Battered to Death (Daphne Martin Cake Mysteries) (8 page)

I
WAS THRILLED
to be leading the cake carving demonstration—it would be wonderful for business—but I was sorry that I was only doing it because Chef Richards was dead. And I hoped no one would attend the demonstration just to get a look at one of the
main suspects
in his murder.

Thanks, Clea Underwood
.

I noticed a young woman a few feet away with a boy who looked to be about ten or eleven years old. It seemed she was having a tough time getting him interested in anything that was going on around him. I decided to try to help her out.

“Hi,” I called over to the mom. “I was wondering if you guys could give me a hand. I’ve just been asked to do the cake carving demonstration later today—the person scheduled to do it can’t—and I have no idea what I should make. Do either of you have any ideas?”

With a little prodding from her, the boy accompanied his mother to my table.

“I’m Daphne Martin,” I said to the mom. “Do you and your son live around here, or are you just in town for the cake show?”

“I’m Molly, and this is Alex.” The woman looked down at her son. “Alex, can you say hello to Ms. Martin?”

Alex raised his right hand in a wave.

“Hey, Alex,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”

“We’re glad to meet you too,” said Molly. “We live about an hour away, and we drove in night before last to check out the town before coming to the show.”

“Not much to see, huh?” I asked.

Alex nodded.

They sat down beside me, and I began scrolling through cake designs. Ms. Compton had returned after I’d agreed to do the demonstration and informed me that she had checked the kitchen. Before Chef Richards had died, he’d made two large pound cakes for the carving demonstration. She had no idea what he’d intended to make with the batter he was found in, but I would have cakes to use in the cake carving exhibition.

“The design should be something relatively simple,” I said. “I don’t have a lot of time, but I want to be able to give a good demonstration of how to carve a cake as well as how to crumb-coat it, cover it in fondant, and decorate it.”

“Van,” Alex said.

“A van?” I asked. I’d recently done a Cadillac, so a van should be easy enough.

Alex nodded. “A cake delivery van.”

A wide smile spread across my face. “What a wonderful idea! Thank you, Alex! You’re a genius.” It
was
a genius idea. I could put my logo on the van and get a little local publicity for the people in Brea Ridge who might not have heard of me yet. This kid was smart. I looked at Molly. “Do you decorate?”

She shook her head. “No, but Alex does. Or, at least, he used to.”

He shook his head and looked down at the table.

“Oh, look,” Molly said to Alex. “Here comes Uncle Chris.”

A nice-looking man was approaching us. I could see the resemblance to Molly. Like her, he had dark-blond hair and brown eyes. Both were tall and lean. Alex had black hair and eyes, and he seemed a little short for his age. He obviously took more after his father’s side of the family.

Molly introduced Chris and me, and then she asked Chris to take Alex to look at the cakes that had already been set up.

“Careful that he doesn’t bump into any of the tables or touch anything, though!” she called after them. She smiled at me. “I appreciate your considering Alex’s idea. That was sweet of you.”

“Actually, he had a terrific idea. If I have time, I’m going to decorate the cake delivery van with my logo on it,” I said. “It’s an excellent marketing tool!” I took a sip of my coffee. “You said Alex used to decorate cakes. Why doesn’t he do it anymore?”

“How wonderful,” I said. “But why did he quit decorating?”

Her mouth tightened. “It was Jordan Richards. A few months ago Alex entered a cake decorating competition near our home. His design was a haunted house, complete with flashing lights, sounds, and ghosts that went back and forth across the windows. But rather than award Alex first place like he deserved, Chef Richards accused him of cheating. He said no eleven-year-old child could make something like that on his own.” She took a steadying breath. “Alex went ballistic. He knocked the cake off the table and then turned the table over, destroying the other two cakes that were on it in addition to his own. He ran screaming from the room, and he hasn’t been interested in cake decorating since.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “What a horrible thing for Chef Richards to do to him.”

“If you think it would help, I’ll watch the video and give Alex some encouragement,” I said.

“Thank you, Daphne, but I doubt it would do much good. After Alex’s meltdown last year, his doctor had to put him on antidepressants. He’s just not the same child that he was. He had this brilliant creative outlet, and Jordan Richards took that away from him. It was up to Chef Richards to give it back.”

“But you can’t simply give up because Richards is dead,” I said. “What about another kid who decorates? My niece, Leslie, is entering a cake in the competition. Do you think she could befriend Alex and possibly get him interested in the art of decorating again?”

“I don’t know. It would be worth a try,” Molly said.

I looked at my watch. “She and her mom are bound to be here by now. I’ll go find them. You find Alex and Chris, and then come over to where the children’s division cakes are located.”

“I will,” she said. “Thanks.”

I spotted Violet first. She was hovering near Leslie and twisting her scarf in her hands.

“Why are you killing that poor scarf?” I asked quietly when I came up beside her.

I looked over at Leslie, who grinned and waved as she touched up her cake, which had been—very expertly, I might add—made to look like a cheeseburger and fries.

“Leslie is fine,” I told Violet. “I think it’s you who wasn’t ready.”

“Oh, hardy-har,” Violet said. “The cakes are judged twice, by the judges but also by popular vote. Votes are tabulated based on how many pennies are in the cups beside the cakes.” She chewed her bottom lip. “I’m considering getting a five-dollar bill converted into pennies and—”

“Violet!” I interrupted.

“Oh, I’m not serious,” she said.

Yes, she was.

“Unless I see someone else doing it,” she continued. “If that happens, then you bet I will.”

I strolled over to Leslie and gave her a hug. “This looks terrific, sweetheart. You’ve really outdone yourself.”

She shrugged. “What can I say? I learned from the best.”

“I do love you so.” I dug in my purse for as many pennies as I could find and dropped them into the cup by her cake. I only had about seven, but I made a mental note to get some more later.

For a twelve-year-old, she could be incredibly mature. That said, I needed to get a better look at the competition before I decided how honest to be in my answer. Maturity is one thing; telling a child you don’t think her cake will win is another. I’m happy to say that after looking at the other cakes—and setting all bias aside while doing so—Leslie’s was easily the best of the bunch.

There were other children’s cakes that had been sculpted into items, like her burger and fries. One cake had a teddy bear, and another was a stack of pillows. But none of the other cakes matched Leslie’s in the difficulty of the techniques she’d used or the overall neatness of the cake. Most of the other cakes in her age group were either single or double-tiered traditional cakes with roses and borders. They were pretty, and they were skillfully done. But I felt sure Leslie would win or at least place in the competition. I told her so.

She threw her arms around my waist and gave me a squeeze. “Thank you, Aunt Daphne!”

“Who?” Violet asked. “It’s not one of the judges, is it? That wouldn’t be fair . . . would it? Would it be fair?”

“No, it wouldn’t,” I said. “Besides, their cakes are like ours. They’re judged by their numbers—no names. The judges aren’t supposed to know who submitted what cake.” I saw Molly, Alex, and Chris approaching us. “Here are the people I wanted to introduce you to. They’re coming this way now.”

Alex held back. He seemed a little intimidated by Violet and Leslie. I wasn’t sure if that was because there was now more than one of us and the three of us were too many for him to handle at once, or if perhaps he was more comfortable with adults than with children closer to his own age.

I quickly made the introductions. “Leslie, Alex can decorate cakes too. His mom said she had a video of a haunted house he made, complete with lights and movement. She said there were even little ghosts that went back and forth in front of the windows!”

“Way cool!” Leslie said. “Can I see it?”

“In a little while,” Molly said. “First, tell us about your cake.”

As Leslie was explaining to Molly, Alex, and Chris how she’d made her cake, Myra approached me.

I grinned but almost immediately turned serious. “Was the interview that bad?”

“It wasn’t too awful bad. I thought you handled it gracefully. I was proud of you.” She gave a dismissive sniff. “Nobody takes that little twit seriously anyhow. She’s probably like Beulah Breckinridge.”

“Beulah Breckinridge?” I asked. “Who’s she?”

“Oh, honey. Beulah Breckinridge always went around Brea Ridge like she’d just stepped out of a bandbox. She acted like her . . . well, like her bodily functions . . . smelled like rose petals—if you know what I mean—and that she was above all the rest of us. Well, one day Beulah was in a car wreck and broke her leg. Her dress was so tight that the EMTs had to cut the thing off of her. And wouldn’t you know it? Beulah Breckinridge’s panties were full of holes, and her bra was dingy.” Myra finished with a nod that indicated that this anecdote should make sense to me. It didn’t.

“That makes Beulah like Clea because . . . ?”

“Because she’s all flash and no substance,” Myra said. “She looks nice on the outside, but on the inside, she’s all holey panties and dingy bras.” She patted my shoulder. “Don’t you let her get to you.”

“And another thing—Mark and I are making some headway into this case.” She took my arm, pulled me away from the group, and lowered her voice. “First of all, we looked into that assault case where Jordan Richards’s wife dropped the charges. She also dropped him. She divorced him, and one website said she took a ton of money with her.”

“Do you and Mark think she might’ve come here and confronted Chef Richards or something?” I asked.

“We’re looking into it,” she said. “We’re also looking into the other woman whose fingerprints were on the cake stand.”

“Pauline Wilson,” I said.

“Yep,” said Myra. “In college, little Miss Pauline was a shoplifter. So, she has a darker side than you’d initially thought.”

I inclined my head. “Just because she shoplifted a time or two when she was in college doesn’t mean she killed Chef Richards.”

“No, but it shows you very good and well that she’s not all goody-goody either,” she said.

China joined us. “I heard that last part about Pauline Wilson. Myra’s right, Daphne. All you know for sure is that you didn’t kill Jordan Richards. The only fingerprints on the murder weapon are yours and hers. You have to keep an open mind.”

“I know,” I said. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”