Dead Pan (2 page)

“I guess not.”

“So, you see? You can fake a coma.”

*

Despite Myra’s assertions to the contrary, I did not believe Fred Duncan was faking his coma. I felt horrible for him and his family. His grandfather and my uncle were hunting buddies, and I knew Fred’s near-fatal car accident and resulting brain damage about a year ago had taken a considerable toll on the Duncans. Fred was having the worst luck.

My pre-teen niece and nephew were convinced Fred was “crushing on me big time” after he asked my sister a ton of questions about me at the grocery store and then ordered a cake for his grandfather. He’d ordered a birthday cake; and since Mr. Duncan’s birthday was still months away, Fred’s mother had called and canceled the order.

Pondering my recent past history with Fred, crime, murder cases, cake baking  and having to clear my name (not to mention the name of my cake-baking business) I decided to hop into my little red Mini Cooper and head to the Brea Ridge Community Hospital.

And I hate, hate, hate hospitals.

*

I approached the two elderly women volunteering at the reception desk.

“I’m here to see Fred Duncan.”

One of the women asked me my name.

“Daphne Martin,” I replied politely.

Her eyes went wide. “You’re the cake decorator who was accused of killing Yodel Watson with a spice cake!”

I stared at her. “My cake and I were cleared.”

She tapped Fred’s name into the computer before directing me to the ICU waiting area. The halls were lined with potted peace lilies. I spotted the door with the sign reading “Chapel” and considered going in to say a prayer for Fred. The chapel would be an excellent place to hide while I steeled myself to actually go and see him. On the other hand, if there was a grieving family in the chapel, that would be a terribly awkward situation . . . especially if it was Fred’s family. I took a deep breath and went on to the ICU waiting room.

A nurse approached and quietly asked who I was there to see. I told her, and she led me back to a cramped room where Fred lay hooked up to a number of beeping, whirring, whooshing gadgets. A tired-looking woman wearing a pink sweatshirt and jeans sat in a straight-backed chair by the bed and held Fred’s hand. I’d been standing in the room a full minute before she looked up.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Daphne Martin.”

“The cake lady.” She smiled wanly. “Now I can see why Fred ordered his papaw a birthday cake five months early. I’m Connie Duncan Fred’s mom.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Duncan. How’s Fred?”

Connie looked at her son. “Not very well, Daphne. Would you talk to him . . . let him know you’re here?”

“Of course.” I moved closer to the bed. “Fred, hi, it’s me, Daphne. You’d better hurry up and get well before the Save-A-Buck goes broke. You know they can’t run that place without you.” I looked from Fred’s ashen face to Connie’s.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“Can I get you anything? A cup of coffee or a soda, maybe?”

“Coffee would be nice. Would you walk down to the cafeteria with me?”

“Sure.”

Connie went by the nurses’ station to inform them she’d be back within five minutes, and then we headed for the cafeteria.

“I heard about the party,” I said as we walked. “Actually, Officer McAfee of the police department stopped by and asked me about it. I told him I only delivered the cake and didn’t know about all those people getting sick.” I bit my bottom lip. “For the record, the lab is in the process of confirming there was nothing in the cake that caused the illness.”

“I know, sweetie. This isn’t your fault.”

“What happened? How did all those people get sick?”

“I don’t know. I only wish that if one of us had to be sick, it had been me instead of Fred. He’s been through so much already.”

“Do you work at Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals?”

“Yes. I’m the bookkeeper.”

“I simply can’t understand how everybody—at least, everybody infected—got so sick so fast. Even if they contracted some sort of virus, it usually takes a few days to incubate, doesn’t it?”

“You’d think,” Connie said. “But the medicine Dr. Holloway gave out when people started getting sick appeared to help everybody, except Fred.” She looked at me. “Why didn’t it help Fred?”

“I wish I knew.”

We’d arrived at the cafeteria. While Connie got her coffee, I stepped over to the soda machine to get a Diet Coke. I popped the tab on the can and took a drink. She rejoined me and we started walking back toward the ICU waiting area.

“I was impressed by how you found out who killed Yodel Watson,” Connie said. “I read about it in the papers.”

I grinned. “I wasn’t all that impressive. I’m dating the guy who wrote the article, so he might’ve fudged a bit.”

“No,” she said, “I don’t think so. I think you were very brave. You set your mind to finding out what happened to that old woman, and you did it. I admire you for that.”

“Thank you.”
Why do I have a huge knot of dread gathering in my stomach? Dread not even Diet Coke can wash away?

She nodded and stirred her coffee. “I want you to do that for me, too.”

I stopped walking. “Excuse me?”

She’d taken a couple steps ahead of me and had to turn around to face me. “That’s what I want you to do for me. Find out what happened to Fred.”

“The police are already investigating, and—”

“But you’re Fred’s friend. You
know
him.”

Not exactly.

I started walking again, and she fell into step beside me. “But I’m not a detective by any stretch of the imagination.”

“Yes, you are! You solved that other crime and put a killer in jail.”

Yeah. I’m not looking forward to testifying in that case. Certainly don’t want to get tangled up in another messy situation.

“Mrs. Duncan, I’d love to help you . . . really, I would . . . but the police are doing everything they can. I’m sure they’ll resolve this as quickly as possible.”

When we entered the ICU waiting area, the nurse on duty rushed toward Connie and propelled her in the direction of Fred’s room. Not knowing what else to do, I followed.

The nurse spoke in a hushed but urgent tone. “Fred is in some significant distress, Mrs. Duncan. We’re doing everything we can do.”

“Distress? What do you mean? What kind of distress? Will he be all right?”

If you’ve ever seen a soap opera or a movie-of-the-week, then you’ve heard
the beep
. As soon as I heard
the beep
, I closed my eyes.

Please, no. This can’t be happening.

When I reopened my eyes, a nurse was pulling the curtain around Fred’s bed and the doctor was approaching Connie.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Duncan. We did all we could do.”

Connie screamed, dropped her coffee, and threw herself into my arms. “They’ve killed him! They’ve killed my baby! You have to help me, Daphne.”

“I will,” I said, patting her back.
I have to. It’s my fault you went for coffee.

The nurses gathered around Connie. I heard one say they’d called her family. I waited with Connie in the hallway—mainly holding her hand, patting her shoulder and trying not to say anything stupid—until Walt Duncan, Fred’s grandfather, arrived. I then excused myself and told Connie I’d call her later.

I walked down the hall and pressed the button for the elevator. I was relieved to see the elevator was empty. Being in a crowded hospital elevator is especially awkward. Before the door could close, I saw a tall, thin blonde woman with a briefcase and a travel mug briskly approaching.

I studied her while I was holding the “Open Door” button. “Cara? Cara Logan?”

She whisked a long strand of hair off her face with her wrist. “Daphne?” She smiled. “Hi! What’re you doing here?”

“I was . . .  visiting a friend. You?”

“Following a story. As always. My boyfriend works with Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals. They had some sort of outbreak during a Christmas party, of all things.”

“I, uh, heard.”

“My boyfriend, John Holloway, saved just about everybody with some kind of miracle vaccine the company has been working on.”

I merely nodded. ‘
Just about everybody’ was right.

“The only guy who didn’t get better right away was named Fred . . . somebody.”

“Duncan,” I said.

“Yeah, that’s it. Anyway, his reaction was more severe than everyone else’s, and I intend to figure out why.” She lifted her mug and took a drink of—given the scent—coffee. “I meant to talk to them upstairs, but they sent me away. Even threatened to call security.” The elevator door opened. “Oh, well, see ya, Daphne. Maybe we can get together while I’m in town.”

“Sure. That’d be great.” I slowly walked out of the hospital.

Cara was a reporter from Richmond. How her paper had the resources to send her all over the place to follow stories was beyond me. Or maybe Cara was the one with the budget, and the paper just gave her free rein to pursue whatever stories she wanted to report on. Either way, it seemed a bit strange to me.

I’d met Cara a few months ago at the Oklahoma Sugar Art Show. As a cake decorator, I always pack my bags and attend. It’s the Big Kahuna of national cake shows. Kerry Vincent runs it, and she’s a star on the Food Network. On my kitchen wall I have a framed picture of me posing with her in front of a cake display.  Anyhow, at the show Cara and I discovered we were from the same area of the country, and so we had lunch together. Cara talked in depth about her career. She flitted from story to story and subject to subject like a honeybee in a field of wildflowers. Buzz. .  . .  buzz. A murder in Kentucky. Buzz . . . buzz. Katrina restorations. Buzz . . . buzz. Fashion week in New York. Buzz . . . buzz. The Oklahoma Sugar Art Show. And now she was here in little Brea Ridge, covering a story involving her boyfriend, Dr. Holloway.

A story—given Fred’s death—I wouldn’t think Dr. Holloway would want told.

Chapter Two

I got home, took a photo album from a drawer in the wardrobe that houses my television and sat down in my pink-and-white-checked club chair. My nerves were shot. When I’m upset, I calm myself by thinking about cakes. Fred’s death, and then seeing Cara at the hospital, had freaked me out pretty badly. I tried to focus on my album from the Oklahoma Sugar Art Show. With any luck it would take my mind off Fred and Connie for a few minutes.

The detail on the cakes entered in the show’s competitions had been amazing. Delicate butterflies . . . baby carriages . . . figures that looked as if they were made of porcelain. I’d taken photographs to show Lucas and Leslie, my nephew and niece. There was a character from the movie
Ice Age
, a cake depicting a scene from
Pirates of the Caribbean
, the cartoon character “Johnny Bravo,” a Monopoly board complete with Chance and Community Chest cards, a dog with its toys, Yoda, Chinese food . . . and the darling, stand-alone sugar figurines. Entire sculptures made of sugar. Imagine.

And the wedding cakes! I haven’t had many occasions to bake many wedding cakes yet—Daphne’s Delectable Cakes is still a fledgling business, you know—and the only wedding cakes I’ve made so far have been practice cakes. But I’m hoping to add more wedding cakes to my portfolio soon. And the cakes displayed at the Oklahoma Sugar Arts Show provide such inspiration! The intricate scroll work, beading, gum paste flowers, lacework and paint. I really needed to brush up on my painting skills. Pun not intended.

One cake had love letters made of fondant with icing script. How many tedious hours went into
that
?

I turned an album page and there was a photograph of Craig Gustafson and Heather Walters of
American Cake Decorating
and
Mailbox News
. I had promised I’d send them something for the magazine; but I still hadn’t done that. A girl gets a little nervous at the thought of sending a photograph of one of her cakes to the country’s premiere cake-decorating magazines. Still, the chess board cake I’d made for Brea Ridge’s Kellen Dobbs had turned out nice. I might send them a picture of that one.

Below the photograph of Craig and Heather, there was a picture of a cake someone had damaged. When I saw the beautiful cake with a piece of the bottom border lying to the side with the note
Spectator Damaged
, I had nearly cried for the decorator. To work that hard and then have some careless passerby ruin your cake and your chance of winning the competition was heartbreaking.

There was the photo of me with Kerry Vincent, the famous sugar artist, Food Network Challenge judge and Show Director of the Oklahoma Sugar Art Show. Chef Paul from Las Vegas had snapped the shot. As emcee for the onsite ‘Divorce Cake Competition,’ Chef Paul had regaled us with anecdotes—whether real or exaggerated—of his own unpleasant marital experiences.

I’d been a bit nervous about meeting Kerry Vincent. I’d seen her on television, and I was really intimidated by her. Tough but fair, she exuded a stern and pristine persona. This Hall of Fame sugar artist expected contestants to do their best work and really earn the honor of being the “best of the best” cake designer as well as recipient of the $10,000 prize money.

“Um . . . Mrs. Vincent?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Daphne Martin, a cake decorator from Virginia . . . and I just wanted to meet you and tell you how much I admire your work.”

“Thank you. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Daphne.”

Her voice was Australian . . . not like the “shrimp on the Barbie” accents most often inaccurately associated with the country but sophisticated. Like Julie Andrews. I wondered if she could sing.

“Do you have a cake in the competition?” she asked. “If so, don’t tell me which one.”

“Oh, no. I . . . I’m here mainly to check out the trends . . . the new products . . .”

“You don't mean to tell me you came all the way from Virginia just to check out trends. Why on earth didn’t you enter a cake?”

Man, nobody pulls anything over on
that
lady.

I took a deep breath. “I did bring a cake, but after I got here and saw the competition, I just chickened out.”

“Daphne, shame on you! I’ve got a feeling you’re in the habit of selling yourself short.” She gave me her card. “Next year, I want to see you enter a cake. And if you think of backing out at the eleventh hour, you call me.”