Dead Pan (7 page)

I was also disappointed that we didn’t find a calendar or day planner. In the end, we wound up taking only a couple sketchbooks and the black notebook back to my house for closer inspection.

When Fran and I got back to my house, I made us both a decaf café au lait with whipped cream and cinnamon. I put on my favorite instrumental jazz CD so the kitchen wouldn’t be too quiet as we poured over the sketchbooks and the notebook.

We decided to go through the sketchbooks first. I was hoping that if Fred did have a girlfriend in Haysi or anywhere else, there would be some sketches of her.

In the book I had, there was a drawing of Rusty, the python, lying on the rock in his aquarium. There was also a terrific likeness of Fran.

“Look,” I said, turning the book around toward Fran. “This is great. Fred really could draw.”

“Yeah.” Fran smiled slightly. “I remember when he did this one. It was back in August. I’d been over there helping Aunt Connie make apple butter. My hair frizzes really bad when it’s humid out—like that day—and I was complaining about it.” She closed her eyes momentarily. “He told me I just couldn’t see myself realistically. And then he drew this.”

“Why don’t you ask Connie if you can have it? If she says yes, I’ll take it to Johnson City and get it matted and framed for you.”

“I’ll do that,” she said. “Thank you.”

There were several sketches of cars . . . or, more accurately, a car. It was a black four-door sedan of ambiguous make and model. In some drawings, the car appeared to be in good condition. In others, it was wrecked. In one drawing, the car was on fire.

“What’s with this car?” I asked Fran. “Is this the car Fred was driving when he had his accident?”

She shook her head. “It’s not the car
he
was driving. It’s the car the drunk driver was in.”

“Was the other driver convicted?”

“No, he was never found. He left the scene of the accident. Plus, nobody showed up at any of the local hospitals that night or the next day for treatment for injuries sustained in a car accident.”

“How about the car?”

“It was never found either.”

“That’s a shame. Poor Fred.”

“Yeah. It made him angry that the other driver was never found.”

“I can imagine. How did police come to the conclusion the other driver was drunk?”

“Someone had reported the guy a few minutes before the accident. The car was swerving all over the road.” She rubbed her eyes. “The fact that the guy ran was also fairly damning.”

“Were there any witnesses to the accident?”

“The man who’d reported the car weaving had turned off the road and pulled into his driveway. As he was walking to the door, he heard the crash. He jumped back in his car and went to the scene of the accident, but he only saw Fred’s car smashed against the telephone pole. The other car was speeding away.”

“The man didn’t get the car’s license tag?” I asked. “Not even when he called police with the initial report?”

“No. Their cars were too far apart. The man who called and reported the guy on suspicion of drunk driving had been afraid to get close enough to get a tag number. He was scared the guy would cause him to wreck.” She sighed. “Besides, he thought police would be able to stop him before he did much damage. It wasn’t a heavily trafficked road.”

“So is that why Fred kept drawing this particular type of car?”

She needed. “He always said he’d recognize it if he ever saw it again.”

We went back to flipping through the drawings. There was a rough sketch of the birthday cake Fred had wanted me to make for his grandfather. It was a round cake with a snake’s body wrapped around the middle and its head resting atop the cake.

The emotional impact of that sketch hit me hard. I quickly scooted my chair back from the table so my tears wouldn’t fall on Fred’s work.

“Are you okay?” Fran asked.

“Yeah . . . I just . . . . Could you hand me a napkin please?”

She took a napkin from the rack in the center of the table and gave it to me. I wiped my eyes.

“Sorry,” I said. “That sketch got to me, that’s all. I remember when Fred called and asked me to make this cake.” This prompted fresh tears, so Fran handed me another napkin. She took one for herself as well.

“I still want to make this cake,” I said. “For free. For Fred. I’d like to make it for your grandfather on his birthday, so he’ll know how much he meant to Fred.”

“He’d appreciate that,” Fran said.

We returned to looking at the drawings in silence until a couple minutes later when Fran said, “Well, look at that.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Given how you felt about the cake picture, this one will really blow you away.” She turned the book toward me.

“It’s me.”

It was my face almost in profile, looking down slightly. My expression was soft and pensive. It was as if he’d drawn it from a photograph.

I covered my mouth with my hand. When I glanced up at Fran, she was crying softly. I closed both books.

“That’s enough for this evening,” I said. “Let’s go into the living room.”

We moved to the living room where I curled up on the club chair and Fran sat on the sofa. After a few minutes of sitting in silence, I asked Fran if she was all right.

“Yeah,” she said. “It’s just tough, you know. Fred was a good guy. His dad died when he was ten, and after that Fred always tried to be a grown up. He didn’t deserve any of this.”

“I know, Fran. I’m so sorry.”

“Me, too.”

“Do you still want to investigate?” I asked. “I know the police are doing everything they can, and—”

“No. I want to do this. I need to do this.”

“Okay, then. I’ll try to help you find answers.”

*

After Fran left, I put the second layer of frosting on the cakes and placed them in the refrigerator. I’d decorate them tomorrow.

I heated up a can of tomato soup and then poured it into a mug. I sat on a stool at the island and opened Fred’s notebook. There wasn’t much information in it. I sipped my soup and tried to make sense of the scant notes.

“SAB 4-10 MWTF, 8-1 SS.”

I figured that was Fred’s schedule at the Save-A-Buck.

“HMRA – T – 11.”

I made a mental note to look that acronym up on the computer after I’d finished my soup. I flipped the pages and came across Rusty’s feeding schedule. It nearly made me gag on my soup to read that Rusty had ingested a thawed mouse only four days ago. I remembered Fred once telling me he bought Rusty frozen mice to eat. As incredible as it sounds, live rodents can sometimes hurt snakes.

I got up to retrieve my cordless phone and to pour the remainder of my soup down the sink. Fran answered her cell phone on the first ring.

“Hi, Fran. It’s Daphne. I found Rusty’s feeding schedule in Fred’s notebook.”

“Great. I checked the small freezer in Aunt Connie’s garage, and there are still a few mice in there.”

“Eww,” I said.

She giggled. “You get used to it. When was Rusty’s latest meal?”

“Four days ago.”

“Good. That’ll hold him for about another week and a half.”

“Hey, does the acronym HMRA mean anything to you?”

“Afraid not,” Fran said.

“Oh, well. We’ll figure it out later.”

“Okay. Thanks for calling about Rusty.”

We hung up, and I headed for my office. Before I could get there, though, the doorbell rang.

I went to the living room and opened the door. Myra was standing there in a pink track suit and sneakers.

“Did you get it?” she asked. “Did you get the other remote?”

I grinned. “I got it. Are you ready to rock?”

“I am about to rock. Salute me!”

I laughed as Myra came inside.

“Am I interrupting anything?” she asked.

“No. I was getting ready to try to find an acronym on the computer, but this will be way more fun.”

“What acronym? Maybe I’ll know what it is.”

“It’s HMRA,” I said. “Does it sound familiar?”

“Did you say ‘
H
MRA’ or ‘
A
MRA’?”

“‘H’ as in happy. Have you heard of it?”

“I’ve heard of AMRA. That’s Abingdon Medical Research Association. Yodel Watson once went up there and took a round of weight loss drugs. They didn’t work though.” She frowned. “Of course, all those Watsons were always big people, and I reckon it was just their cross to bear that they stay that way. I heard that one time the doctor put one of those belly band things on Yodel’s sister Harmony. They told her to stick to liquids for a few days.”

“How did she do?” I asked.

“Oh, honey. She went straight home and put biscuits and sausage gravy in the blender, and she lived off that stuff and chocolate milkshakes. I heard that when she went back for her first checkup, she’d broke that belly band half in two.”

“Is that even possible?”

Myra shrugged. “I’m only telling you what I heard. Now, are we gonna jam or what?”

“We’re gonna jam,” I said, getting the game set up.

“Good. Who’s your person?”

“I’m Jessie Lax. Who do you want to be?”

“I want you to show me all of them so I can decide.”

In the end, Myra chose über Goth Lizzie Bourdain because “they call her guitar an axe, and it’s fancy.”

Chapter Five

The first thing I did when I got up the next morning was set out the eight cakes I needed to decorate. I put the cakes, the butter cream and the fondant on the island; and then I made myself a bowl of cereal. I felt guilty the entire time I was eating my cereal, though, because I could hear Sparrow on the porch crying for her breakfast.

After eating and putting my bowl and spoon into the dishwasher, I pulled my plush yellow robe embellished with daisy appliqués tighter around myself and braved the cool December morning air with Sparrow’s food. She must’ve been starving because she didn’t run away and wait until she was positive I’d gone inside before returning. This morning, she dug right in with me still standing there beside her. I bent slightly and stroked her head. She didn’t purr, but she didn’t run away either. I smiled to myself as I went inside to shower and dress. Sparrow and I were definitely making progress.

After I’d dressed and had my second cup of coffee, I was ready to face the day. I decided to start with the four birthday cakes. I had some flavored fondant I’d ordered at the Oklahoma Sugar Art Show—fondant has a yearlong shelf life, by the way, when stored in airtight packaging—and I wanted to use the fondant to make some fun birthday cake decorations. I had grape, tutti-frutti, strawberry and white chocolate.

As I formed 3D balloons using the grape, tutti-frutti and strawberry fondant, I found myself thinking about Fred’s funeral. The funeral was taking place at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. I wondered if Mr. Franklin would attend. I wondered if he’d allow his employees to attend. Surely, the man would be decent enough to at least send flowers.

What was his problem anyway? I realized he had issues with Fred, but people generally put their petty differences aside at a time like this. Don’t they?

Mr. Franklin had always struck me as a reasonable, somewhat kind man. Could his gruff demeanor simply be hiding his grief?

I placed the balloons on one of the round cakes and then attached blue-colored string piping. I piped top and bottom borders and then wrote “Happy Birthday” on the cake in green script. One down, seven to go.

For the next birthday cake, I decided to make ribbon roses using the strawberry fondant.

Luckily, I’d remembered to put on my headset because China York called.

“Good morning,” I said. “How are you?”

“I’m fit as a fiddler on the Fourth of July,” she said. “Are you busy?”

“I’m never too busy for you.”

“Good. I want you to make me a Christmas cake.”

“What flavor would you like?”

“Chocolate, I reckon, with vanilla icing.”

“All right. How would you like it decorated?”

“I want either a Bible or a cross. We aim to remember the reason for the season, you know.”

“I can make it a sheet cake with a Bible and a cross on it if you want me to.”

“Nah, I don’t reckon we need to be tacky about it.”

I pressed my lips together to keep from giggling. When I regained my composure, I said, “I have a cake pan in the shape of a cross. What do you think of that?”

“Why, I’d like that fine. Can I get me some purple roses on it? Purple represents royalty, you know.”

“I’ll put a cluster of roses right in the center. Would you like me to write ‘Merry Christmas’ on it?”

“No, I want you to write ‘Happy Birthday’ on it. I always make Jesus a birthday cake; but I figure since you can probably use the work, I’ll let you do it this year.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate that.”

“Can I pick it up on the 24
th
?”

“If that’s when you want it, that’s when I’ll have it.”

“I’ll pick it up that morning then. So, how’s your investigation into Fred’s murder coming along?”

That one threw me. “Murder?”

“Well, sure. You don’t reckon it was an accident or a coincidence or some other nonsense that all them people got sick at the same time, do you?”

“I . . . I don’t know.”

“Of course, you do. You just ain’t ready to own up to it yet. Well, I’d better go. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Wait,” I said. “Have you heard anything about why Mr. Franklin from the Save-A-Buck is acting so weird about Fred’s death?”

“I’ve not heard anything; but from what I’ve seen, Steve Franklin is acting like a man with a guilty conscience.”

“You don’t think he contaminated the food at the Brea Ridge Christmas party, do you?”

“No, but something about Fred is eating at that man. Maybe it’s because he demoted Fred after Yodel Watson made that stink about the produce department being unorganized a while back.” She clucked her tongue. “I don’t know what it is he’s feeling guilty about, but I know he’s feeling guilty. I’ve seen enough people carrying around that burden to know it when I see it.”

“Huh.”

“I’ll let you get back to work now,” China said, “and I’ll do the same.”

As soon as we hung up, I wrote down her cake order and delivery date.