Dead Pan (22 page)

“And she was dead?”

I nodded.

“Was she naked?”

“No! She had on a robe and was covered with a blanket. Why would you think she was naked?”

Myra shrugged. “When people find dead bodies in the movies, the bodies are usually naked.” She opened her soda. “So what happened?”

“I don’t know. Since there was no obvious cause of death, she’s being sent for an autopsy.”

“Were there any opened envelopes lying around? Maybe somebody sent Yodel some of that
amtrax
stuff.”

“I don’t think it was anthrax,” I corrected. “I figure she had a heart attack or an aneurysm or something.”

“Don’t be too sure.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because Yodel was mean.” Myra took a drink of her soda. “Heck, you know that.”

I shook my head and tried to steer the conversation away from murder. “Who’d name their daughter Yodel?”

“Oh, honey.”

In the short time I’ve lived here, I’ve already learned that when Myra Jenkins says
Oh, honey
, you’re in for a story.

“The Watsons yearned to follow in the Carter family’s footsteps,” she said. “You know, those famous singers. Yodel’s sisters were Melody and Harmony, and her brother was Guitar. Guitar Refrain Watson—Tar, for short.”

I nearly spit diet soda across the table. “You’re kidding.”

“No, honey, I’m not. Trouble was, nary a one of them Watsons had any talent. When my daughter was little, she’d clap her hands over her ears and make the most awful faces if we happened to sit behind them in church. Just about anybody can sing that ‘Praise God From Whom All Blessings Flow’ song they sing while takin' the offering plates back up to the alter, but the Watsons couldn’t. And the worst part was, every one of them sang out loud and proud. Loud, proud, off-key and tone deaf.” She smiled. “I have to admit, though, the congregation as a whole said a lot more silent prayers in church before Mr. and Mrs. Watson died and before their young-uns—all but Yodel—scattered here and yon. ‘Lord, please don’t let the Watsons sit near us.’ And, ‘Lord, please stop up my ears just long enough to deliver me from sufferin' through another hymn.’ And, ‘Lord, please give Tar laryngitis for forty-five minutes.’”

We both laughed.

“That was ugly of me to tell,” Myra said. “But it’s true! Still, I’ll have to ask forgiveness for that. I always did wonder if God hadn’t blessed any of them Watsons with musical ability because they’d tried to write their own ticket with those musical names. You know what I mean?”

“I guess you’ve got a point there.”

“Anyhow, back to Yodel. Yodel was jealous of China York because China could sing. The choir director was always getting China to sing solos. China didn’t care for Yodel because Yodel was spiteful and mean to her most of the time. It seemed Yodel couldn’t feel good about herself unless she was puttin' somebody else down.”

“She must’ve felt great about herself every time I brought a cake over,” I muttered. “Sorry. Go on.”

“Well, a few years ago, our old preacher retired and we got a new one. Of course, we threw him a potluck howdy-get-to-know-you party at the church. It was summer, and I took a strawberry pie. I make the best strawberry pies. I’d thought about making one for Thanksgiving, but I don’t have to now that you’ve given me all these cakes. I do appreciate it.”

I waved away her gratitude. “Don’t mention it.”

“Anyhow, China brought a chocolate and coconut cake. She’d got the recipe out of
McCall’s
magazine and was just bustin' to have us all try out this cake. Wouldn’t you know it? In waltzed Yodel with the very same cake.”

“If she loved to bake so much, I wonder why she gave it up. She told me she didn’t have time to bake these days. Was she active in a lot of groups? I mean, what took up so much of her time?”

“Keeping tabs on the rest of the town took up her time. When Arlo was alive—he was a Watson, too, of course, though no relation . . . except maybe really distant cousins once or twice removed or something . . . There’s more Watsons in these parts than there are chins . . . at a fat farm. Is that how that saying goes?”

“I think it’s more Chins than a Chinese phone book.”

“Huh. I don’t get it. Anyhow, Arlo expected his wife to be more than the town gossip. That’s when Yodel prided herself on her cooking, her volunteer work and all the rest. When he died—oh, I guess it was ten years ago—she gave all that up.” She shook her head. “Shame, too. But, back to the story. Yodel told the new preacher, ‘Wait until you try this cake. It’s my very own recipe.’

“‘It is not,’ China said. ‘You saw me copy that recipe out of
McCall’s
when we were both at the beauty shop waitin' to get our hair done!’

“‘So what if I did?’ Yodel asked.

“‘You had to have heard me tell Mary that I was making this cake for the potluck.’

“Oooh, China was boiling. But Yodel just shrugged and said, ‘I subscribe to
McCall’s
. How was I supposed to know you’d be making a similar cake?’

“China got right up in Yodel’s face and hollered, ‘It’s the same cake!’

“Yodel said it wasn’t. She said, ‘I put almonds and a splash of vanilla in mine. Otherwise that cake would be boring and bland.’

“At this point, the preacher tried to intervene. ‘They both look delicious,’ he told them, ‘and I’m sure there are enough of us here to eat them both.’

“Yodel’s and China’s eyes were locked like two snarling dogs, and I don’t believe either of them heard a word he said. China had already set her cake on the table, but Yodel was still holding hers. China calmly placed her hand on the bottom of Yodel’s cake plate and upended that cake right on Yodel’s chest.”

I giggled. “Really?”

“Really. And then China walked to the door and said, ‘I’ve had it with her. I won’t be back here until one of us is dead.’ And she ain’t been back to church since.”

“Wow,” I said. “That’s some story.”

“Makes you wonder if China finally got tired of sitting home by herself on Sunday mornings.”

Seeing how serious Myra looked, I stifled my laughter. “Do you honestly think this woman has been nursing a grudge all these years and killed Mrs. Watson rather than simply finding herself another church?”

“There’s not another Baptist church within ten miles of here.” She finished off her soda. “People have killed for crazier reasons than that, haven’t they?”

“I suppose, but—”

“And if it wasn’t China York, I can think of a few other folks who had it in for Yodel.”

“Come on. I’ll admit she’s been a pain to work with on these cakes, but I have a hard time casting Mrs. Watson in the role of Cruella De Vil.”

Myra got up and put her empty soda can in the garbage. “I didn’t say she made puppy coats. I said there were a lot of people who’d just as soon not have Yodel Watson around.”

Coming in 2010

Daphne's Next Cake-Baking Mystery

KILLER SWEET TOOTH

Book Three in the Daphne Martin Cake Decorating Mystery Series

It all began with a little bite of innocent sweetness. It was mid-January, and Brea Ridge had been experiencing the type of “Desperado” days the Eagles would describe as “the sky won’t snow and the sun won’t shine.” Indeed, it was hard to tell the nighttime from the day.

Ben, my significant other—at least, to my way of thinking . . . and I believe he’s thinking that way, too, after the comment he made just before Christmas—was working late on a story. He’s a reporter, editor and go-to-guy for the
Brea Ridge Chronicle
. On top of that, he’s a perfectionist who has trouble delegating. Hence, the working late.

Violet, my sister, was visiting her mother-in-law this evening with her hubby Jason and my precious tween twin nephew and niece Lucas and Leslie. Try saying that line three times fast. Anyway, Grammy Armstrong was celebrating her seventieth birthday, and Violet’s family as well as the rest of the Armstrong clan was gathering to wish her well.

All of which, I must selfishly admit, left me out in the cold. Pardon the pun. But I was lonely. Lucky for me—or, at least, I thought so at the time—Myra was lonely, too. Myra is my favorite neighbor. She’s a sassy, sixty-something (you’ll never get her to admit to any specific age) widow who knows everything about everybody in Brea Ridge (or can find out), who has a heart of gold and who is as entertaining as they come. I gave her a call and she agreed to come over for some just-made cashew brittle and a game of Scrabble. Myra tends to make up words when playing Scrabble, but that merely adds to the challenge of the game.

At the sound of the doorbell, Sparrow, my one-eyed formerly-stray gray and white Persian cat raced down the hall toward my office. She has a little bed in there under the desk, and it’s her favorite hiding place. She has begrudgingly made friends with me, but she isn’t comfortable around other people yet. Don’t worry about the one-eye. The veterinarian said she was probably born that way. Plus, it’s how she got her name. Lucas and Leslie named her Sparrow in honor of Captain Jack, Johnny Depp’s character in
Pirates of the Caribbean
. They said having one eye made Sparrow look like a pirate.

I opened the door and Myra came in wearing jeans, an oversized blue sweater and a pair of Ugg boots. She deposited the boots by the door and rubbed her hands together.

“I’m so glad you called,” she said. “I’ve been bored out of my mind today.”

“Me, too,” I said. “Cake orders have been slow since New Year’s.”

“They’ll pick back up.”

We walked into the kitchen where I had the Scrabble board set up on the island. The two stools were set on opposite sides of the island. The cashew brittle, popcorn and chocolate-covered raisins were plated and on a tray to the right side of the board. The Scrabble tiles were to the left.

“What would you like to drink?” I asked.

“Something hot. How about a decaf café au lait?”

I smiled. “Sounds good to me.”

Myra sat down and began choosing her tiles. “Great. Nearly all vowels. How am I supposed to make a word out of this mess?”

“Just put those back and draw some new letters.” I have a single-cup coffee maker, so I began making Myra’s café au lait.

“No, now, you know I don’t cheat,” she said. “I’ll make do with the letters I have. Maybe some of this cashew brittle will help me think.”

The next sound I heard was a howl of pain.

“Myra? What is it?”

“Owwww, my toof . . . my filling . . . fell out!” She rocked back and forth on the stool.

I turned the coffee maker off. “Who’s your dentist? I’ll call him and ask if he can meet you in his office.” Don’t think I was being sexist when I said “him.” There are only two dentists in Brea Ridge, and they’re both men.

“Bainworf.”

I got “Bainsworth” out of the mumbled word and rushed into the living room to retrieve my phone book from the end table. I called the dentist’s office and then dialed the emergency number left on the answering machine. Dr. Bainsworth answered the call immediately.

“Hi, Dr. Bainsworth. I’m Daphne Martin. A patient of yours—Myra Jenkins—is here at my house. She bit into a piece of cashew brittle and lost a filling. She’s in terrible pain.”

“Ah, yes, I know Myra well. Tell her I’ll meet her at my office in a half hour. In the meantime, do you have any clove oil?”

“I believe so.”

“Then apply a little of the oil to the tooth with a cotton swab,” he said. “It’ll help dull the pain until you can get her here.” He chuckled. “Good luck.”

“Thank you.” Apparently, he
did
know Myra well.

I returned to the kitchen. “Dr. Bainsworth will see you in his office in half an hour.”

“Half an hour? I’ll be dead by then.”

I opened the cabinet where I keep my spices and got the clove oil. “He told me to apply a little of this to your tooth with a cotton swab. He said it will help dull the pain.”

“Easy for him to say.” She continued moaning as I went to the bathroom for a cotton swab.

“Come on,” I said, when I had both clove oil and cotton swab in hand. “Dr. Bainsworth says this will help. Take your hand down, open your mouth and show me which tooth.”

She opened her mouth. “It’s ‘is toot.” She pointed to her second bicuspid on the left. “The one throbbing wit pain.”

I dabbed clove oil on the tooth. “There. Feel better?”

“No.”

“Well, just give it a minute. Go ahead and get your boots back on, and we’ll go on to the dentist’s office.”

She got down from the stool, went into the living room and got on her boots. It was a laborious effort, but she managed somehow.

I took my coat from the closet, grabbed my purse and car keys and off we went.

Myra gasped and covered her mouth when the cold air hit her tooth.

“I’m sorry,” I told her, “but the dentist is meeting us, and you’ll be feeling better in no time.”

She nodded as I opened the passenger side door of my red Mini Cooper and helped her get in.

I hurried around to the driver’s side, started the engine, turned on the lights and backed out of the driveway. The traffic was surprisingly heavy for a mid-week winter’s night in Brea Ridge. We met at least half a dozen cars on the way to Dr. Bainsworth’s office.

When we got there, I was relieved to see lights blazing in the back of the office. Dr. Bainsworth was already here and, presumably, had everything ready to fix Myra’s tooth.

Myra pulled the neck of her sweater up over the lower portion of her face before stepping out into the cold air. I walked ahead of her so I could hold the heavy door open for her.

We stepped inside and looked around the empty office. Empty offices always look creepy at night, don’t you think? There was only one light on in the entryway; and in the waiting area, the long, skinny windows allowed muted light from streetlamps to filter in casting shadows throughout the room.

“Dr. Bainsworth? It’s Daphne Martin and Myra Jenkins. Would you like us to come on back?”

He didn’t answer, and I supposed maybe he couldn’t hear us.

“Let’s go on back,” I said to Myra.

She nodded slightly, and we walked back toward the examining rooms.