Murder Takes the Cake Text (17 page)

“Not at all. I think that was awfully sweet of you.” I wondered again how well he knew the Steins’ daughter.

“What can I say? I’m a sweet guy.”

I chuckled and selfishly wished he could remedy my situation as adeptly as he had Violet’s.

“By the way, someone from the police department’s crime lab will be going to Yodel Watson’s house to get a sample of that yellow stain today or tomorrow.”

“Wow. You’re not actually Clark Kent, are you?”

“No, but I’m flattered if you’re saying I’m super.”

“You’re getting there, Ben. You’re getting there.”

*

When I returned to Mom’s room, she and Violet were watching a sitcom. I sat down and watched the rest of the show with them. That show went off, and we watched another one. The only comments we made were about the shows. It was a comfortable and companionable way to spend the afternoon. I knew those feelings couldn’t last, however—Mom or I was bound to say or do something to hurt, offend or anger the other, unintentionally though it may be—so I was grateful to see Dad, Aunt Nancy and Uncle Hal walk through the door.

I wanted to shout, “Hallelujah! Let me out of here before something bad happens. Now if she dies, she can leave me with a clean conscience.” Of course, that thought alone was enough to ensure that if my mother did indeed die, my conscience would not be clean.

Still, when Dad suggested Violet and I “get on home before it gets dark,” I jumped at the chance. With kisses and hugs all around, I was at the door with my purse in hand before Violet had finished saying goodbye to Mom.

“You didn’t have to be in such a rush to leave,” Vi said as I backed out of the parking lot.

“Yes, I did. I have a cake to finish and deliver tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry. I forgot.”

“It’s okay.”

“Do you want me to drive? You know, so you won’t be too tired to work when we get home?”

“No, I’ll be all right. But thanks for offering.”

“You’re welcome. And if you need me to take over, just let me know.”

We were silent for a few minutes. I debated over telling her about Ben’s call to the Steins, but I decided that could wait. After all, I didn’t know for certain if his call had any bearing on their new and improved outlook. Odds were good that it did, but I had no proof; and I didn’t want to come across looking like a giddy teenager crushing on her new boyfriend.

Oh, my gosh, Vi! He’s so hot, and he totally got the Steins to back up off your case!

“Mom looked good, don’t you think?” Violet asked. “Her color, I mean.”

“Yeah . . . um . . . she looked like everything’s going to be fine.”

“Do you really think so, or are you saying that because you don’t want me to worry?”

“I really think so. I mean, yes, she’ll have to make some changes in her diet and lifestyle—a walking regimen would be good for her and Dad both—and she might have to take some medicine. But this is manageable. Mom will be okay.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I’m your big sister. I’m always right.” That’s what I said, but my brain argued that I’m most assuredly
not
always right. In fact, it immediately recalled a half dozen times I had been absolutely, unequivocally, slap-your-hand-to-your-forehead wrong. As it began to reel off even more wrongs, I wished it would shut up. I turned on the CD player to drown it out and gave Violet a reassuring smile. To illustrate how not worried I was, I joined Cyndi Lauper in the chorus of
Girls Just Wanna Have Fun
.

Violet chimed in, and we sang and bobbed to the CD for the next twenty miles. The car even got into the act. It began thumping and pulling to one side.

Saucer-eyed, Violet turned down the volume. “What’s that?”

“I’m afraid we’ve got a flat tire.”

I pulled onto the shoulder of the road. Sure enough, the front driver’s side tire was flat. I opened the trunk and took out the jack, praying no one would run me over while I replaced the flat tire with my spare.

A black Mercedes pulled in behind my car. As visions of lounge lizards and rich chainsaw maniacs danced in my head, Violet raced up beside me.

Lovely. There goes any chance of Violet getting away from whatever danger might lurk within the black car. Here’s one more thing for Mom to blame on me.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Instead of a homicidal maniac, Janey Dobbs got out of the car. She shaded her eyes with her hand. “Daphne? Daphne Martin, is that you?”

I let out the breath I wasn’t aware I’d been holding. “Yes! Yes, Mrs. Dobbs; it’s me and my sister Violet.”

“Thank goodness I recognized you,” Mrs. Dobbs said. “You can’t change that tire here on the side of this busy interstate highway. You’ll get hit by a car…or one of those tractor-trailers.”

“That thought had crossed my mind.”

“You two grab your things and lock the car, and I’ll drive you to a service station.”

Fortunately, we were able to find a garage that was still open and willing to tow my car and repair the tire. Unfortunately, I could’ve probably bought a small, third-world country for the same cost . . . plus maybe a quart of tequila. Does tequila come in quarts? I’m not sure—not much of a drinker—but you get my point.

Violet and I sat down in the dusty waiting room. To my surprise, Janey Dobbs joined us.

“Thank you for bringing us here,” I said. “But, please, don’t feel obligated to wait. I’m sure you—”

“Of course, I feel obligated to wait! What if they’re unable to fix your car? How will you get home?”

“Well . . . thank you,” I said, “if you’re sure . . . ”

“We’re lucky you came along,” Violet told Mrs. Dobbs. “What’re the odds someone we know would be driving along that stretch of interstate at the very moment Daphne’s car broke down?”

Mrs. Dobbs laughed as she pushed her curly brown hair back off her forehead. “It isn’t such a long shot. I prefer to think of it as serendipity.”

“So do I.” I smiled. “What fortunate coincidence brought you in this direction today?”

“Oh, I wanted to get out and enjoy some of the sites before winter sets in. That giant guitar thing, for one.”

“You know, I’ve never been there. I’ve always thought it would be interesting to go.”

“Me, too,” Violet said. “Maybe you and I could take the kids there one day.”

“How old are your children?” Mrs. Dobbs asked.

“They’re eleven. They’re twins—a boy and a girl.”

“That’s marvelous. Kellen and I never had children. I’ve always regretted that.” She gave a quick, sad shake of her head as if that would dislodge her melancholy. “Do take the children to the guitar museum. I think they’d thoroughly enjoy it.”

“Thank you. I will.” Violet gave Mrs. Dobbs a warm smile. Of course, thoughts of her children and their enjoyment of something always brought out Vi’s biggest, brightest smile. Mine, too, come to think of it.

Mr. Burly—sorry, Mr. Addison, though he looked like a Mr. Burly to me—came into the waiting room wiping his hands on a blue paper towel. “We’ve got you ready to roll again, Ms. Martin.”

“What happened to the tire?” I asked. “Did I run through some broken glass or something?”

“I don’t know. You had a small puncture, but the object wasn’t embedded. We patched it, and the patch should last for the life of the tire.”

“So I won’t need to buy a new tire when I get home?”

“Not unless you run over some more sharp objects on your way.” Mr. Burly laughed at his own joke, and the rest of us smiled out of politeness.

While he wrote up his invoice, Mrs. Dobbs stood. “Girls, I’m glad I was able to help.”

“So are we,” I said. “Thank you so much. If I can ever return the favor, let me know.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” she said, waving an index finger through the air.

“Please do.”

“Violet,” Mrs. Dobbs said, “it was a pleasure meeting you, dear.”

“Trust me,” Violet said with a laugh, “the pleasure was mine.”

Mrs. Dobbs left, and Mr. Burly handed me his bill. I handed him my credit card; and when he gave it back along with his receipt, Violet and I got in the car to resume our strange journey home.

“I can give you some money on the tire repairs . . . and to help with gas,” Violet began.

“Nonsense. Christmas is coming up. Buy me a vacation house on Lake Tahoe, and we’ll call it even.”

“Ha, ha. It was lucky for us Mrs. Dobbs came along, huh?”

“Yeah. Talk about your uncomfortably weird coincidences.”

“What do you mean?”

“The cake I’m delivering tomorrow is for Candy. She works at Dobbs’ Pet Store.”

“Huh. That is a coincidence. I wouldn’t call it ‘uncomfortably weird’ though.”

“I would, because the
real
coincidence is that Ben thinks the cake is for Mr. Dobbs.” I cut a glance her way. “I think it is, too.”

“And? Lots of people buy cakes for their boss.”

“But everybody in town thinks Candy and Mr. Dobbs are having an affair.”

“Just because—”

“Yodel Watson said she caught them. It was in her journal.”

Violet emitted an angry growl. “I wish that stupid journal had gone up in flames the night that old battleaxe died. It was filled with nothing but hatred, gossip and bitterness, and bitterness is what that book has left in Mrs. Watson’s wake.”

“I know. I’m sorry I brought it up. It’s just . . . if Candy is having an affair with Mrs. Dobbs’ husband . . . ” I sighed. “I don’t know.”

“That’s right. You don’t know. You’re making a cake for a client. You have nothing to feel guilty about.”

“But it seems like I’m condoning their affair.”

“You aren’t condoning anything…except maybe your business. A client called and asked for a cake and you made it, right?”

“Right.”

“Did your client say, ‘This cake is for my married boss, and I’m buying him a cake because we’re having a torrid extra-marital affair’?”

I giggled. “No.”

“Okay. End of guilt.”

“You’ve got a lot of wisdom for a baby sister, you know that?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.” With that, she turned on the CD player and cranked the volume.

*

I went to bed early last night and thus awoke early this morning. By now I had all my chess pieces completed, and they were in the refrigerator awaiting placement on the cake. I opened the freezer and took out the baking sheets containing the white and dark chocolate I had melted before going to bed last night. Using a heavy cardboard pattern and a small sharp knife, I cut the chocolate into one-by-one-inch squares. I placed the baking sheets back in the refrigerator until I was ready to place the squares on the cake.

I then made the chocolate butter cream frosting and divided it into two bowls. I thinned one bowl to medium consistency for piping the cake’s borders. I carefully added enough water to the first bowl to render the icing of thin consistency for frosting the cake.

I put a cake icing tip into a sixteen-inch featherweight decorator bag and added a generous amount of thin consistency icing. I turned the bag to where the tip would leave a combed effect to the sides of the square Mocha Madeira cake.

Before I could begin icing the cake, the telephone rang. I’d neglected to put on my headset, since no one normally called this early. A knot was gathering in the pit of my stomach as I put aside the decorator bag and answered the phone. I hoped something hadn’t happened to hamper Mom’s going home from the hospital.

“Daphne, good morning. I hope I’m not calling too early.”

There was a vague familiarity to the voice, but I couldn’t place it. I was just happy this call wasn’t about Mom.

“Not at all,” I said.

“I trust you and your sister had no further problems getting home?”

Janey Dobbs.
“We sure didn’t. I can’t tell you how much we appreciated your help last night.”

“Why, you’re welcome. I’m glad I was able to be where I was needed. I recall your telling me to let you know if you could ever return the favor.”

“That’s right; I did.”

“If this is too short notice, don’t you hesitate to say so; but today is my husband’s birthday, and I wondered if you could make him a cake.”

I hesitated.

“It wouldn’t have to be anything fancy, and I wouldn’t need it until late this afternoon.”

“What kind of cake does Mr. Dobbs like?”

“Oh, anything will do. White cake with white icing and a few icing flowers of some kind would be marvelous.”

I had some peach and yellow roses in the freezer, so I could pull this off. “Would you like there to be any writing on the cake?”

“Yes. ‘Happy birthday with love to my darling Kellen.’”

That would sure fill up a quarter of a sheet cake. “Okay, Mrs. Dobbs. When and where would you like the cake delivered?”

“Could you bring it to our house at around five-thirty this afternoon?”

I told her I could, and she gave me directions to the house.

After talking with Mrs. Dobbs, I washed my hands and resumed work on Candy’s cake. If both cakes were indeed for Mr. Dobbs, he would be getting two entirely different cakes…one “positively perfect” and one “anything will do.” For some reason, the prospect of making the “anything will do” cake left me feeling a little sad.

*

At ten a.m. I delivered the “positively perfect” chessboard cake to Dobbs’ Pet Store. I noticed that since my last visit, a bell had been installed above the door. I imagine they were getting tired of being . . . well, surprised.

“Can I help you?” Mr. Dobbs asked. His voice sounded a tad gruff, and I wasn’t sure whether he was coming down with a cold or was aggravated about something . . . possibly about turning a year older.

Before I could respond, Candy had scurried to the front of the store, put her arm around me and was rushing me down the hall to a back room.

“She’s here to see me, Kel,” she called over her shoulder. She gave me a conspiratorial wink. “Right here.”

She flipped on a light, and I saw that she’d brought me to a kitchenette-lunchroom combo. I placed the cake box on the table. Candy was practically hopping up and down in anticipation, so I decided to have a little fun with her.