Dead Pan (4 page)

“Cute cat,” Fran said. “I’m sorry I scared her.”

“That’s okay. She’ll be back once we go inside.” I held open the door, and Fran preceded me into the living room.

“Sorry it took me so long. I had to convince the hospital I truly am a relative and not just some nosy kid or a reporter or something. They’ve apparently been having trouble with reporters trying to gather information. And, naturally, they have to tell these people, ‘Hello? We’re running a hospital, not a news bureau.’ Anyway, the hospital finally revealed that they don’t believe Fred’s death was due to his brain injury.” She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “In fact, they’re as perplexed as we are as to why everyone else got better and Fred didn’t. But they won’t know more until they get the autopsy results.”

I nodded, silently taking all this in and waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“What do we do next?” Fran asked.

There it went.

*

I told Fran I had some cakes to finish up and that I did my best thinking while I worked. We went into the kitchen, where Fran immediately noticed the gum paste figurines.

“What pretty little dolls!”

“Thank you,” I said. “They’re made of gum paste.”

“You made these? Wow.”

“Painting the faces was the hardest part. Doing such tiny detail work makes me nervous.”

“I can imagine. What is gum paste anyway?”

“It’s a sugar dough.” I grinned. “Kind of like Play Dough, but you can eat it.”

“Kids in my elementary school wouldn’t have known the difference. One kid was always nibbling his modeling clay. Now he’s our high school’s first string quarterback. Go figure.”

I laughed. “Is he a HAG—Hot Available Guy?”

“Um . . . he’s hot, I guess. But I think he’s dating one of the cheerleaders. Not that I care. He’s totally not my type. I mean, I’m not even sure I have a type; but if ditzy girls in short skirts are his type, then I’m not it, so he must not be my type either. Right?”

I gave her a slight nod and wasn’t all that clear on what she’d said. Either way, I thought she was being a little too emphatic about not liking this guy, but I kept my opinion to myself.

I took four, one-quarter, sheet cakes from the refrigerator. “While these are warming to room temperature, I’m going to start preparing the decorations.”

“Who are they for?” Fran asked.

“Since the Save-A-Buck doesn’t have a bakery staff, Mr. Franklin has me make cakes for them to sell. He specifically requested birthday cakes this week. I’m making two for girls and two for boys.”

“Cool.”

“Want to learn how to make a butter cream rose?” I asked.

“Sure.”

I jerked my head toward the wall pegs that held my aprons. “Grab yourself an apron and wash your hands. I’ll show you a super-easy trick.”

When Fran was ready, I handed her a flower nail and a bag of dark pink icing with a Number One-Zero-Four rose tip. I had the same tools. I took a red gumdrop and secured it to my flower nail with a dab of icing.

“Normally, I would use icing with a Number Twelve round tip to make a cone-shaped base for the rose. But since this is for a little girl’s cake, I’m using gumdrops. I got the idea from a cake decorators’ discussion group.” I smiled. “Didn’t you always want one of the biggest roses on your slice of birthday cake? This way, when the birthday girl bites into that rose, she’ll get another sweet surprise.”

Fran giggled. “That is totally cool!” She placed a gumdrop onto her flower nail. “Now what?”

“Okay. Let’s start at the top and make the inner petal. Then, slowly spinning the flower nail, we’ll add three rows of petals.”

Her first effort wasn’t too bad, but she wasn’t satisfied.

“I have an idea.” I took a six-inch round cake from the refrigerator. “When my niece and nephew visit, we make what we call ‘bitty cakes’ because they’re small. Why don’t you keep practicing your roses; and before you leave, we’ll use them to decorate this bitty cake for you to take home.”

“That sounds great. Thank you.”

We continued to work on our roses.

“The hospital doesn’t think Fred’s prior brain injury had any bearing on this incident, right?” I asked.

“Um . . . they don’t think it contributed to his death, if that’s what you’re saying.”

“That’s what I’m saying. I’m sorry. It’s kind of difficult for me to discuss Fred’s death with you.”

“It’s okay,” Fran said. “I’m mature enough to handle this. Plus, I know that now is not the time to grieve. Now is the time—while the evidence is still readily available—to determine what happened to my cousin.”

“Gee,” I said, “you
are
mature. But you don’t have to be Supergirl, you know.”

“I know.”

“Once again, we know Fred’s brain injury didn’t play a part in his death; but
something
did. There was something different about Fred . . . something none of the other victims had. That’s why they recovered, and he didn’t.”

“We need to find out what that something was,” Fran said. “But where do we start?”

“How about we start by talking to your Aunt Connie? Do you think she’d be up to having breakfast tomorrow morning?”

“I’ll check with her and see. Where would you like to meet for breakfast?”

“How about here?”

*

“Hi, Ned. It’s me, Nancy,” I said when Ben answered his phone.

He chuckled. “Did you hear back from the junior detective?”

“I did. Actually, that’s why I’m calling. She’s bringing her Aunt Connie—Fred’s mother—to breakfast here tomorrow morning. Would you like to join us?”

“Are you kidding? I’ll jump at any excuse to have you prepare me a meal.”

Mental note: invite Ben for more home-cooked meals.
“The hospital records didn’t implicate Fred’s prior brain injury in his death.”

“I figured as much,” he said. “I’d love to sneak a peek at that autopsy report when it’s available.”

“I’d love to snoop around Fred’s room. Maybe he was on drugs or something.”

“I guess we’ll find that out soon enough. Any drug would show up on a tox screen.”

After talking with Ben, I decided to go to the supermarket to drop off the birthday cakes and to get some ingredients for dishes I’d be making tomorrow morning. Prior to my trip to the Save-A-Buck, I went by the Brea Ridge Rental Center and got the game system and game Violet wanted me to check out. At least, that was one investigation I could be up front with her about.

I’d expected a solemn staff at the Save-A-Buck; and for the most part, I was right. The baggers and cashiers were subdued, and Juanita’s nearly nonexistent mascara indicated she’d been crying. Mr. Franklin, however, was a different story.

“Good evening, Ms. Martin,” he said, hurrying from the middle of the store to inspect the cakes I’d brought. “Oh, these look beautiful! They’ll be gone in no time.”

“I have two more in the car,” I said. “I’ll get them and be right back. By the way, I’m so sorry about Fred.”

“Oh, yes, so are we. What a tragedy, huh? Do you need help with those cakes?”

“No . . . I can get them.”

“Great. I’ll get you a receipt.” He was whistling as he walked toward his office.

I went back out to my car and retrieved the other two cakes. I took them inside and placed them on the small display table with the other two. I then got a buggy and began doing my shopping.

I was in the juice aisle when I felt someone’s presence by my left elbow. I turned to see China York, blue eyes sparkling, iron gray braids hanging to her waist. As usual, she was wearing jeans and a man’s flannel shirt over a white tee shirt.

I smiled broadly. “China, how wonderful to see you.”

“You, too. Heard about Fred. You lookin’ in to it?”

I glanced around. “Unofficially. Why? Do you know something?”

“I know Fred went over to Haysi a lot. My cousin’s youngest girl works in a gas station over there . . . said he came in real regular.”

I frowned. “What’s in Haysi?”

“You tell me.” She patted my arm. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything else.”

“Thanks, China.”

I finished my shopping and went through Juanita’s line. She’s my favorite cashier. I’ll usually go through her line even if there’s a wait.

“How are you?” I asked.

“Me? I am good. But, also, I am sad.”

“I am, too. Poor Fred . . . and his family.”

“Yes,” she said, her eyes welling. “To suffer such a loss at this special time of year. It will never be the same for his mother. Christmas will now always be tinged with sadness for her.”

Mr. Franklin walked over and handed me the receipt for the cakes. Then he looked sharply at Juanita. “Ms. Ramirez, do you need a break?”

“No, Mr. Franklin. I am fine.” She quickly began scanning my items.

Mr. Franklin smiled at me. “Did you find everything okay?”

I nodded. “Just fine.”

“Let me get a bagger up here.” He used the microphone on Juanita’s register to call someone named Chad to the front, and then he wished me a good evening and ambled toward the back of the store.

I knew there hadn’t been any love lost between Mr. Franklin and Fred—Mr. Franklin had once spoken to me about how difficult Fred had become after his accident and how he couldn’t fire him and risk a lawsuit—but this brusque behavior was inexcusable.

I made a mental note to ask Fran if she knew or could find out why Fred went to Haysi so often and why Mr. Franklin was acting so cold. Could he have been harboring a grudge against Fred that went deeper than Fred’s mood swings after the car accident?

Chapter Three

I got home, put my groceries away and then unpacked the game system and the guitar game Violet wanted me to test. The game controller was a wireless “guitar.” I turned it on and started the game’s tutorial. It explained to me that “notes” corresponding to the colored buttons serving as frets would scroll down the screen. To play the note, I would hold down the proper fret button and strum the guitar using a long bar that took the place of the guitar’s strings. The tutorial sent a few notes my way so I could put this theory into practice. So far, so good.

Next, I got to choose my character. After seeing what—or rather who—my alternatives were, I went with a pouty-mouthed, improperly dressed, tattooed redhead. Cool.

I was ready to play my first song. I was in “easy” mode and I was expecting the song to be . . . well, easy. The music began. Bobbing my head like Jessie—my alter ego—I saw the first note coming at me. Nailed it.

I did fine until we hit the chorus, and then the song sped up. I started missing notes, and the crowd actually began booing me! I was mortified. I quickly went to the menu and restarted the song. I was determined to get it right this time. No way was I going to be booed off the stage my first time out.

No head bobbing this time. This time, I was serious. And I did it. The crowd was cheering wildly. Sure, I missed some notes, but not enough to get booed.

Still, I knew I could do better, so I played that same song again. And again. And again. And then I played the next song…over and over. I didn’t stop until an hour later when Myra rang the doorbell.

“What in the world are you doing?” Myra asked.

“Playing a video game Violet wanted me to check out for Lucas. Wanna try it?”

Myra, an attractive woman in her mid-sixties, will generally try anything. This was no exception.

“What do I do?” she asked, picking up the guitar.

I started the tutorial for her, and she was off. I hate to admit it, but her first effort was better than mine.

After she’d played for a few minutes, she said, “You know what we need, don’t you? Another guitar. That way, we could both play.”

I said I’d stop by the rental place tomorrow and see if they’d rent me another controller.

“Then we can be like those Judds,” Myra said. “Or that Billy guy and his girl.”

I laughed. “I know you didn’t come over to play this game. Did you need something?”

“Actually, I was at Tanya’s Tress Tamers today, and I went a little darker with my hair color. What do you think?”

I noticed for the first time since she’d come in that her usually golden hair color had a more honeyed hue. “I like it.”

Myra patted her pixie mane. “Do you really?”

“I really do.”

“Well, Tanya said that with it being December, I need to go a shade darker until spring. By the way, everybody in the shop was buzzing about poor Fred Duncan. What do you think happened?”

“I don’t know. The weird thing is that everyone got sick, everyone took medicine provided by Dr. Holloway, and everyone got better . . . except Fred.”

“That’s what everybody was buzzing about down at the salon.”

“What was the consensus?”

“Some thought Fred’s brain injury was why he didn’t get better. Some thought maybe Fred didn’t take the medicine Dr. Holloway gave out.”

“I hadn’t considered that.”

“And some thought Fred was into something else . . . something illegal . . . and that played a part in his death.”

“Something else,” I said. “Like drugs?”

Myra shrugged. “I never heard of Fred Duncan being on drugs. I’m just relaying what I heard at the beauty shop.”

“What about Haysi?” I asked. “Is there a lot of drug activity around Haysi?”

Myra cocked her head. “Now how should I know? I get all my drugs at the pharmacy. Besides, why Haysi?”

“I saw China in the grocery store, and she mentioned Fred traveled to Haysi on a regular basis.”

“Huh.” She adjusted the shoulder strap on her guitar. “If you want me to ride with you to Haysi, just say so. Not to scout out drug dealers, but there’s a nifty little fabric shop over there.”

With that, she started her song again and rocked out. I finally had to tell her I was going to bed before she’d cut the guitar off and leave.

*

The next morning, Fran, her mother Carol and her Aunt Connie arrived at around 7:45. I had just taken the quiche out of the toaster oven, and biscuits and a coffee cake were baking in the conventional oven. I sat the quiche on a trivet in the center of the table, took off my oven mitts and opened the door.

“Good morning,” I said. “Connie, how are you?”