Dead Pan (8 page)

Could China be right? Was Steve Franklin suffering from guilt over something concerning Fred’s death?

*

After decorating the cakes for Save-A-Buck and placing them in
Daphne’s Delectable Cakes
boxes, I sat down with a stack of magazines and catalogs to get some ideas for Belinda’s New Year’s Eve party.

Dessert bars are a growing trend. One magazine article stated, “Good options are desserts that are portable and not too sticky so guests can take their desserts, mingle and then return.” The same magazine stated that cupcake towers and petit four towers are also gaining popularity. Some people like to include a monogram or initial on their petit fours.

Belinda Fremont would love white petit-fours with the initial F in gold
, I thought. I wrote that suggestion down on my notepad.

The article suggested mini pies and tarts to provide an alternative to cakes and candies. Themed cookies were another suggestion.

I made notes on all of this. I was guessing that—knowing Belinda from her guinea pig Guinevere’s birthday party—she was going to want some of all of the above for both her human guests and her cavies. I went to my office and booted up the computer. Somehow I was afraid organic cookie recipes for guinea pigs might be hard to come by, but you’d be surprised at how quickly I found a recipe for “vegetarian biscuits” for guinea pigs. The author said she developed the recipe by combining a carrot cake recipe with a recipe for scones. Go figure. You really can find anything on the Internet.

*

I was preparing my portfolio to take to Belinda’s house when the phone rang.

“Daphne’s Delectable Cakes,” I answered. “How can I help you have a sweet day?”

“This is so unfair!”

“Fran? Is that you?”

“Yes, and I’m so mad at my mom.”

“Are you driving?” I asked. Teens on the phone while driving are scary enough. Angry teens on the phone while driving make me want to hide under the bed. Dust bunnies notwithstanding.

“No,” she said. “I’m in the parking lot at the mall. I need to find a black dress for tomorrow.”

“Okay, good. Are your doors locked? Because I don’t want some thief catching you unaware and either rob you or jack your car while we’re talking.”

“I’m locking the doors now.”

I heard the click and felt relieved.

“Wow,” Fran continued, “you really take this crime stuff seriously, don’t you?”

“Well, not to sound like your mother, but ‘better safe than sorry’ is a cliché for a reason.”

“Speaking of her, I am so totally mad at her. She says she’s not letting me help you with the investigation into Fred’s death anymore.”

“Really? Did she say why?”

“She thinks you’re a busybody and that you’re only doing this to help your boyfriend score another popular newspaper article.”

“No, really,” I said, “tell me how she truly feels. I can take it.”

“That
is
how she feels!”

“Fran, I was being sarcastic. It’s okay.”

“It’s
not
okay! How can she do this to me? This is important to me, and I’m not gonna let her ruin it! She ruins everything!”

“Calm down,” I said. “It’s not that bad.”

“It is totally that bad! She’s never wanted me to be a criminologist, but she cannot stop me from pursuing my dream. She can’t!”

“Would you please hear me out?” I asked softly.

“Yeah, sure. I’m sorry.”

“How would your mom feel about your helping me prepare to cater a party for Belinda Fremont?”

“
The
Belinda Fremont . . . with the mansion and the award-winning hamsters?”

“Guinea pigs, actually. Satin Peruvian guinea pigs.”

“Are you serious? About the catering, I mean.”

“Yes. I would get the help I desperately need with this party, you would learn something about baking and make a few bucks, and we could—when we have time—compare notes on the investigation.”

“All
right
.”

“Don’t mention this to your mom yet,” I said. “I’ll ask her permission for you to be my paid assistant—” I affected a haughty accent. “—with regard to the Fremont affair.” I returned to my normal voice. “In the meantime, you go home and make nice with your mom.”

“Got it. You so rock, Daphne.”

We hung up and I picked up my portfolio and headed out the door. The last thing I wanted to do was come between Fran and her mother. But I really did need help with Belinda’s party, and maybe the arrangement would placate Fran and help her feel she was still in the investigation “loop.” I wasn’t even sure I was in the investigation loop—or that I wanted to be—but, at least, Fran would know as much as I did.

It’s bemusing how the name “Belinda Fremont” opens so many doors in Brea Ridge. Of course, when I got to Belinda’s house, I remembered why.

Belinda’s home is modeled after Crane Cottage on Jekyll Island, Georgia. It’s an elegant, white home patterned after an Italian Renaissance villa. Belinda’s house even copies the enclosed courtyard with formal garden surrounded by arcaded loggias.

I pulled up to the gate and pressed the intercom button. “Daphne Martin to see Mrs. Fremont.”

Belinda’s gatekeeper/assistant—whom I’d once mistaken for her husband—replied, “Mrs. Fremont is expecting you, Ms. Martin. Please come on in.”

The gate slowly opened, granting me entrance into the fairytale kingdom.  I drove onto the white and terra cotta brick mosaic drive. The last time I was here it was to deliver cakes for Guinevere’s birthday party—one cake for the human guests, and one for the guinea pigs and their guests. You see, Guinevere, Lancelot, Morgan, Arthur, Beatrice and Merlin are the champion Satin Peruvian guinea pigs. They have their own suite on the second floor. I’m hoping they’ll invite me to a sleepover sometime.

I never cease to be impressed by Belinda Fremont’s poise and put-together appearance. Maybe she has what some people call an “old soul,” because even though she’s only about 35, she has the sophistication and polish of someone older. I wish I had that much sophistication, and I’m lucky to get polish on my nails once in awhile.

Unlike my first meeting with Belinda, I didn’t bring cake samples. As I quietly explained to her (it’s nap time for the cavies, you know) when we’d sat down in her Victorian inspired parlor with the uncomfortable Louis Quatorze furniture, I’d prefer to get her ideas for the dessert bar and then bring samples next week so she can see how the flavors will mesh.

“Very good,” she said. “But early next week. How about Tuesday morning at eleven-thirty?”

“That’ll be great.” I penciled the date and time in my notebook.

“So what are my options?” Belinda asked.

“Naturally, there will be a variety of fresh fruits for both the cavies and the humans,” I said, remembering how important Vitamin C is to a cavy’s diet.

“Naturally.”

“I also found a recipe for cavy cookies.”

Belinda clapped her hands. “That’s wonderful! My darlings have never had cookies before.”

“I’ll bring them a sample when I come back on Tuesday so they can decide whether or not they like them. If they’re not happy with them, I’ll modify the recipe.”

Belinda smiled broadly. “Excellent.”

I went on to outline the current trends. I was correct in thinking Belinda would adore white petit-fours with gold Fs on them. She also wanted a mini cake tower and a mini tart tower. As for the cake, she requested a “simple three-tier affair with sparklers in the top.”

I told her I’d be happy to oblige and that I’d ask the fire department to be on standby.

“Oh, Daphne, what a wit you have,” Belinda said with a laugh. “Oh, and I’ll need some things that are sugar free. Richard’s sister is coming, and she’s a diabetic.”

“Would you like the cake to be sugar free?”

She flipped one thin wrist. “One tier, perhaps. Either the top or middle . . . but be sure and let me know which it is. Maureen doesn’t need a great deal of cake. She’s single again, and Richard is hoping this will help her meet some people.”

“All right,” I said. “Anything else I should know?”

“I think that should do it . . . at least, until we talk again on Tuesday.”

*

I was on my way to the Save-A-Buck to deliver the cakes when my cell phone rang. It was Ben.

“Hi, beautiful,” he said. “Would you like to go with me to Dakota’s tomorrow night?”

“I’d love to.” Dakota’s is the only steakhouse in Brea Ridge. It’s independently owned and, during the summer, the proprietor buys the restaurant’s produce from local farmers. Even now some of the items on the menu—apple butter and peach chutney for the biscuits, for instance—were made and canned locally.

“I thought we’d need a pick-me-up after Fred’s funeral tomorrow,” Ben said.

“Thank you. You’re awfully thoughtful, you know.”

“Oh, I know.” He chuckled.

“By the way,” I said, “could you look in your archive room and make me a copy of any articles mentioning Fred’s car accident?”

“Why do you want that?”

“Just curious. Fran was telling me about the accident, and I’d like to see a more timely account.”

“I probably wrote the articles myself, Daph. What do you want to know?”

“I’d like to read the eyewitness’ testimony, that’s all.”

“All right. I’ll dig it up.”

“Thanks. I’d better go. I’m at the Save-A-Buck.”

“All right. I’ll see you tomorrow at the funeral, and afterwards we’ll finalize our plans for going to Dakota’s.”

We said our goodbyes, and I hurried to enlist the aid of two baggers who’d come outside to return carts to the store. With their help, I managed to fit all eight cakes into three carts. The young men helped me push them inside before returning to their original task, and I discretely tipped them.

There was no one in Juanita’s line, so she came over and helped me unload the cakes onto a display table near the front of the store.

“How are you?” I asked.

“I’m good. I took some food over to Mrs. Duncan before I came to work this morning.”

“That was sweet of you.”

“Do you know the funeral is tomorrow?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I’ll be there. Will you get to go?”

She nodded. “I took the day off so I could be there for Mrs. Duncan and the rest of Fred’s family.”

“Hey, were you working here when Fred had his car accident last year?”

“No. I came to work here shortly after that time.” She noticed someone approaching her register. “We’ll talk more later.”

I finished arranging the display, and then I went in search of Mr. Franklin to let him know I’d brought the cakes he’d requested. I found him in his office hunched over his desk.

“Daphne,” he said, standing up behind his desk. “Come on in.” His dress shirt was wrinkled and his tie was stained. I thought—not for the first time—that he needed a wife. He wouldn’t be bad looking if he’d try to be a bit neater with his appearance.

“I’ve brought the cakes you requested. Juanita and I arranged them on the display table.”

“Very good.”

“Is there anything else you’ll be needing within the next couple weeks?” I asked. “I’m trying to coordinate my holiday schedule.”

“Ah.” Mr. Franklin sat and indicated I should do the same. “Are Christmas wedding bells ringing for someone in Brea Ridge?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” I said, taking a seat. “However, Belinda Fremont is planning an extravagant New Year’s Eve party.”

He raised his brows. “This soon after Guinevere’s birthday party? That’s odd.”

“You mean, Belinda’s New Year’s Eve party isn’t an annual affair?”

“No. The birthday party is normally the Fremont social event of the holiday season. There typically isn’t another party until Spring.”

“Does she throw birthday parties for all the guinea pigs?” I asked.

“Nope. Only Guinevere.” He smiled. “You see, Guinevere’s birthday coincides with Belinda’s.”

“So, in a way, she’s actually throwing herself a party.”

“In a way.”

“Wonder why she decided to host a New Year’s Eve party this year then?” I held up a hand. “Don’t get me wrong; I’m glad she is, I just wonder what prompted it.”

“Maybe it’s something Richard wants.”

Richard is Belinda’s husband. He seems like a super nice guy—I met him briefly at Guinevere’s birthday party when I brought the cakes. From what I understand, he travels extensively. Maybe Mr. Franklin was right. Maybe the party was for Richard.

“You could be right,” I said. “Belinda mentioned his sister would be coming and that she’s single again. Richard is hoping she’ll meet someone.”

“Maureen is single again?” Mr. Franklin asked. “She’s . . . um . . . very sweet. I knew her way back when. Anyway, I’d be delighted if you could work the Save-A-Buck up some Christmas cookies, candies—maybe some fudge, peanut butter pinwheels, haystacks—things like that—some cupcakes and a few more cakes.”

“All right, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Bring them in as you make them, and let me know what you’ve brought.”

“Okay.” I smiled, glad I’d anticipated this and bought some cookie and candy trays with lids during my trip to the chef’s wholesale warehouse in Kingsport last week. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

At Mr. Franklin’s frown, I added, “At the funeral.”

“I’m afraid not, Ms. Martin. Several of my employees are taking the morning or the day off, and I’ll be needed here. I did send over a pretty peace lily, though.”

“That was nice.”

Mr. Franklin nodded in agreement.

“You know, I was thinking about how you once told me Fred had changed after the car accident,” I said.

“He did change. You can ask anyone.”

“Oh, I believe you. But his cousin was filling me in about the accident the other day, and it made me wonder. Do you suppose some of Fred’s anger wasn’t the result of his brain injury but was caused by the fact that the driver who was at fault was never found and punished?”

Mr. Franklin’s face had turned to flint. “Since I’m neither a brain surgeon nor a psychiatrist, I wouldn’t know.”

“No, of course not. None of us will ever know, will we?”

“No.” His face softened slightly. “I hope he’s at peace now.”

Chapter Six