Murder Takes the Cake Text Read online

  I waved away her gratitude. “Don’t mention it.”

  “Anyhow, China brought a chocolate and coconut cake. She’d got the recipe out of McCall’s magazine and was just bustin’ to have us all try out this cake. Wouldn’t you know it? In waltzed Yodel with the very same cake.”

  “If she loved to bake so much, I wonder why she gave it up. She told me she didn’t have time to bake these days. Was she active in a lot of groups? I mean, what took up so much of her time?”

  “Keeping tabs on the rest of the town took up her time. When Arlo was alive—he was a Watson, too, of course, though no relation . . . except maybe really distant cousins once or twice removed or something . . . There’s more Watsons in these parts than there are chins . . . at a fat farm. Is that how that saying goes?”

  “I think it’s more Chins than a Chinese phone book.”

  “Huh. I don’t get it. Anyhow, Arlo expected his wife to be more than the town gossip. That’s when Yodel prided herself on her cooking, her volunteer work and all the rest. When he died—oh, I guess it was ten years ago—she gave all that up.” She shook her head. “Shame, too. But, back to the story. Yodel told the new preacher, ‘Wait until you try this cake. It’s my very own recipe.’

  “‘It is not,’ China said. ‘You saw me copy that recipe out of McCall’s when we were both at the beauty shop waitin’ to get our hair done!’

  “‘So what if I did?’ Yodel asked.

  “‘You had to have heard me tell Mary that I was making this cake for the potluck.’

  “Oooh, China was boiling. But Yodel just shrugged and said, ‘I subscribe to McCall’s. How was I supposed to know you’d be making a similar cake?’

  “China got right up in Yodel’s face and hollered, ‘It’s the same cake!’

  “Yodel said it wasn’t. She said, ‘I put almonds and a splash of vanilla in mine. Otherwise that cake would be boring and bland.’

  “At this point, the preacher tried to intervene. ‘They both look delicious,’ he told them, ‘and I’m sure there are enough of us here to eat them both.’

  “Yodel’s and China’s eyes were locked like two snarling dogs, and I don’t believe either of them heard a word he said. China had already set her cake on the table, but Yodel was still holding hers. China calmly placed her hand on the bottom of Yodel’s cake plate and upended that cake right on Yodel’s chest.”

  I giggled. “Really?”

  “Really. And then China walked to the door and said, ‘I’ve had it with her. I won’t be back here until one of us is dead.’ And she ain’t been back to church since.”

  “Wow,” I said. “That’s some story.”

  “Makes you wonder if China finally got tired of sitting home by herself on Sunday mornings.”

  Seeing how serious Myra looked, I stifled my laughter. “Do you honestly think this woman has been nursing a grudge all these years and killed Mrs. Watson rather than simply finding herself another church?”

  “There’s not another Baptist church within ten miles of here.” She finished off her soda. “People have killed for crazier reasons than that, haven’t they?”

  “I suppose, but—”

  “And if it wasn’t China York, I can think of a few other folks who had it in for Yodel.”

  “Come on. I’ll admit she’s been a pain to work with on these cakes, but I have a hard time casting Mrs. Watson in the role of Cruella De Vil.”

  Myra got up and put her empty soda can in the garbage. “I didn’t say she made puppy coats. I said there were a lot of people who’d just as soon not have Yodel Watson around.”

  *

  I was relieved when Myra left. She seemed to be a good person, and I liked her; but she could be a bit much. Everything had to be so dramatic with her. She even had me wondering whether or not poor Mrs. Watson died of natural causes.

  I got up and walked down the hall to my office. It had a sofa bed to double as a guest room if need be. Other than that, it held a desk, a file cabinet and a bookcase full of cookbooks, cake decorating books, small-business books, marketing books and one photograph of me with Lucas and Leslie. The photo had been taken last year when I was at Violet’s house for Christmas.

  I booted up the computer. As always, I checked my e-mail first. E-mail is a procrastinator’s dream come true.

  There was a message from my friend Bonnie, still holding down the fort at the company I’d worked for in Tennessee.

  Hey, girl! Are you up to your eyebrows in cake batter? I can think of worse predicaments. We get off half a day Wednesday. I can hardly wait. Do you have tons of orders to fill before Thursday? I hope so. I mean, I hope business is off to a good start but that you have time to enjoy the holiday, too. I really miss you, Daph. Write when you can and fill me in on everything, especially whether or not any of your neighbors are HAGS!

  I smiled. HAG was our acronym for Hot Available Guys. It wasn’t a flattering acronym, but it worked.

  I marked the e-mail as unread and neglected to reply until I had better news to report. As I deleted my junk messages, I thought about Bonnie. She and I had met while I was taking culinary classes at a local college. She was taking business courses and was desperate to get into the field I wanted out of so badly. We met one evening because we were two of the oldest people in the student lounge. That night even the faculty members present were in their twenties! Bonnie and I were both in our early thirties, and after that initial meeting we had fun people-watching over coffee before all our evening classes.

  When a job came open at our company, Bonnie applied and got the job. I was glad. It wasn’t long after she got the job that my college days came to an abrupt end. Not believing that I could actually be good—make that great—at something, dear hubby Todd came by the school one evening and saw Chef Pierre. Admittedly, Chef Pierre was impressive in every way, but Bonnie and I had already dubbed him a HUG—Hot Unavailable Guy. Chef Pierre was married, had three young children and was devoted to his lovely wife. Todd couldn’t get past the chef’s stellar looks though; and since I was the chef’s star student, Todd thought I had to be sleeping with the man. He’d made me drop out.

  But by then I’d been bitten by the baking bug. I watched TV chefs, bought books—including cake-decorating course books—rented how-to videos, and practiced decorating every chance I got. I’d practice on vinyl placemats. And I’d tell myself “someday.” Now it seemed my “someday” had come. I was an excellent cake decorator, I’d finally taken a chance, and I was finally tuning out Todd’s taunting voice in my head. I believed in myself for the first time in years. I knew I could make this business work.

  The phone rang. It was Violet.

  “Hey, I heard about Mrs. Watson. You must’ve freaked out when you found her.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “I saw Bill Hayden’s wife at the school when I picked up Leslie and Lucas this afternoon.”

  Bill Hayden. Officer Bill Hayden. Married . . . and with children. He must be older than he looked.

  “Why didn’t you call me?” Violet was asking.

  “I don’t know.” Because you’re perfect; and in three years when you turn forty, all you’ll have to be concerned about is laugh lines. Because I didn’t come back home because I need a babysitter. Because I promised myself I wouldn’t be the one thorn in your bouquet of roses. “Myra came over as soon as I got home, so I really didn’t have a chance to call.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you did. Did you tell her about Yodel?”

  “Yeah. Was that all right?”

  “I guess so. It’ll be in the paper tomorrow anyway.”

  “Plus, it’s a really small town, Vi. There were probably a dozen messages on Myra’s answering machine when she got back home. I mean, you heard it at the school, right?”

  “I didn’t mean anything by it,” Violet said. “I’m merely cautioning you to be careful of what you say to Myra.”

  “With Myra, I find myself mostly listening.”

  “I kn
ow that’s true.” Violet laughed. “I’m only asking you to be careful. As a witness in a homicide investigation, you have to watch what you say to the general public.”

  “A homicide investigation? The coroner didn’t send the woman’s body to Roanoke for autopsy until this afternoon. The results couldn’t possibly be in.”

  “No, of course not, but Joanne told me Bill said there were indications of foul play.”

  “Is that ethical?”

  “He only told his wife, Daphne.”

  “And she told you and who knows who else. What is it with small town dramas?”

  “Excuse me, Ms. Big City. I forgot how boring we must be to you now.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I just think Officer Hayden should learn a bit about confidentiality, that’s all.”

  “Please don’t get him in trouble.”

  “I won’t. I—”

  “Let’s talk about Thursday. What time will you be here?”

  “I was thinking eleven, but I can come earlier if you’d like.”

  “No. Eleven’s good. Mom’s spending the night, so I’ll have plenty of help in the kitchen.”

  “Then eleven it is.”

  After talking with Violet, I went out the kitchen door to sit on the side porch. The autumn air was cool outside, but I had on a jacket. Plus, I was feeling a little sorry for myself and felt better in the big wide open than I did in an empty house.

  Violet did have a lot to be proud of. She’d been married for the past fifteen years to a dreamboat of a guy. She had gorgeous eleven-year-old boy/girl twins. She was a successful realtor. She had a lovely home. She had curly blonde hair, blue eyes and a bubbly personality; as opposed to my straight, dark-brown hair, brown eyes, and more serious demeanor. And she had a great relationship with Mom.

  I’d been married for ten years to an abusive manipulator who was currently serving a seven-year term in prison for assault with a deadly weapon after shooting at me. Fortunately, he’d missed; and, in my opinion, he was sentenced to far too little time simply because his aim was off. He’d called it a “mistake.” Whether he meant shooting at me or missing, I have no idea. Mom called the whole ordeal a mistake, too. Neither of them could understand why I filed for divorce.

  “He said he was sorry,” Mom had scolded me over the phone. “You made the man angry, Daphne. You know how you can be. A person can only take so much.”

  I’d hung up on her. A person could only take so much. That was nearly five years ago.

  I heard a plaintive meow and looked up to see the fluffy, gray-and-white, one-eyed stray sitting a short distance away.

  “Me, too, baby,” I told the cat softly as I set out some food for it. “Me, too.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  I awoke the next morning with my head throbbing. Still, headache or not, it was the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, and I had a lot to do. I wanted to make a cake that Mom would “ooh” and “ah” over; but since that was an impossibility, I had to settle for pleasing myself and Violet’s family. Mom thought I was “silly” for leaving a “perfectly good job in order to stay home and make cakes.”

  I pressed my fingertips to my temples and tried not to think about Mom. Instead, I focused on my plans for the day. First stop, ibuprofen and coffee.

  I’d planned for the day to be fairly peaceful: shopping, baking, decorating. Little did I know the specter of Yodel Watson would follow me the entire day.

  My first errand was going to Dobbs’ Pet Store. Being the only pet store in town, Dobbs had everything from hamsters to poisonous snakes and supplies to care for whatever critter struck your fancy.

  Speaking of being stricken, when I walked through the door of the pet shop, I came face to face with a rattlesnake. Fortunately, Kellen Dobbs was holding the snake, but I wasn’t sure I entirely trusted his grip.

  “Be right with you,” Mr. Dobbs said. He squeezed the snake’s head, and a stream of golden venom flowed into a small glass jar on the counter. “We’re not supposed to be open yet. I must’ve forgotten to lock the door back.”

  I stood dumbly, transfixed by the gray-haired, bearded man milking the snake. I’d never seen anything like it.

  A woman came from the back of the store. She appeared to be quite a bit younger than Mr. Dobbs. She had bright red hair and wore too much makeup. I prayed she wouldn’t spook the snake . . . or Mr. Dobbs.

  “He does that a lot,” the woman said. “Forgets to lock the door, I mean.”

  “I didn’t realize the store wasn’t open,” I said. “I can come back—”

  “Nonsense,” Mr. Dobbs said, placing the snake into an aquarium. “Since you’re here, you might as well get what you came after.”

  “I’m looking for some sort of vitamin-enriched cat food,” I said. “I moved into town about a month ago and recently learned I inherited a stray cat. I’ve been giving her—”

  “Hey,” the red-haired woman interrupted, “ain’t you the one who found Yodel Watson yesterday?”

  “Yes. How’d you know?”

  “Joanne Hayden told me. Her husband’s on the police force.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “They think Mrs. Watson might’ve been murdered.”

  “Candy,” Mr. Dobbs said, “go grab one of those purple bags of cat food in aisle four.” He looked at me. “How much do you think you’ll need?”

  “A five-pound bag should be enough for now.”

  “Five-pound bag, Candy!” he called. “What’d they do with the parrot?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Mrs. Watson’s parrot,” he said. “What’d they do with it?”

  “Oh. They sent it to animal control. They’d hoped to turn it over to a family member, but her daughter lives out of town. I guess she can pick Banjo up from animal control when she gets here.”

  “Did you know Mrs. Watson well?”

  “Hardly at all. I’m a cake decorator, and—”

  “Ooh, how neat!” Candy exclaimed, returning with the cat food. “Do you have a business card? You never know when you’re gonna need a pretty birthday cake or . . . I don’t know . . . a wedding cake.” She giggled.

  Mr. Dobbs rang up my purchase. “This should have that cat fattened up in no time.”

  “Thank you.” I paid for the cat food and handed Candy a business card.

  “Thanks,” Candy said with a glance at Mr. Dobbs. “I plan on callin’ you real soon.”

  As I left, I heard one of them lock the door behind me.

  *

  The next stop on my agenda was the grocery store. I needed shortening and confectioner’s sugar, as always, along with a few odds and ends. When I got up to the register, Juanita, the usual morning cashier, was at her post. Sure, I’d only been back in town for a month, but when you bake as much as I do, you get to know the people who work at your grocery store.

  “Good morning, Juanita. Do you have big plans for Thanksgiving?”

  “Oh, yes. My family will have a turkey, but we will also enjoy some of our traditional Mexican favorites like chimichangas.”

  I smiled. “Sounds good.”

  “It is.” She beamed. “And what of you? What are your big plans?”

  My smile faltered. “Dinner with the family.”

  Fred, the produce manager, came to the register and began bagging my groceries. He nodded at me in greeting.

  “I’m surprised the produce department can spare you this close to Thanksgiving,” I said.

  “They can spare me, all right.” He dropped my shortening sticks into a plastic bag. “I’m a bagger now.”

  I looked at Juanita, and she confirmed his announcement with downcast eyes and a slight tilt of her head.

  “I’m sorry,” I told Fred.

  He shrugged. “Not your fault. You’re not the one who complained about the stupid potatoes.” He shook a strand of his long dark hair out of his eyes. “That was Yodel Watson. It was her third complaint about the produce department in a week, and the manager demoted me to keep he
r happy.”

  “Surely, it’s only temporary,” I said.

  “That’s right,” Juanita agreed. “Maybe things will go back to normal now.”

  “Now that the old bag is dead?” Fred grinned. “Couldn’t have happened to a better person.”

  “Um . . . is the manager in? I’ve heard the store sometimes buys baked goods on commission, and I’d like to talk with him about that.”

  “Of course,” Juanita said. She called the store manager over the loudspeaker as Fred stalked away from the register.

  Within a couple minutes, a short, balding man came hurrying from the back of the store. He looked wary as he shot his hand out toward me. “Steve Franklin,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m Daphne Martin of Daphne’s Delectable Cakes.” I shook his hand and then gave him a business card. “I’m of the understanding the store sometimes buys baked goods on commission?”

  “That’s right. We take whatever you bring in; and if it sells, we get a twenty-five percent commission.”

  “That sounds fair. May I put my logo and phone number on the boxes?”

  “Of course.” He tilted his head. “Tomorrow is one of our busiest days. How many cakes can you bring me before the store opens tomorrow morning?”

  “Any special requests?”

  He shook his head.

  I mentally took stock of my freezer. “Then I can bring ten.”

  “Fantastic. I’ll set up a display table right here at the front of the store.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Franklin. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  *

  I was happy to get back home and get to work. Raging rattlers and bitter baggers did not make for a pleasant morning. Nor had they helped my headache one bit. The ten-cake order, on the other hand, had done wonders for my mood.

  I’d finished putting my groceries away and removed the ten cakes from the freezer when Myra knocked on the door.

  In the spirit of Banjo, I called, “Come on in!”

  Myra came in and deposited her penny loafers by the door. I told her she looked pretty in her peach-colored pantsuit.