Dead Pan (12 page)

“Yep. There could be a mechanic. There could be a bartender or a liquor store clerk who knows someone with that type of car was drinking that afternoon.” She shook her head. “Yet the police never got a single lead. That bothers me.”

“It bothers me, too.”

*

When we got home, I invited Myra in. We’d stopped in Lebanon for some lunch, but I thought she might want to come in for awhile. She didn’t. She said she needed to get home and put her fabric away . . . “stuff like that” and that she’d talk with me later.

I was relieved. I love Myra to pieces, but I wanted to relax for awhile before Connie and Fran came over to discuss catering Belinda’s party.

The first thing I did when I went in was check my messages. The answering machine was blinking like the dickens. Excited, I hit play.

The first message was from Violet. “Where are you today? Is everything okay? You didn’t mention going Christmas shopping today, and it isn’t like you to blow everything off—especially during this time of year—to take some unscheduled trip. Call me. I’m concerned.”

Yes, Mom.

The second message was from Ben. “Hi. Still feeling lousy. I’ll call you back later. Hope you’re not sick.”

The third message was from Cara. “Daphne, hi! It’s Cara Logan. You guys disappeared on us last night. What happened? I hope I didn’t upset Benny. Call me, okay?”

There was another message from Violet. “Hey, it’s me again. I ran into Julie, who waits tables part-time at Dakotas. She said you and Ben were there last night and that either Ben got sick or you two had a fight and left. She wasn’t sure which since she heard it both ways.” Her voice softened. “I hope everything is all right. Call me when you can.”

I rolled my eyes.
Great. Now she thinks Ben and I have had some major argument, and I’m holed up at home with my Ben & Jerry’s crying and watching sappy movies.

There was one last message, and it was from Uncle Hal. “Call me. I’m hearing unpleasant rumors about you . . . but don’t say anything about that to your Aunt Nancy.”

Who am I? Daphne Jolie? Since when did I become the subject of unpleasant rumors, and when did people start speculating about Ben and me? Or should I call us Benphe? Or Daphen? Grrr.
All those calls and not a single cake order. Double grrr.

I returned Violet’s calls first.

“Violet,” I said when she answered. “Can you come get me? I’m trapped beneath a house in Oz.”

“Oh, ha-ha; you’re so funny . . . although I’d almost believe that considering the socks you were wearing yesterday. Where’ve you been all day? And if you say something stupid, I swear I’ll hang up on you and call Mom.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“Try me.”

“I’ve been to Haysi with Myra.”

“Because . . . .”

“Because she wanted to visit a fabric shop over there.”

“You dropped everything during a peak baking season to take Myra to a fabric shop an hour and a half away? I don’t think so.”

“You can call and ask her yourself.”

“I know there’s more to it, and you’d better tell me right now before I call Mom.”

“You will so not call Mom,” I said. “Stop threatening me with that. Like the rest of us, you’re still creeping around on eggshells with her out of fear she’ll have another heart attack.”

“Right, but what do you want to bet every odds maker on the Blue Ridge Parkway thinks something you do or say will be the very pain down the left arm that sends Mom back to the emergency room?”

“I cannot believe you just said that to me.” And I really couldn’t. Violet is the golden child. She’d never hurt Mom, even if it was to spite me. “Besides, whoever said there are odds makers on the Blue Ridge Parkway? That’s ridiculous.”

Violet sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“What would you tell Mom anyway? That I took a neighbor shopping? Would that be such a complete shock to her as to cause a myocardial infarction?”

“No, I’d tell her the truth. I’d tell her you’re investigating another death.”

“Vi, look it—”

“No, you look. I care about you, and I don’t want to see you put yourself in jeopardy again. Let it go.”

“Okay.”

“I’ve heard that before,” Violet said. “I don’t know what you’re doing, and I doubt you do either, but I don’t want to be around you—and I won’t have my children around you—if you’ve got a target on your chest.”

“I don’t blame you. And, honestly, I’m through with this . . . pretty much.”

“Pretty much.”

“No, seriously, I’ll tell Ben what little I know and let him and Cara Logan hash out the rest of it.”

“Cara Logan. Why does that name sound familiar?”

“I met her in September at the Oklahoma Sugar Art Show in Tulsa.”

“That’s right. She works for a paper in Northern Virginia, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, plus she’s dating John Holloway of Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals. She’s in a much better position to investigate Fred’s death than I am.”

“You mean it?”

“I mean it. I’ve had enough drama . . . well, except for Belinda Fremont’s New Year’s Eve soiree.”

Violet laughed. “Ooh, la, la. I suppose we’re toasting the arrival of Cavy New Year.”

“Something like that,” I said with a giggle. “You know, Belinda would probably adore that concept.”

“Well, good luck with that. I’d better get back to work before I have to fire myself.”

“Oh, yes, being self-employed bites.”

“It does when the market is as slow as it has been lately.”

“Are you guys okay? I could use some help catering this party and—”

“We’re fine, Daph. Jason’s job is secure, and we’re doing great. It’s you I worry about.”

“And it’s you
I
worry about.”

We shared another laugh and reassured each other that neither of us has anything to worry about before hanging up.

My next call was to Uncle Hal. Lucky for me—I guess—he answered on the first ring.

“Hey, Uncle Hal. It’s me, Daphne. Is this a good time for you to talk?”

“Yeah, honey, this is a fine time. Your Aunt Nancy is visiting one of the neighbors. She took them over some Christmas candy.”

“That was nice.” I decided then I might as well dive in with both feet. “You said you’ve heard some unpleasant rumors.”

I steeled myself for another lecture on investigating Fred Duncan’s death and rehearsed my response. It was, of course, along the same lines of what I’d told Violet—which was the truth, I’m out of the detective business. I have a fancy-schmancy New Year’s Eve party to work on.

I was so busy planning out what I wanted to say to Uncle Hal that when I didn’t hear “Fred Duncan,” I had to have him repeat himself.

“Is it true you’ve been running around with that newspaper fellow, Ben Jacobs?” he asked.

“We’ve had a few dates,” I said. “I’m not sure that qualifies us as ‘running around’ together.”

“I don’t care what it qualifies as. All I know is that you’d better be awful careful with that man. He’s dangerous.”

Chapter Nine

“What? Did you say Ben is dangerous?”

“You heard me.”

“Do you know something I don’t?”

“Obviously. Haven’t you ever wondered why a nice-looking, successful man like Ben Jacobs has never married? Aren’t you the least bit curious as to why he’s not been in a serious relationship since his junior year of college?”

Wow. And they call
me
an investigator. What was Uncle Hal . . . C.I.A.?

“Please tell me you’re not implying what I think you are,” I said.

“You ought to know me well enough to realize I never imply anything. I come right out and tell it like it is. That man is a playboy, and he’s gonna wind up breaking your heart. And I would hope you’ve had enough of that.”

“Uncle Hal, I’ve known Ben since I was a little girl. He doesn’t strike me as the playboy type.”

“There’s nobody so blind as the one who refuses to see.”

“No, really. I think Ben hasn’t been seriously involved with anyone because he’s been focusing on his career . . . and taking care of his parents.” I threw in that last part—albeit true—mainly to try and win Ben some brownie points with Uncle Hal. It didn’t pay off.

“Is that what he’s told you?”

“Yes . . . and I believe him. After all, if I’d spent my time focused on my career instead of in an abusive marriage, I might have my own bakery, or TV show or who-knows-what by now.”

“Exactly. And yet, Mr. Jacobs is still right there in little old Brea Ridge.”

“But, he likes it here. And he freelances for larger newspapers and magazines.”

“Mm-hmm. Sounds to me like you need to spend more time focused on your career and less time with manipulative jerks.”

I sighed. When Uncle Hal gets like this, there’s no reasoning with him. He’s right, he knows what’s best, you don’t, end of discussion.

“All right, Uncle Hal. I’ll be careful. Oh, by the way, how’s Mr. Duncan doing?”

“As you can well imagine, he’s torn all to pieces over Fred’s death. That boy was his only grandson.”

“I’m so sorry for that family,” I said. “First to have Fred get hurt so badly in the car accident—with that hit-and-run driver never found and forced to face charges—and then this. It’s tragic.”

“It is that. I remember Walt Duncan turning that town inside out after Fred’s car wreck looking for that other driver, the car or anybody who might know anything. To this day, Steve Franklin hurries to his office or to the storeroom—whichever’s closest—anytime he sees Walt come into the Save-A-Buck.”

“Why? Did Mr. Duncan think Mr. Franklin had something to do with Fred’s accident?”

Uncle Hal snorted. “Franklin did have something to do with Fred’s accident. He sent Fred out that rainy afternoon rather than running his errand himself like he should have.”

“What errand?”

“To deliver flowers to Franklin’s mother. It was her birthday.”

“What? Why on earth would Mr. Franklin send one of his baggers to take his own mother a birthday gift instead of taking it himself?”

“Now that there is the million dollar question. He told Walt he was just too busy to leave the store. And yet, he had time to get a haircut earlier that day. Which brings me back to our original topic of discussion,” Uncle Hal said. “No man is ever too busy or too focused on his career to do something he really wants to do. If he tells you otherwise, he’s lying.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Uncle Hal.”

“You do that.”

*

I called Ben and Cara. Both were apparently unavailable because both phone numbers went straight to voice mail. I left messages and then got ready to meet with Fran and Carol.

When they arrived, I had the kitchen set up in a Brigade system.

“Tonight we’re doing cookies,” I explained. “I don’t advise tasting the cookie dough.”

“Because of the raw eggs?” Fran asked.

“Because these are guinea pig cookies.”

Both she and Carol made a face.

“They’re probably not bad, just . . . .” I shrugged. “Vegetable and bland tasting, I imagine.”

“We’re only making enough cookies for Belinda’s cavies to sample tonight. Then we’re going to make some people cookies, candy and tarts. So, here’s how this will work. I’ll mix the ingredients into this bowl. Then I’ll pass the bowl down the line to Carol, who will roll out the dough on the waxed paper. Carol will slide the waxed paper down to Fran who will use the water bottle cap beside the parchment-lined cookie sheets to cut guinea pig sized cookies and place them on the cookie sheets. The oven is already preheating and will be ready by the time the batch of cookies is done. Carol, if you don’t mind, while Fran is cutting out the cookies, would you please put the bowl and spoon into the dishwasher? While you guys are taking care of those things, I’ll be setting up the next assembly line.”

“Sounds good to me,” Carol said.

“Me, too,” Fran said.

I put the ingredients into the bowl, mixed them up and slid the bowl to Carol. As I was putting away the cavy cookie ingredients, Carol flipped the dough onto the waxed paper, sprinkled it with flour and began rolling it out.

“What’s she like? Mrs. Fremont, I mean,” Carol said.

“She’s nice,” I said. “She wants things done a particular way; but once you and she have come to an agreement on that and she realizes you’ll work your butt off to make things right for her, she’s easy to work for. And, I have to say, she is awfully proud of that house.”

“I can imagine.” Carol slid the flattened dough down to Fran and took the bowl and spoon to the dishwasher. “What about the rolling pin?”

I tilted my head. “It hasn’t had anything gross on it—just banana, honey, carrots and oats.  Let’s just wipe it off with a damp paper towel, okay?”

“Will do.”

“Tell us about the house,” Fran said, placing tiny cookies onto the baking sheet.

“In a word, wow,” I said. “You know that saying, ‘you had me at hello’? Well, the Fremonts had me at the driveway. It’s a white and terra cotta mosaic. I always feel I should get out in the road and wash my tires before I drive up to the gate.”

Fran and Carol laughed.

“You’ll have to see it for yourselves.” I grinned. “What are you guys doing tomorrow morning at eleven-thirty?”

“I have to work, but I can take my lunch break then,” Carol said, her excitement evident in her voice.

“Good. Fran?”

“We’re on Christmas break, so I’m at your disposal until after the first of the year.”

“Great. Come with me to Mrs. Fremont’s house.”

Carol squealed like a little girl. I could not get over the change in her demeanor. It was as if her evil twin had been here the last time.

“What should I wear?” Carol asked.

“Something casual,” I said. “Business casual. You don’t want her to think you dressed up for her.” I continued gathering the ingredients for pinwheels.

“I know, but it’s almost like meeting the queen or something,” Carol said.

I turned and held my whisk aloft. “I present to you Her Royal Highness Belinda Freemont, Queen of the Guinea Pigs.”

“No, no,” Fran said, with a giggle. “How about Countess Cavy?”

“Countess Cavy,” I echoed. “I like it.”

As we baked the cavy cookies and prepared the other samples, we discussed some of the other ideas Belinda had for the party and how Carol and Fran could help me pull off such a huge undertaking despite everything else going on within the next couple weeks.