Murder Takes the Cake Text (23 page)

Unfortunately, as I was booting up the computer, the phone rang. It was Fred from Save-A-Buck. Surprise left me nearly speechless.

“Uh . . . what can I do for you, Fred?”

“My papaw’s birthday is coming up. I was wondering if you could make him a cake with a picture of a snake on it.”

“Yes, I could do that. Would you want the snake to look kind of scary or more along the lines of something funny?”

“I think a funny one would be good, don’t you?”

“I think so, yes. What about if I make you a round cake with the border being a snake with the snake’s head in the middle of the cake?”

“That’d be awesome. Could you write, ‘Happy Birthday, Papaw’ on it?”

“I can. When will you need the cake, Fred?”

“Um . . . next Sunday, if that’s okay.”

“That’ll be fine.”

We discussed flavors, and Fred chose a red velvet cake with vanilla butter cream icing. I decided phone call interruptions weren’t such a bad thing after all.

*

Before getting ready for my date with Ben, I called Uncle Hal. Aunt Nancy answered the phone.

“Hello, dear. How are you?”

“I’m fine, Aunt Nancy. You?”

“I’m doing well . . . running your uncle all over town to this sale and that.” She giggled.

“Is he there?”

“Yes . . . hold on a second.”

Uncle Hal came on the line. “Hey, baby girl, what do you know?”

“First of all, tell me how Dad’s doing. He calls and updates me about Mom; and even though he says he’s fine, I’m not so sure.”

“He is doing fine. Your daddy is a tough old bird.”

“Does he need me to come up and help with Mom?”

“Honey, if he needed you to come up, he’d say so.”

“No, he wouldn’t. That’s why I’m calling you . . . one of the reasons anyway.”

“All right. I’ll keep an eye on him and if it appears he’s wearing himself out, I’ll give you a call.”

“Great. Thanks. The other thing I wanted to tell you is that Mom was never married to Vern March.”

“No, I didn’t think so.” He kept his voice casual for Aunt Nancy, as if we were still talking about Dad.

“It was Gloria
Cline
he married when they were young.”

“Okay. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Have you heard from your MRI yet?”

“Yep, baby girl. That’s looking peachy.”

“Thank you, Uncle Hal . . . for everything. Oh, one more thing—what do you know about Walt Duncan’s grandson, Fred?”

“I believe he used to be a good kid before he was in that car wreck. I know Walt worries, but he doesn’t say too awful much. Why?”

“It seems to me he has a Jekyll and Hyde thing going on. Every time I saw him in Save-A-Buck last week, he acted like a total jerk. Today when I was getting groceries I saw him and asked him about his snake, and he acted nice. In fact, he called later to ask me to make a cake for Mr. Duncan’s birthday.”

“You must be in demand if he’s calling that far in advance.”

“He said his papaw’s birthday is next Sunday.”

“Either that boy’s memory is slipping—which is possible, given his condition—or mine is,” Uncle Hal said. “I seem to recall Walt’s birthday being in the spring.”

I didn’t have a response to that. Perhaps Fred’s memory was fuzzy . . . or maybe he knew better than Uncle Hal when his own grandfather was born.

“It’s probably all right,” Uncle Hal continued, “but you be awful careful where that boy is concerned. He’s not stable.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

After talking with Uncle Hal, I called Annabelle and updated her on Banjo’s living arrangements.

“I hope they do keep him at Dr. Lancaster’s office,” she said. “That would be such excellent company for him.”

“I agree. It’s evident the receptionist has fallen for him already.”

Annabelle laughed. “The little charmer. By the way, I got a call from the police department. The yellow stain on Mother’s carpet was snake venom.”

“How could that be?” I asked. “Do the police think there was a snake in the house?”

“They’re not sure, but they do believe snake venom caused her death.”

“How do you feel about that?”
What was wrong with me? I had suddenly turned into Barbra Walters.

“Horrible. I hope she didn’t suffer.” Her voice broke.

“I hope so, too.”

“The officer I spoke with said he doesn’t think she did.”

“That . . . that’s a comfort then.”

“Yeah . . . I guess.”

Our conversation had become so awkward I didn’t want to prolong it. “I have to go. Please let me know if you need anything or if there’s anything I can do.”

“Just be careful, Daphne. Someone you know might be a killer.”

I’d considered that idea more than once. My hands finally stopped shaking as I was putting on my makeup, when Ben arrived.

“I love your house,” he said, stepping into the kitchen. “It always smells like vanilla.”

“That’s one of the few fringe benefits I have in this business.” I smiled. “Help yourself to anything in the fridge, while I finish getting ready. I’ll be out in a second.” I went back to the bathroom to finish doing my face.

I heard Ben open the refrigerator door. “Anything interesting happen today?” he asked. He sounded as if his head was buried inside the appliance.

“I had a
lot
of interesting things happen. How about you?”

He closed the refrigerator door. “Nah, my day was fairly boring.”

“I spoke with Annabelle Fontaine,” I said as I returned from the bathroom.

Ben had got a bottle of water and was leaning against the counter. “How is she?”

“She’s coping. She did say the police had informed her of the cause of her mother’s death.” I held up a hand. “Don’t worry—I acted completely ignorant about the snake venom.”

He took a swig of his water. “Any leads they’re discussing with her?”

“She didn’t mention anyone in particular . . . or any particular motive, for that matter. She did remind me that the killer could be someone we know.”

“Statistically speaking, that’s almost a certainty.”

“Thank you for the reassurance.”

Ben spread his hands. “I’m sorry, but it’s true. In a town this size, what are the odds Mrs. Watson’s killer was a drifter . . . a drifter carrying snake venom who went unnoticed by everybody else in town?”

“Since you’re starting to freak me out a bit, let’s change the subject to one I’m more comfortable discussing,” I said. “You. Did you ever work for one of the larger newspapers?”

“Are we talking
The Washington Post
or
The New York Times
, or do you mean a smaller larger newspaper?”

“Either. You know what I mean. I feel you have too much ambition to work on a small town newspaper. So why do you remain where you are? Are you writing the Great American Novel? Are you waiting for that one big local story to propel you into the national media?”

“Daphne, we’ve discussed this.”

“I know we have, but I’d like a more satisfactory answer that what you’ve given me before. I’d like the truth.”

“All right. After I got out of college, I had several good offers; but Dad’s health wasn’t good. He had to quit work and go on disability. I stayed in the area to be near my family…to help them in any way I could. I’m an only child, you know.” He took one last drink of his water and recapped the bottle. “Dad’s doing much better now. He’s still on disability, but overall, he’s fine.”

“And yet you wanted to stay close.”

“Yeah, I did. I enjoy my work here—I have a position with at least some authority, and I have enough seniority to take off whenever I want. And, as I told you, I freelance some articles to larger papers and magazines; and I might very well write a book someday.” He grinned. “Who knows? I may write a true crime novel about the murder of Yodel Watson.” He widened his eyes. “I could call it ‘The Hiss Fit.’ Get it? A take-off on ‘misfit’?” He raised his hands and curved his fingers into claws. “Or how about ‘Venomous Vengeance’?”

“Stop it, okay? You’re completely creeping me out.”

He laughed. “Good. Let’s go get some Chinese food. By the way, we’re playing twenty questions about
your
life on the drive over.”

“I don’t think I’ve finished with my twenty questions about your life yet.”

“Too bad, so sad. It’s my turn.”

We were laughing when we went out and got into Ben’s Jeep.

We had a great dinner, and a great time.

I wish I could tell you the mood for our date remained jovial the entire evening, but it didn’t.

When we got back to my house and stepped out of the Jeep, a message was smeared across my flagstone walkway. It appeared to have been written in blood.

MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS.

I gasped, and Ben put his arms around me.

“We have to call the police.”

I nodded then began looking around frantically. “Sparrow? Sparrow?”

“Who’s Sparrow?”

“The cat . . . she’s the cat . . . somebody might’ve . . . whoever did this—”

“It’s okay.” Ben turned me toward him and pulled me closer. “It’s all right. The cat’s hiding. She’s fine.”

“But that looks like blood, and—”

“If she was a tame cat, I might be concerned. But she won’t even come to you at this point, Daph. You know she wouldn’t let anyone else catch her.”

I tried to get my breathing under control. “You’re . . . you’re probably right. She’s okay.”

Ben was peering over top of my head. “I don’t think this is blood, either. I think it’s paint. Anyway, let’s get you inside and call the police.”

He kept one arm around me as I handed him my key. He unlocked the door and preceded me inside.

“I’ll check around and make sure everything is safe. You call 9-1-1.”

“All right.”

I made the call and was told that a unit would promptly be dispatched to my residence. I then put the kettle on for tea.

Ben came into the kitchen. “Everything seems to be fine. How are you?”

“I think I’ll be better after the police have come and gone. It always makes me uncomfortable to deal with the police.”

“You talk as if you’ve dealt with them on a regular basis.”

“Have you forgotten my past? Gun-crazy ex?”

“I’m sorry. For a moment, I did forget.” He kissed the top of my head.

“You helped me forget for a moment, too.”

“I’d like to help you forget for a lot longer than a moment.”

He hugged me, and I allowed myself to relax for a moment into his embrace.

The tea kettle whistled.

And the police arrived.

I grabbed the kettle while Ben answered the door. The policemen turned down my offer of tea, so I made a cup for Ben and me. The officers confirmed that the message had been written with paint, not blood; and they asked me if I knew who might’ve left it. They already knew about my slight connection to Yodel Watson. I knew Kellen Dobbs would appreciate my minding my own business, but I didn’t want to accuse him or anyone else unjustly. I’d been there and knew how that felt.

The police told me they’d patrol the area more frequently for the next few days and asked me to call if I thought of anything else or needed any further assistance.

It wasn’t until everyone had left and I was alone, in bed with the light on, staring up at the ceiling, that I gave more thought to Kellen Dobbs’ attitude . . . and his venomous snakes.

*

Imagine my surprise when, before I’d even got up the next morning, China York was on my walkway with a can of turpentine.

“Let me get dressed,” I told her, “and I’ll be right out.”

“Take your time.” She pointed at the scrawled threat. “I’ll be working on this.”

I quickly put on a track suit, pulled my hair into a ponytail and hurried back outside. “I really appreciate your doing this, Ms. York, but . . . . how did you know?”

“Heard it come over the police scanner last night. I listen to the scanner most nights . . . like to know what’s going on.”

I took the extra rag Ms. York had brought and dipped it into the turpentine. She was scrubbing at one end of the painted message, so I knelt at the other end and set to work. We worked in silence until we were finished.

My legs were stiff and achy when I stood, but Ms. York seemed to have no discomfort whatsoever.

“How about I make us some coffee and heat up some crumb cake?”

Ms. York grinned. “Sounds like a winner to me.”

We went inside. I washed up at the kitchen sink while Ms. York washed up in the bathroom. By the time she joined me in the kitchen, coffee was pouring into the pot and the crumb cake was in the microwave.

She sat down at the table. “Who do you reckon you’ve ticked off, Daphne?”

“I honestly can’t say. Mr. Dobbs seemed angry at me when I was in his store yesterday, but he pretty much
always
seems angry.”

“He don’t have a pleasant disposition, but I can’t see him sneaking over here and writing on your porch at night. Generally, when Kel has something to say, he says it.”

The microwave dinged, and I took out our cake. I set the cake on the table between us, cut two squares and put them on our dessert plates. “He didn’t mince his words at the store yesterday, so I’ll have to agree with you there.”

The coffee was done. I poured two cups, put them on the table and then set the cream and sugar out. I sat down.

“Can you think of anybody who
would
sneak over here and write on my walkway?” I asked.

Ms. York spooned sugar into her coffee. “I can think of a few folks. Question is, who do
you
think did it?”

“Like I’ve already said, I have no idea.”

“Yeah, you do. Your subconscious knows. Your ‘here and now’ just has to catch up.”

“How do I tell my ‘here and now’ to do that?”

“It’ll come to you.”

“Can you
make
it come to me?”

She laughed gently. “No, child. Only you can do that.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I decided to make a cake for the sleepover. That meant a trip to Save-A-Buck. After cleaning the walkway, I didn’t have time to dawdle if I was going to get the cake finished and get over to Vi’s house by five p.m. Unfortunately, Fred was bringing carts in off the parking lot and was in an uncharacteristically talkative mood.