brush, I’m going to just paint a little of the luster dust into the center of the flower. You can mix up your colors however you’d like. And, voilà! You have yourself a calla lily.”
“No, you don’t,” Myra muttered to me. “You have a cake decoration that you can’t even eat. With a real calla lily, you could at least put it on your table until it wilted and died.”
I started to protest that the gum paste flower would last a lot longer and wouldn’t wilt or die, but I decided not to waste my breath.
Pauline was taking questions from the audience, and Clea Underwood predictably asked her about being in Chef Richards’s Australian string work class and how his death had affected her. Pauline ignored Clea and took a question from someone who asked her to demonstrate again how to insert the wire into the flower.
“Of course,” Pauline said. She took another hooked length of wire and was in the process of inserting it into the flower when something distracted her and she jabbed the wire into her finger. Alarmed, she grabbed a paper towel and wrapped it around the wound. “Well, obviously, you don’t do it like that.” She tried to laugh off the incident, but she kept looking at whatever it was that had distracted her. I followed her gaze to see Gavin Conroy standing to the left of the front row.
16
MYRA, MARK, Ben, and I were sitting in the Brea Ridge Inn’s restaurant awaiting Lily Richards and Pauline Wilson.
“Be very careful what you say to either of these women,” Mark warned me. “They aren’t your friends. And if it comes right down to it, they might be your enemies.”
“Mark’s right,” Ben said. “Even if Pauline is innocent of Chef Richards’s murder, she’s in the same boat you’re in. She needs someone else to pin it on.”
“That sounds awful,” I said. “I don’t just want to pin his murder on someone else to get myself off the hook. I want to find the real killer . . . and get myself off the hook.”
“But you don’t know Pauline,” Myra said. “She might not care who takes the blame as long as it isn’t her . . . and she might be the one who smashed him over the noggin. You just never know.”
“Myra’s right,” said Mark. “And as for Lily Richards . . . she wouldn’t have shown up at this event if she wasn’t looking for justice . . . or trying to cover her tracks. She’d have simply identified the body and left the rest of it up to the police. She’d been able to hide for a long time without anyone finding her.”
“How?” I asked. “And why?”
“As far as I can tell, she used an alias to go underground after her separation from Jordan Richards,” Mark said. “As for why she did that, I have no clue. She might have been afraid for her safety since she was claiming that Richards had been abusive toward her, or she might have wanted to avoid the publicity of the estrangement. They weren’t Brad and Angelina by any stretch of the imagination, but there were still a few paparazzi who
wanted to hang out and get gossip for the tabloids.”
“Here she comes,” said Myra. Raising her voice slightly, she asked, “Wasn’t that cake that looked like it had been embroidered pretty? Not as pretty as yours, Daphne, but it was still nice. Oh, here’s Ms. Richards. How nice to see you again.”
Did I mention that Subtlety was Myra Jenkins’s middle name? Okay, actually, it was Sue . . . but it should’ve been Subtlety.
“Hello,” said Ms. Richards as she hung her purse on the back of the chair and sat down. “Thank you for agreeing to have lunch with me.”
“It’s our pleasure,” I said. “You’ve already met Myra, Ms. Richards. This is Myra’s friend Mark Thompson, and this is Ben Jacobs.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Ms. Richards told the men. She turned to me. “Will Pauline be joining us?”
“Yes,” I said. “She should be here any time.”
“I hope she’s all right,” Ms. Richards said. “It looked like she stabbed that piece of floral wire all the way through her finger.”
“I believe she was distracted by that Conroy fellow,” Myra said. “Do you know him, Ms. Richards?”
“We’ve met,” she said. “He once applied for a position as Jordan’s assistant.”
“Really?” I asked, as if that were news to me. “The two of them didn’t act as if they knew each other during class.”
Ms. Richards shrugged. “Well, Mr. Conroy didn’t get the job, so maybe they were more comfortable maintaining their distance.”
“That’s probably it,” I said. “Chef Richards did criticize Mr. Conroy’s appearance. Is that why the chef thought the two of them wouldn’t be able to work well together?”
“It’s hard to tell why Jordan chose and rejected the assistants he’s worked with over the years,” Ms. Richards said. “Some of them he’d like one day and despise the next.”
“Was he crazy or something?” Myra asked.