Battered to Death (Daphne Martin Cake Mysteries) (7 page)

F
IRST THING
Saturday morning, Myra popped in. I was sitting at the kitchen table in my bathrobe.

“Hey, hon,” she said. “I just wanted to check in with you and see if you’re okay. I was going to come over last night, but I saw that Ben was here, and I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine. Your face is longer than a rainy three-day weekend.”

“Dang,” she said. “That’s a double whammy. The murder thing is bad enough on its own.”

“Want some coffee?” I asked.

“Nah. I just had some before I left the house,” she said. “Let’s start with first things first. Mark and I have been looking into Jordan Richards’s background. Did you know that last year he was arrested for assaulting his former spouse?”

“No, I didn’t. Maybe that’s why he mentioned Todd to me in class.” I scoffed. “Maybe he was a fan . . . thought Todd was a hero.”

“Maybe he did. Or maybe he thought Todd was stupid because he couldn’t worm his way out of the attempted murder charge. The only reason Richards didn’t do jail time was because his ex-wife dropped the charges before the case went to trial.” Myra leaned back and folded her arms over her chest. “I think we need to see where the former Mrs. Richards was yesterday morning, don’t you?”

“Sure,” I said. “But that happened a year ago. It isn’t likely she’d come after him now. Is it?”

“That might be what she
wants
us to think.” Myra nodded, trying to appear sage. “That could be a major part of her plan.”

“Now, what’s this about Ben moving to Kentucky?” she asked.

I sighed. “He’s got a job offer from a new magazine, and the position would require him relocating.”

She shook her head, her face showing her obvious skepticism. “He’s not going anywhere, hon. Why in the world would he? He’s the boss over at the
Chronicle,
he’s got a beautiful woman here who loves him to pieces, and he’s lived in Brea Ridge all his life. Don’t get all up in the air over that one, Daphne. You’re adding to your worries for no reason.”

“I wouldn’t be so concerned about it if his old girlfriend—who is gorgeous, by the way—weren’t the one offering him the job,” I said.

Myra’s arms dropped to her sides. “What’s her name?”

“Nickie Zane.”

Myra’s eyes dropped from mine to her lap.

“Myra, what do you know?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know anything . . . except that you’d better get ready to go to the cake show. Don’t you have to be there pretty soon?”

“Yes, but I want you to tell me what you know about Ben and Nickie Zane first,” I said.

“Honestly, I don’t know a thing,” she said, pushing back her chair.

“I’ll see you at the show,” she continued. She gave me a quick hug and then hurried toward the door. “Oh, and Daphne, why don’t you wear that emerald-green silk blouse you look so pretty in?”

I nodded. “I’ll do that.”

She knew something . . . something big. I got the distinct impression she was telling me to fight for my man . . . in green silk.

F
ORTY MINUTES LATER,
I was dressed in the emerald silk blouse, a matching green-and-black-print skirt, and black boots. I was satisfied that my hair and makeup looked as good as I could get them, and I was resigned to the fact that my cakes were also as good as they were going to get. There was no time for any final tweaks.

I boxed up the superhero cake and was carrying it out to the car when Ben arrived.

“Good morning, beautiful,” he said. “Need any help with that?”

“Good morning,” I replied. “Actually, I’ve got this one. It’s the wedding cake that’s going to give me fits.” I put the cake into the passenger seat of my car. When I straightened, Ben pulled me to him in a tight hug.

Not Kentucky
wasn’t said but was implied.

“You’re right,” I said. “Whatever happens will happen, right? I’ve done the best I can with the cakes. If I’m a winner, then great. If I’m a loser, then I’ll deal with it.” That comment also applied to more than just the cake competition.

“Whether or not your cakes place in this competition, you, Daphne Martin, are a winner.”

I kissed him gently. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said. “Let’s go get that wedding cake.”

Ben was taking all three tiers of the wedding cake in separate boxes on nonskid foam to the Brea Ridge Inn. He was also taking all the accessories I needed for the wedding cake display table. Entries for the three-dimensional cakes didn’t get their own tables, so I didn’t have many accessories for that one.

When we were all packed up, I turned to Ben. “Please drive carefully.”

“I won’t go over eighty, and I’ll try to keep my hairpin turns to a minimum.”

“Don’t joke about hairpin turns when you’re transporting a wedding cake,” I said.

He laughed and gave me a quick kiss. “I’ll drive like an old lady. Happy?”

“Not particularly. Have you ever seen Myra drive?”

“It just slipped,” I said. “It’s an indication of how nervous I am.”

“I thought you weren’t going to worry about anything today,” he reminded me.

“You told me not to worry. I didn’t expressly agree to go along with that.” I took a deep breath. “See you at the inn.”

“All right.”

When we arrived, the front entrance to the Brea Ridge Inn was a madhouse. Cars, trucks, and vans were crowding in, people were honking their horns, pedestrians were making obscene gestures . . .

I was contemplating the traffic and wondering what to do when Ben rang my cell phone. “Follow me,” he said.

“Follow you where?” I asked.

“Trust me.”

He pulled around the side of the inn to the guest parking area. He parked in front of one of the rooms. I impatiently maneuvered my Mini Cooper into the spot next to him. We were wasting valuable time.

I quickly got out of the car and opened the passenger-side door of his Jeep. “Ben, we can’t park here. This area is for guests only.”

Tears pricked my eyes. “Ben . . . ”

He winked. “You didn’t think I’d let my girl down, did you? I knew this place would be crazy this morning. This entrance keeps us out of that mess out front.”

The words “I love you” were the first to spring to mind. Instead, I said, “You really are the best.”

“I know,” he said, with a smile. “Are we starting with the wedding cake?”

I nodded.

“Then let’s get everything inside and start setting up,” he said.

Before we carried in the cakes, we took in the tablecloth and accessories. Ballrooms A and B had been combined to form one huge exhibition hall. Twenty-inch round metal tables had been set up in the wedding cake competition area. There had been one assigned to each contestant. I found my table located in what I thought was a pretty favorable spot. It was in the middle, not so close to the front or far from the end as to be forgotten by the time spectators had seen all the cakes.

“Are we ready for the cake now?” Ben asked.

I nodded. “I’ve got a collapsible cart in my trunk that we can use to wheel it in.”

“Great,” he said. “The fewer trips we have to make, the better.”

I trailed behind Ben as we walked to the car.

“Come on, slowpoke. What are you doing?” he asked.

“Looking for any bumpy or tight places where we might have trouble maneuvering the cart,” I said.

He shook his head. “You’re really paranoid about this cake competition, aren’t you?”

“I have to be,” I said. “One slip and all the hard work I’ve put into these cakes is lost.”

“You’ve got a point.”

I got the cart out of the car, set it up, and double-checked it to make sure all its parts were locked into place before we began placing the wedding cake tiers on it. I’d brought along a repair kit with extra icing, roses, orchids, and pastry bags and tips, just in case. I prayed I wouldn’t have to do any touch-ups.

“You
meant
to bump me!” a man shouted. He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place him. I’d probably seen him at another cake competition somewhere.

“I did not,” said a woman. “You’re being ridiculous. Now leave me alone or I’ll call security and have you thrown out of here.”

I
could
place her. It was Pauline Wilson. She was certainly no shrinking violet today. Had her behavior in class simply been an act?

“Daph?” Ben asked. “Everything okay?”

I turned my attention back to Ben and my own cake. “Fine. It’s just . . . that’s Pauline Wilson.”

“The woman whose fingerprints were found on your cake stand . . . or rather,
the
cake stand?” he asked.

“That’s the one,” I said.

“I thought you said she was timid,” he said.

“It appears she got over it.”

Ben helped me lift the bottom tier of the cake onto the table. I used a box cutter to remove the box, and then we slipped the cardboard from beneath the cake and discarded it. I centered the tier onto the cake board.

“That’s gorgeous, sweetheart,” Ben said.

I smiled. “Thank you, but wait until you see it finished.”

“One for the scrapbook, huh?” Ben asked.

I smiled. “Yep.” I moved around to take one from a different angle.

Actually, the photos were proof that the cake was in excellent condition when I left it. If sometime during the day the cake suffered any damage, I wanted to be able to show the judges how the peach-and-white confection had looked when I’d walked away from my table.

Assured that the wedding cake was as close to perfect as I could possibly get it, Ben and I went to get the superhero cake and set it up on the long narrow tables dedicated to the novelty cakes. Similar tables were set up for competitors in various age groups—I thought of Leslie when I saw those—and for those who had made figures and flowers from gum paste. I didn’t see Leslie and Violet yet, but then, I had arrived early.

“You’re going to do great,” Ben said, standing back with his hands on his hips, surveying my superhero in all his red-caped glory. “This is fantastic.”

I smiled. “I think you like this cake even better than you do the wedding cake.”

“And I like my heroes,” I said. “Thank you again for coming through for me today. You’ve outdone yourself.”

“The day isn’t over, you know,” said Ben. “But I do have to cut out on you for a little while. I need to run by the office. I’ll be back by later on.”

“Okay.” I squeezed his hand. “I really do appreciate you, you know.”

He kissed my cheek. “I know.”

I watched him wind his way through the tables to the double doors at the back of the ballroom. I was thinking about how handsome he was . . . how thoughtful . . . how much I wanted him to stay in Brea Ridge . . . when I was jarred out of my reverie by a shrill, perky voice to my left.

“Daphne Martin, hello! I’m Clea Underwood, Channel Two lifestyle and entertainment reporter! How are you?”

I’d seen Clea Underwood on television before, but I hadn’t realized she’d look like a bobblehead in person. Her head seemed huge in real life when you considered it in relation to her overly skinny body. The hand and arm Clea stretched out toward me seemed like some sort of raptor’s talon. The talon clutched a microphone.

I pasted on a smile. “I’m doing well, Clea. How are you?”