by Trent, Gayle
“But what about the awards ceremony?” Myra asked. “Let me go to the hospital, and you stay here.”
“No, it’s okay. I’ll try to be back in time for the awards ceremony.” I placed my hand lightly on Myra’s shoulder. “If I don’t make it back and should happen to win something, would you accept it for me?”
She grinned. “Of course.”
“Thanks,” I said.
Ben and I rushed out the door to his Jeep.
“Do you think she’ll be all right?” I asked him. “Wonder if she has any relatives nearby.”
“The hospital personnel will determine all that,” he said. “I’m mainly interested in finding out if the tetanus vaccination did indeed cause her to get sick or if it was something else.”
“What? You think she was poisoned or something too? Has Myra beckoned you over to the dark side?” I barked out a short laugh before looking at Ben. He was serious. “Really? You think someone might’ve done this to her on purpose?”
“Someone killed Jordan Richards,” he said. “Maybe they’re afraid Pauline knows something. Maybe she does know something.”
We got to the emergency room just minutes behind the paramedics.
“We’re here for Pauline Wilson,” I said to the nurse at the admissions desk.
“You’ll have to wait until they get her into an exam room and stabilized,” she said. “Then you can go back. You’re family?”
I mumbled something about cake decorating and family that I hoped was unintelligible enough to pass muster and pressed my fist to my mouth.
Ben hugged me. “She’ll be fine, sweetheart.”
I clung to him and hoped that the nurse wouldn’t ask us any more questions. I also clung to him because it was a wonderfully comforting thing to do.
“Don’t let me go,” I whispered.
“It’s okay now. She’s moved away from the desk,” he said.
I didn’t tell him that I was no longer putting on a show for the nurse. I meant it. I didn’t ever want Ben Jacobs to let me go. Ever. I hugged him for an extra few seconds before reluctantly stepping out of his arms.
We were about to sit down when the nurse announced that we could see Pauline. We walked quietly into the exam room. There were three beds in the long room divided by curtained partitions. Only one of the other beds was in use. There was a young man with his arm in a sling sitting on the end of the bed. A woman I guessed was his mother held his uninjured hand.
Pauline was hooked up to a heart monitor and an IV.
“Hi,” I said softly.
Her eyes fluttered open. “Daphne . . . what happened?”
“I was hoping you could tell us,” I said. “You said you were ill and went up to your room to lie down. I mentioned to Mark Thompson that you’d had a tetanus shot this morning, and he became concerned that you’d had some sort of anaphylactic reaction to the vaccine.”
“Nope,” said a female doctor stepping around the side of the curtain with a clipboard tucked into the crook of her left arm. “Ms. Wilson has a congenital heart condition. When the vaccine elevated her heart rate, it caused her to have tachycardia. We caught the arrhythmia before it caused a heart attack, though, and we should have that heartbeat back under control in no time.”
“That’s such a relief,” I said.
The doctor checked Pauline’s vital signs and the heart monitor and said she’d be back to check on her within just a few minutes but to ring for the nurse should Pauline need anything before then.
“I’m so glad you’re going to be okay,” I said after the doctor left. “Myra was afraid the same person who killed Chef Richards was trying to do you in.” I chuckled to lessen the seriousness of my statement. “She thought maybe you . . . ” I made exaggerated air quotes. “Knew too much.”
Pauline gulped. “I do know something.”
Ben stepped closer to the bed. “You know something about Chef Richards’s murder?”
“Maybe.” She furrowed her brow. “Or it could be nothing . . . only a coincidence. That’s why I didn’t say anything before now. But up in that hotel room, I thought I was going to die. And I decided that if I lived through that horrible episode, I would tell someone what I heard on Thursday after class.”
Ben and I shared a look.
“What did you hear?” My voice was squeaky, and I realized I both wanted to know and dreaded hearing what Pauline had to say.
“It was Gavin. That’s why I was so jumpy when I saw him today,” she said. “I was one of the last ones to leave the classroom Thursday evening. But Gavin lingered on purpose.”
“Why were you one of the last to leave?” I asked her. “I know that you and Gavin had been an item at one time or another. Were you hoping to talk with him?”
“No. I can’t believe he told you we’d had an affair,” Pauline said angrily. “It was two years ago, and things have been awkward between us ever since. I was actually hanging around because I wanted to talk with Chef Richards. Gavin was waiting to talk with Chef Richards alone too. I finally gave up and decided I could talk with Chef Richards either before or after class on Friday.”
“Why did you want to talk with Chef Richards alone?” Ben asked.
“I hoped he could use his connections to get me an interview or an audition at one of the cooking shows,” she said. “They’re as common now as houseflies. I knew there had to be at least one of them that could use my talent. That’s why I’d arrived early on Thursday morning—to talk with him about his contacts . . . see who he knew . . . what he might be willing to do. But by the time Chef Richards got there, the class had started filling up.”
“What about Gavin?” I asked. “Did he give any indication of what he’d wanted to talk with Chef Richards about on Thursday?”
Pauline shook her head. “Not to me. But I could see how determined Gavin was. And I knew how stubborn he could be. He’d have outlasted me no matter what.”
“Did Gavin seem angry?” asked Ben.
“Not at first,” she said. “But when I stepped out into the hallway, I spilled my purse. I bent down to pick up the contents, and that’s when I heard Gavin and Chef Richards arguing. I know I shouldn’t have eavesdropped, but I couldn’t help it.”
“Did Gavin threaten Chef Richards?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” said Pauline. “He was telling Chef Richards that he was the best person for the assistant job and that Chef Richards knew it. He said he’d watched Fiona carefully during class and that she wasn’t anywhere near as good a decorator as Gavin was. He accused Chef Richards of only hiring Fiona because she was a woman and because he was attracted to her. Then I heard the name “Lily” being thrown around, but they had lowered their voices and I couldn’t understand what they were saying. Now that I’ve met her, of course, I know they were talking about Chef Richards’s wife . . . or ex-wife . . . or whatever she was.”
“Were you still there in the hallway when Gavin left?” Ben asked.
Pauline shook her head. “Once I’d picked up all my belongings off the floor and put them back into my purse, I got out of there. I didn’t want either or both of them to come out of the ballroom and think I was spying on them.”
“This argument took place in the ballroom,” I pointed out. “Chef Richards was murdered in the kitchen. Wasn’t he?”
“He was,” Ben said, “but that doesn’t mean that Gavin didn’t continue to argue with Chef Richards and follow him into the kitchen . . . or that he didn’t come back to continue the argument later.”
“That’s true,” I said. “We need to get back to the inn and talk with Gavin.” I gave Pauline my cell phone number and asked her to call me should she need anything. Then I promised I’d check on her later, and Ben and I headed to the inn.
In the car, I called Myra.
“Hey, Myra, has Gavin Conroy’s memorial service for Chef Richards started yet?” I asked.
“Not yet, but it’s getting ready to. Mark and I are in the demonstration area, where it
’s taking place. We thought the killer might show up at the memorial.”
“You might be right on the money there,” I said. “Ben and I are on our way.”
THE DEMONSTRATION AREA was a somber place when Ben and I arrived. I tiptoed so the high heels of my boots wouldn’t clack on the floor; and rather than sit down, Ben and I stood to the left of the risers and watched the memorial which was already in progress.
Gavin was finishing up a litany of Chef Richards’s virtues that I, personally, was finding hard to swallow. First of all, from what I’d seen of the dearly departed, his virtues were few and far between. And given what I now knew about Gavin’s argument with Chef Richards, Gavin’s devotion to the man seemed just a little bit too contrived.
When Gavin finished speaking, he asked Lily Richards if she’d like to say a few words. Lily got up and took Gavin’s place in front of the demonstration table. Gavin sat down in a metal folding chair to her right.
“ ‘I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.’ ” She smiled wryly. “Those of you who know—knew—Jordan personally will realize how funny he’d find that quote. He was an avid fan of Shakespeare, particularly the tragedies.” She looked down at her hands. “Those of you who did not know Jordan personally—who only knew him as the snarky celebrity chef—would not realize that, although abrupt and often harsh, Jordan was a good man. He was honest—yes, sometimes brutally so—and opinionated, but he was passionate . . . especially about his craft. He demanded perfection of himself and of everyone around him. Many of the chefs and sugar artists I’ve spoken with over the years have said that Jordan was a tough mentor but that he brought out the best in them. He challenged them to become better than they were . . . and, in the end, they were more successful because of it. I know I will—and I hope you’ll try to—remember the good things about Jordan and celebrate his life, his work, and his memory. Thank you.”
The audience applauded Lily Richards. I imagined that most of them were sharing in my feeling of guilt over thinking that the man was a total jerk. When you saw him through his wife’s . . . ex-wife’s . . . estranged wife’s . . . When you saw him through the filter of Lily’s eyes and her misty, watercolor memories, he seemed a lot better than he’d appeared in real life.
No one else volunteered to speak. Gavin stood, placed an arm around Ms. Richards’s shoulders, and thanked everyone for coming.
“If you’d like to remain in the demonstration area, the awards ceremony will be starting in fifteen minutes,” said Gavin.
Most of the audience remained in their seats. Ben and I shared a look of exasperation, and then I shrugged.
“We have to do this,” I said. “It can’t wait.” I strode over to Gavin and Ms. Richards. “Your eulogy was lovely, Ms. Richards.”
“Thank you,” she said.
Ben joined me. “Gavin, may we speak with you alone for just a moment?” He gave Ms. Richards an apologetic smile. “I’m terribly sorry, but this is urgent.”
Gavin’s mouth formed a thin, angry line. “Are you absolutely certain this can’t wait?”
By this time, Mark and Myra were on either side of Ben and me.
“If Ben says it’s urgent, Mr. Conroy, it’s urgent,” Mark said. “I suggest you come with us unless you’d prefer to air your dirty laundry in public.”
He wasn’t happy about it, but Gavin walked away between Mark and Ben. I turned to Myra as we followed behind them.
“How did Mark know Gavin had dirty laundry?” I asked.
“Oh, honey. Everybody has dirty laundry. One of them Eagles even wrote a song about it,” Myra said.
Great. Now that song was stuck in my head.
Ben and Mark led Gavin—and, consequently, Myra and me—to a small conference room just outside the ballroom.
“What is this?” Gavin asked. “I need to be back in that ballroom. I need to be comforting a grieving widow. What’s going on here?”
“You tell us,” Ben said. “An eyewitness reports that you and Jordan Richards were arguing the evening before he was found murdered.”
“So what if we were?” he asked. “Jordan was argumentative. Anyone who’d ever met the guy would vouch for that.” His eyes narrowed. “Who are you, anyway? You’re not a cop.”
“No, I’m not,” said Ben. “But I’ve already called them, and they’re on their way here.”
That was a bluff. Ben hadn’t called anyone. In hindsight, it was a really good idea, and we should have called them before confronting a potential killer. I wondered if I could unobtrusively dial nine-one-one. I doubted it. I took out my phone.
“Sorry,” I said. “Need to take care of something.” I texted Myra: Ben did NOT call the police. Would you please step outside the room and call them now?
Myra nodded and then said, “I need to take care of something too.” She did her oh-so-subtle wink-nod combo at me and then stepped into the hallway.
“I did not kill Jordan Richards,” Gavin said. “Sure, I argued with the guy. I asked him why I didn’t get the assistant job when I was clearly more qualified than that pink-haired piece of fluff Fiona. Jordan stuck up for her and said she had potential. I said he only wanted to get in her pants. That’s pretty much the extent of our argument.”
“He didn’t insult your appearance like he did in class?” I asked.
“No. That was merely part of his shtick,” Gavin said. “I knew he wasn’t serious.”
“Yet you gave it right back to him in the classroom,” I said. “I admired you for that.”
“Again, that was all part of the routine.” Gavin spread his hands. “Haven’t you watched him on TV? The chefs he works with best are those who stand up to him . . . those who don’t cower around like . . . like that simpering Pauline Wilson.”
“I’ll agree that she simpered in class, but once she got out among the other competitors, she seemed to lose her timidity,” I said.
“Yes, she did,” Gavin agreed. “Maybe you guys should be talking with her.”
“She’s in the hospital right now,” Ben said. “She had a reaction to the tetanus shot she was given this morning.”
“Wow. Tough break.” Gavin rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know what you people want from me. I’ll talk with the cops when they get here, but even if you’re hotel security or whatever, you don’t have any cause to hold me here. I’ve already told you I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“The witness also said you were talking about Lily,” I said. “Would you care to tell us what that was about?”
“It’s none of your business, but I will say that I thought Jordan was nuts to mistreat a beautiful woman like Lily. I’d come to know them over the years, and she’s a wonderful woman. He was lucky to have her. Any man would be.” Gavin opened the door. “I’m going back to the ballroom.” He leveled his gaze at me. “When I win the wedding cake competition, I want to be there to collect my prize.”
Myra stuck out her tongue at Gavin’s retreating back. “What a creep. I bet he did so kill Chef Richards. Those two are birds of a feather.”
Ben and I filled her and Mark in on our conversation with Pauline.
“Do you think Gavin killed the chef?” Mark asked.
“I have no idea,” Ben said. “You’re a lot better at this than we are. What’s your gut instinct?”
“My gut’s telling me that the argument Gavin Conroy had with Jordan Richards was more heated and more personal than he’s letting on,” said Mark. “I want to know why Conroy is so concerned about Lily Richards. Did the deceased leave her a big pile of money that Conroy would like to get his hands on? Or did he have a crush on the woman to begin with?”
“Or is Gavin feeling guilty because he murdered the woman’s husband?” I asked.
Myra shook her head. “I’m not getting the guilt vibe from that guy. I think it’s something else. Maybe Mark’s right. Maybe Mr. Conroy has set his cap for the widow.”
21
MARK, MYRA, Ben, and I went back to the demonstration are
a where the awards ceremony would soon take place. I’d just started looking around for Violet when I heard her call my name.
“Over here!” She, Jason, Leslie, and Lucas were sitting on the risers midway up with Molly, Chris, and Alex.
The four of us climbed up to sit in front of them. I was directly in front of Leslie, and she bent forward and put her arms around my neck.
“I’m nervous,” she said. “If I win, I think I’ll cry. . . . If I don’t win, I know I’ll cry. Competitions are hard.”
“I know, sweetheart,” I said. “But no matter what happens, we’ll use this competition as a learning experience and grow from it.”
“And if you don’t win, you can always say that the judges were idiots or that the other competitors bought them off,” said Myra.
I closed my eyes. Way to come in there with a lesson on good sportsmanship, Myra.
“At least, that’s what I’ve always told myself over the years when I entered and lost contests,” she continued. “It makes me feel better and keeps me from beating myself up over it.”
I patted Leslie’s arm and subtly shook my head, hoping that Leslie would catch on that I was telling her not to take Myra’s advice. I needn’t have worried. Supermom Violet stepped in.
“Whether you win or lose, darling, you created a beautiful cake,” she said. “We’re all very proud of the work you’ve done, and I hope you are too. If we were the judges, you’d most certainly win. But all forms of art are subjective, and the judges might look at things differently.”
“Plus, they’re not biased,” said Lucas. “Or, at least, they’re not supposed to be. Part of the reason we think you and Aunt Daphne have the best cakes here is because you’re family. Right, Dad?”
“Thanks for pulling me right into the middle of this, Sport,” said Jason. “I think both Aunt Daphne and Leslie deserve to win. I’ll leave it at that.”
Fortunately, Fiona and Lou Gimmel waved to us at that moment as they made their way up the risers toward us, thus ending the awkward conversation about winning and losing.
“May we join you?” Lou asked.