Dead Pan (17 page)

“Great. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Very little of what I’d brought in last week and earlier this week remained on the table that served as Save-A-Buck’s bakery. I rearranged the items that did remain to accommodate the boxes of candy.

Once I had the display looking suitable, I went to Mr. Franklin’s office to get my check. I tapped on the office door, and he called for me to come in. I’d been rehearsing a faux conversation with Mr. Franklin while I’d worked on the bakery display, but I was a bit nervous about starting the conversation for real.

I walked in and sat on a vinyl chair near the door. “Don’t mind me,” I said. “I just popped in to get the check, but you go ahead and finish up what you’re doing.” I glimpsed a game of solitaire open on his computer screen. “I don’t want to interrupt.”

“I’m . . . I’m not that busy at the moment. Let me take care of this one thing.” He minimized the window. “There.”

I gave a loud sigh. “Mr. Franklin, do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.” I sighed again. “I love my sister dearly, but she can be a total pain. I’ve always felt like Violet was the golden child in my mother’s eyes . . . the one who did everything right. And then Mom has me—the disappointment. In some ways, it makes me dread holidays.”

“I know what you mean. I have a brother—Robby—who’s older, more sophisticated, more successful . . . more everything.”

“Does he live here in Brea Ridge?”

Mr. Franklin shook his head. “He lives in Boone. He went to Appalachian State and then got a job there in town when he graduated.”

“What does he do?”

“Retail management.”

“Same as you. Cool. At least, you have some common ground, right?”

He looked at me for a second and then smirked. “Yeah.”

The polite thing would’ve been to let it go at that point. But I wasn’t being polite. I was digging for information. So I said, “That didn’t sound very convincing. Do the two of you have different management styles?”

“Yeah. I use the small management style, while he employs the large regional chain style of management.”

“Aren’t you being a little hard on yourself? You operate the only independently-owned—heck the
only
—grocery store in Brea Ridge, and that’s an impressive accomplishment.”

“You can say that because you’ve never met Robby—or Robert, as he calls himself now.”

“I don’t believe that. No matter what your brother has done, he can’t belittle your accomplishments . . . and you shouldn’t either. You need to remind yourself of all Robby’s mistakes and failures,” I said. “Hasn’t he ever screwed up?”

As Mr. Franklin slowly nodded, his eyes filled with tears. Blinking furiously, he spun back around to the computer. He plucked an envelope from the corner of the desk and, without looking away from the computer, handed it to me. “Thank you, Ms. Martin.”

“Thank you, Mr. Franklin.”

Chapter Thirteen

I was tired when I got home. I didn’t feel like baking any more this evening. Instead, I took a bath, slipped into some comfy flannel pjs and curled up on the sofa with the photo album I’d filled with photographs I’d taken at the 2009 Oklahoma Sugar Art Show. Tucked between a couple back pages of the photo album was the manila envelope containing the articles Cara had sent me reporting on the event.

She was a good reporter. She really brought situations and the people involved to life. In one portion of the article, she told about a contestant’s mad rush to get his cake to the event in time to qualify for entry.

He was pushing it, and his reckless driving attested to that. He even cut this reporter off in traffic, and I called the phone number listed on the van to report him to his superior. Unfortunately, he was the superior. However, the girl who answered the phone said she was sorry and she was sure “Dad” hadn’t cut me off like that on purpose.

Poor “Dad.” Luck wasn’t with him today. Whatever had conspired to keep him from the competition further bedeviled him after he arrived at the show. Either damaged en route, or via “spectator damage” as alleged, some breakage occurred prior to the judging, causing “Dad” to suffer a disheartening loss.

Reading that, my mind flashed back to Cara warning me not to get in her way. Had she been angry enough with the guy in the van that she sabotaged his cake? Or was I merely jumping to conclusions?

Knowing there was one person who knew everything that happened at the Oklahoma Sugar Art Show and who didn’t draw conclusions lightly, I went to my office and got out Kerry Vincent’s business card. Before I lost my nerve, I placed the call. Expecting to reach an answering machine, I was surprised when Mrs. Vincent answered the phone.

“Mrs. Vincent, this is Daphne Martin calling. We met at the Oklahoma Sugar Art Show a couple months ago.”

“Ah, yes, the young woman from Virginia who was afraid to enter the competition.”

“Um . . . yes . . . that’s me. The reason I’m calling is to ask if you recall a reporter who covered the Sugar Art Show. Her name was Cara Logan.”

“Of course, I remember that nasty piece of work from Richmond. Why do you ask?”

“A few minutes ago, I was rereading her article detailing the events of the show. She told about a man who’d cut her off in traffic and whose cake later suffered breakage. I thought that was quite a coincidence.”

“Coincidence, my eye,” Mrs. Vincent said. “She’s the one who ruined that cake. I’m sure of it. She was furious when she arrived at the expo building and demanded to see me. One of the volunteers tracked me down—no easy feat, I assure you, as I’m being pulled in a hundred different directions during that time—and I went with her to where Ms. Logan waited, tapping her food impatiently.”

“Based on my encounters with Cara Logan, that sounds about right.”

“She insisted I throw David Barrows from the competition because of a silly traffic infraction that hadn’t even resulted in an accident. Naturally, I refused. When David’s cake was damaged later that day, I immediately knew who’d done it although I couldn’t prove it. The cakes are judged anonymously. No one knows whose is whose until the competition. Of course, if she was watching him unload his van, she’d have known which cake was his. Unfortunately, nobody had seen the crafty shrew actually sabotaging the cake.”

“But you’re certain she’s the one who did it?”

“I’m positive. In fact, she came just short of admitting it. Since I had no actual proof, I didn’t have security escort her off the premises, but I did have them keep a close watch on her for the remainder of the show.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Vincent. I appreciate your taking the time to talk with me.”

“Anytime, Daphne. I hope to see you at next year’s show. And if you run across Cara Logan, give her a wide berth. She’s nothing but trouble.”

“Thank you. I will.”

After speaking with Mrs. Vincent, I did an Internet search for Cara Logan. A cake decorators’ discussion forum had a thread wherein members shared Mrs. Vincent’s conviction that Cara had purposefully ruined David Barrows’ cake.

A blogger on an entirely different subject had referred to Cara as “Hurricane Cara,” saying, “She blew into town to cover a gubernatorial scandal and left a path of destruction a mile wide behind her when she left.” Another site had put Cara on a watch list of reporters who could not be trusted.

I found links to some of Cara’s own articles containing inflammatory comments and suggestions like those about the van driver and his cake being damaged. Even if Cara hadn’t broken that piece of lattice off David Barrows’ cake herself, how many vindicating coincidences did one person get? Did Cara know John Holloway was not planning to propose to her and had released the bacterium as some sort of preemptive strike? Or was I simply jumping to conclusions because I’d been insulted by Cara’s warning not to get in her way?

I logged off the computer and returned to the living room. I sat on the couch, put my feet up and covered myself with an afghan. Taking the position Cara did want to punish Dr. Holloway for not proposing: one, how could she be sure he wouldn’t propose; two, how could she get through the company’s security measures; and, three, how would she know the proper way to distribute the bacterium without infecting herself?

No, it had to have been someone on the inside. If not one of the doctors, then someone who knew how to safely handle toxic substances . . . and how to quickly and effectively infect a room full of select people.

*

Thursday morning after I’d showered and dressed, I sat down in the club chair in the living room to enjoy my second cup of coffee. There were several things I wanted and needed to get done today. As I began cataloguing them in my mind, the doorbell rang. I peeped out the window and saw Fran’s car in the driveway.

I went into the kitchen and opened the door. “Good morning. You’re out awfully early.”

“I know.” Fran held a large gift bag out to me. “I wanted to see if you needed any baking help today, and I wanted to bring you this. It’s from Aunt Connie.”

“What is it?” I asked, taking the bag and placing it on the island so I could hang up Fran’s coat.

“Open it and see.”

“All right.” I carefully opened the bag. It contained the sketch Fred had made of me, and it had been beautifully matted and framed. I clasped it to my chest. “I love it.” I looked at it again before clutching it to myself once more. “I really love it. This means so much to me.”

“I know.” Fran nodded. “She gave me mine, too. She said it was to thank us . . . you know, for our work on Fred’s behalf.”

“That was completely unnecessary,” I said, “but I’m happy to have this.”

I took the sketch into the living room and hung it on the wall to the left of the armoire. I turned to Fran. “I’ll call Connie later today and thank her.” I nodded toward the sofa. “Let’s chat.”

After we were both seated—Fran on the sofa and me on the club chair—I began our conversation.

“Did you really come over to bake today or did you come to relay the information you gleaned from your Aunt Connie yesterday evening?”

Fran gave me a sheepish grin. “Both.”

“All right. So tell me what you’ve got.”

“Well, first of all, I want you to know she loved the cake balls. My whole family did. They loved all the treats I brought home last night. In fact, Mom had to put some in the freezer because she was afraid Dad would eat them all, and we wouldn’t have any for Christmas.”

“That’s great.”

“Plus, they were really proud of me for helping to make them, and I had to promise my mom that I’d show her how to make cake balls. And, do you know what else?”

She didn’t breathe long enough for me to ask what else.

“The football player I was telling you about—the one who’s a total HAG—I took your advice and called to thank him for coming to Fred’s funeral, and he’s stopping by tomorrow afternoon. How cool is that?”

This time she did pause long enough for me to interject. “That’s really cool. Did your Aunt Connie happen to mention whether or not she believes Dr. Broadstreet and his wife are on good terms?”

“Aunt Connie said the Broadstreets are really odd birds and, like, complete opposites as a couple. He’s big and sloppy and kind of . . . what was the word she used? Repugnant, I think is what she said. Mrs. Broadstreet, on the other hand, is Kate Moss thin, a vegan and as twitchy as a nervous rabbit.” She giggled. “I’m not kidding—that’s exactly how Aunt Connie described this lady. When I asked what she meant about the twitchy thing, she said, ‘Her eyes are always darting everywhere like she’s afraid someone or something is about to jump out at her.’ Aunt Connie said she believes if anyone were to look at the poor woman and say ‘boo’, she’d either pee her pants or faint dead away.” Fran giggled again. “I know that’s kinda sad, but Aunt Connie’s description was funny, too.”

“Wonder what Mrs. Broadstreet is so nervous about?” I asked.

Fran shrugged. “Who knows?”

“Maybe we can visit her soon and get a better read on her. Did your Aunt Connie say anything about any of the other doctors or anyone else she works with?”

“Not a lot. She mentioned this—Fred’s death, I’m sure is what she meant but she just wasn’t able to say that exactly—is a major roadblock to the drug hitting the market and Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals getting the financial boost it so desperately needed. She said most of the people she works with are walking on egg shells around her because they seem to be afraid she’ll sue the company and they’ll either be called to testify or that the suit will bankrupt the company, and they’ll all be without jobs.”

“Poor Connie.” I thought a second. “But you said
most
of the people are walking on egg shells. Who isn’t?”

“Don Harper. She said he’s treating her the same as always and is even acting like nothing ever happened.”

“Did your Aunt Connie say it was hard to work with Don given the way she felt about his behavior after Fred’s wreck?” I asked.

“She told me the first couple months after the accident, she and Don shared a hostility that was always just below the surface. Of course, that made it almost impossible for them to work together, and they’re in the same department. Their supervisor noticed it and said if they couldn’t learn to work together again, they’d both be fired. Aunt Connie said that ever since then, she and Mr. Harper have worked together with a begrudging tolerance.”

“It’s odd the supervisor was threatening to fire them both,” I said. “Wouldn’t the supervisor normally blame the subordinate for making all the trouble and simply fire the one person?”

Fran shook her head. “Some employers might try to do that—after all, we learned in government class that Virginia is an at-will employer state and that anyone can be let go at any time—but Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals detests law suits and avoids them at all costs . . . which is why they didn’t fire Aunt Connie, who is below Don Harper on the basis of seniority.”

“Do you think that’s the outcome—firing Connie—Don Harper was hoping for?”

“Sure, he was. I mean, playing devil’s advocate here, wouldn’t you? The guy did what he thought was a good deed only to have a person he works closely with on a daily basis believe he caused her son’s brain injury.”