Murder Takes the Cake Text (8 page)

“They said they were moving to Arizona to be nearer their grandchildren.”

Annabelle nodded. “When Chuck got transferred, we asked both sets of parents to make the move with us. Chuck’s did.” Her face clouded. “I think Dad would have.” She shook her head, sending her black curls bobbing. “Not Mother. She couldn’t leave this . . . this viper’s nest.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too.” She took another napkin, lifting her face heavenward as tears dripped from her cheeks.

I didn’t know this woman well enough to hug her, but she was crying at my kitchen table. I squeezed her hand. “I’m so sorry.”

“M-may I . . . use your bathroom?”

“Sure, it’s—”

“I know,” she said, hurrying down the hall.

Could this be more awkward? I wish I knew what to do . . . what to say . . . what might bring Annabelle some comfort.

Annabelle came back to the kitchen, her face now free of makeup. “I used one of your washcloths. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all. I only wish I could do something to help.”

“You already have. You did get the journal . . . didn’t you?”

“I did. Be right back.” I went to the bedroom and retrieved the journal and the key to Mrs. Watson’s back door.

When I returned to the kitchen, Annabelle had sat back down and was opening the second bottle of water. I placed the journal and the key on the table.

“Thank you,” she said, pouring water into the tumbler. The bottle had left a wet spot on the table, and Annabelle wiped it up with a napkin. “Did you read any of it?”

“I did. There was something in the book about Vern March.” I searched her downcast face for any sign of reaction . . . any clue that she knew what significance reading about Vern and my mother would have on me, but I could find none. Perhaps she didn’t know of the affair. “He used to be a friend of our family. Any idea what ever became of him?”

She shook her head. “I have no idea. You might ask Joanne, though.”

“Joanne?”

“Joanne Hayden. She’s his granddaughter.”

I gaped at Annabelle. “W-what? I . . . I never even knew Vern was married.”

“Well, it didn’t last very long. He married when he was sixteen. The girl was only fifteen, and she was pregnant. Her parents made them get an annulment.”

“That’s . . . that’s too bad.”

“Mm-hmm. You’d think with her pregnant, her parents would have insisted they remain married. Go figure.” She took a drink of water. “It was a little boy. She—Joanne’s grandmother—named him Jonah. Jonah March.”

“And . . . and Joanne Hayden is Jonah’s daughter.”

*

I was still thinking about that after Annabelle had left and I was back to making butter cream roses. Joanne Hayden was Vern March’s granddaughter.

This tidbit of information had made me rethink my decision to unleash my wrath on Bill Hayden. If Joanne Hayden did resent me, was it because she suspected my family of being responsible for Vern’s disappearance . . .and, ultimately, death? I wanted to call Violet and get her thoughts on the matter; but Mom and Dad would be there by now, and I knew Vi wouldn’t be able or willing to speak freely on the subject of Vern March with them around.

The phone rang, and I’d forgotten to put on my headset. By the time I’d put the flower nail in the Styrofoam block, the phone was chirping its second ring. On the third ring, the answering machine would pick up. I quickly grabbed the phone.

“Hello, Daphne’s Del—”

“Yes, hello, Daphne. This is Steve Franklin.”

“Hi, Mr. Franklin. Did the cakes sell well?”

“Yes . . . yes. I have a check for you at the front office. You can pick it up anytime.”

“Thank you.” My mood soared like a kite in a late March sky. “How many sold?”

“All of them.”

There goes my kite, rising above the trees.

“After we took your logo off the boxes,” Mr. Franklin finished.

“I . . . I beg your pardon?”

My kite got caught in a power line
.

Mr. Franklin cleared his throat. “At first, a few of our patrons appeared to be concerned about the cakes due to . . . uh . . . the . . . well, the unfortunate demise of Yodel Watson.”

I clutched the phone so tightly my knuckles turned white. “What?”

“They . . . uh . . . seemed to be afraid your . . . your product . . . had in some way . . . affected Mrs. Watson.”

“That’s insane. Mrs. Watson was dead when I got there. She didn’t even see the cake. What do I have to do? Launch a full-fledged media campaign to clear my name?”

“No, dear. Don’t worry. This will all blow over.” He cleared his throat again. “And when it does, Save-A-Buck will be delighted to offer your products again.”

“With or without my logo?”

“Uh . . . we’ll see about that, dear. Happy Thanksgiving.”

With that, Mr. Franklin hung up.

I gave my little kite a tug—as you’ll recall, it was now tangled in a power line—and the resultant electrical shock incited my anger to the point that it boiled up from my toes and erupted from my mouth in an outraged scream. I no longer cared whether or not Joanne March Hayden’s condemnation of my family—in this case, me—was due to just cause. It was going to stop. I was going to make it stop. Even if that meant shoving a poison cake up Joanne’s nose!

I snatched the phone and called the police station. “Officer Hayden, please.”

“I’m sorry,” the nasal-voiced receptionist said. “He’s out on a call right now, but—”

“Thanks.” I hung up.

Once again, I gathered my icing and completed roses to put into the refrigerator. I was going to that police station and I wasn’t leaving until I got answers.

When I opened the refrigerator door, I spotted the casserole dish Mrs. Dobbs had asked me to give to Annabelle. I’d drop it off on my way. Maybe that’d give Officer Hayden time to get back to the station.

*

I saw the blue lights as soon as I turned onto Mrs. Watson’s street. No red lights—which was good because that would indicate an ambulance or fire truck—but there were two sets of flashing blue lights. I parked my car one house down, retrieved my purse and the casserole and walked to Mrs. Watson’s house.

It suddenly occurred to me that if the police thought I killed Mrs. Watson with a cake, they might think I’d brought the casserole to do in Annabelle. Oh, well; I was here now. Besides, this might be the perfect opportunity to clear my name.

There was a police officer standing outside the front door, but it wasn’t Bill Hayden. It was a woman, and she was talking into her radio. She quit talking as I approached.

“Hello,” I said. “I’m here to see Annabelle. Is everything okay?”

Stupid question, I know. Seldom are the police congregated at your house when everything is okay.

“I mean, is she all right?” I asked.

“She’s fine. Your name?”

“Daphne Martin.”

She radioed someone and announced my arrival.

Annabelle came to the door. “Daphne, hi.”

“Mrs. Dobbs had given me a casserole to give you when I was here yesterday. I forgot to give it to your earlier.”

“Thanks.” She took the casserole. “Can you come in?”

“Sure. What’s wrong?”

“There’s been a break-in. The glass was knocked out of the kitchen door. That’s how they got in.”

I gasped when I stepped inside the living room. The once immaculate room was now a mess. The curio cabinet had been knocked over, and broken porcelain was everywhere. Especially poignant were the faces staring up at me from the carpet.

“Watch your step,” Annabelle said.

“I am so sorry,” I whispered, my voice not willing to rise to the occasion. “Was anything taken?” I followed Annabelle through the living room and into the kitchen.

“I don’t think so. But I would like for you to take a look around and make sure the house didn’t look like this when you were here yesterday.”

Officer Hayden was standing in the kitchen. “Wait a minute. She was here yesterday?”

“Yes,” Annabelle said, setting the casserole dish onto the table. “I asked her to get something for me.”

“Are you sure she didn’t do this?”

“You may address me directly, Officer Hayden. And I can assure you I did
not
do this. I had no need to break in as Annabelle trusted me with access to a key.” I lifted my chin. “Put that in your pipeline and spread it.”

He put his hands on his hips and took a step closer to me. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean there’s an awful lot of confidential information about me—much of it inaccurate—floating around town, thanks to you and your wife.”

“I don’t like your tone.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple jerking spastically.

“I don’t like your veiled accusations.”

Annabelle stepped between us. “Please. Can we not argue right now? I’d like to get this wrapped up.”

“Of course.” I took my first real look around the kitchen. Cabinet doors were flung open, and the counter tops were piled with pans, canned food, cereal boxes and cookbooks. I shook my head. “This kitchen was spotless when I was here yesterday. Is the entire house torn apart like this room and the living room?”

“Afraid so.”

The police woman joined us. “Johnson and McAfee are back from talking to the neighbors. Nobody is claiming to have seen anything.”

Officer Hayden shot me a sharp look. “Figures.”

I ignored him. “Annabelle, can I help you clean all this up?”

“I appreciate the offer, Daphne; I really do. But I’m so tired. The police have offered to board up the kitchen door for me, and after they leave I’m going to straighten up the guest room and leave the rest until morning.”

“Aren’t you worried about staying here alone?” I asked.

“I’ll be fine.” She smiled wanly. “I’ll keep all the doors locked, including the guest room door. And I’ll have my phone handy.”

“If you need me tomorrow, please call me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of interrupting your Thanksgiving with your family.”

“Dream of it,” I said. “You’d be doing me a favor.” I felt my conscience kick at that one, but I truly dreaded facing my mother tomorrow.

*

Driving back home, I wondered if the person who’d trashed Yodel Watson’s house had been looking for her journal. Had Annabelle not been so adamant about the book, I’d have thought the break in had been engineered by junkies or perhaps vandals who’d read about Mrs. Watson’s death in the newspaper and knew the house would be empty. But it appeared nothing valuable had been taken. Plus, whoever tore up the house had been angry. I felt the fury involved the instant I saw the broken dolls. Most of the dolls appeared to be collector’s pieces. A thief or a junkie would’ve pawned the dolls, not destroyed them.

Was Annabelle right? Had someone murdered Mrs. Watson and later learned about her diary of iniquities and come back to get it? I shuddered, thinking of Annabelle in the house alone . . . wondering if the killer would try to break in again in order to get the book.

Thanks to Bill and Joanne Hayden, it would quickly become common knowledge that I’d gone to Mrs. Watson’s house on Tuesday to pick up something for Annabelle. Would the killer correctly surmise that the item I’d picked up for Annabelle was her mother’s journal? Would he think I still had it? With a gulp, I realized I’d better find out what had happened to Yodel Watson before I shared her fate.

As I was putting the key in my door, I heard a rustle in the bushes. There I stood with absolutely no weapon whatsoever. I fumbled and dropped my keys.
How stupid!
I felt like the heroine in a horror movie. Next, I’d start to run and then trip and fall, giving the crazed maniac ample opportunity to kill me.

Keeping my eyes on the bushes, I bent and picked up my keys. It was still daylight—barely. Would someone actually attack me on my porch before it was even dark?

The rustling grew louder.

I jammed the key into the lock. Before I could turn the door knob, I heard a plaintive
meow
.

I felt my limbs go weak with relief. “Am I glad to see you!”

I opened the door and went into the kitchen. After a quick look around to make sure everything was as I had left it, I put some food out for the cat. She waited until I’d gone back inside before she’d come and eat. She, too, knew it paid to be cautious.

I went into the living room and sank into my favorite chair. This week had been too much for me so far, and it didn’t show any signs of improving.

I dreaded seeing Mom and Dad tomorrow; Mom for the obvious reason, and Dad because I was afraid I might cry when I looked at his sweet, gentle face and knew what she’d done to him all those years ago. I still felt a need to share at least some of this burden before tomorrow. I got out my address book and phoned Uncle Hal. Aunt Nancy answered.

“Hi, Aunt Nancy. It’s Daphne.”

“Hello, darling. How are you? Enjoying the new home?”

“I love it. I want you to stop by and see it the next time you’re down this way.”

“You know I will.”

“Listen, is Uncle Hal around? I have a question for him.”

“No, dear. Actually, he’s in your neck of the woods right now.”

“He’s . . . he’s here?”

“Sure is. I’m surprised he hasn’t been by to see you. He’s been there since this past weekend.”

“Since the weekend?”

“Yeah. He’s been down there with some of his hunting buddies. He’ll be home tonight.” She paused. “Is anything wrong?”

“No . . . no, I just had a question about . . . uh…you know . . . getting the house ready for winter.”

“Oh.”

“And I wanted to tell you guys to have a happy Thanksgiving.”

“You, too, darling. Give everybody our love and tell ‘em we’ll see them soon.”

“I’ll do that, Aunt Nancy.”

As I hung up, Aunt Nancy’s words replayed in my mind.
He’s been there since this past weekend.

CHAPTER SIX

I awoke Thursday morning with dread pinning me to the bed like a three-hundred-pound wrestler. I wondered what time it was but was afraid to look at the clock. It might be later than I thought. I might not have time to lie here and visualize every possible scenario that could take place at Violet’s house today . . . none of them pleasant.