Murder Takes the Cake Text (20 page)

The rotund cook was quick to comply with her employer’s request. Before you could say “cake samples,” there were half a dozen delicate china dessert plates sitting on the table with a dessert fork and a linen napkin to the right of each one. I deconstructed the box so I wouldn’t damage the samples as they were being lifted out and, with a small smile, Hilda handed me a silver cake server. I put the five samples on five of the plates, wondering if Belinda Fremont had expected six samples or if Hilda was merely playing it safe. It didn’t matter now—I had what I had. Plus, I was getting aggravated at myself for feeling so nervous and inadequate here.

Mrs. Fremont tried each sample as I told her what type of cake it was and explained some of the cake’s properties: texture, ease of design, complementary flavors, etc. Then she tasted each sample again. Forty-five minutes later, she’d narrowed it down to the almond pound cake and the strawberry cake. Twenty minutes after that, she decided to go with the almond pound cake.

I took a notebook out of the back of my portfolio and began taking notes. “How old is your daughter?”

“My daughter?” Mrs. Fremont barked out a laugh. “Is that what you think?” She laughed again, though I noticed Hilda didn’t even smile. “Come with me. It’s time for you to meet Guinevere.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I followed Belinda Fremont up the white and walnut staircase to the second floor. At the top of the stairs, you could turn right into a brightly lit hallway or you could turn left into a dimly lit hallway. We turned left.

“This is their suite,” Mrs. Fremont explained.

“Their?”

“Guinevere and her friends. They each have a separate room, but visit in their sitting room when they’re so inclined.”

“Oh.”

We stopped at the second door on the right, and Mrs. Fremont opened the door.

“Quietly, please,” she whispered. “Guinevere prizes tranquility.”

The room was decorated in pink with ivory accents. Against the far wall was a day bed flanked on each side by a round table. The tables were covered in the same material as the day bed’s coverlet. On each table, a lamp provided a soft glow. Frilly pillows, stuffed animals and toys were scattered over the floor.

The darkness and silence made me wonder if the child—Guinevere—was ill. But, if so, why were there cages with various colors of paper bedding located throughout the room? Shouldn’t a sick child avoid pets? Maybe not. I seemed to recall a television program about therapy dogs . . . . The room was empty now. Maybe Guinevere was in the sitting room with her friends.

I spotted a particularly interesting stuffed animal lying in the middle of the floor. It reminded me of “Cousin Itt” of
Addams’ Family
fame. But instead of brown hair, this creature had orange and white hair flowing in all directions and completely obscuring its features.

“How cute!” I stepped forward to pick it up so I could get a better look at it. I think at this point Mrs. Fremont yelled “No.” I’m not completely certain because “Itt” let out a loud shriek.

“Excuse us,” Mrs. Fremont said, picking “Itt” up. “I’ll see you back downstairs in the sitting room.”

I scampered back downstairs. In the foyer, I ran into the valet again. His lips were twitching with suppressed amusement.

“Hilda tells me you thought Guinevere was Mrs. Fremont’s daughter.”

“Yeah.” I grimaced. “I take it Guinevere is the furry thing I made scream?”

At this point, he did laugh. “I’m afraid so. Guinevere and her friends are Satin Peruvian guinea pigs.”

“I’ve been told to wait for Mrs. Fremont in the sitting room, but you might want to stay close by. I imagine you’ll be bringing my car around as soon as Mrs. Fremont calms Guinevere and gives me a few choice tips about how
not
to enter a room.”

I went to the sitting room and perched on an uncomfortable chair. My portfolio had been returned to the round table in the middle of the room …by Hilda, I presumed. I’d only been waiting about ten minutes when Mrs. Fremont joined me, carrying the guinea pig.

I stood. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right. You merely startled her. I suppose I should’ve warned you . . . though I had no idea you’d attempt to . . . what were you doing?”

“I just wanted a closer look. Again, I apologize. I simply got carried away. Guinevere is the first Satin Peruvian I’ve ever seen in real life.”

“You’re familiar with the breed?”

“Not terribly, but I do know they’re adorable.”

Mrs. Fremont bubbled with laughter. “They are, aren’t they? When you bring your designs next week, I’ll allow you to get better acquainted with Guinevere and her friends.”

“How many friends does she have . . . so I can plan for the party?”

“There’s Lancelot, Morgan, Arthur, Beatrice and Merlin. They’ll need something of their own, of course, and then we’ll need a cake for the fifty-to-seventy-five humans who’ll be in attendance.”

“Of course.”

“You can bring your ideas and designs back on Tuesday.”

“Three-thirty?” I asked.

“Perfect.”

“Were you referred to me by Candy . . . from Dobbs’ Pet Store?” For some reason, I couldn’t see Candy and Belinda Fremont chatting it up.

Ms. Fremont placed a hand to her chest. “Oh, no. It would have to be a dire emergency for me to step foot in Dobbs’ Pet Store.”

“Really?”

“Really. I was referred to you by Annabelle Fontaine, Yodel Watson’s daughter.”

*

Annabelle answered on the third ring. She sounded out of breath.

“Is this a bad time?” I asked.

“No. I was on the porch when I heard the phone ring, and it took me a minute to get inside.”

“Is the weather still lovely there in Florida?”

“It sure is. What’s going on in the Old Dominion?”

“I got a new client today, and I wanted to call and thank you for the referral.”

“Then Belinda did call you. Good.” She laughed softly. “Or is it . . .good, I mean?”

“It is,” I said hesitantly, “although the task she’s set before me will be challenging.”

“I can only imagine. Belinda can be demanding and a wee bit eccentric, but she’s fair minded. And she knows tons of people. If she’s happy with your work, she’ll send plenty of business your way.”

“What do you know about Guinevere?”

“She’s one of the guinea pigs, right?”

“Right.”

“They’re like children to Belinda. And all her Peruvians are champions.”

“Champions?” I was beginning to feel like Yodel’s parrot, Banjo, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself from repeating things.

“Yes, champions recognized by the American Cavy Breeders Association. Belinda has photographs and the Peruvians’ ribbons above the fireplace in their sitting room.”

“What’s a cavy?”

“Basically, it covers all the different types of guinea pigs. There are more than a dozen recognized breeds.”

“Wow. How long have you known Mrs. Fremont?”

“Since grade school.”

So Mrs. Fremont was older than she’d appeared to be. Maybe if I impressed her with my cake, she’d take me to the Fountain of Youth in her courtyard.

“Has she always been . . . ?”

“Rich?” Annabelle asked.

“I’m sorry. That’s indelicate and certainly none of my business.”

“Be that as it may, the answer is yes. She was born rich and married richer, so there you go.”

“What’s Mr. Fremont like?”

“He’s warm . . . and funny. He has a wicked sense of humor. He travels a lot. I’m sure he’ll be at Guinevere’s party, though.”

“How are you?” I asked. “I know getting back home has probably helped, but—”

“It has helped, and I’m doing well. I have my days, you know, but overall I’m okay.”

“Have you heard anything from the police?”

“The last I heard, they’d found a suspicious stain in Mother’s living room and were going to test it.” She sighed. “I hope Dr. Lancaster is able to find Banjo a good home. If you don’t mind, would you check on that for me?”

“I’ll be happy to. Thank you again for referring me to Belinda Fremont.”

“You’re quite welcome. I hope you’ll still feel that way when you’ve finished the job.”

Nothing like a parting shot such as that to fill one to the brim with confidence.

I went into my office and took a couple books off the shelf. Belinda Fremont appeared to be all about extravagance, so I thought Sylvia Weinstock might have just the sort of cake I was looking for.

I put on a jacket and took my books, a book light and some cat treats out onto the porch. I sat down, and Sparrow eased out from under a nearby bush.

“Hi, Sparrow,” I cooed quietly, tossing a treat in her direction.

She ran to the treat, snatched it up and raced back to the edge of the bush to eat it.

I threw the next snack a bit closer to me and opened up
Sweet Celebrations: The Art of Beautiful Cakes
, by Sylvia Weinstock with Kate Manchester. I thumbed through the book and tossed cat treats, pretending to ignore the cat, until I found what I was looking for. It was on page eighty-nine: a three-tier cake decorated with marzipan fruit and gum paste flowers. The cake would serve eighty to one-hundred people, and I thought I could come up with something to feed the guinea pigs to coordinate with the cake.

I caught a movement from the corner of my eye. It was Sparrow. She’d moved to within two feet of me. I dropped a treat at my side. She got it and then retreated, but stayed scarcely beyond arm’s reach until I dropped another treat. I smiled. We were getting there.

*

I started getting cold, so I went inside. I’d cut the two cakes I’d made earlier into sample sizes and put them in the freezer, but I couldn’t refreeze the spice cake. Even though there was a slice out of it—maybe
especially
because there was a slice out of it—I knew precisely what to do with it.

I called Myra. “If you’ve got some decaf coffee, I’ve got spice cake.”

She invited me right over.

The warm glow of Myra’s porch light beckoned as I strode carefully from my yard to hers. When I rang the doorbell, Myra opened the door and took both my jacket and the cake. She hung my jacket on a coat rack near the door and took the cake into the kitchen.

“I’m glad you came over,” Myra said. “After Thanksgiving, when everybody goes back home, I get the lonelies for a few days. This is exactly what I needed.”

“Me, too.” I smiled. “There’s a piece missing from the cake, though. I had to provide a sample for a new client.”

“A new client! That’s great, honey.” She put dessert plates, forks, cups and saucers on the table. “Is somebody getting married?”

I pulled out a chair and sat down. “No. It’s a birthday party . . . for a guinea pig.”

Myra’s eyes got huge, and I started laughing.

“Are you kidding?”

I was still laughing so hard that all I could do was shake my head. Myra started laughing, too. Before we knew it, tears were streaming down both our faces.

Myra caught her breath first. “You’re making a spice cake for a guinea pig’s birthday?”

“No. As a matter of fact, I’m making her an almond pound cake.”

This set off another eruption of giggling.

At last, I wiped the tears from my cheeks. “Actually it’s even more absurd than that. Do you know Belinda Fremont?”

“Mrs. Mansion-on-the-Hill Belinda Fremont?”

“That’s the one.”

“I don’t know her, but I do know
of
her.”

“Please don’t think badly of me for poking fun at one of my clients, Myra. I have the utmost respect for Mrs. Fremont; but this is the strangest project I’ve ever taken on, and I had to talk about it to somebody I can trust.”

Myra got the coffee carafe and placed it on the table between us. Then she sat down. “So you really are serious . . . about the guinea pig’s birthday party?”

“I am. I need to prepare some sort of cake for the guest of honor and her five guinea pig friends and another cake for seventy-five to one hundred of her human guests.”

Myra poured coffee into our cups. “Must be some guinea pig.”

“I’d never seen one like her. According to Annabelle Fontaine, all of Mrs. Fremont’s guinea pigs are champions.”

“Like show dogs?” she asked as she served the cake.

“Yes, except they’re show . . . ”

“Pigs.”

I grinned. “Pigs who live high on the hog, believe me. They each have their own bedroom.”

Myra cut her fork into her slice of cake with a wistful expression on her face. “Wonder what I’d have done with my money if I’d been born rich instead of beautiful?” She winked and took a bite of her cake.

“Do you know anything about a feud of any kind between Mrs. Fremont and the Dobbs?”

Myra slowly shook her head. “No. Why?”

“I asked Mrs. Fremont if Candy recommended her, and she said it would have to be a dire emergency before she’d step foot into Dobbs’ Pet Store.” I dug into my piece of cake.

“I don’t know,” Myra said, “but let me make a few discrete inquiries.”

*

I had a nice visit with Myra; and by the time I got home, I had a plan for Guinevere’s “cake.” I went into my office and logged onto the Internet. Within half an hour, I had a pattern and step-by-step directions to make a willow basket; and I had a list of foods guinea pigs like to eat. It was interesting to note that guinea pigs must have ten milligrams of Vitamin C each day in order to prevent scurvy and to remain healthy.

I took a sketch pad from my right-hand drawer and began to lightly pencil my basket onto the center of the paper. I added sprigs of timothy hay, apples, green bell pepper slices, raspberries, baby carrots, kiwi slices, grapes, strawberries and blueberries. If I incorporated some of the same fruits into the floral arrangement on the cake, the basket and cake would complement each other beautifully.

I got my coloring pencils and began tracing around and filling in my pencil drawings. I was pleased with my concept and, for the moment at least, felt positive Belinda Fremont would be pleased with it, too.

The phone rang. It was Ben. I hoped he was merely making a social call, but there was more to it than that.