Battered to Death (Daphne Martin Cake Mysteries)

by Trent, Gayle

  “Thanks for asking us to help,” Lucas said. “We won’t let you down.”

  Alex merely smiled and led the way behind the table, where he began to take his icing, tips, pastry bags, and other decorating tools from a plastic bag. When he was finished unloading the first bag, Molly handed him the one she carried. Chris was holding a cake box.

  “Did the restaurant allow Alex to bake a cake last night?” Violet asked.

  “No,” said Molly. “This is the cake that was made to be used in this demonstration. I believe a Mr. Conroy was scheduled to do the demo, but he backed out for some reason at the last minute.”

  “That’s odd,” I said.

  “It was my understanding that he was sick or something, but then Ms. Compton said he was here today but that he still refused to do the demo.” She turned to watch Alex, Lucas, and Leslie excitedly preparing for the demonstration. “I’m glad he did. I think this will be good for Alex.”

  “I think it will be too,” Chris said. “At least, I hope it will.” He placed the cake box on the table.

  Kimmie Compton joined us and gave Molly a hearty handshake. “Thank you again—and thank Alex for me—for his agreeing to do this demonstration. I think it’s marvelous to get young people interested in the art, and who better to do that than one of their own?”

  “You’re sure Mr. Conroy won’t change his mind at the last minute and ask to do the demo himself?” Molly asked.

  “Hardly. He’s on his high horse about Chef Richards’s death,” said Ms. Compton. “Of course, it’s a horrible tragedy that the man was murdered, but it was unforeseeable. Mr. Conroy thinks we should’ve planned a memorial into the festivities, but we simply did not have the time or the resources to do so.”

  “A memorial?” Chris spat out his words as if they left a bad taste in his mouth. “A celebration would have been more apt. That man was a menace. He’s the reason Alex stopped decorating and had to go on antidepressants.”

  “Is that true?” a vaguely familiar female voice asked.

  None of us had noticed that Lily Richards had joined us until she’d spoken.

  “Yes, it’s true,” Chris said. “Several months ago, Alex entered a cake competition with a wonderful haunted house that he’d worked on for days. The house even had working lights and moving objects. Jordan Richards said there was no way a mere child could’ve made the house on his own, and he disqualified Alex from the competition. He broke that boy’s heart.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ms. Richards said. “I had no idea.”

  “This is Lily Richards,” I said softly. “She’s Chef Richards’s former wife.”

  “Well, I pity you, then,” said Chris. “Not because that monster is dead but because you were married to him in the first place. Because of him, Alex shut down for weeks. He has Asperger’s syndrome, Ms. Richards, so he was delicate to begin with. But I don’t care who the child is, or what condition he might or might not be in, you don’t treat a child the way your husband did.”

  “I’m sorry.” This time Ms. Richards’s voice was a whisper, and tears welled in her eyes. “May I apologize to the boy?”

  “That’s not necessary,” Molly said. “Chris, you’re being mean. Ms. Richards didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I know. But he did. I came here to make him apologize to Alex for what he’d done.” He clenched his fists. “I need to get some air. I’ll be back in time to watch Alex do the demo.”

  “I’m sorry,” Molly told Ms. Richards as Chris walked away. “You certainly didn’t deserve to bear the brunt of Chris’s anger.”

  Ms. Richards took a tissue from her purse and dabbed at her eyes. “Still, I’m sorry that Jordan treated your son so badly. I know better than anyone that Jordan could be harsh and abrasive. Deep down, though, he had a good heart. He just didn’t always show it. And he was a stickler for the rules. I can well imagine that he’d have behaved badly had he thought Alex had received help from an experienced baker.”

  We all fell silent momentarily as we watched the children setting up for the demonstration. Alex took Lucas and Leslie—each in turn—by the shoulders to position them exactly where he wanted them to stand.

  “May I speak with Alex?” Ms. Richards asked.

  “Of course,” said Molly.

  The two of them walked closer to the table.

  “Hi, Alex,” Ms. Richards said. “I’m Lily Richards. I was Chef Jordan Richards’s wife. He wanted me to apologize to you for the way he treated you the last time you saw him. He knows what a good baker you are.”

  “Thank you,” Alex said in his quiet voice.

  “You’re welcome. May I stay and watch your exhibition?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Thank you. I’m looking forward to it.” Before she could rejoin our group, Gavin Conroy intercepted her.

  “Lily . . . dear Lily . . . I’m so sorry for your loss,” he said. “I’m sorry for the baking world’s loss.”

  “Thank you, Gavin,” she said.

  “It’s good that you’re here,” he said. “I plan to say a few words about Jordan later today . . . have a sort of makeshift memorial for those in the baking world who are here but who won’t be able to attend his actual services.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you,” said Ms. Richards.

  “Would you like to say a few words about Jordan?” he asked.

  “I might,” she said. “Right now, I’m going to watch Alex do a demonstration for the children. Apparently, he has remarkable talent, but Jordan almost ruined his love of cake decorating.”

  “I doubt that Jordan’s behavior toward the child was intentional,” said Gavin.

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Ms. Richards told him. “As I told the boy’s mother, Jordan could be mean when he thought someone was breaking the rules . . . and he didn’t always clarify whether or not they had before he formed his own conclusions.”

  “Still, it was one competition . . . ” Gavin spread his hands.

  “It was a child,” Ms. Richards said. “Excuse me.” She looked at me. “May I sit with you?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  Poor Ms. Richards. She had to be going through so much. It seemed as if she’d loved Jordan Richards, but she’d understood his temper and his shortcomings better than anyone. I wondered how such a classy, sensitive woman had wound up with Chef Richards in the first place. He had to have had some redeeming qualities buried under all that crabbiness . . . hadn’t he?

  And Gavin had called Chef Richards’s former wife “Lily” . . . not “Ms. Richards.” Was he being presumptuous, or were the two of them friends?

  18

  ONCE EVERYONE in the audience was seated, Alex whispered to Leslie. She nodded. Kimmie Compton introduced Alex and said he would be demonstrating a simple design that kids would find fun and impressive.

  Alex looked at Leslie, and she wiped her palms down the sides of her jeans and said, “Hi, I’m Leslie Armstrong. My brother, Lucas, and I are helping Alex today. Alex doesn’t like to talk very much while he works, so I’ll be explaining what he’s doing and that kind of stuff. Thanks.”

  Alex removed a teddy-bear-shaped cake from the cake box.

  “As you can see,” Leslie said, “Alex is making a teddy bear cake.”

  “Yeah,” said Lucas, pointing toward the back left side of the ballroom. “Those people over there donated the pan. Whoever was supposed to do this demonstration before Alex took over made the cake, but Alex knows what he’s doing. He’ll do a bang-up job on the decorating.”

  “Earlier today, Alex colored his icing,” said Leslie. “He’s got light brown, dark brown, white, red, and black. He also has a variety of cake decorating tips.”

  “Look at her,” Myra said. “She’s practically a little Vanna White. She might be on one of those game shows one of these days. You never know.”

  Alex began icing the insides of the bear’s ears light brown. He spread the icing on with a spatula and smoothed it
down with a finger dipped in cornstarch.

  “When you do one of these cakes, you always start by doing the smooth stuff first,” Leslie said. “I didn’t know that when I started out decorating, and I almost messed up my first shaped cake. So be sure and do the smooth parts before you fill in the rest with the stars.”

  Alex nodded and then finished filling in the bear’s ears, paws, eyes, and bow tie. He then filled a pastry bag with dark-brown icing and filled in the rest of the bear with stars. He tipped the finished bear up to show the audience and they applauded in approval.

  He sat the cake back down and held up his hand. “There’s one more thing.” He took out a recorder and showed it to the audience.

  “This is a recorded message,” said Leslie.

  “I recorded the message,” Lucas said.

  Alex pressed the button, and Lucas’s voice could be heard saying “Happy birthday!” Alex showed how the tiny recorder could be placed in a plastic bag near the bear’s head so that when the button was pushed, it would appear that the bear was delivering the birthday greeting.

  “You kinda gotta be careful with that, though,” Lucas said. “Kids might not want to eat a cute cake that just told them Happy Birthday. One time my aunt Daphne made me a guitar cake that was so cool that I threw a fit and cried when my mom started to cut into it. If it had actually played music, no way would I have let them cut it!”

  The audience laughed at Lucas’s anecdote, and I smiled fondly. I remembered that cake. Lucas had wanted everyone to eat Leslie’s princess cake and leave his guitar cake alone.

  Following the demonstration, people from the audience—most of them children—gathered around the table to see the teddy bear cake. A couple of well-dressed adults hung behind. I thought I recognized them from earlier today in Pauline’s front row.

  Once the children had cleared out, the man and woman who’d been waiting approached the table.

  “Hello, Alex . . . Leslie . . . Lucas,” the woman said, looking at each child in turn. “My name is Marissa Allen, and this is Steve Pendergrass. We work for the children’s television network KidzTV. We might be interested in having the three of you appear on an episode of John and Joni.”

  “John and Joni? I love that show!” Leslie said. She clutched her fists up under her chin, and I could see that it was a struggle for her to keep from jumping up and down.

  “Are your parents around?” Steve asked.

  Violet, Jason, Molly, Chris, Pauline, and I had been standing nearby. We moved forward en masse when we heard Steve’s question. I supposed it didn’t matter that Pauline and I were not parents. We each had our own reasons for drawing near.

  “I’m not sure a television appearance would be good for Alex,” Molly said. “He has Asperger’s Syndrome, and—”

  “He’d be fine,” Chris interrupted. “You saw how well he did here today.”

  “I would imagine the atmosphere on set would be much less stressful than appearing before a live audience was today,” said Marissa. “The studio is a closed set, and the only people there would be the camera crew, director, and the actors who play John and Joni. And, of course, Alex, Leslie, and Lucas would be there.” Marissa turned an unnecessarily charming smile on the children—she’d already won them over with the words “John and Joni.”

  Lucas turned to Violet and Jason. “Can we? Please? It would be so awesome!”

  “Yes, can we, please?” Leslie asked.

  “I don’t know,” Violet said, searching Jason’s blue eyes for his reaction. “That really depends on what Molly and Alex think.”

  “Where is the show filmed?” Jason asked.

  “In Atlanta,” said Steve.

  “See?” Lucas asked. “It’s not that far away . . . not as far as New York or Hollywood. And besides, that’s where Alex’s uncle Chris lives!”

  Steve smiled. “We don’t want to pressure anybody.” He handed one of his business cards to each of us. “But we do think this would be a fantastic opportunity for your children. Please consider it and call us up with your answer.”

  “It was nice meeting you,” Marissa said. Then she and Steve walked away. I imagined they were off to see the rest of the talent on hand at the show.

  “Alex, what do you think?” Molly asked him once Marissa and Steve were out of earshot. “Would you like to be on that show John and Joni?”

  He shrugged.

  “I think Steve was right,” Jason said. “We all need to think this over and discuss it privately before making a decision.” He handed Chris and Molly his business card. “This has my business and home numbers as well as my e-mail address. When you’ve decided what to do, and if you’d like to have Lucas and Leslie accompany Alex if he wants to go on the show, then please let me know.”

  “All right,” said Molly. “I will.”

  I felt a yank on my left arm. It was Pauline. I allowed her to tug me several feet away from the others.

  “Are you kidding me?” she asked. “Are you kidding me? I send a special invitation to every television executive I could find who is registered at this event, and I provide them with special—expensive!—gifts, and I barely get a nibble. This awkward little kid is already being invited to be on John and Joni?”

  “Well, those executives were seeking a particular demographic,” I said. “They work for a children’s television network.”

  “Still, I could do a children’s show,” she insisted. “I could be an amusing villainous type . . . or a bumbling baker . . . or . . . or something.”

  “Didn’t any of the producers you invited to your demonstration talk with you afterward?” I asked.

  “A few of them stopped by to thank me for the gifts and to say they were worried I’d hurt myself. One or two said they’d talk with me later,” she said. “And, of course, one of them gave back my head shot and said he wouldn’t be needing it.”

  “Maybe most of them were merely trying to give you time to take care of your hand and compose yourself,” I said. “That was a pretty painful injury.”

  “It wasn’t that big a deal,” said Pauline. “I was just startled, and I stuck myself.”

  “What startled you?” I asked. “Was it Gavin Conroy?”

  She shrugged. “I suppose. I caught something moving out of the corner of my eye, and that’s who it was.”

  “Did you know Gavin prior to the string work class we took on Thursday?” I asked.

  “We’d met,” she said.

  “I hadn’t met any of the other decorators in class prior to then,” I said. “I guess I don’t get around the circuit as much as the rest of you do.”

  “You will. Or, at least, you will if you stay in this business long enough,” Pauline said. “You’ll get to know some of the regulars.”

  “And that’s how you know Gavin? He’s a regular?”

  “Of course he’s a regular—has been for years,” she said. “So are Lou Gimmel and that mousy redhead. I can’t remember her name, but I know her when I see her.”

  “Do you get along with them?” I asked.

  “Sure. I mean, we’re not best friends or anything, but we’re sociable.” She frowned. “Why all the questions?”

  “I guess what I’m getting at is do you think one of those regulars could be responsible for Chef Richards’s murder?” I asked.

  “Oh, goodness, no.” Her eyes widened. “Do you?”

  “All I know is this.” I lowered my voice. “My fingerprints are on the cake stand used to knock Jordan Richards over the head. I know I didn’t kill him. But I also know the police think one of us students did. Never mind getting arrested, I don’t want that suspicion cast over me for the rest of my life.”

  “Neither do I,” Pauline said. “But if we’re innocent, we won’t be arrested . . . will we?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But you don’t live here, Pauline. I do. Even if I was arrested but there wasn’t enough evidence to convict me of murder, the people of this town would run me out of business bec
ause no one wants to buy a cake from someone suspected of murder.”

  She nodded. “I see your point. I guess all we can do is hope the police find the right guy.” She suddenly seemed distracted, and I followed her gaze. One of the television executives was talking with Gavin Conroy.

  “How long have you known Gavin?” I asked.

  “For nearly five years,” she answered. “Excuse me.”

  I expected her to walk toward Gavin and the television producer, but she went in the opposite direction. The television producer handed Gavin a business card and then left, so I wandered over to Gavin.

  “Hey, Gavin,” I said. “How’s the memorial coming along?”

  “It’s shaping up nicely. Thank you.” He inclined his head. “Would you like to say something on Chef Richards’s behalf?”

  “No, thank you,” I said. “I didn’t really know the man at all. Pauline might, though. Have you spoken with her?”

  “I haven’t. What makes you think she’d be interested?” he asked.

  “We were talking earlier. She mentioned that she knew many of the decorators and sugar artists here from her years on the cake decorating circuit.” I looked directly into his eyes. “She said the two of you have known each other for five years.”

  “Yes . . . we have.” He glanced around nervously.

  I took a chance. “I take it the two of you have been pretty close? Or that, at least, you were.”

  He cleared his throat. “Pauline shouldn’t be talking about our private lives. That’s none of your concern, and it isn’t anyone else’s business either.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” I said. “That’s your and Pauline’s affair.” I quickly tried to change tactics before he walked away. “I saw the television guy talking with you. Good luck with that.”

  “I’m not interested in appearing on TV,” he said.

  “Is there always so much drama and excitement over the producers and executives who come to the cake shows?” I asked. “Or is this a special circumstance because they’re now looking for someone to fill Chef Richards’s shoes?”

  “First off, there’s no one who can adequately fill Jordan Richards’s shoes,” said Gavin. “In the second place, some decorators always go gaga over the producers in the hope that they’ll be offered a spot on a show . . . even a guest segment on a morning talk show. Some of my compatriots act like complete idiots, fawning over the TV people like they were gods.”