Dead Pan (3 page)

I smiled. “Okay.”

She cocked her head. “What did you do with the cake you’d planned to enter?”

“I gave it to the hotel staff, and they promptly devoured it.”

Mrs. Vincent laughed and hugged me. “You poor darling. You go home and gather up some self-confidence. Just remember with practice and dedication to the art you have chosen plus involvement in serious competition, your skills will improve tenfold. I’m expecting great things from you, Daphne Martin.”

She was right about my needing self-confidence. My ex-husband’s years of abuse had culminated in his firing a pistol at me. Fortunately, he’d missed. Unfortunately, his attempt on my life had netted him a mere seven-year prison sentence. That’s why he’s incarcerated in Tennessee, and I’m here in Virginia. When Violet, my sister, a Brea Ridge realtor, called and said she’d found the perfect house for me, I began packing as soon as I hung up the phone.

Looking at the photographs from the Oklahoma Sugar Art Show started me thinking I needed to work on my fondant figures in addition to my painting. I decided to start with the figure molding. My nerves needed the distraction.

I got up and headed for the kitchen.

*

I was getting ready to dig into a can of white chocolate fondant when the phone rang.

I plucked the cordless from its charging base. It was Violet, and she was speaking barely above a whisper.

“I need you to do me a favor,” she said.

“What is it?” I whispered back. I don’t know why I felt compelled to whisper, but it somehow seemed wrong not to.

“Jason’s mom told me she got Lucas that guitar player video game for Christmas. I want you to rent a copy of it to make sure it’s age appropriate.”

“What’s it rated? I can’t imagine Grammy Armstrong getting Lucas a mature game.”

“It’s rated ‘T for teen.’” She sighed. “I know he’s been wanting one, and I’m sure he asked her to get it, but I’m hesitant.”

“Well, he and Leslie are nearly twelve. It should be okay.”

“Just check it out for me. Please.”

“Okay. I’ll go by the video store tomorrow.”

“Thanks.”

“By the way,” I said, “Fred Duncan died.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry.” She was speaking in a normal tone now, so I felt I could do likewise.

“I am, too. Despite all the mood swings he had because of his brain injury, I think he was a good person.”

“I do, too. I’ll have to send Connie some flowers.”

“You know Connie?”

“Not very well. I sold her sister-in-law a piece of property a few years ago, and I met Connie then.”

“I met her today at the hospital.” Later I’d ask myself why I’d felt compelled to blurt this out: “She wants me to help figure out what happened to Fred.”

“Daphne, please don’t do this again. You’re a cake decorator, not Jessica Fletcher. Besides, it was ‘Murder, She Wrote’ not ‘Murder, She Baked.’ Let the police do their job, and stay out of it.”

“I know, but Connie—”

“Connie is upset. She needs to understand you’re not the answer to her problem right now. And even if you do find out why all those other people got better and poor Fred died, it isn’t going to bring him back.”

“You’re absolutely right, but—”

“Promise me you’ll stay out of this. Be supportive, be a friend, but don’t go playing detective.”

“Who has time to be a detective, right? I’m too busy baking cakes, and soon I’ll also be reviewing a guitar game.”

Violet audibly blew a breath of relief into the phone and, thus, my ear. For a petite, bubbly blonde—I’m afraid I’m her polar opposite in terms of height, hair and bubbles—Violet can be a force to be reckoned with. Besides, she was right. I needed to spend my time baking, playing Lucas’ game to see whether or not it was appropriate for him and Leslie and getting ready for Christmas. My tree stood in the corner of my living room —thanks to the help of my darling nephew and niece—glistening with its twinkling lights, red and white ornaments, popcorn strings and clusters of cinnamon sticks. It looked beautiful, it smelled good, but there wasn’t a single wrapped present sitting beneath it.

She reinforced my decision. When I said goodnight and hung up, I had no intention of pursuing the mysterious death of Fred Duncan. I mean, the injuries he’d suffered in the car wreck that caused his frontal lobe damage could have contributed to his death. Maybe
that
was the one difference between Fred and everyone else who’d been infected and then given the vaccine. Case closed.

I really did have too much to do to play detective. And I really did have every intention
not
to play detective. And then my doorbell rang.

There was a cute, clean-cut young lady standing on my porch. She had long, straight brown hair, blue eyes, and she wore very little makeup. She had on forest green corduroy pants and a matching blazer. A pale pink shirt and taupe low-heeled pumps rounded out her outfit. She looked too young to drive; but there was a late-model sapphire VW Beetle with a cloth top sitting in my driveway, and I didn’t see anyone else with the girl.

“Hi,” I said. “How can I help you?” I was expecting her to ask me to buy something: cookies, magazine subscriptions, candy, raffle tickets. So what she said completely blew me away.

“I’m here to help you investigate the death of Fred Duncan.”

Here I was getting ready to say, “I’ll take two,” when she hits me with that. I blinked. Twice. “Excuse me?”

“I’m Fran Duncan, Fred’s cousin. My Aunt Connie told me you’ve agreed to look into Fred’s death, and I want to help you.”

I stepped back. “Um . . . would you like to come in?”

“Please.” She wiped her feet on the mat before stepping into the house. “Should I take them off? My shoes, I mean.”

“No, you’re fine.” I led her into the living room and motioned for her to have a seat. She chose the sofa, and I sat down in the club chair and tried to think of a way to explain to this girl that I’m not a detective.

“I read about you in the paper a couple of weeks ago,” Fran said. “It was impressive how you single-handedly nabbed Yodel Watson’s killer.”

“I wouldn’t say I did that single-handedly.”

“I know you’re afraid I’ll get in your way, but Fred was more like a brother than a cousin to me.”

“I understand, but—”

“And next year, I’m hoping to get into West Virginia University’s forensics and biometrics program. I want to be a criminologist.”

“That’s terrific, Fran; it really is. But I’m not sure Fred’s brain injury wasn’t a contributing cause of death.”

“Then that’s the first thing we’ll need to rule out. As a family member, I’ll have access to information the hospital wouldn’t give you.” She got up. “I’m on it. As soon as I find out something, I’ll be back.”

With that, she was gone. And, just like that, I was smack dab in the middle of another investigation. Unless, of course, the hospital confirmed that Fred’s brain damage had contributed to his death. Somehow, I doubted I would be that lucky.

*

I’d bought some molds at the Oklahoma Sugar Art Show. One was the figure of a woman. A recent issue of
American Cake Decorating
featured step-by-step instructions for creating a gum-paste girl holding a package to sit atop a cake.

I got out my materials—including the
American Cake Decorating
magazine open to the instructions—and arranged them on the island in the center of the kitchen. I spread out waxed paper, put my telephone headset on and donned decorator gloves.

I mixed some brown and yellow gel colors until I had a suitable blonde color. Then I used that color to tint about six ounces of gum paste—enough for two dolls’ hair. I wrapped that gum paste in plastic wrap and put it aside.

I then used a bit of tan coloring to create a skin tone. I tinted quite a bit of gum paste this color. I knew I’d need extra if I botched painting the face. Those little eyebrows and eyelashes were going to be really tough to get right.

I tinted the remainder of the gum paste red and green. Even if I got frustrated and gave up on the doll, I could still use the green and red gum paste for decoration on Christmas cakes.

I took off the gloves and unwrapped the skin-colored gum paste. I tore off a small amount and rewrapped the gum paste. I rolled a piece of the gum paste into a ball and then flattened it out into a long, relatively thick strand. I placed this strand into the bottom half of the mold to create a leg. I repeated the process for the other leg. Then I placed the top on the mold and pressed the two halves together. I trimmed away the excess, and then opened the mold and took out the doll’s legs. I bent the legs into a sitting position and placed them on a Styrofoam block.

Before I could get the doll’s arms molded, the doorbell rang.
That was quick
, I thought, praying once again that the hospital had confirmed Fred’s death to have been a fluke . . . the result of a preexisting condition.

“Come on in,” I called. “The door’s open.”

But instead of Fran, it was Ben. Ben Jacobs. He’s a reporter and editor for the
Brea Ridge Chronicle
, a freelance writer and a total HAG (Hot Available Guy). Ben has light brown hair that has a habit of falling over his pale blue eyes, a lanky build, and a lopsided smile.

We’ve known each other since we were kids and have been dating since I moved back here from Tennessee. He’s never been married, so maybe he’s not the type to commit . . . which is fine by me because I’m not looking for any sort of serious attachment right now either. Really. I’m not.

“It’s not like you to leave your door unlocked and invite visitors in sight unseen,” Ben said. “You must be expecting someone.”

“I’m afraid I am.”

He looked so handsome and so comfortable leaning there against the doorpost. He was wearing khaki pants and a light blue denim shirt that brought out his eyes. He made himself right at home when he was here. I wondered if he was at ease like that everywhere or if it had something to do with me. Maybe I made him feel at home.

He arched a brow, which nearly hid beneath that strand of wavy hair that had fallen into his eyes. If I wasn’t working with gum paste, I’d brush it away.

“So who’s this scary visitor?” he asked.

I smiled. “She’s not scary. What scares me about her is that she’s a Nancy Drew wannabe, and she wants to help me investigate Fred Duncan’s death. Fred’s her cousin.”

“Since when are you investigating Fred Duncan’s death?”

I explained to him how I was there with Connie when Fred died and how she’d asked me to help her. Then I relayed my conversation with Violet and my visit with Fran.

“So you’re thinking Fran will come back here, tell you Fred’s year-old brain injury contributed to his death and that will be the end of it.”

I grimaced and bobbed my head from side to side. “Hoping, I think, would be a better word. Really, really hoping. What? You don’t think so?”

“I don’t know, Daphne. The entire situation seems suspect to me. Two-thirds of the guests at a Christmas party suddenly fall ill?”

“It wasn’t the cake,” I said quickly. “The police are almost sure of that. You see, not everyone who got sick
ate
the cake, so it had to have been something else.”

“Which is good. But it had to be something.”

“Don’t tell me you believe this was all an elaborate plot to kill poor Fred.”

“No. I think Fred wound up in the wrong place at the wrong time. But there’s a reason that many people got sick that fast.”

My shoulders slumped. “And we need to find out what that reason is.”

*

Ben had left, and I’d finished the gum paste dolls. They actually looked pretty good. Leaving the dolls sitting on Styrofoam blocks on the island to set, I slipped on my jacket and took a piece of ham out of the refrigerator. Then I went onto the porch and called for Sparrow.

Sparrow, it seems, came with the house. Not long after I moved here, I caught a fleeting glimpse of the skinny little one-eyed Persian and began to feed her. She isn’t skinny anymore, but she still is a bit skittish. Lucas and Leslie named her Sparrow in honor of Johnny Depp’s character, Captain Jack Sparrow. They said the one eye made her look like a pirate cat.

I saw the cat emerge slowly from beneath a bush at the upper end of my backyard.

“Come on, Sparrow.” I tore off a piece of the ham and tossed it just beyond the porch.

She hurried to get it, watching to be sure I didn’t make any sudden movements. As she ate, I tossed another piece of ham—this one, a little closer to where I sat. She came and ate that one, too.

We’ve been practicing this exercise for a few weeks now, and it’s beginning to pay off. I can’t actually pet Sparrow yet, but she will brush up against me occasionally now.

I kept throwing bits of ham until Sparrow was coming within a foot of me. I decided to try something new with the last piece. I held it out toward her. She took a step forward and extended her neck so she could sniff the ham. She looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to drop it. I continued to hold the morsel out to her.

“Come on, girl,” I said softly. “You can have it.”

Her expression seemed to say, “If I can have it, then drop it.”

Reluctantly, I did drop it in front of her. She ate it, but she didn’t hurry away as I’d expected. I stood and, although she darted out of reach, she didn’t flee the porch. We were making progress.

I stepped back inside and retrieved the bag of cat food I’d bought at Dobbs Pet Store. As I filled Sparrow’s bowl, she brushed against the back of my leg. She then moved to what she apparently considered a safe distance away until I returned to the house. Then, she came to the bowl and ate. She looked up once to see me standing at the window, stared at me for a moment, and then continued eating her meal. I smiled to myself. Yes, we were definitely making progress.

Fran’s little blue Beetle pulled into the driveway. I was still hoping for good news; but even if the hospital and Fran were convinced Fred’s death was at least partially due to his preexisting condition, Ben wasn’t. On the other hand, Ben wasn’t actually expecting me to investigate . . . was he?

I opened the door. “Hi, Fran. Any news?”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Sparrow sprint around the side of the house.