Murder Takes the Cake Text (19 page)

You can still get back in your car and go home, little girl.

I looked back at my car, red paint sparkling in the sunshine. It was a pretty car…reliable…half tank of gas . . . faulty tire had been repaired. I’d enjoyed the ride to Gate City insofar as I’d tried to enjoy the scenery and forget my purpose for coming. I’d enjoy the ride back home, too. Wouldn’t I? Or would I be kicking myself the entire way for getting this close to some answers and then wimping out?

I glanced up at the tower once more. Then I took the steps at the left side of the courthouse, squared my shoulders and walked through the door. I asked for assistance from a smartly-dressed blonde woman and was ushered into a large records room.

“The marriage records from 1960 will be in this cabinet, filed alphabetically.”

“Thank you.”

She left, and I began looking through the M’s. Within five minutes, I’d found the record.

March, Vernon P., and Cline, Gloria A.

Cline. Not Carter.

Tears of relief pricked my eyes. I blinked rapidly and read the rest of the document.

Jane S. Cline had signed the consent form as Gloria’s mother. Yet, I knew Gloria’s mother had not consented to the marriage. Not that it really mattered to me at this point. My mother had not been married to Vern March, and she was not Jonah’s mother. I could now go home and put this part of my mystery to rest.

*

As soon as I got home, I called Violet. “Can you talk?”

“I’ve got a few minutes. What’s up?”

“I went to Scott County this morning. Our mom was never married to Vern March. It was Gloria
Cline
.”

“Great. See? I knew you were worrying yourself for no reason.”

“And you weren’t worried? I really was afraid Jonah March was our half brother, Vi. I wonder if I should let Peggy and Joanne know they have Gloria Cline—not Gloria Carter—to blame for all Vern’s problems?”

“Well, she wasn’t responsible for all of them. Remember, Uncle Hal did run the man out of town.”

“With good reason. I have to place the blame for that squarely on Vern and . . . well, mostly on Vern.”

“Yeah. I’m glad your fears were put to rest, sis.”

“So, you truly weren’t worried at all?”

“I’ve already made peace with Mom’s past, Daphne. I hope this will help you do the same.”

“I hope so, too. Do you think I should tell Peggy March about Gloria Cline?”

“I guess so. Maybe somehow it’ll ease her mind, too.”

“Maybe so. I’ll talk with you soon.”

We rang off, and I hung up the phone. I nearly wet my pants when I turned and saw Myra standing in the doorway.

“I knocked,” she said, “but you didn’t answer. Since the door was open, I came on in. Hope you don’t mind.”

“N-not a bit.”

“Didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard you saying something about Gloria Cline.”

“Do you know her?”

“Not really. But I know her sister . . . and you do, too.”

I frowned.

“Janey Dobbs. Janey was a Cline before she married Kellen Dobbs. Do you recall my telling you about the snack cake factory? It was Cline’s Cakes and Snacks.”

“I heard Gloria Cline once spent time in a mental institution.”

“Spent time?” Myra snorted. “She
lives
there. From what I’ve heard, Janey’s sister has been in the nut house since she was eighteen- or nineteen-years old. Some boy broke her heart, and she had a nervous breakdown or something.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Uh, yeah, that’s why she’s in the loony bin.”

“No, I mean, we all have our teenage heartbreaks. Was something wrong with her to begin with?”

“You mean, did she have what folks used to call ‘a delicate condition?’ Something like that?”

I nodded.

“I don’t know; but you’d think so, wouldn’t you? If they locked up everybody who’s ever been heartbroken, very few of us would be out wandering around.”

“I sure wouldn’t be.”

“Me, either.” She giggled. “I guess you and I come from sturdier stock than poor old Gloria Cline.”

“Apparently so,” I said. But I couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to Gloria’s story than I knew. I silently cursed myself for reading every Victoria Holt novel ever written and tried to put Gloria out of my mind.

When Myra left, I listened to my answering machine messages. The first was from Candy:

“Daphne, it’s me. Candy. I positively cannot thank you enough for the wonderful cake you made. I’ve saved you a piece of it, so you come on by the store and get it, okay? Thanks again, sweetie. You do great work. I’m tellin’ everybody!”

Candy apparently was sincere with regard to being head of my marketing department. The next call was a potential client.

“Hello, Ms. Martin. I’m Belinda Fremont, and I’m planning a party for my precious Guinevere. I’d like to talk with you, so give me a call as soon as possible.”

She left her home, pager and cell numbers. Surely, I’d be able to reach her on one of them.

The final message was from Ben.

“Hi, Daph. Give me a call when you get in. Thanks.”

My first call back was to Belinda Fremont. She answered promptly but refused to discuss business over the phone.

“Please bring some cake samples and your portfolio to my home at 143 Wedgwood Street at three-thirty p.m. today.”

“All right,” I said as brightly as I could. “I’ll look forward to seeing you then.”

I’d been so depressed over the Yodel Watson situation and its effect on my business that I’d neglected to stock my freezer with as many sample cakes as I should have. I looked at the clock. It was a quarter past eleven. I’d have to work quickly.

I checked the freezer and did have a square spice cake on hand. I sat it on the counter to thaw. Candy was saving me a piece of the Mocha Madeira—that was two samples. I needed three more sample cakes.

I hurriedly thumbed through my cookbooks and came up with an almond pound cake, a strawberry cake and a chocolate peanut butter cake. I mixed like mad. While the cakes were baking, I made cream cheese and chocolate frostings. The cream cheese was for the spice cake, and the chocolate was for the chocolate peanut butter cake. Luckily, I had a batch of vanilla butter cream in the fridge that would work nicely with the almond pound cake and the strawberry cake.

By two-thirty, my kitchen was a disaster area; but I had four two-inch-by-one-inch cake samples to present to Mrs. Fremont. I put the samples on a lace-patterned cake square in a “Daphne’s Delectable Cakes” box, grabbed my portfolio off the desk in my office and rushed out to the car. I carefully placed the cake samples on the passenger seat and sat the portfolio against the box to further cushion the samples.

I realized I was still wearing my apron. I decided I didn’t have time to unlock the door and hang the apron up, so I merely folded it and laid it on the back seat. I got in the car and was put in that precarious position of having to hurry but having to also be very careful. If you’ve ever had to drive a woman in labor to the hospital, or drive an animal in labor to the veterinarian’s office, or drive an elaborate cake to an important function, then you know what I mean.

My first stop was Dobbs’ Pet Store. I experienced a mental speed bump when I noticed the rather large iguana standing on the counter. Thinking four cake samples was probably enough, I started back out the door.

Candy had spotted me, though. “Hi! Come on back here.”

I glanced nervously toward the counter.

“Aw, she won’t hurt you,” Kel said. “She’s been under the weather lately anyhow.”

“Put her in her cage or at least hold her a minute,” Candy said. “Daphne’s scared of her.”

With a look that told me Kel much preferred animals to people, he scooped up the lizard and cradled her against his chest.

“Thanks.” I followed Candy to the back.

“Boy-howdy, your cake was a hit.” Candy handed me a small plastic container. “It was all I could do to save you that tiny piece.”

“You didn’t have to save me a slice, but it was sweet of you to think of me.”

“Gosh, you’re welcome. Once the customers found out that cake was back here . . ..” She looked down at her turquoise sneakers. “I reckon you know the cake was for Kel.”

“I figured as much. Back when I had a
real job
, I always made the boss a nice birthday cake.”

She raised her head and smiled. “You did?”

“Of course. Especially since his birthday was around performance review time!”

We both laughed.

“I was afraid you’d think bad of me if you knew the cake was for Kel.”

I shook my head. “How could such a thoughtful gesture made me feel badly toward you?”

Candy gave me one of her now-anticipated hugs. I took my cake, darted past Kel and his scaly beast and got into the car. I drove to the stop sign before transferring the Mocha Madeira cake into the box with my other samples. I’d have hated for Candy to look out the shop window and wonder what I was doing with the cake she’d so painstakingly preserved for me.

I’d told Candy the truth—I didn’t feel badly toward her. The more I got to know her, the more I felt that she—and Mrs. Dobbs, for that matter—were victims of Kellen Dobbs’ manipulations.

*

I’d been impressed with the Dobbs’ house; I was impressed with Belinda Fremont’s
driveway
. A burnished plaque on the gate assured me I was at the right place, 143 Wedgwood. I drove onto the white and terra cotta bricks, half-wishing I’d washed my car before coming here so my tires wouldn’t dirty up the intricate design. I put down my window and pressed the intercom call button to my left.

“Yes?” responded a male voice.

“I’m Daphne Martin. I have a three-thirty appointment with Mrs. Fremont.”

“Of course.”

The wrought iron gates opened to allow me entrance to the magical kingdom. I drove slowly up the pattered drive until an elegant white . . . hotel . . . appeared before me.

Remember how I said no one could accuse Janey and Kellen Dobbs of living in the low-rent district? Belinda Fremont could. And I don’t even want to hazard a guess at where that put
me
on the social measuring stick.

When I got close to the…estate? Mansion? Castle? . . . a man in tan slacks and a brown sweater walked down the stairs.

I put down my window once again. “Mr. Fremont?”

He chuckled. “Hardly.”

I recognized his voice as that of the gatekeeper.

“I’ll carry your packages inside,” he continued, “and then I’ll park your car. Please leave the keys in the ignition.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Valet parking? Maybe this is a hotel! Am I supposed to tip this man?

I followed him up the steps and into a Victorian-style sitting room. He sat my box and my portfolio side by side on a round table in the middle of the room.

“I’ll tell Mrs. Fremont you’re here.” He grinned. “Good luck.”

He left the room before I could ask what he’d meant by that. I went to stand by the fireplace where a small fire knocked the chill off the room. I’m no historian by any means, but the love seat and high backed chairs made me think they were done in the Louis XIV style. The paintings on the walls and the photographs on the mantle were of people dressed in the style of the early 1900s. The women had parasols and dresses with cinched waists and bustles. The gentlemen wore bowlers and had ridiculous moustaches.

“Hello!” boomed a cheery voice from the doorway. “I’m Belinda Fremont.”

“I’m Daphne—”

“Yes, I know. Let’s see what you can do.” She strode over to the table and opened my portfolio.

What struck me about Belinda Fremont was that, despite her cultured voice and her lofty demeanor, she seemed young—no more than thirty five, I’d venture. Of course, plastic surgery can make anyone look young; but she didn’t have that restriction of facial movement many plastic surgery patients often end up with. Nor did she have a turkey neck or crone hands. If only she’d take off her shoes so I could see if she had old-person feet.

Still, I thought she probably was as young as she looked . . . which made me feel like a failure somehow. Idiotic, I know, but your emotions will rear up in the strangest of places.

“Nice,” Mrs. Fremont was saying as she flipped through my cake photos. “That’s cute. Pretty. Intriguing.” She turned to me. “I’m assuming the samples are in the box?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Let’s take them into the kitchen and try them.”

I followed her down the gleaming hardwood hallway, resisting the urge to smile down at my reflection to make sure there was nothing in my teeth. She led me to a kitchen that was drool-worthy. Not only for the smells coming from the various pots on the stove and/or the two—yes, two—ovens, but for its sheer enormity. I could bake and decorate—not to mention store all my stuff…and buy lots more stuff to store—until I passed out from glee. Can you pass out from glee? Probably. I was feeling light-headed already, and that was simply from considering the possibilities.

I noticed that both Mrs. Fremont and her cook, who I’d not noticed previously, were staring at me. And I realized I was gazing around the room with my mouth wide open. I closed my mouth and smiled shyly at Mrs. Fremont.

“What?” she asked.

“It’s just . . . your house . . . it’s incredible.”

She smiled. “Thank you. It’s modeled after Crane Cottage on Jekyll Island. You know, off the coast of Georgia. A historic home from the island’s years as a private playground for the country’s richest families. Are you familiar with it?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’ve vacationed there.”

“You’ll recall then that Crane Cottage is the largest of the private residences still remaining.”

I nodded. Good thing I had no desire to interrupt, because talking about her home was obviously one of Belinda Fremont’s favorite pastimes.

“Like Crane, this home was built in the Italian Renaissance style. I even have a replica of the courtyard out back. I’ll show you before you leave provided it’s still light enough outside to appreciate it.”

“Thank you. I’d enjoy that.”

“We have lighting in the summer, of course, but not so much during the fall and winter months. Perhaps if things work out well, you can do something else for us.” Mrs. Fremont opened the box. “Plates and forks, please, Hilda.”