Murder Takes the Cake Text (14 page)

“She doesn’t know I know about the affair . . . much less anything that might’ve happened between her and Vern prior to that affair.”

“I’ll tell you what little I know about my father-in-law’s past.”

“Thank you.”

She pressed her lips together.

“You don’t think much of my mother, do you?” I asked.

“I don’t think much of Jonah’s mother. I believe they might be the same person—and Joanne is convinced of it—but I don’t know for certain.”

“I understand Jonah was born when Vern and Gloria were young.”

“She got pregnant in high school. That wasn’t as common then as it is these days. They—Vern and Gloria, that is—paid some lady to pretend to be Gloria’s mother and sign a consent form so they could be married. Vern was crazy about her. I know that.”

So is Dad.

“When the happy couple began telling people they were married,” Peggy continued, “Gloria’s parents took their daughter home and later had the marriage annulled.”

“Did they know she was pregnant?”

Peggy nodded. “They sent her somewhere—to a relative, I suppose—to have the baby.”

“But I heard Vern wound up with the baby.”

“He did. He threatened Gloria’s parents that he’d take out an ad in the paper and tell the whole sordid story if they didn’t let him have Gloria and the baby.” She took a drink of her coffee, wrinkled her nose in distaste and pushed the cup aside. “They compromised. He got the baby.”

“But what about Gloria? Didn’t she want the baby?”

“From what I understand, she’d gone off the deep end by then. Spent some time in a mental institution.”

“A mental institution?”

“Uh-huh. She had some sort of breakdown.”

“Well, I don’t doubt that. Afterwards did she . . . ?”

Peggy was shaking her head before I could finish my question. “She never met Jonah. At least, not until he was grown.”

My eyes widened. “Then you . . . then Gloria . . . ”

“Vern brought your mother to meet Jonah when Jonah was nineteen. We were newlyweds.” She gave me a half smile. “I suppose marrying young runs in the March family.”

“And Vern told Jonah that my . . .that Gloria was his mother?”

“No. He merely introduced her as Gloria Carter and said they were contemplating a future together.”

I felt my anger at my mother spark and start to burn all over again. “How could she do that? How could
he
? How could they pretend she had no obligations and was free to pursue a future with another man? She had a nine-year-old and a six-year-old daughter at home who needed her, who depended on her.” My breathing quickened. “I don’t remember Vern that well. How could they?”

Peggy put her hand over mine. “I’m sorry.” I believe in that instant she realized I was almost as much a victim as Jonah. “Maybe they thought it was all right because they were picking up were they’d left off all those years ago.”

“But that didn’t make it right for Violet and me. It didn’t make it right for our Dad. Nor did it make up all those missed years to Jonah.”

“I know, sugar. I know.”

*

I left Peggy’s house and drove straight to Violet’s real estate office. I needed her to help me take this all in. But she was dealing with an entirely different problem.

As I walked in, I heard a man’s voice saying, “House Bill 4182, introduced by Representative Tupac Hunter on February 3, 2005, calls for prevailing plaintiffs to be allowed to collect triple damages against someone who sells a building containing toxic mold without disclosing its presence.”

I took a seat in the outer office, where I could be unobtrusive but still hear what was going on.

A cultured female voice countered the man’s attack. “Your case against my clients is flimsy, Mr. Charles. The Steins had an independent inspection of the property done prior to purchase. If their own paid professional was unable to detect the water leak that produced the mold, why do you doubt my clients’ insistence they didn’t know about the problem?”

I felt the woman had an excellent point. You can’t tell someone what you don’t know.

“Because they were wanting to sell this house,” the man shot back. “They needed to unload it onto my clients so they wouldn’t have to deal with the structural damage—not to mention the health issues—themselves.”

Violet jumped in. “That house was on the market for two years before it sold. Do you honestly think the Hills would have knowingly lived in a home you’re calling a health hazard?”

Good point. Way to go, Vi.

“Please,” the other woman said, “let me handle this.”

I suddenly felt guilty for eavesdropping. I left a note for Vi and slipped back outside. Driving home, I remembered what the plaintiffs’ attorney had said about triple damages. That could ruin Violet, professionally
and
personally.

CHAPTER TEN

I checked my e-mail when I got home. Other than junk, there was an e-mail I started to delete because the address began
sweetcandy4u
. But then I saw “cake” in the subject line and decided to take a chance and open it. I was glad I did. It was from Candy at the pet shop. She wanted me to make a birthday cake for a special male friend. I e-mailed back asking her to call me at her earliest convenience so we could discuss cake flavors, designs and how many people the cake should serve. I clicked “send,” and the phone rang almost immediately.

Wow, that was fast!

But it wasn’t Candy calling; it was Violet.

“So you came by the office today?” she asked.

“Yeah. It sounded as if you were having a pretty intense conversation, so I didn’t stay.”

“What did you hear? Just curious. I mean, I didn’t hear you come in, and . . . ”

“And you wonder what anyone could’ve overheard. You know, you really should put a bell above the door.”

“I have an intern—Marcy—but she was out today. She took an extra day off for Thanksgiving.”

“What I heard is that a non-disclosure lawsuit over some mold could cause you a whole lot of grief.”

“It could, Daph. It really could. I’m just praying it won’t. Annette, my attorney, says the Steins’ suit against me is moot. I can’t disclose what I don’t know.”

“She sounded extremely competent to me . . . I mean, from what little I heard.”

“She is competent. She’s top notch. But, then, so is Mr. Charles.”

“Still, it’s like you said, you didn’t know about the mold.”

“No, I didn’t. And neither did my clients, the Hills. They have two small children. They wouldn’t have lived in the home had they known there was mold between the walls.”

“How did the Steins discover the mold?”

“They tore out a wall to build a sunroom onto the house.” Violet sighed. “I just wish Yodel Watson had kept her big, ignorant mouth shut. It’s all her fault that this thing got blown out of proportion.”

“How so?”

“She and Sue Stein were friends. When the Steins found the mold, Mrs. Watson told Sue that it was against the law for the realtor not to have told them about the mold, and that they could sue and get their house for free.”

“But they had no reason to accuse
you
. Wouldn’t their beef be with the previous owner?”

“Yeah, but according to Mrs. Watson, who watched lots of crime shows and news programs and was, therefore, an expert on such matters, the realtor is always in cahoots with the homeowner.”

“I’m sorry you’re going through this,” I said. “I hope it’ll be over soon.”

“Thanks. Me, too.”

“If there’s anything I can do to help . . .”

Violet barked out a bitter laugh. “Bake me a cake with a file in it. I might need it.”

*

I hung up the phone after talking with Violet and went straight to my cake books. I doubted Candy knew what type of cake she wanted, other than one that would look pretty and taste delicious. I realize that’s what everyone is looking for in a cake, but it’s up to me to help my client make an informed decision. Since it had been a few days—days that felt like years, come to think of it—since I’d taken a specific cake order, I thought I should reacquaint myself with the basics. Besides, I love looking at cake books.

I looked first at the serving charts. I personally can’t hold fast to the numbers suggested on the charts, but they do provide a good starting point and, occasionally, a laugh. For example, the chart I’m looking at right now tells me that a six-inch round, three-inch high cake will serve twelve people. I’m thinking, “
Twelve people?”
Are these servings provided on toothpicks like hors d’oeuvres? Maybe I make my servings a little bigger than they’re supposed to be; but if I go to a party and get a one-by-two-inch square of cake, that’s going to be just enough to whet my appetite for a
real
piece of cake. It’s like those diet gurus who say if you’re craving something, take one bite of it and throw the rest away. Who can do that? I can’t do that, which is why I need to be on my treadmill like a hamster on a wheel. But I’m digressing all over the place. Back to Candy and her cake.

If she wanted something simple as far as decorations go, then she could have pretty much any flavor of cake she thought her friend would like. If, however, she wanted a three-dimensional or sculpted cake, we would need to go with something with a firmer textured batter, such as a pound cake.

When Candy called, I was better prepared for her.

“I’m so glad you’ve got the time to make a cake for Ke—for my friend,” she said. “I want it to be something really, really special.”

“All right. Tell me a little bit about him. What flavors does he like?”

“Well, he positively
loves
chocolate.”

“Milk, white or dark?”

“All of it. He’s what you might call one of them chocoholics.” She giggled.

“Okay. Great.” I was taking notes as we talked. “Is he a coffee drinker?”

“Why, he positively is! Are you sure you don’t know him better than I do?”

I laughed. “I hardly think so. What do you think of a mocha-flavored Madeira cake with chocolate, butter-cream icing?”

“That sounds scrumptious! I know he’d love that.”

“Good. Now, tell me what else he likes.”

“He likes me.”

She laughed, and I joined in. I wondered if my laugh sounded as hollow to her as it did to me. I was trying not to be judgmental about Candy’s situation with Kellen Dobbs, but it was hard . . . especially given my current circumstances.

“He likes animals,” she continued. “He likes to play chess and—”

“Chess?”

“Uh-huh. I try to play, too, but I’m not any good. I’m not much of a competitor for him.”

“What if I make your friend a square cake with white and dark chocolate squares . . . like a chessboard . . . with milk-and white-chocolate chess pieces?”

“You can do that?”

“I sure can,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t be disappointed with the final product, and that Mr. Dobbs wouldn’t be either.

“That sounds positively perfect!”

“When is your friend’s birthday?”

“In two days. Can you work me in?”

I started to tell her, “I positively can,” but I was afraid that would sound ungracious. Instead, I let a simple “Yes,” suffice. Candy asked me to deliver the cake to her at work on Wednesday, and I told her I’d be there by mid-morning.

We rang off, and I went into the kitchen to melt some chocolate. I got out my chessmen molds and put some milk chocolate chips in a glass bowl. While I melted the chips in the microwave, I got out my Mocha Madeira recipe, my favorite blue mixing bowl and my three-inch deep, nine-by-nine-inch square cake pan.

As soon as the chocolate was melted, I spooned it into my molds, tapped the molds onto the countertop a couple times to remove air bubbles, and then sat the molds in the refrigerator.

Before I could get out the cake ingredients, Ben called and invited me to dinner. I accepted his invitation and put away my blue mixing bowl. I could make the cake tonight or tomorrow morning and still have plenty of time to decorate it, especially with half my chess pieces hardening in the molds.

Ben had said he was in the mood for steak, so I figured we’d be going to Dakota’s, since it was the only steakhouse in town. That meant I should dress casually, but I still wanted Ben to be impressed with my appearance, so I gave my clothes and makeup more consideration than usual. I wore a white, silk, wrap sweater and black wool pants. Casual, yet sophisticated.

I tried to go for the “smoky eye” look but wound up looking raccoonish and had to wash my face and start again. This time I went with a more neutral, natural look for my face and eyes and added color via a dark red lipstick. Much better. More Elizabeth Taylor, less Rocky Raccoon. Not that I was Elizabeth—“The Last Time I Saw Paris”—Taylor, by any stretch of the imagination; but now I doubted I’d be accused of turning over the neighbors’ trash cans at night and foraging for food. Raccoons do that, don’t they? Or is it possums I’m thinking of? Or do both critters rifle through trash? Not that it mattered. I was satisfied with my appearance and hoped Ben would appreciate—albeit never, ever know—the mental acrobatics getting ready for this date had caused me.

*

The black-clad hostess led us to a booth at the right side of the restaurant and announced that our server would be with us momentarily.

“So tell me about your day,” Ben said.

He looked handsome, even more so than usual, and I wondered if he’d taken a little extra time with his appearance or had simply come straight from work. With men, you can never tell. He wore dark-denim jeans, a crisp, white shirt and a brown-tweed sport coat.

“Are you sure you don’t want a stiff drink before I start telling you about my day?” I asked. “Better yet, start with yours. Tell me about your day.”

“There’s not that much to tell about mine. Got up, went to work, took a beautiful woman to dinner . . . that’s about it so far.” He grinned. “I did do a little digging into Vern March’s past.”

I leaned forward. “What did you find out?”

“Hi!”

I looked up at the dark-skinned young man approaching our table. He had a tribal tattoo on his right bicep, a silver ring through his left eyebrow and the smile of an angel.