Murder Takes the Cake Text (4 page)

Vi called me last year and told me Joe had gotten killed in Iraq. I’d cried off and on for two weeks.

If memory served, Ben worked for the Brea Ridge
Chronicle
. A wave of sentimentality hit, and I decided to give him a call.

By the time I’d looked up the number and had spoken to the receptionist, that wave of sentimentality had broken against the shore of common sense. However, also by that time, I was on hold for Ben. As I thought about hanging up, he came on the line.

“Ben, hi,” I said. “It’s Daphne Martin.”

“Hi, Daphne. What can I do for you?”

My mind raced.
Ask for a subscription. Say I have the wrong number. Ask if he wrote the obituary for Yodel Watson.
“Nothing really. I’m feeling a tad sentimental with the holiday so close, and I decided to give you a call and tell you happy Thanksgiving… Shaggy.”

He laughed. “You, too, Daphne. I . . . I heard about your finding Yodel Watson.”

“Let me guess—Joanne Hayden?”

“No, I heard it at the police station. Are you all right? I mean, I remember you used to hyperventilate when we came across road kill . . . Uh, n-not that Mrs. Watson was . . . that . . . I mean . . . but . . . well, you know what I mean.”

“I do know what you mean,” I said with a chuckle. “And, thank you. You’re the first person I’ve talked with yet who’s been concerned for me because I found a dead body.”

I suddenly remembered how Ben used to try to shield me from the sight of a dead animal lying by the road while trying to keep his leashed dog Mutt, alias Scooby, under control.

“Hey,” Ben said, “have you had lunch yet? I was getting ready to go grab a bite, and—”

“Of course,” I said. “I didn’t consider what time it was when I called. I’ll let you go.”

“Well, if you haven’t eaten, I’d like to buy you lunch and catch up.”

“No,” I said, “I couldn’t possibly. I have ten cakes to decorate today.”

“Whoa. Maybe another time then.”

“Maybe so. That’d be terrific.”

We rang off, and I took another ibuprofen and checked the consistency of my butter cream icing. The last thing I needed today was a pity lunch. I transferred the first batch of icing into a bowl and began preparing batch two. I was going to need at least seven to complete the ten cakes and the one I’d be making for Thanksgiving dinner.

After I’d made up all the icing and set it into the refrigerator, I took out my favorite mixing bowl. It’s blue. No corny reasons. It’s simply blue and deep enough that I don’t slop cake batter all over the kitchen when I’m mixing, and I like it.

Did I mention I love my kitchen? It’s the main reason I bought this house. The walls are beige, and the cabinets are white. There’s a light-colored wood floor and a huge island with a butcher-block top. The island is the ideal place to decorate cakes.

I was taking three yellow, three spice and four white cakes to the grocery store in the morning. I was making a chocolate cake for Thursday because Lucas and Leslie love chocolate. I thought about adding a white chocolate ganache filling to try to impress Mom, but I figured she wouldn’t notice and that the tweens might not like it, so I decided to stick with the basic chocolate cake with butter cream frosting.

I measured out my butter and sugar and beat them together with my hand mixer. I added my vanilla and eggs, and then took out my second-favorite mixing bowl—it’s yellow—for my dry ingredients.

Wouldn’t you know it? The phone rang. I started not to answer it, but thought it might be someone needing a cake for Thursday, and I desperately needed to build up my clientele.

“Hello,” a soft female voice said when I answered the phone. “Is this Daphne Martin?”

“It sure is. How can I help you?”

“I’m Annabelle Fontaine, Yodel Watson’s daughter.”

“Oh, my.” I caught my breath. “I’m so very sorry for your loss.” I gripped the phone, unaware of what to expect.

“Thank you.” She sniffled. “The police told me you found her.”

“That’s right.”

“D-did she say anything to you before she . . . before she—”

I interrupted to try and ease her discomfort. “No, Annabelle. She was . . . um . . . unresponsive when I got there. I’d knocked on the door and thought she’d invited me in, but it turned out to be the parrot.”

“Goofy bird.” She made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “So the door was unlocked?”

“Yes.”

“And Mother was in her pajamas?”

“Yes, her pajamas and robe.”

She was quiet for a few moments before saying, “Mother never left her doors unlocked.”

Annabelle’s voice was more pensive than accusatory, but I still didn’t know how to respond to her comment so I kept my mouth shut.

“Did anything seem to be . . . out of place?” she asked.

“I couldn’t say. I’d only been as far as your mom’s front door the other two times I’d been there. Yesterday was the first time I’d been inside.”

“Would you do something for me?”

“If I can.”

“I need for you to go to Mother’s house and get her diary for me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Mother kept a diary—a virtual tell-all of the happenings in the community. If someone killed her, the reason why is in that book.”

“Wouldn’t it be best if you retrieved the diary yourself?”

“It would be,” Annabelle agreed, “but I’m in Florida and can’t get a flight out until tomorrow.”

“And you don’t think you could get the book tomorrow?”

“I’m afraid to chance it. If someone did—God forbid—kill Mother, and that person knows or finds out about the book, he or she might go back for it . . . if it isn’t gone already. I know where Mother kept the book. You’d only have to look one place. If it isn’t there, you could leave.” She sounded desperate now.

“But won’t the police—”

“I’ve already spoken with them. They know you have my permission to go inside the house.”

“Annabelle, what makes you think your mother was killed?”

“I don’t know. I pray she wasn’t, but if the wrong person should get their hands on that book . . . oh, Daphne, it could be horrible.”

“But, why me?”

“You’ve only been in town a month. You couldn’t possibly have done anything in that amount of time to warrant more than a casual mention.”

“Well . . . I would hope not.”

“So you’ll do this for me?”

“Sure.”
Did I really just say that? Terrific. What have I gotten myself into this time?

CHAPTER THREE

I finished mixing up my cake batter for the chocolate cake I was making for Thursday. I poured the batter into a square pan and put it in the oven. I had to get the cake finished, I reasoned, plus I dreaded going to Yodel Watson’s house. I would’ve liked to take someone with me—and I knew Myra would’ve jumped at the chance to go—but Annabelle had made it clear she didn’t want anyone else seeing that book. I must admit, I was intrigued about the diary’s contents myself.

As soon as I’d turned off the oven and put the cake on a wire rack to cool, I got into my Mini Cooper and drove to Mrs. Watson’s house. I felt odd about parking in the driveway, so I parked on the street a short distance away from the house. I felt as if I should be doing this deed under cover of darkness. I guess under cover of cloudy sky would have to do.

A drop of rain splattered on my arm as soon as I got out of the car. The rain picked up as I sprinted to Mrs. Watson’s back door. I found the fake rock with the hidden key exactly where Annabelle had said it would be. I hoped the diary would be as easy to locate.

I unlocked the back door and stepped inside the kitchen. “Hello?” I called. No, I didn’t expect Mrs. Watson to answer me, but this whole ordeal was giving me the creeps.

As I closed the door behind me, the furnace kicked on and I nearly peed my pants. I stood breathing heavily and trying to hear footsteps or the rattling of ghostly chains over the roar coming from the basement.

On leaden legs, I eased through the kitchen. “Annabelle asked me to come.” Were the floorboards in this house always this creaky?

As I stepped into the hall, a door cracked open. “Is a-anybody th-there?” I backed up, wanting easy access to the kitchen door if I needed it.

Silence.

My heart pounded in my throat. I stood, poised for flight, while listening to see if I heard anything . . . or anyone else. When I didn’t hear anything, I hurried down the hall and into the messy den. All I wanted was to find the book and get out.

I went to the bookcase on my left. It was crammed to overflowing with books, magazines and junk mail. On the third shelf from the top, I saw the large black Bible Annabelle had told me to look for. Beside it was a book encased in a Bible cover. The cover was tan and had a lighthouse on the front. This was it.

I shoved the book inside my jacket and zipped it up. Then I left, double checking to make sure the kitchen door was locked on my way out.

The rain was really coming down now. As I jogged toward the front of the house, I heard a woman’s voice call out, “You there!”

I stopped abruptly and peered around at a woman in a neon green rain slicker holding a covered casserole dish. “Who, m-me?”

“Yes.” She had to tilt her head back to see me from under the slicker’s hood. “Are you a member of Yodel’s family?”

“No. They’ll be here tomorrow.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I was checking on a couple things for Annabelle,” I said. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
I’d always heard the best defense is a good offense.

“I’m Janey Dobbs, and I’ve brought this casserole for the family. Since you’re a friend of Annabelle’s, could you please pass this along to her?”

“Of course, Mrs. Dobbs. I’d be happy to.”

“I’ll try to get back by, but you can take this in case I don’t.”

“Thank you. I know the family will appreciate it.” With my right elbow keeping the diary firmly tucked against my side, I held out my hands for the dish.

Mrs. Dobbs gave me the dish and got into her black Mercedes.

I rushed to my car. By the time I got the door unlocked and had unloaded the dish and the book, I was completely drenched. Shivering, I cranked up the heat.

As soon as I got home, I peeled off my clothes. Mrs. Watson’s back door key fell out of my jacket. Oh, well, I’d give it to Annabelle when she picked up the book.

I took a hot shower. It was wonderfully soothing and helped to chase away the chill brought on by both the rain and the hint of death that lingered in Mrs. Watson’s house.

It was only three p.m., but the day was bleak and I had nowhere else I needed to go, so I put on my favorite pj’s. They have teacups on a teal flannel background.

I padded into the kitchen and made a cup of green tea. While the tea brewed, I took the cake off the wire rack, put it on a decorative plate and covered it with plastic wrap. I went to the refrigerator and took out the tub of butter cream frosting I’d made earlier. It needed to warm up a bit before I could use it.

I took my tea and Mrs. Watson’s diary into the living room. After all, Annabelle didn’t ask me not to read it. I settled into my cozy pink and white-checked chair and opened the book. I opened it from the back and thumbed through the empty pages until I found an entry. Feeling a weird combination of masochism and apprehension, I decided to put Annabelle’s theory to the test.

She was wrong. I
had
been in town long enough to merit more than a casual mention.

Daphne Martin has moved into town and hopes to start up a cake decorating business. I plan on ordering something, so I can see how good she is.

Another entry related:
The girl is pretty good, but she doesn’t know how to take direction worth beans. I told her exactly what I wanted, and you should’ve seen what she brought me!

At that, I nearly choked on a sip of tea. I wanted to tell someone—anyone—that Yodel Watson had never given me the foggiest idea of what sort of cake she wanted. “Nothing gaudy” is not an exact description.

The book went on to detail my two failed efforts. Mrs. Watson had personally given me the same criticisms, though, so this wasn’t anything new to me. I decided to move on and see if there were any other names I recognized.

I was still moving through the book from back to front and thus reading the more recent entries. The first name I recognized besides my own was Violet’s.

Ralph and Sue Stein bought a house listed by Violet Armstrong. After the Steins moved in, they learned there was mold inside the walls of the basement. It cost them a fortune to have the mold cleaned up and the walls replaced. They’re talking about suing Violet for nondisclosure.

I wondered if the Steins had made good on their threat and had actually filed the paperwork to take Violet to court. I didn’t think Violet would be guilty of nondisclosure; but if she was being sued, that had to be a tremendous strain. I decided that since Violet hadn’t mentioned it, she and the Steins must’ve reached an agreement.

I went to Dobbs’ Pet Store this morning to get some pellets for Banjo. No one was in sight, so I went looking for Kel. I’d asked him to order some special treats for Banjo, and I wanted to see if they were in yet. When I opened the office door, there Kel and that girl Candy were in “fragrant delecto,” or whatever they call it
.

“Fragrant delecto” made me laugh out loud. She and Myra must’ve gone to the same school of terminology.

Kel tried to convince me I wasn’t seeing what I was seeing, and I got both the pellets and the special treats for free.

I thought I’d detected a certain spark in the air between Candy and Mr. Dobbs. On the other hand, Mrs. Watson had misquoted her directions to me with regard to the cake she’d ordered. I suppose it was conceivable that she got this wrong, too. After all, Mr. Dobbs seemed too old and, well, unattractive for Candy . . . unless Candy didn’t know it was Mrs. Dobbs who actually owned the store.

There was an entry detailing what great lengths Ben Jacobs would go to get a story.

He wants to work for one of them fancy city newspapers like Knoxville or Charlotte, and he knows he’ll have to come up with some big stories in order to make that happen. Trouble is, I’m not convinced he cares whether those stories are true or not.