Dead Pan (5 page)

She looked terrible. I don’t think she’d had any rest at all, and she appeared weak and fragile.

She managed a smile. “I’m as well as can be expected, I suppose.”

Carol rubbed her sister-in-law’s back as they came on into the kitchen.

“Is there anything I can help you do?” Fran asked.

Her eagerness to help was evident, so I had her check to see if the biscuits were done. I knew they still needed to bake for three or four more minutes, but that’s all I could think of at the moment.

“Connie, Ben Jacobs will be joining us for breakfast,” I said. “He stopped by yesterday and expressed to me both his condolences and his concern over Fred’s death.”

Connie shook her head. “Fred’s more than a curiosity for the newspapers.”

“I know that. So does Ben.” I glanced up and saw his white Jeep pulling into the driveway. “He’s here, so please discuss any concerns you have with him. If you don’t want to, we’ll just have breakfast and not talk about Fred.”

Connie merely nodded.

“I think the biscuits are done,” Fran said.

“Great,” I said, opening the door for Ben. “Could you grab those oven mitts and take them out for me?”

“Sure.”

Ben grinned. “I love a busy kitchen.”

I laughed. “Sorry it’s so crazy this morning. I wanted everything to be done at about the same time so I wouldn’t have to reheat anything.”

“I’m not complaining,” Ben said. He then introduced himself to the others. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss. Please know I’m not here in the capacity of a newspaper reporter but as a friend who wants to discover what caused Fred’s death.”

“Thank you,” Connie said.

I was grateful Ben had tactfully put Fred’s family’s fears at rest about his being here. I took the coffee cake out of the oven and drizzled butter cream glaze over the top. I then placed the biscuits in a bread basket and moved both over to the table. By each plate, I had sat a juice glass and a coffee cup on a saucer.

“What flavor juice would you like?” I asked. “I have orange and apple.”

Everyone voted for orange juice, which I personally felt was a good choice to complement the orange marmalade I had for the biscuits.

I poured the juice and coffee and then ensured everything we might need was on the table prior to sitting down.

“Where do we begin?” Connie asked, taking a sip of her juice.

I took a biscuit and passed the basket to Fran, who was on my left. “I guess we need to start with Fred, you know, see what was going on with him.”

“Like what?” Carol asked.

“I understand he frequently went to Haysi. Do any of you know why?” I asked.

“No.” Fran attempted to pass her mother the bread basket, but she kept her hands in her lap and addressed me sharply.

“My nephew was not on drugs, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that at all,” I said. “Maybe Fred has a girlfriend in Haysi. I don’t know. All I do know is that Connie asked me to look into Fred’s death. If that’s no longer the case, I’ll be happy to mind my own business.”

Connie nudged her sister. “Take a biscuit and simmer down. I did ask Daphne to help me look into Fred’s death. That means I want to know the truth . . . no matter what it is.”

Carol pressed her lips together and continued to scowl, although she did take a biscuit and pass the basket on to her sister.

Connie took a biscuit and passed the basket to Ben. “Fred did travel quite a bit on his days off. He never said much about his trips, though.” She spread margarine on her biscuit. “I didn’t want to be nosy, so I didn’t ask too many questions. After all, he was a grown man.” She shook her head. “I don’t think it was a girlfriend. How would he have met her if she lived all the way over in Haysi?”

“An Internet dating site?” Ben suggested. “Or some other social networking type thing?”

“No,” Fran said. “Fred wasn’t all that into computers. He said they gave him a headache.” She took a slice of quiche. “I wonder if he was moonlighting.”

“Why would you think that?” Carol asked.

Fran shrugged. “Well, he was upset a few weeks ago about how Mr. Franklin had been treating him at the Save-a-Buck.”

I remembered Mr. Franklin’s weird behavior from yesterday but didn’t feel this was the right time to bring it up.

“And he wanted to get you something really nice for Christmas, Aunt Connie,” Fran continued.

With a nod and a muffled sob, Connie excused herself and hurried into the hall. As Carol shot a disapproving look at Fran—for what, I had no idea—I got up to console Connie and see if she needed tissues or a cool washcloth. Connie gratefully accepted my offer of a cool washcloth and said she’d return to the table momentarily.

When I took my seat, I saw that Ben, Fran and Carol were all eating in awkward silence. I tried to come up with an ice breaker; but every time I looked up from my plate, I met Carol’s stony gaze. I determined Ben and Fran had the right idea, and I delved into my breakfast as if I hadn’t eaten in days.

Connie returned to the table, her face wan and her eyes puffy. “Sorry I lost it,” she said.

Carol put her arm around her sister-in-law’s shoulders. “It’s okay, sweetie. You have no reason whatsoever to apologize.”

I started to agree, but the Ice Queen’s frigid glare halted any words from leaving my open mouth.

“Why don’t you come over to the house tomorrow and take a look through Fred’s room?” Connie asked. “It can’t hurt; and if he was seeing someone, maybe you can find her name and phone number. I’d look myself, but I just can’t bear to go in there just yet.”

“I understand,” I said, “and, of course, I’ll be happy to do whatever I can to help.”

After everyone left, I cleaned up the kitchen. Fran had offered to help, but I insisted that she and her mom needed to get Connie home. Which was true, but I was also eager to be out from under Carol’s suspicious glare. What did she have against me? Was she afraid I’d discover something damaging or unsavory about Fred that would cast an even darker shadow over his death? While I thought Fran’s suggestion of Fred moonlighting to earn extra money was logical, the thought of him driving all the way to Haysi to do it was not. Haysi was over an hour away—one way—and with the cost of gasoline these days, he’d have to be making quite a bit of money to make it worth the trip.

Connie had said Fred traveled a lot on his days off. I wondered if Haysi was his only destination.

I decided to go out and get the other video game guitar controller since I didn’t have any cake orders due today. It would be fun to invite Myra over to play this evening . . . although I was fairly certain there were no Judds’ songs on the game.

It was a gorgeous day for early December. The sun was shining and it was warm enough outside that a light jacket was sufficient. I was wearing jeans, a red turtleneck and a jean jacket as I walked down the street, and I was perfectly comfortable. I passed Tanya’s Tress Tamers and waved a hello to Tanya. Her daughter was graduating high school this year; and the last time I was in Tanya’s shop for a trim, she talked about ordering a cake for the big day. I realize that’s six months away, but I hadn’t given much thought to graduation cakes before Tanya mentioned it. Tanya is the type of mom who plans things well in advance.

Hopefully, I’d get several orders for graduation cakes. At least, I could count on making a few for Save-A-Buck. I’d have to go home and dig out my May/June cake magazines and idea books.

As I continued walking, Cara came out of the café with a lidded cup of coffee. “Daphne, hi. Have you got a sec?”

I glanced at my watch as if I had somewhere to be. Somehow being in such close proximity to someone as accomplished as Cara made me want to act as if I had a lot on the ball. “I have a few minutes.”

“That’s terrif,” she said, taking my arm and tugging me toward the café.

See how busy she is? She doesn’t even have time to finish three-syllable words like ‘terrific.’

“Come sit with me, grab a java and let’s dish.”

I don’t know why Cara’s suggestion made me feel nervous and reluctant today. Maybe I was afraid I’d say something completely stupid and then wind up seeing it in print tomorrow morning. I checked my watch one more time.

“Come on,” she said. “The fondant will wait.”

I smiled. “Like I said, I can spare a few minutes.” I sat down at a nearby table. “How do you like Brea Ridge?”

Cara sat opposite me. “It’s quaint.” She pushed her perfectly-highlighted hair out of her eyes with her perfectly-manicured red-tipped fingers. “Charming.” She smiled. “Really.”

“Oh, you don’t have to convince me,” I said. “How’s your story coming along?”

“Good and bad.” She took a drink of her coffee and signaled the waitress. “We need to get you fixed up with one of these. It isn’t Starbuck’s by any stretch, but it’s not half bad. Besides, I hate to drink alone.”

The waitress came over and Cara ordered me a French vanilla cappuccino “just like mine, love. And put a rush on it, would you please?”

The waitress hurried off to get my cappuccino. Hopefully, since Cara had added “please” to the rush order, the waitress wouldn’t spit in it. I’ve always been careful about how I treat wait staff . . . especially before I get my food. But again, Cara had said “please” and she’d called the young woman “love” with only the slightest hint of condescension.

“Okay,” Cara said, “back to the story. The one guy who didn’t get better after taking the drug administered at the party died, which is good from a personal interest standpoint; but it’s bad from a Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals PR standpoint.”

“So are you killing the story for the benefit of Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals and Dr. Holloway?” I asked.

The waitress returned with my cappuccino, and I thanked her before turning back to Cara expectantly.

“What? You were serious?” she asked. “The story must be told. Always. That’s just how it is.”

“But what about Dr. Holloway? Won’t that cause problems between the two of you?”

She shrugged. “He has his job, and I have mine. We must be vigilant not to allow our relationship to affect our jobs. And vice versa. Of course.”

“Of course. Do you think I could talk with Dr. Holloway?” I asked. “I’d love to get his opinion on what happened to Fred Duncan.”

“You’re not trying to scoop me, are you?” She asked the question jokingly and with a smile on her face, but there was a steely glint in her brown eyes.

“Not at all. You’re the writer. I’m happy decorating cakes.” I took a drink of cappuccino. “I’m curious, that’s all.”

“Well, I can assure you my article will answer all your questions. I’ll send you a couple copies. You did get the ones I sent you about the Oklahoma Sugar Arts Show, didn’t you?”

“I did. Thank you. The article was terrific.”

She leaned back in her chair. “It was a good piece, wasn’t it?” She pushed her hair back from her face again. “That was a fun event. Are you going back this year? And entering a cake this time?”

“I’m considering it.”

“You should do it. Even if you don’t win—and you very well might—it’s fabulous publicity.”

I nodded. “How about your friend? I can’t remember her name.”

“Ellen?”

“Yes. How did she do? My flight left before the judging.”

“She did well. She got a few words of high praise from HRH Kerry Vincent. And she was able to parlay that into some local and national publicity. She’s hoping to be invited onto that cake challenge show.”

“Oh, that would be cool.”

“Tell me about it. It’s launched more than one career, you know.” She leaned forward, interlacing her fingers. “I’ve got the number of a fab publicist who could work up a campaign for you.”

“Um . . . wow . . . thanks. Maybe I can look into that after the holidays.”

“You need to if you’re ever going to take it to the next level, Daphne. I’ll call you later with the number.”

“Great. Thank you.” I sipped my cappuccino. I didn’t share Cara’s ambitious nature. I’m not really a spotlight kinda gal. I’d prefer to live my life quietly and peacefully. I had enough excitement while I was married to the human volcano. But I’d be polite and take the number. I’d said
maybe
I could look into it after the holidays. I didn’t commit to anything, and I hadn’t even specified which holidays.

“Remember that cake at the show that had been damaged?” I asked. “There was a card on the table indicating the cake had been damaged by a spectator.”

“I remember that,” Cara said. “Some of the lattice trim or something had been torn off.”

“Right. And it was such a gorgeous cake.” I shook my head slowly. “I could’ve cried for the decorator.”

“Oh, love, that guy was such a jerk. He was so terribly snotty to Ellen and to everyone else who was unfortunate enough to cross his path . . . even Mrs. Vincent.”

“Still, I know how hard he had to have worked on that cake. Then to have someone ruin it and knock him out of the competition had to have been heartbreaking.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Cara said. “But everyone worked hard on their entries. You know?” She shrugged. “And everyone knows the risks.”

The waitress stopped by our table to see if we needed anything else.

“No thanks, love,” Cara said. “We’re leaving.” She opened her purse, took out a $20 bill and dropped it onto the table. “Keep the change.” She tossed her head and ran her hand though her hair one final time. “I’m so glad we got a chance to catch up, Daphne. I’ll call you later this afternoon.”

I smiled. “Thank you for the cappuccino.” Although I did feel that plunking down twenty dollars for a coffee and a tip was a bit over the top in extravagance, I kept mum. “Take care.”

She laughed. “Always, love. Always.”

After renting the second guitar controller, I went straight to Ben’s office. The grandmotherly receptionist, who watched too many hours of daytime drama which played on the set in the lobby, smiled slyly.

“You’re here to see your beau?” she asked.

How was I supposed to answer a question like that? Was I supposed to say, “Yes, ma’am, tell my honey I’m here?” Or was I supposed to be honest and tell her, “I’m not altogether certain Ben and I have reached the beau/belle relationship status.” Instead, I circumvented the issue.