Dead Pan (19 page)

“Okay, thanks for putting that strange analogy in my head. Do you think he’s the person responsible for Fred’s accident?”

“Why do you ask?” He chewed on the inside of his cheek.

“I’m curious, that’s all. If you think he is but never confronted him, then why not? Here is finally your chance to point a finger at your brother and say, ‘I know what you did, and you’re going to make it right. For once in your life, you’re going to do the responsible thing.’ If you did confront him when it happened and he denied it, then at least you confronted him. You know you did the right thing.”

He barked out a laugh. “It seems I always do the right thing where Robby is concerned. In this case, I asked Mom how Robby was when he was there and if he’d been drinking. Mom got angry with me and ordered me out of her house.”

“What about Robby? Did you ask him?”

“No. We weren’t speaking at all . . . hadn’t in years.” He sighed, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “If anyone was responsible for Fred’s accident, it was me. I’m the one who sent him over there with Mom’s flowers. I’m the one who didn’t have the guts to face my brother on our mother’s birthday. I’m the reason Fred Duncan is dead.”

“That’s not true. You had no way of knowing Fred would be in an accident that afternoon.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m the one who should’ve been on that road. It should’ve been me in that accident . . . not Fred.”

“Still, Mr. Franklin, if you believe your brother caused that accident—”

“I don’t, all right? When Mom calmed down a week or so later, she called and told me she knew I was only concerned about Robby when I’d asked if he’d been drinking . . . that she realized I wanted to protect him in case he was responsible for Fred’s accident.” He scoffed. “Yeah, sure, Mom. Anyway, she said he’d been in court-ordered alcohol rehab and had been sober for over a year. I let it go after that.” He dropped his head into his hands again. “I’m so sorry . . . so sorry about Fred. I never meant for any of this to happen.”

“Mr. Franklin, I think you should know neither Fred’s accident nor his brain injury had any bearing whatsoever on his death . . . the hospital confirmed that to his cousin Fran. She’s helping me cater Belinda Fremont’s party.”

He slid his hands down his tear-streaked face and looked at me. “Are you just telling me that to make me feel better?”

“No. It’s the truth. I promise.”

“Thank you. It still doesn’t erase the guilt I feel over causing Fred to be on that road in the first place, but it does make me feel that maybe I’m not responsible for his death. I know I acted like a complete jerk after he died, but I . . . I guess the only way to deal with it was to pretend to other people that it didn’t matter. But it did, Daphne.”

“I know.” I stood. “I’ll see about getting your customers some more candy here by Monday morning.” I figured I could drop it off on the way to pick up Lucas and Leslie.

“Thank you.”

I opened the door and went back to the front of the store for a shopping cart. As I gathered the items I needed, I rehashed my conversation with Mr. Franklin. His mother initially became angry over his questions about Robby. Isn’t it possible she knew Robby was drinking and was covering for him in order to protect him? Mr. Franklin had made it clear his mother would do anything for Robby. I didn’t have a doubt in my mind she’d cover for him if he was guilty of another DUI plus facing charges of leaving the scene of an accident which resulted in injury to another party. If Robby Franklin did cause Fred’s accident, the statute of limitations would not start to run until his actions were confirmed . . . which may be never . . . but could be as soon as Steve Franklin got the nerve to confront his brother.

*

When I arrived home and put my groceries away, I checked the answering machine. There was a message from Dr. Broadstreet.

“Daphne, this is Quentin Broadstreet of Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals. My wife Dorothy and I would like to meet with you here in my office at noon today. If you cannot make our appointment, then please call my receptionist and leave me a message to that effect. Otherwise, Dorothy and I will see you at noon.”

The machine beeped signaling the end of the message.

I looked at the clock. I had a couple hours before I had to leave to meet with the Broadstreets. That didn’t give me much time to bake or decorate. Instead, I decided to check my e-mail, take a look at my website to see how much traffic it was generating and piddle away a few minutes.

I turned on the computer, logged onto the Internet and checked my mail. It was mostly junk. Some subject lines gave me the happy news that I’d won a lottery I’d never even entered, while others were downright offensive. I deleted them all.

I glanced over my to-do list. Instead of checking anything off, I added four items.

Sighing, I visited my website statistics page. Visits to the site were down for the second straight week in a row. Joy.

I played a game of solitaire and lost. Minesweeper? Lost that game four times.

I was not enjoying my computer time. Plus, while I was hoping the Broadstreets wanted to hire me, Dr. Broadstreet’s detailed message had not mentioned anything pertaining to that fact, so I really didn’t know what they wanted.

The site address for
West Side Messenger
was still in my browser history, so I opened the page to see if Cara had reported anything new about her misadventures in “quaint” Brea Ridge. There was nothing new, so I decided to read her fluff piece on local hauntings. I wanted to see if the woman could write an article to save her life that wasn’t biased in some way.

I double clicked the article. When it came up on the screen, the first thing that struck me was the date. It was the day after Fred Duncan’s car accident. The second thing was that the first haunting on her list was the old mill on Fox Hollow Road, complete with recent photographs.

Chapter Fifteen

I touched up my makeup and put on a nicer sweater before going to Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals to meet with Dr. Broadstreet and his wife. I took my portfolio and some business cards in case the meeting was—as I expected and hoped—about a cake or some other baked goods they wanted me to prepare. Maybe they were even going the Belinda Fremont route and wanted me to cater an entire party.

When I arrived at Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals and was told I could go on back to Dr. Broadstreet’s office, I saw that Connie had been dead on in her description of Mrs. Broadstreet. The song
Aquarius
started going through my mind the instant I saw her. She had long, graying brown hair. Two skinny braids adorned with beads framed her face. She wore little round John Lennon-style glasses, a tie-dyed t-shirt and faded bell-bottomed jeans. And she definitely was skinny. I felt that if she stood up and turned sideways, she might disappear.

I extended my hand in greeting. “Hi, I’m Daphne Martin.”

She shook my hand gently and smiled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. My husband has been raving about your oatmeal bread. I have to admit, I don’t remember much about your cake. The hours following that party are a blur.” Her eyes darted from me to her husband and back.

“I can imagine.”

“Do you have recipes for vegan cakes?” she asked.

“I do. I have a chocolate cake recipe that uses applesauce rather than oil and eggs, and I have recipes for lemon poppy seed, carrot, banana and even rum cake.”

Mrs. Broadstreet smiled at her husband. “Quent, I’ve found my baker.”

Dr. Broadstreet nodded. “I told you so.”

“He loves to tell me that,” she said to me.

“All men love to tell their wives ‘I told you so’ . . . probably because it’s such a rare occasion,” I said.

She laughed. “Wonderful. When can I sample some of your cakes?”

“I can prepare a sampler for you this weekend, and I can bring it back here on Tuesday, if you’d like.”

“Wonderful. That way both Quentin and I can choose our favorites.”

I wrote this information down in my portfolio and handed Mrs. Broadstreet a business card. I turned to Dr. Broadstreet. “Doctor, do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Not at all,” he said.

“I know Mrs. Broadstreet prepared food for the Christmas party, as did I,” I said, “but since none of the food contained any of the campylobacter bacteria, where did it come from?”

Dr. Broadstreet stroked his beard. “Your guess is as good as anyone’s, Ms. Martin.”

“I was so afraid I’d bought something contaminated from the health food store,” Mrs. Broadstreet said. “I buy organic, and I’m so cautious about buying foods that have been sprayed with pesticides or other chemicals.” She shook her head. “I didn’t think it was in the food, but, you know, that is the usual presumption. I was relieved when the police report came back.”

“So was I,” I said. “Is there any of the bacteria kept here at the lab?”

“Oh, sure,” Dr. Broadstreet said. “Among other things. There are all sorts of bacteria in our labs. That’s how we make drugs to combat them.”

Mrs. Broadstreet shuddered.

I shared her distaste but tried not to be as obvious. “Of course. I just can’t imagine how that particular bacterium infected various people at the party. It had to be one of the guests, didn’t it?”

“Not necessarily,” Dr. Broadstreet said. “Why would you think so?”

“Because I heard—I believe from Cara Logan—that if the bacterium got on someone’s hands, they would get sick, too. It would be impossible to infect someone without infecting yourself. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes and no,” he said. “You can handle the bacterium with gloves.”

“But someone wearing latex gloves contaminating . . .
something
 . . . at the party would certainly have aroused suspicion,” Mrs. Broadstreet said. “And I saw nothing out of the ordinary.”

Dr. Broadstreet grinned at his wife. “Maybe the contaminator was wearing invisible gloves.”

I gaped.
Invisible gloves
. I remembered my ex-husband smearing on a protective hand coating before working on his vintage car. “Is that possible?”

“I was joking, Ms. Martin.”

“I know, but is there something a person could use to coat his hands that would protect him from the bacterium but allow him to spread it to others? Perhaps through touching them . . . like shaking hands?”

Dr. Broadstreet’s smile faded. “Like silicone.” He nodded. “There are products made to protect one’s hands . . . .”

“But who would do such a thing?” Mrs. Broadstreet asked.

I remembered Cara touching Ben’s hand at the restaurant. Shortly afterwards, he became ill. “I think I know.”

“Well, please, tell us,” Dr. Broadstreet said.

“I respectfully request your patience with me,” I said. “I’d like to speak with her before I make any accusations.”

“Her?” he asked.

“Um . . . if you’ll excuse me,” I said. “I’ll see you both on Tuesday. Shall we say noon again?”

“Noon will be fine,” Mrs. Broadstreet said.

I went back out to Helen, the receptionist. “Have you seen Cara Logan here today?”

“I have. She came and picked Dr. Holloway up for lunch.”

“Do you know when they’ll be back?”

“No idea, hon. You’re welcome to wait, but I have no idea how long they’ll be. Sometimes I think they have those three martini lunches out at his place on Fox Hollow Road.” Helen snickered. “At least, Dr. Holloway is in a good mood when they get back.”

I nodded. “In that case, I don’t believe I’ll wait.”

“I don’t blame you. Want to leave a message?”

“No. I’ll try to give Ms. Logan a call later.”

I went outside and got into my car. I called Ben, but my call went straight to voice mail. He must be at lunch, too. I left a message. “Ben, it’s me. I believe I know who made all the people sick at the party . . . and you, too, for that matter. It was Cara. I even know how she did it. Call me.”

*

On a hunch, when I pulled out of the Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals parking lot, I found myself turning the Mini Cooper in the direction of Fox Hollow Road.

What am I doing? Am I insane? This definitely crosses from curiosity over into full-blown investigating.

Or does it? I’m just doing a drive by. Once again, merely satisfying my curiosity. I wouldn’t know Dr. Holloway’s house if I saw it. I have no idea what either he or Cara drives.

Besides that, I can’t be sure either of them caused Fred Duncan’s accident a year ago, and I have no proof that Cara caused the people at the Christmas party to get sick.

And yet when I got there, I found myself pulling onto Fox Hollow Road . . . and driving slowly.

Most of the houses on this road had obviously been around for years. While some had updates, I could tell they had been constructed back in the late sixties or early seventies and, judging by their continuity, by the same developer. They were single-story ranch style houses. I could even tell when more of the land was sold to make way for new houses later on. These houses were split-level homes and duplexes. A couple of the duplexes had been modified to become one home, but I could see where there had once been two units to the houses.

Then I rounded a curve and saw the McMansion. Oh, no, that hadn’t been there for thirty or forty years. It looked like somewhere a doctor might live. Dark red brick went on for what seemed like miles in both directions. There was no porch—no one living in this home had time to relax. Three super-sized windows with rounded tops dominated the second floor of the house, and an enormous chandelier was visible even from the road. The first floor had a white door encased by narrow windows and a couple picture windows whose interior views were concealed by shades. A BMW sat in the driveway. A black BMW sedan.

Anyone with any sense would have turned around—preferably in someone else’s driveway—and gone home. I plead a stress-induced insanity with a possible blackout situation; because the next thing, I knew, I was parked in the McDriveway.

There was time to back out, I know, but see the above insanity/blackout defense. Because, once again, the next thing I knew, I was ringing—you guessed it—the McDoorbell.

Dr. Holloway came to the door. His hair was messed up and his glasses were a tad askew. I was interrupting something. Probably making out, but who knows? Cara might have been trying to McMurder him. I was having serious suspicions about her.