Battered to Death (Daphne Martin Cake Mysteries) (15 page)

W
HEN WE
arrived at the demonstration area, Pauline was placing
RESERVED
signs, black-and-white head shots of herself, and small bags of chocolates on each front-row chair.

“What’re you doing?” Myra asked her. “Trying to catch yourself a man?”

Pauline gave her an icy stare. “No.”

“This row is reserved for
invited guests,
” Pauline said.

“Oh, well, now, that makes more sense. Who are they? Local National Reservists? Marines?” Myra was still fully fixated on the premise that Pauline had reserved the front row for eligible bachelors.

I didn’t think so. I was right.

“They’re television executives, producers, and directors,” said Pauline. “They sometimes come to these kinds of events looking for new talent. And now that Jordan Richards is dead, they’ll all be looking for somebody new . . . somebody to be the next darling of the baking world.”

“Well, I’ve seen Jordan Richards on TV plenty of times,” said Myra. “I doubt he was anybody’s darling.”

I introduced Myra and Pauline before saying, “Good luck with the producers.”

Her face softened slightly. “Thank you. I don’t know whether or not I’m what they’re looking for, but I won’t know if I don’t try, will I?”

“That’s absolutely right.” I smiled. “You’re braver than I am. I wouldn’t dream of inviting producers to my demo. If I’d had the slightest inkling they were in the audience, I’d have been a nervous wreck. Or rather, I would’ve been even more nervous than I was already.”

“None. I had more than my fair share of fame—or, I should say, notoriety—in Tennessee once.” I was talking about my experience with Todd and the news coverage of that entire mess. “That was plenty.”

“You’re talking about . . . ” Pauline glanced at Myra, not wanting to reveal too much if Myra wasn’t already aware of the situation. “About what Chef Richards mentioned in class?”

I nodded. “During that time, I had cameras in my face everywhere I went. I hated it.”

“But this would be different,” Pauline said. “It would be something good.”

“I don’t think it would be for me,” I said with a smile. “But for you, I think it could be wonderful. Again, I wish you the best. I’m looking forward to watching your demonstration.”

“So am I,” Myra said. “And you never know. One of those producers might be an eligible bachelor. I’m not seeing a ring on your finger.”

As Pauline laughed, a woman in a tailored navy suit approached us. She had short, dark-blond hair, and blue eyes that were accentuated by the suit.

“Excuse me,” the blonde said in a soft, cultured voice. “Are either of you Pauline Wilson? I was told she’d be doing a gum paste demonstration here shortly.”

“I’m Pauline. Are you one of the television executives?”

Pauline’s eyes cut to me and back to Lily. “And you’re looking for me?”

“Yes,” said Ms. Richards. “I’d like to speak with both you and Daphne Martin.”

“I’m Daphne Martin.” I was guessing the police had mentioned to Ms. Richards that the fingerprints found on the murder weapon belonged to Pauline and me, but if that’s what she wanted to talk with us about, I wasn’t going to hurry the conversation along.

“Oh.” Ms. Richards’s face softened into an expression that wasn’t quite a smile. “This is a bit of luck, then. Do either or both of you have just a minute to talk?”

Pauline nodded. “Let’s step over here behind the demonstration table, where we can have a little privacy.”

I started to excuse myself from Myra, but the expression on her face told me that there was no way I was keeping her from being privy to this conversation. The four of us walked over to the demo area. I was well aware—as I assumed Pauline must be—that people were starting to take their seats in the audience, and I prayed that Lily Richards wouldn’t make a nasty scene. My mind raced as I began mounting a defense before the woman even began speaking.

I struggled for something to say. “Chef Richards was a talented man.”

Ms. Richards nodded slowly. “He was. I realize everyone is in a rush, so I’ll get right to the point. The police told me that your fingerprints—both your fingerprints—were found on the cake stand used to hit Jordan over the head.” She held up her left hand. “I’m not here to accuse anyone of anything. I merely want to know what happened to my . . . to Jordan.” She took a steadying breath. “I viewed the body last night . . . and, frankly, I find it hard to believe that even after smashing Jordan over the head with a cake stand, a woman could . . . could do that to him. Jordan was strong. He’d been in the military. He kept in good shape.”

My eyes flew to Pauline. She looked as helpless as I felt. She and I hadn’t discussed the fact that our fingerprints were found on the murder weapon, and now it was not only the elephant in the room, but there was an entire circus going on around us. Myra was leaning in as wide-eyed as a barn owl, Ms. Richards was fighting back tears, and I heard someone I presumed to be a television producer exclaim, “Yum, chocolate!”

“I . . . I . . . ” After those two failed attempts, Pauline said nothing.

“Yes. So am I,” said Pauline, appearing grateful that I’d given her the words she might’ve been groping for. “I really should get ready for my demonstration, though.”

“Of course. I simply wondered how Jordan was acting on Thursday during the class,” Ms. Richards said. “Did it appear anything was wrong?”

“How could you tell?” Myra blurted.

To my surprise, Ms. Richards laughed softly. “You’ve got a point. Jordan was always a bit abrasive. But did it strike any of you that there was anything out of the ordinary going on with him?”

“I didn’t think so,” I said. “I’d only just met him, but I didn’t get the impression that he was concerned or upset about anything.”

“Thank you. I’ll let you go now,” she said.

“Wait. Could we talk later?” I reached into my purse and handed her a business card. “This has my cell phone number on it. Like you, I’d love to figure out what happened to Chef Richards. Maybe if we could talk it over together, we could come up with an answer.”

“I’d like to try,” Ms. Richards said. “Could we perhaps meet for lunch?”

“That would be great,” I said.

“I’d like to join you too,” Pauline said.

“As would I,” said Myra.

“I wasn’t.” Myra lifted her chin. “But I am a private investigator, and I would be happy to offer my expertise in this matter.”

I looked at Myra and felt like Ethel Mertz, wondering what Lucy Ricardo was going to do next.

“I appreciate your help, Ms. Jenkins,” Ms. Richards said. “I’ll look forward to seeing all of you at lunch, then.”

“I’ll let you get ready for your demonstration,” I said to Pauline. “Good luck.”

“Thank you,” she said.

Myra and I went and found seats on the risers well behind the reserved front row.

“What do you think of Ms. Richards coming to town?” Myra whispered.

I shrugged. “I suppose she’s still listed as Chef Richards’s personal contact or something. She seemed genuinely upset about his death.”

“Wonder if she’s the primary beneficiary to his estate?” Myra asked.

“I don’t know. I imagine she probably is. She seemed like a class act, though, don’t you think? I wonder what she ever saw in him.”

“Well, don’t you forget, we were just talking last night about looks being deceiving,” she said.

“That’s a good question,” said Myra. “I’ll send him a text and see what he says.”

I nodded and tried to act like I was paying attention to Pauline as she set up her materials for the gum paste demo. I was actually thinking about Lily Richards and Pauline and Fiona and Gavin Conroy and the other students in the class and wondering which one of them—if
any
of them—had killed Jordan Richards. Ms. Richards had said she didn’t think the killer was a woman, and I was inclined to agree . . . unless she was telling us that because she was the killer and was trying to throw us off her trail.

Still, my fingerprints and Pauline’s were the only ones found on the cake stand. Had someone used that particular cake stand in order to set one of us up? Or was it merely the most convenient object with which to hit Chef Richards?

I sighed, and Myra patted my hand.

“Everything will be all right,” she said, giving me her infamous wink-nod combo. “Now that Lily Richards is in town, the killer is bound to turn up.”

“What makes you say that? Do you think he’ll want to hurt her too?” I asked.

“I don’t know. But in a bunch of those detective movies—especially the old ones—the police inspectors are always saying to ‘searchay the female.’ That means find the woman.”

“So now that the woman is here,” Myra continued, “another piece of the puzzle will fall into place. Just you wait and see.”

Fortunately, the front row began filling up, and Myra focused her attention on seeing if she recognized anyone famous.

“What do you want to bet that’s some of Pauline Wilson’s family or somebody she’s paid to come here and pretend to be TV producers so we’ll all think she’s a big shot?” Myra asked.

“I doubt it,” lowering my voice in the hope that Myra would take the hint and lower hers. “I heard some producers talking during Lou Gimmel’s demonstration yesterday, so I know there are some here.”

“Yeah, but they showed up on their own,” she said. “They didn’t have to be wooed to his demonstration with chocolate.”

“I don’t want to break it to Pauline, but I think they’ll probably end up going with Lou. . . . That is, if they’re truly interested in anyone from our little corner of the world. I’m sure they sent out feelers to the Oklahoma State Sugar Art Show as well as to events hosted by the International Cake Exploration Societé,” I said. “I doubt there’s a shortage of chefs who want to be in the spotlight.”

“Speaking of which, were you just blowing smoke when you told Pauline you wouldn’t want a gig like that?” Myra asked.

“But Pauline’s right—a TV show would be different,” she said.

“Not for long,” I said. “Some gossip columnist would find out about Todd, and I’d have to relive the entire thing all over again.”

“I see your point,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

I gave her a one-armed hug. “I’m not. I’m happy with my life here in Brea Ridge.”

She grinned. “I’m happy you’re here too . . . although, if you ever
do
get on TV and need an assistant, I’d be glad to help out.”

“I know you would,” I said. “Oh, look. Clea Underwood is taking one of the reserved seats. I wonder if Pauline invited her, or if she invited herself?”

“The little snot probably just stole somebody else’s chair,” said Myra. “She likes to act like she’s a big shot, but she’s far from it.”

“Well, Pauline only put
RESERVED
signs in the chairs,” I said. “Clea probably thinks that means VIPs and that she’s certainly one of those.”

She scoffed. “VIP, my butt.”

“Today I’m demonstrating how to make a gum paste calla lily,” she said. “They’re one of the loveliest . . . ” She put her hand up to her mouth and said in a stage whisper, “Albeit
easiest
gum paste flowers to make.”

She kneaded the pre-made white gum paste prior to applying gel color.

“As you can see, I’m using this toothpick to apply yellow gel to my gum paste. This will be used to create the center of my calla lily.” She put on plastic gloves and kneaded the gel into the gum paste until the color was uniform. “Now I’m taking what I’ll need to make a cone-shaped center to my flower, and I’m putting the rest in this plastic wrap to keep it from drying out so it’ll be pliable when I need it later.” She raised an index finger. “Always keep gum paste either in plastic wrap, in use, or drying.” She winked.

“I hope they don’t put her on TV,” Myra whispered. “She’ll make people puke with that fake, peppy, yippee attitude.”

“Before you guys got here, I prepared a slurry using warm water and a little dollop of gum paste,” Pauline said. “The slurry is a sort of glue that will help us make the gum paste adhere to itself and to other substances. I also pre-made my wire hooks.”