Murder Takes the Cake Text Page 4

  There was an entry detailing what great lengths Ben Jacobs would go to get a story.

  He wants to work for one of them fancy city newspapers like Knoxville or Charlotte, and he knows he’ll have to come up with some big stories in order to make that happen. Trouble is, I’m not convinced he cares whether those stories are true or not.

  I knew that was hogwash. I might not have seen Ben in over twenty years, but I remembered his strong sense of integrity. It was one of the things I liked best about him.

  As you can imagine, Fred from the grocery store’s produce department didn’t fare very well in Mrs. Watson’s diary. According to Mrs. Watson, Fred allowed moldy produce to be mixed in with the fresh. The produce didn’t look clean enough. Fred didn’t keep the produce watered properly. He didn’t keep the nuts sorted adequately.

  And everyone knows that especially at this time of year when people are starting their holiday baking, you need to be able to quickly separate your walnuts from your pecans. To think Fred was vying for assistant store manager! I’d hate to see what kind of shape that store would be in with Fred running the show.

  Boring. I turned back the years, so to speak, and saw that the incident with China that took place at the church potluck was written about in agonizing detail. Naturally, China was the villain who stole Mrs. Watson’s recipe because she was desperate for attention. When she failed to wow the crowd with her cake, she drew the spotlight to herself and Mrs. Watson with “a reprehensible cat fight that left my new lavender blouse ruined.”

  I was surprised to see that even Myra merited some ink. Actually, this entry was about a particular fight Myra had with her late husband, Carl.

  There they were at the steakhouse in Abingdon. Annabelle was waitressing that night and saw the whole thing. Now, everybody knows Carl Jenkins is a cheapskate. He pinches his pennies so tight, you can hear Lincoln holler. I think this night was either their anniversary or Myra’s birthday, and she was of a mind to splurge.

  The waitress—not Annabelle but another girl—came over to take their order.

  “We’ll have two of your specials,” Carl said.

  “I don’t believe I’m in the mood for that this evening,” Myra told the waitress. “I believe I will have me a filet mignon cooked medium well and a baked potato with sour cream and butter.”

  “I don’t believe you will,” Carl said to Myra.

  His telling her she couldn’t have what she wanted flew all over Myra.

  My doorbell rang. I looked down at my pajamas and hoped it was Violet at the door.

  “Who is it?” I called.

  “It’s Ben. Ben Jacobs.”

  “Um, give me just a minute.” I raced to the bedroom, put Mrs. Watson’s diary on my nightstand and pulled on a track suit.

  “Did I come at a bad time?” Ben asked when I opened the door. He looked the same, only older: same light brown hair falling into his pale blue eyes, same lanky build, same lopsided smile.

  “No, not really. I—”

  “I realize I should’ve called first. May I come in?”

  “Of course.” I stepped aside.

  “Nice place.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “What brings you by?”

  “I feel terrible about being so insensitive this afternoon.” He grinned sheepishly.

  “Insensitive?”

  “Yeah. I should’ve never compared Mrs. Watson to . . .well, you know . . . a dead animal. How callous can a guy get?”

  We moved into the living room, and I invited him to sit down. He sat down on the couch, and I offered him some tea. He declined, and with small talk dispensed with, he returned to the topic of Yodel Watson.

  “I suppose it’s all these years of journalism,” Ben said. “You learn to remove the emotional element from stories, and you become jaded. Sometimes that makes you come across as cold, but I certainly didn’t mean any harm by it.”

  “No, I understand. You remembered how freaked out I used to get by dead animals, and you knew I’d be terribly affected by finding a dead person.”

  “Exactly. Then you don’t think I’m a monster?”

  “Not at all.” I was sitting in the pink and white club chair, and I tucked my legs under in the fashion Lucas and Leslie would call “crisscross applesauce.”

  “Do you enjoy journalism?” I asked.

  “Love it . . . though sometimes I hanker for the meatier stories of a larger paper.” He smiled. “There’s only so much a body can say about the Christmas parade and the county fair, you know.”

  “You long for the bright lights and big city, huh?”

  “Sometimes. I mean, small town life has its advantages, too.”

  “Yeah,” I said with a laugh, “with so many people willing to gossip, you probably never have to dig very deep for a story.”

  Ben laughed as well. “That’s for sure. I’ve even heard that Mrs. Watson had written a book that would make our little town seem like a veritable Peyton Place.”

  “I’d love to get my hands on that,” I said.

  “You and me both.”

  “If you’re interested in covering more hard-hitting stories, then why don’t you send out some resumes? Surely, with your experience—”

  “Ah, it’s a little late in the game to switch teams.”

  “I wouldn’t be too quick to say that. Look at me.”

  “Yes, but you have more courage than most of us. Besides, I freelance some. That gives me the opportunity to focus on some bigger stories.”

  “That’s good.”

  “How’s the cake decorating business working out?”

  I sighed. “My first client died, which is a lousy testimonial. I guess I’d have to say it isn’t going well at this point.”

  “Look on the bright side,” Ben said with a laugh, “it has to get better. Anyway, Mrs. Watson died before eating the cake. No reflection on you whatsoever.”

  “You always did try to see the bright side.”

  “And you always did try to talk me out of it.”

  I chuckled. “You were a dreamer. I was a realist.”

  “It seems we’ve switched places.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

  He stood. “It’s been great seeing you. You haven’t changed a bit.”

  “There’s a lie you could’ve kept from telling.” I got to my feet and walked Ben to the door.

  “I’d like to call you sometime,” he said. “As for now, I’d better get home. Sally will be getting antsy.”

  I nodded. I wanted to ask who Sally was, but it was none of my business.

  Ben hugged me. “It really was good seeing you.”

  “It was good seeing you, too.”

  “Maybe we can get together after Thanksgiving.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “And you could bring Sally. I’d love to meet her.”

  “You’d love her.”

  After he left, I wondered if he was still the Ben I knew growing up. How strange for him to mention “Sally” without a qualifier—wife, girlfriend, roommate, Girl Friday, parakeet—and then say he’d like to get together after Thanksgiving. On the other hand, he didn’t seem opposed to bringing Sally if we scheduled another meeting. Perhaps my date-deprived mind had merely jumped to conclusions. Still, a girl had to wonder if Ben was a HUG or a HAG.

  While the butter cream was still softening, I put a bowl of soup in the microwave. Making dinner is easy when you live alone. Soup and cold cereal are my favorite staples.

  After eating my bounteous dinner, I put on an apron and got to work on the cakes. The store cakes were easy. I used a sixteen-inch featherweight bag and a cake icer tip to quickly ice all ten round cakes. I smoothed the icing with an angled spatula, and then piped an orange shell border around the top and bottom of each cake. I had twenty pre-made, white, butter-cream roses in the fridge, so I put two in the center of each cake. I tinted a small amount of frosting green and rolled a parchment triangle into a disposable bag. I cut the bottom from the bag and pl
aced the leaf tip and green icing into the bag. After adding leaves to the store cakes’ roses, they were ready to go into boxes.

  The cakes had been fairly simple to do, but the work had tired me out. Still, I was determined to get the family cake done and to make it look terrific.

  I covered a cake square with gold foil, sat the cake on it and then put the cake on my turntable. Since I’d used a three-inch deep square pan and had decided not to use a filling, I set to work on the single-layer cake. I iced the cake, and then smoothed the icing using an old trick I learned from a cake decorator while I was still in high school. I dipped my twelve-inch angled spatula into hot water and then smoothed the sides and top of the cake.

  I placed a tip coupler into a disposable cake decorator bag. I put two large spoonfuls of white icing in the bag. I was going for an elegant look, so I decided on Swiss dots.

  I put a number five tip onto the coupler and piped medium-sized dots for the top and bottom borders of the cake. Afterwards, I changed to a smaller tip and piped small dots on the sides and top. I always get peaks on my dots, so I dipped my fingertip in cornstarch and patted them down.

  I took a strand of tiny pearls, cut them to the dimensions of the cake and placed them inside and outside the top and bottom borders. I figured that after Thanksgiving dinner Leslie and I could use the pearls to make necklaces for her dolls or stuffed animals.

  I piped a large mound of frosting in the center of the cake and inserted artificial flowers into the mound. Then I put the cake in a box and sat it in the refrigerator.

  There. My family’s cake was finished, and my Wednesday was free in case anybody had any last-minute cake requests.

  After cleaning up the kitchen, I was ready to change from my track suit back into my pajamas. I went into the bedroom, changed my clothes and then propped myself up against the headboard. I was anxious to see how Myra’s fight with Carl turned out. From what I knew of Myra, I’m betting she wound up with that filet mignon somehow.

  I picked up the book. This time, however, I opened the book from the front. The book was sketchy. The entries were a lot more scant in the earlier years. As I was leafing through the book to find the story about Myra and Carl, another familiar name jumped out at me.

  Gloria Carter.

  Mom.

  Gloria Carter is at it again. Every time poor Jim goes out of town, Gloria is seen somewhere with Vern March. Vern has even been seen at Gloria’s house! What gall!

  Vern March. I remembered Vern. Uncle Vern. He was Dad’s best friend. Mrs. Watson was just a spiteful old busybody. Mom and Vern weren’t having an affair.

  I feel sorry for Jim. He’s devoted to those girls, and he’s been a good husband to Gloria. He deserves better.

  Lindy, who works at Attorney Platt’s office, says Gloria came in yesterday and had a long talk with the attorney. Lindy says Gloria is thinking of divorcing Jim so she can marry Vern.

  What nonsense. Vern was like a part of the family. He did spend a lot of time at the house whether Dad was there or not . . . and he was affectionate to Mom . . . and to Violet and me. But why would this Lindy tell Mrs. Watson Mom had been to see the attorney if Mom hadn’t been there? Could it be true?

  Attorney Platt told Gloria that if she did divorce Jim, she was in the wrong unless she could get Jim to agree to the divorce and make it some sort of equitable settlement. He said Jim wouldn’t have to pay spousal support if Gloria leaves him for another man.

  Poor Jim was in Boston on business the week that Gloria went to see Attorney Platt.

  I remember that trip. Dad brought Violet and me little Red Sox bears. I still have mine.

  I closed my eyes and tried to think back to that week. There had been a night when Mom had sent us into the den to watch TV while she and Vern had sat in the dining room at the table. I remember them speaking in hushed voices, and Violet and I had wondered what they were talking about. Vern wasn’t married, and Violet and I thought maybe he’d found a girl he was interested in and was talking to Mom about her. Maybe we were right. We’d never guessed, though, that the girl was Mom.

  When Jim’s brother Hal found out what was going on, he paid Vern a visit. I didn’t see Vern myself, but Ellie that works at the hospital said he was in awful shape. Both his eyes were black, his nose was broken and he even had a couple broken ribs. When he got to the emergency room, Vern said he’d fallen down a flight of stairs at his house; but everybody knew that was a lie. Anybody who’d even driven by Vern March’s house knew there was no flight of stairs in the place. The three steps leading up to the porch was the closest thing to a flight of stairs Vern had. And, even if he was falling down drunk, he couldn’t have done that kind of damage falling down three steps. Plus, Ellie said they did blood work and that Vern hadn’t had a drop to drink that night.

  Vern never drank, at least, as far as I knew. And we’d been to Vern’s house. Mrs. Watson was right—he had no flight of stairs.

  Uncle Hal was the type who would do anything to protect his family. He was a big bear of a man who always made me feel safe. When I was a little girl, I thought Uncle Hal was a giant. I thought he could protect me from anything.

  I’d seen his temper flare up a time or two. It was frightening. Did I think Uncle Hal would beat up a man who was rumored to be having an affair with Mom? Yes. He wouldn’t hesitate.

  Vern left town about a month after that. He put his house on the market and never came back.

  I put the book down and wiped my sweaty palms on the bedspread. I didn’t remember Vern being in any sort of accident . . . didn’t recall seeing him all beat up. But after thinking about it for a few minutes, I couldn’t recollect seeing him after Dad’s trip to Boston either.

  Blinking back tears, I picked up the phone and dialed Violet.

  “What are you doing?” I asked when she answered the phone.

  “Watching television with Jason and the kids. You sound weird. Is everything okay?”

  “I-I don’t know. I just . . . heard something that blew me away.”

  “What is it?”

  “Do you remember Vern March?”

  She was silent a fraction of an instant too long.

  “Violet?”

  “Yes, of course, I remember him. Why?”

  “You know, don’t you?”

  “Know what?”

  “That he and Mom were having an affair.”

  “Don’t be silly. Who told you that?”

  “Violet, this is me you’re talking to.”

  “Oh, all right, let me switch phones.”

  I heard a series of muffled thuds and clicks while she switched over to the cordless phone and moved presumably to her bedroom where she could talk more privately.

  “Look, Daphne, whatever happened between Mom and Vern March was a long time ago.”

  “So?”

  “So, it doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “It does to me.”

  She blew out a heavy breath. “Please, can you not simply let this go?”

  “No, I can’t. Tell me what you know and when you found it out.”

  “Mom told me about it a few years ago. She said she fell in love with Vern.”

  I thought I would explode. “What does she know about love?”

  “Hello. You’re talking about our mother. She made a mistake, okay? She fell in love with somebody. It happens.”

  “It happens? That’s your take on this? It happens?”

  “Yes, Daphne. Why in the world are you bringing this mess up now?”

  “I just found out about it. Unlike you, who has known for years. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because I knew you’d react the way you’re reacting. And Mom didn’t tell you because she knew the same thing. It’s over and done with. Why are you making such a federal case about it now?”

  “I’m making a federal case about it because she cheated on our father! And, not only that, when Todd tried to blow my brains out, she called that a mistake! A mistake, Vi! She tho
ught I should forgive the man and make nice!”

  “Please calm down. Is this about Mom or about Todd?”

  “It’s about Mom! She was gonna leave Dad for a guy she fell in love with but wanted me to stay with a man who had tried to kill me?”

  “Mom doesn’t think Todd was trying to kill you. She thinks he was only trying to get your attention,” Violet said. “She believes that if he’d meant to kill you, he would have.”

  “Oh, so I should’ve stayed and let him finish the job? That makes me feel much better.”

  “No, you shouldn’t have stayed!”

  “That’s not what Mom thinks. She told me marriage is sacred and that I should give Todd another chance.”

  “She said that because she gave Dad another chance.”

  “That’s rich.” I laughed harshly. “She gave Dad another chance? To what? Bring another friend home?”

  “No. Another chance to make her happy. And it worked out.”

  “Are you telling me Dad knows about Mom and Vern March?”

  Violet groaned. “No. He doesn’t know. Promise me you won’t tell him.”

  “What about Uncle Hal? Didn’t Uncle Hal tell him?”

  “Mom begged him not to, and I don’t think he ever did. It’s in the past, Daph. Can’t you let it go?”

  “No. I’m not sure I can.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I was at the Save-A-Buck Wednesday morning even before Steve Franklin. I had cakes stacked in the trunk as well as in the back seat of my Mini Cooper; and after he unlocked the doors, Mr. Franklin helped me carry in the boxes. I nearly dropped mine when Fred came barreling past and shoved me aside.

  “Hey, Franklin,” he said. “I saw on the schedule where I’m supposed to work tomorrow.”

  “I’m with someone right now, Fred,” Mr. Franklin said. “We’ll discuss this later.”

  “I’m supposed to be off tomorrow,” Fred continued. “You said I could be off.”

  “Everyone is working four hours tomorrow. If you’re not happy with that, you can tender your resignation.” He put the two cake boxes he was holding onto a table near the front windows. “Right here, Ms. Martin.”