Battered to Death (Daphne Martin Cake Mysteries) (14 page)

I
PUT MY
phone away and went into the ballroom. I checked on my superhero cake, Leslie’s sculpted cake, and my wedding cake. All of the above were fine—no spectator damage, no damage caused by settling or changes in room temperature or anything weird. That was a huge relief. I’d have been mortified if any of our cakes had been marred.

I spotted Fiona near the wedding cakes and went over to say hello.

“Did you enter a cake in the contest?” I asked.

“I’m sorry about that,” I said. “I think you’d have done a wonderful job. How long had you worked with Chef Richards?”

“About three and a half months,” Fiona said.

“You said he had a demanding schedule.” I inclined my head. “So he had you working some pretty long hours?”

“Yes, we did work long hours, and he traveled extensively,” she said. “And, of course, wherever he goes—or rather, went—his assistant went too.”

“I imagine a career like that would make having a personal life almost impossible,” I said.

She shrugged. “I didn’t have much of one anyway. My parents and siblings are scattered throughout the country, and I haven’t had a partner since before I began working with Chef Richards.” She lowered her eyes. “I’d hoped the sacrifices I was making would advance my career. I’d like to open my own restaurant someday . . . manage a staff . . . do all the pastries myself.”

“That’s terrific, Fiona.” I placed my hand gently on her arm so she’d raise her eyes back to mine. “You can still realize that dream, you know.”

“I’m not so sure,” she said. “Jordan had so many connections . . . connections that I don’t have without him.”

“But you’re great at what you do,” I said. “Your talent and hard work will open doors for you.”

I didn’t have a clue where to tell her to look, so I merely reiterated my confidence that she could realize her dream even without Jordan Richards. Then I changed the subject. “Did you ever meet Chef Richards’s ex-wife?”

“Lily?” Fiona asked. “I’d met her once or twice. I didn’t actually know her, though. Why?”

“I heard talk that he’d been abusive to her,” I said, glancing around to make sure no one would overhear us. “I wondered if she might be the one who bashed him over the head with that cake stand.”

“I highly doubt it,” she said. “From everything I heard about her, she moved on and never looked back.”

“I wish his murder
were
something as simple as a domestic dispute,” I said. “Doesn’t it make you nervous to think that there’s a killer at large . . . probably right here at this cake show with us?”

I smiled. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I’m letting my imagination get the best of me.” I noticed Kimmie Compton posting the schedule of events and excused myself from Fiona.

“Good morning,” I said as I approached Ms. Compton. “I thought I should come over and get a peek at the lineup today.”

She turned and smiled. “It’s another jam-packed day. I think it’ll be fun and exciting. Plus, there’s the awards ceremony. That will begin at four this afternoon.”

“Yeah . . . I’m not sure I’m ready for that.”

“I doubt you have anything to be concerned about,” Ms. Compton said. “I haven’t seen the judges’ notes—and, of course, the entries are anonymous—but I know you do fantastic work, Daphne.”

“Thank you,” I said. As Ms. Compton walked away, I scanned the list of events.

“Hmph.”

I turned in the direction of the derisive grunt. It was Gavin Conroy. “Hi,” I said to him. “It’s Daphne Martin. . . . We were in Chef Richards’s Australian string work class together.”

“Of course. I remember who you are.”

“I didn’t see you yesterday and thought you might have left Brea Ridge,” I continued.

“I suppose it would’ve been nice had there been time to coordinate a tribute on such short notice, but I don’t think anyone could’ve possibly had time,” I said. “I didn’t realize the two of you were friends.”

“We weren’t friends,” Gavin said. “But we
were
colleagues. All of us were his colleagues. And I think it’s a shame that his work isn’t being honored here.”

“I believe his work
is
being honored,” I said. “Fiona did an Australian string work demonstration yesterday using the techniques we learned in Chef Richards’s class.”

“Did she mention him at all during the demo?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “But it was obvious she was very nervous. I don’t think she enjoys being in front of an audience. Still, everyone knew it was to have been his demonstration. I took over one of his demos yesterday as well. And, no, I didn’t mention Chef Richards as I worked either. I merely told the audience what I was doing. Like Fiona, I was nervous.”

“If you’re so concerned about honoring Chef Richards’s memory, Gavin, why don’t you do a memorial yourself ?” I asked. “I doubt Ms. Compton would mind.”

“I might just do that.” He stalked away.

“Who was that?” Ben asked as he approached from the direction in which Gavin left.

“He’s Gavin Conroy, the guy that Chef Richards criticized for being a slob in class the other day,” I said. “Now he’s acting all sanctimonious because no one at the cake show is honoring Jordan Richards’s memory.”

“Chef Richards just died Thursday evening,” Ben said. “What did that Conroy guy want—for the event to be canceled?”

“Either that or a tribute given,” I said. “I told him that if he was so concerned about it, he should host a memorial himself.”

“Good for you. But, given what you’ve told me—and what I’ve heard here—about Chef Richards, the sloppy guy will probably be the only one to show up if he does host a memorial.” Ben stepped closer to the schedule of events. “It looks like you have a fairly relaxing day today. I don’t see your name on here anywhere.”

“Nope. No demonstrations or anything from me,” I said. “All I have to do is hang around, watch other people’s demos, and wait for the awards ceremony.”

I shrugged. “I’m actually nervous about the awards.”

“But you’ve already won the timed cake competition,” Ben pointed out. “Even if you don’t win in your other divisions, you still leave here a winner.”

I smiled. “I guess. How’d your work go last night? Did you finish everything you had to do?”

“Pretty much.” He turned back to the schedule. “Wait, this isn’t the Alex we met yesterday doing the kids’ demonstration, is it?”

“It sure is. His mom told me about it when I first got here.”

“Does she think it’s wise to put him in the spotlight at the first cake show he’s attended since he was bashed by Chef Richards for being
too good
at his last competition?” Ben asked.

“Molly thinks he’ll be fine,” I said. “Frankly, I’m concerned about him too. But his mom says that as long as we’re there to support him—and that as long as Lucas and Leslie are willing to help him—Alex will be all right.”

“I hope he will be. That’s a lot of pressure for any kid,” he said. “But a kid with Asperger’s Syndrome who hasn’t decorated a cake in months . . . ?” He spread his hands and widened his eyes in exaggeration.

“I know. But we have to trust that Molly knows him well enough to be aware of what he can and cannot do,” I said.

“Who?” He looked around the ballroom, oblivious to the cause of my alarm.

“The judges,” I hissed. “They’re grading my cake right this very moment! See them?”

Ben smiled at someone behind me. “Hi, guys.”

I whirled to see Myra and Mark.

Myra took my shoulders. “Honey, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost or something.”

“They’re grading my cake, Myra. See their scorecards?”

She nodded her frosted blond head. “I’m on it.”

“No, wait . . . ” It was too late. She was on her way. I put my hand to my forehead and groaned.

Mark, a broad man in his early to midsixties with a gray buzz cut and bushy eyebrows, chuckled. “Once the gun has gone off, you can’t take the bullet back, Daphne.”

“I know. I just . . . ” I sighed. “I know.”

Mark patted me on the back, and I nearly stumbled. The man didn’t know his own strength. “It might be better just to turn away,” he said.

I knew he was right. And yet I stood there watching in horror as Myra approached the judges and began talking with them. It was apparent that they were trying to nicely shoo her away, but she was insistent.

She was facing the judges with her hands on her hips. It appeared they were arguing.

“Oh, no,” I groaned. “Oh, no. My cake is going to be disqualified.”

“I’ll go run interference,” Ben said.

“Here’s something interesting I learned,” Mark told me as Ben walked away. “One of the students—Gavin Conroy—once applied to become Chef Richards’s assistant. He didn’t get the position.”

“He must’ve really idolized Chef Richards, even though the chef treated him like crap,” I said. “Conroy was pretty upset this morning because there was no memorial planned for Chef Richards. He was disgusted that it was, as he said, business as usual.”

“Did Mr. Conroy give you any indication during the class that he thought so highly of Chef Richards?” Mark asked.

“You don’t think that anymore?” Mark asked.

“No,” I said. “I’d already decided that Chef Richards was too cocky to plant someone in one of his classes who would stand up to him. But, then, with your news about his applying for the job of Chef Richards’s assistant, I think that theory is completely bogus. Don’t you?”

“Probably. Maybe Conroy is one of those people who feel that once a person is dead, they couldn’t have been as bad as they seemed,” he said. “He could have been raised not to speak ill of the dead. Or it could be that he’s feeling guilty over his treatment of Chef Richards in class on Thursday. How insolent
was
he with Richards?”

“Gavin Conroy only gave back as good as he—and the rest of us—got. If anyone should’ve felt guilty over the way he treated people, it was Chef Richards,” I said. “That man was unbearable.”

Ben returned with Myra.

“What did you do?” I asked her.

“I simply strolled by to see what was happening,” she said.

“You didn’t tell them that was my cake, did you? That could disqualify me.”

Mark closed his eyes and shook his head. Ben patted him on the shoulder.

“I simply commented on what a lovely cake it was,” said Myra.

“It didn’t look like that was all you were saying from our vantage point,” I said. “It looked like you guys were arguing.”

She shrugged. “Well, they asked me if I could look at the other cakes while they were judging yours, and I said that I’d wait. They didn’t want me to do that, but I pointed out that the workmanship on your cake was so much better than that on the other wedding cakes that I wanted to study yours. I told them that I wanted to take photographs of your work so I could learn to duplicate it. I said I was a beginning cake decorator—which is just a tiny white lie because I made Mark a cake just last week and swirled the icing around on the top real fancy, and it looked nice. Didn’t it, Mark?”

“It was gorgeous, dear,” said Mark.

“That’s when I went and got Myra and told her it was time for her medication,” Ben said.

Ben and Mark had a hearty laugh over that, but Myra just glared at them.

“I might’ve been able to find out some good stuff from those people had I been allowed to linger,” she said.