Battered to Death (Daphne Martin Cake Mysteries) (20 page)

I
’M GOING
to the hospital,” I said. “Someone should be there for Pauline.”

“I’ll drive you,” said Ben.

“But what about the awards ceremony?” Myra asked. “Let me go to the hospital, and you stay here.”

“No, it’s okay. I’ll try to be back in time for the awards ceremony.” I placed my hand lightly on Myra’s shoulder. “If I don’t make it back and should happen to win something, would you accept it for me?”

“Thanks,” I said.

Ben and I rushed out the door to his Jeep.

“Do you think she’ll be all right?” I asked him. “Wonder if she has any relatives nearby.”

“The hospital personnel will determine all that,” he said. “I’m mainly interested in finding out if the tetanus vaccination did indeed cause her to get sick or if it was something else.”

“What? You think she was poisoned or something too? Has Myra beckoned you over to the dark side?” I barked out a short laugh before looking at Ben. He was serious. “Really? You think someone might’ve done this to her on purpose?”

“Someone killed Jordan Richards,” he said. “Maybe they’re afraid Pauline knows something. Maybe she
does
know something.”

We got to the emergency room just minutes behind the paramedics.

“We’re here for Pauline Wilson,” I said to the nurse at the admissions desk.

“You’ll have to wait until they get her into an exam room and stabilized,” she said. “Then you can go back. You’re family?”

I mumbled something about cake decorating and family that I hoped was unintelligible enough to pass muster and pressed my fist to my mouth.

Ben hugged me. “She’ll be fine, sweetheart.”

“Don’t let me go,” I whispered.

“It’s okay now. She’s moved away from the desk,” he said.

I didn’t tell him that I was no longer putting on a show for the nurse. I meant it. I didn’t ever want Ben Jacobs to let me go. Ever. I hugged him for an extra few seconds before reluctantly stepping out of his arms.

We were about to sit down when the nurse announced that we could see Pauline. We walked quietly into the exam room. There were three beds in the long room divided by curtained partitions. Only one of the other beds was in use. There was a young man with his arm in a sling sitting on the end of the bed. A woman I guessed was his mother held his uninjured hand.

Pauline was hooked up to a heart monitor and an IV.

“Hi,” I said softly.

Her eyes fluttered open. “Daphne . . . what happened?”

“I was hoping you could tell us,” I said. “You said you were ill and went up to your room to lie down. I mentioned to Mark Thompson that you’d had a tetanus shot this morning, and he became concerned that you’d had some sort of anaphylactic reaction to the vaccine.”

“That’s such a relief,” I said.

The doctor checked Pauline’s vital signs and the heart monitor and said she’d be back to check on her within just a few minutes but to ring for the nurse should Pauline need anything before then.

“I’m so glad you’re going to be okay,” I said after the doctor left. “Myra was afraid the same person who killed Chef Richards was trying to do you in.” I chuckled to lessen the seriousness of my statement. “She thought maybe you . . . ” I made exaggerated air quotes. “
Knew too much
.”

Pauline gulped. “I do know something.”

Ben stepped closer to the bed. “You know something about Chef Richards’s murder?”

“Maybe.” She furrowed her brow. “Or it could be nothing . . . only a coincidence. That’s why I didn’t say anything before now. But up in that hotel room, I thought I was going to die. And I decided that if I lived through that horrible episode, I would tell someone what I heard on Thursday after class.”

Ben and I shared a look.

“It was Gavin. That’s why I was so jumpy when I saw him today,” she said. “I was one of the last ones to leave the classroom Thursday evening. But Gavin lingered on purpose.”

“Why were you one of the last to leave?” I asked her. “I know that you and Gavin had been an item at one time or another. Were you hoping to talk with him?”

“No. I can’t believe he told you we’d had an affair,” Pauline said angrily. “It was two years ago, and things have been awkward between us ever since. I was actually hanging around because I wanted to talk with Chef Richards. Gavin was waiting to talk with Chef Richards alone too. I finally gave up and decided I could talk with Chef Richards either before or after class on Friday.”

“Why did you want to talk with Chef Richards alone?” Ben asked.

“I hoped he could use his connections to get me an interview or an audition at one of the cooking shows,” she said. “They’re as common now as houseflies. I knew there had to be at least one of them that could use my talent. That’s why I’d arrived early on Thursday morning—to talk with him about his contacts . . . see who he knew . . . what he might be willing to do. But by the time Chef Richards got there, the class had started filling up.”

Pauline shook her head. “Not to me. But I could see how determined Gavin was. And I knew how stubborn he could be. He’d have outlasted me no matter what.”

“Did Gavin seem angry?” asked Ben.

“Not at first,” she said. “But when I stepped out into the hallway, I spilled my purse. I bent down to pick up the contents, and that’s when I heard Gavin and Chef Richards arguing. I know I shouldn’t have eavesdropped, but I couldn’t help it.”

“Did Gavin threaten Chef Richards?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” said Pauline. “He was telling Chef Richards that he was the best person for the assistant job and that Chef Richards knew it. He said he’d watched Fiona carefully during class and that she wasn’t anywhere near as good a decorator as Gavin was. He accused Chef Richards of only hiring Fiona because she was a woman and because he was attracted to her. Then I heard the name “Lily” being thrown around, but they had lowered their voices and I couldn’t understand what they were saying. Now that I’ve met her, of course, I know they were talking about Chef Richards’s wife . . . or ex-wife . . . or whatever she was.”

“Were you still there in the hallway when Gavin left?” Ben asked.

“This argument took place in the ballroom,” I pointed out. “Chef Richards was murdered in the kitchen. Wasn’t he?”

“He was,” Ben said, “but that doesn’t mean that Gavin didn’t continue to argue with Chef Richards and follow him into the kitchen . . . or that he didn’t come back to continue the argument later.”

“That’s true,” I said. “We need to get back to the inn and talk with Gavin.” I gave Pauline my cell phone number and asked her to call me should she need anything. Then I promised I’d check on her later, and Ben and I headed to the inn.

In the car, I called Myra.

“Hey, Myra, has Gavin Conroy’s memorial service for Chef Richards started yet?” I asked.

“Not yet, but it’s getting ready to. Mark and I are in the demonstration area, where it’s taking place. We thought the killer might show up at the memorial.”

“You might be right on the money there,” I said. “Ben and I are on our way.”

Gavin was finishing up a litany of Chef Richards’s virtues that I, personally, was finding hard to swallow. First of all, from what I’d seen of the dearly departed, his virtues were few and far between. And given what I now knew about Gavin’s argument with Chef Richards, Gavin’s devotion to the man seemed just a little bit too contrived.

When Gavin finished speaking, he asked Lily Richards if she’d like to say a few words. Lily got up and took Gavin’s place in front of the demonstration table. Gavin sat down in a metal folding chair to her right.

The audience applauded Lily Richards. I imagined that most of them were sharing in my feeling of guilt over thinking that the man was a total jerk. When you saw him through his wife’s . . . ex-wife’s . . . estranged wife’s . . . When you saw him through the filter of Lily’s eyes and her misty, watercolor memories, he seemed a lot better than he’d appeared in real life.

No one else volunteered to speak. Gavin stood, placed an arm around Ms. Richards’s shoulders, and thanked everyone for coming.

“If you’d like to remain in the demonstration area, the awards ceremony will be starting in fifteen minutes,” said Gavin.

Most of the audience remained in their seats. Ben and I shared a look of exasperation, and then I shrugged.

“We have to do this,” I said. “It can’t wait.” I strode over to Gavin and Ms. Richards. “Your eulogy was lovely, Ms. Richards.”

“Thank you,” she said.

Ben joined me. “Gavin, may we speak with you alone for just a moment?” He gave Ms. Richards an apologetic smile. “I’m terribly sorry, but this is urgent.”

By this time, Mark and Myra were on either side of Ben and me.

“If Ben says it’s urgent, Mr. Conroy, it’s urgent,” Mark said. “I suggest you come with us unless you’d prefer to air your dirty laundry in public.”

He wasn’t happy about it, but Gavin walked away between Mark and Ben. I turned to Myra as we followed behind them.

“How did Mark know Gavin had dirty laundry?” I asked.

“Oh, honey.
Everybody
has dirty laundry. One of them Eagles even wrote a song about it,” Myra said.

Great. Now that song was stuck in my head.

Ben and Mark led Gavin—and, consequently, Myra and me—to a small conference room just outside the ballroom.

“What is this?” Gavin asked. “I need to be back in that ballroom. I
need
to be comforting a grieving widow. What’s going on here?”

“You tell us,” Ben said. “An eyewitness reports that you and Jordan Richards were arguing the evening before he was found murdered.”

“So what if we were?” he asked. “Jordan was argumentative. Anyone who’d ever met the guy would vouch for that.” His eyes narrowed. “Who are you, anyway? You’re not a cop.”

“No, I’m not,” said Ben. “But I’ve already called them, and they’re on their way here.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Need to take care of something.” I texted Myra:
Ben did NOT call the police. Would you please step outside the room and call them now?

Myra nodded and then said, “I need to take care of something too.” She did her oh-so-subtle wink-nod combo at me and then stepped into the hallway.

“I did not kill Jordan Richards,” Gavin said. “Sure, I argued with the guy. I asked him why I didn’t get the assistant job when I was clearly more qualified than that pink-haired piece of fluff Fiona. Jordan stuck up for her and said she had potential. I said he only wanted to get in her pants. That’s pretty much the extent of our argument.”

“He didn’t insult your appearance like he did in class?” I asked.

“No. That was merely part of his shtick,” Gavin said. “I knew he wasn’t serious.”

“Yet you gave it right back to him in the classroom,” I said. “I admired you for that.”

“Again, that was all part of the routine.” Gavin spread his hands. “Haven’t you watched him on TV? The chefs he works with best are those who stand up to him . . . those who don’t cower around like . . . like that simpering Pauline Wilson.”