Dead Pan (21 page)
Authors: Gayle Trent
Apple, Brie, and Brown Sugar Pizza
Oh my goodness….this is the absolute best!! Imagine a thin crisp crust topped with rich, creamy Brie and cinnamon apples. This pizza could be served for brunch, a snack or a light dessert. It is hard to beat or resist hot out of the oven—even a house full of 20 year old boys were grabbing for another piece. Miniature pizza crusts are a fun way to serve these pizzas.
Makes 8 slices
1 (13.8-ounce) can refrigerated pizza crust
4 ounces Brie, rind removed and thinly sliced
1 large baking apple, peeled, cored, and thinly sliced
3 tablespoons chopped pecans
3 tablespoons light brown sugar
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 Preheat oven 450°F.
2. On top of pizza crust, arrange Brie and apple slices concentrically around crust. In small bowl, mix together remaining ingredients, sprinkle over apples.
3. Bake 10–12 minutes or until cheese is melted and apples are tender. Slice, serve.
Nutritional information per serving:
Calories 193, Calories from fat (%) 33, Fat (g) 7, Saturated Fat (g) 3, Cholesterol (mg) 14, Sodium (mg) 328, Carbohydrate (g) 26, Dietary Fiber (g) 1, Sugars (g) 10, Protein (g) 6, Diabetic Exchanges: 1 1/2 starch, 1 medium-fat meat
Terrific Tidbit: I prefer Granny Smith apples as they are tart and compliment the Brie. Any large, thin round, unbaked pizza crust may be used.
Sweet Potato Praline Coffee Cake
Hot out of the oven, this scrumptious, melt-in-your mouth, eye-appealing recipe is hard to beat and best of all, it tastes equally as good after being frozen. The sensational praline topping glazes the top making every bite a yummy one. A personal favorite.
Makes 12 servings
4 tablespoons butter
2/3 cup plus 3 tablespoons light brown sugar, divided
2 tablespoons light corn syrup
1/2 cup chopped pecans
2 1/2 cups biscuit baking mix
1 (15-ounce) can sweet potatoes (yams), drained and mashed or 1 cup mashed sweet
potatoes
1/3 cup skim milk
1/4 cup dried cranberries
1. Preheat oven to 400° F. In 9x9x-2 square nonstick baking pan, melt butter in oven. Stir in 2/3 cup brown sugar and corn syrup; spread evenly in pan. Sprinkle with pecans.
2. In large mixing bowl, beat together biscuit baking mix, sweet potatoes, and milk until dough forms a ball.
3. Turn dough onto a surface dusted with baking mix, knead several times and roll or pat into 12-inch rectangle. Sprinkle with remaining 3 tablespoons brown sugar and cranberries.
4. Roll up dough jellyroll style from longer side. Cut crosswise into one-inch pieces and arrange sitting on top of pecan mixture in pan. The dough will spread when baking.
5. Bake 25 - 30 minutes or until golden brown. Immediately turn upside down onto serving plate.
To Prepare and Eat Now: Eat when ready.
To Freeze: Cool to room temperature, wrap, label and freeze.
To Serve: Thaw to room temperature and serve. The coffee cake may be reheated in the oven at 350° F. or in the microwave.
Nutrition information per serving:
Calories 276, Protein (g) 2, Carbohydrate (g) 43, Fat (g) 11, Calories from Fat (%) 36, Saturated Fat (g) 4, Dietary Fiber (g) 1, Cholesterol (mg) 10, Sodium (mg) 360, Diabetic Exchanges: 3 starch, 2 fat
MURDER TAKES THE CAKE
Book One
The Daphne Martin Cake Decorating Mysteries
Gayle Trent
Trade Paperback 14.95
Ebook at Fictionwise.com
Excerpt
CHAPTER ONE
“Mrs. Watson?” I called, banging on the door again. I glanced up at the ever-blackening clouds. Although I had Mrs. Watson’s cake in a box, it would be my luck to get caught in a downpour with it. This was my third attempt to please her, and I couldn’t afford another mistake on the amount she was paying me. Whoever said “the customer is always right” had obviously never dealt with Yodel Watson.
I heard something from inside the house and pressed my ear against the door. A vision of my falling into the living room and dropping the cake when Mrs. Watson flung open the door made me rethink that decision.
“Mrs. Watson?” I called again.
“Come in! It’s open! Come in!”
I tried the knob and the door was indeed unlocked. I stepped inside but couldn’t see Mrs. Watson. “It’s me—Daphne Martin. I’m here with your cake.”
“Come in! It’s open!”
“I am in, Mrs. Watson. Where are you?”
“It’s open!”
“I know! I—” Gritting my teeth, I walked through the living room and placed the cake on the kitchen table. A quick glance around the kitchen told me Mrs. Watson wasn’t in there either.
“It’s open!”
Man, could this lady get on your nerves. I decided to follow the voice. It came from my left, so I eased down the hallway.
“Mrs. Watson?”
On my right, there was a den. I poked my head inside.
“Come in!”
I turned toward the voice. A gray parrot was sitting on its perch inside its cage.
“It’s open!” the bird squawked.
“I noticed.”
Great. She’s probably not home, and I’ll get arrested for breaking and entering . . . though technically, I didn’t break . . .
It was then I saw Mrs. Watson lying on the sofa in a faded navy robe. There was a plaid blanket over her legs. She appeared to be sleeping, but I’d heard the parrot calling when I was outside. No way could Mrs. Watson be in the same room and sleep through that racket.
I stepped closer. “Are you okay?” Her pallor told me she was not okay. Then the foul odor hit me.
I backed away and took my cell phone out of my purse. “I’m calling 9-1-1, Mrs. Watson. Everything’s gonna be all right.” I don’t know if I was trying to reassure her or myself.
Everything’s gonna be all right.
I’d been telling myself that for the past month.
I lingered in the doorway in case Mrs. Watson would wake up and need something before the EMTs arrived.
I turned forty this year. Forty seems to be a sobering age for every woman, but it hit me especially hard. When most women get to be my age, they at least have some bragging rights: successful career, happy marriage, beautiful children, nice home. I had none of the above. My so-called bragging rights included a failed marriage, a dingy apartment, and twenty years’ service in a dead-end job. Cue violins.
When my sister Violet called and told me about a “charming little house” for sale near her neighborhood, I jumped at the chance to leave all the dead ends of middle Tennessee and come home to southwest Virginia. Surely, something better awaited me here.
So far, I’d moved into my house—which I recently learned came with a one-eyed stray cat—and started a cake decorating business. A great deal of my time had involved coming up with a name, a logo, getting business cards made up, setting up a web site and other “fun” administrative duties. The cake and cupcakes I’d made for my niece and nephew to take to school on Halloween had been a hit, though, and had led to some nice word-of-mouth advertising and a couple orders. Leslie’s puppy dog cake and Lucas’ black cat cupcakes were the first additions to my web site’s gallery.
Sadly, my first customer had been Yodel Watson. She’d considered herself a world-class baker in her hey-day, but no longer had the time or desire to engage in “such foolishness.”
“I want you to make me a cake for my Thanksgiving dinner,” she’d said. “Nothing too gaudy. I want my family to think I made it myself.”
My first two attempts had been refused: the first cake was too fancy; the second was too plain. I’d been hoping—
praying—
third time would be the charm. Now the laboriously prepared spice cake with cream cheese frosting decorated with orange and red satin ribbons for a bottom border and a red apple arranged in a flower petal pattern on top was on Mrs. Watson’s kitchen table. Mrs. Watson herself was lying on her den sofa as deflated as a December jack-o-lantern. Oh, yeah, things were looking up.
I was startled out of my reverie by a sharp rap.
“EMT!”
“Come in! It’s open!” the bird called.
I hurried to the living room to open the door, and two men with a stretcher brushed past me.
“Where’s the patient?” one asked.
“Back here.” I led the way to the den, and then got out of the way.
“Come in!”
I moved next to the bird cage. “Don’t you ever shut up? This is serious.”
“I’ll say,” agreed one of the EMTs. “Are you the next of kin?”
“Excuse me?” My hand flew to my throat. “She’s dead?”
“Yes, ma’am. Are you related to her?”
While the one EMT was questioning me, the other was on the radio asking dispatch to send the police and the coroner.
“I don’t know anything,” I said. “I just brought the cake.”
*
After calling in the reinforcements, the EMT’s sent me back to the living room. They didn’t get any argument from me. I sat down on the edge of a burgundy wingback chair and studied the room.
It was a formal living room; and on my previous visits, I’d only been just inside the front door. This room was a far cry from the den. The den was lived in.
Ugh. Bad choice of words.
This room seemed as sterile as an operating room. There was an elaborate Oriental rug over beige carpet, a pale blue sofa, a curio cabinet with all sorts of expensive-looking knick-knacks. Unlike the den, this room was spotless.
Except for that.
Near my right foot was a small yellow stain. Parrot pee, I supposed. Still, even if Mrs. Watson had allowed the bird outside its cage, I’d have thought this room would’ve been off limits.
Maybe that’s what killed her. Maybe she came in here and saw bird pee in her perfect room and had a heart attack. Then she returned to the den to collapse so as not to further contaminate the room.
Funny thing, though; I didn’t even know Mrs. Watson had a bird until today.
“Ms. Martin?”
I looked up. It was one of the deputies.
“Yes?”
“I’m Officer Hayden, and I need to ask you some questions.”
“Um . . . sure.” This guy looked young enough to be my son—scratch that,
nephew
—and he still made me nervous.
“Tell me about your arrival, ma’am.”
Ma’am. Like I was seventy. Of course, when you’re twelve, everybody looks old.
I cleared my throat. “I, uh, knocked on the door, and someone told me to come in. I thought it was Mrs. Watson, so I opened the door and came on inside.” I pointed toward the kitchen table. “I’m Daphne of Daphne’s Delectable Cakes.” I patted my pockets for my business card holder, but realized I must have left it in the car. “I brought the cake.”
Officer Hayden took out a notepad. “Let me get this straight. Someone else was here when you arrived?”
“No . . . no, it was the bird. The bird hollered and told me to come in.”
He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I thought it was her, though.”
Please, God, don’t let me get arrested.
“It told me the door was open, and it
was
.”
Officer Hayden opened his eyes.
Never being one to know when to shut up, I reiterated, “I just brought the cake.”
*
About an hour later, I pulled into my driveway. I didn’t make it to the front door before I heard my next-door-neighbor calling me.
“Hello, Daphne! I see you’re bringing home another cake.”
“Afraid so.”
She beat me to the porch. For a woman in her sixties, Myra Jenkins was pretty quick. “What was wrong with this one?”
I handed Myra the cake and unlocked the door. “Um . . . she didn’t say.”
“She didn’t say?” Myra wiped her feet on the mat and followed me inside.
I dropped my purse onto the table by the door. I let Myra hang onto the cake. She’d kept the other two rejects. I figured she’d take this one, too.
I went into the kitchen and took two diet sodas from the fridge. I handed Myra a soda, popped the top on the other, and took a long drink before dropping into a chair.
“This is beautiful,” Myra said, after opening the cake box and peering inside. “What kind of cake is it?”
“Spice. The icing is cream cheese.”
Myra ran her finger through the frosting on the side of the cake and licked her finger. “Mmm, this is out of this world. You know the Save-A-Buck sometimes takes baked goods on commission, don’t you?”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
She nodded. “They don’t keep a bakery staff, so they sometimes buy cakes, cookies, doughnuts—stuff like that—from the locals and sell them in their store.”
“I’ll definitely look into that.”
“You should.” She put the lid down on the box. “Are you going to take this one?”
“No,” I said, thinking her poking the side had already nullified that possibility. “Why don’t you take it?”
“Thank you. I believe I’ll serve this one and the white one with the raspberry filling for Thanksgiving and save the chocolate one for Christmas.” She smiled. “Do I owe you anything?”
“Yes. Good publicity. Sing my praises to the church group, the quilting circle, the library group and any other social cause you’re participating in.”
“Will do, honey. Will do.”
“Um . . . how well do you know Yodel Watson?” I asked.
Myra pulled out a chair and sat down. “About as well as anybody in this town, I reckon. Why?”
“She . . . ” I sighed. “She’s dead.”
She gasped. “What happened? Car wreck? You know, she drives the awfulest car I’ve ever seen. All the tires are bald, the—”
“It wasn’t a car wreck,” I interrupted. “When I went to her house, I thought she told me to come in, so—”
“Banjo.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It was probably Yodel’s bird Banjo tellin' you to come in.”
“Right. It was. So, uh, I went in and . . . and found Mrs. Watson in the den.”
