Dead Pan (6 page)

“Ben isn’t expecting me,” I said. “If he’s too busy to see me, that’s fine.”

“Oh, I doubt he’s ever too busy to see you. Have you been practicing wedding cakes?”

“No.”

“You’d better hop to it.”

Since Ben had survived for the past forty years without walking down the aisle—or, I suppose, standing at the end of an aisle—I didn’t see the need to rush out and buy a cake topper just yet . . . even if I was ready to take that step myself—which evidently was neither here nor there in the eyes of Granny Newspaper Office Matchmaker.

She called Ben and told him I was there. She then hung up and instructed me to go on back.

I went down the hall to Ben’s office and he met me at the door.

“Getting to see you twice today before noon,” he said. “How did I get so lucky?”

“Have you spoken with Dr. Holloway of Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals?”

He nodded and ushered me into his office. “I spoke with him just after I left your house this morning.”

I sat down on one of the chairs in front of his desk, and he sat on the other.

“I ran into Cara Logan this morning.”

“The reporter from Richmond?” he asked.

“Yeah. She was coming out of the café and wanted to chat.”

“Did she share any information?”

“Not much. And when I asked about speaking with Dr. Holloway, she told me her article will answer all my questions. She acted like I was trying to scoop her.”

“That’s silly. You wouldn’t do that.” He grinned. “But I would. Besides, I don’t know how she can be completely objective since she’s dating John Holloway.”

“I don’t think that’s a problem for Cara. In fact, she seemed to like the fact that Fred’s death added to the personal interest aspect of the story, even if it does look bad for Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals.”

Ben shook his head. “She sounds like a lovely person.”

“She can be nice,” I said. “At least, she was in Oklahoma. But she’s very driven.”

“Sounds like it.”

“So what did you learn from Dr. Holloway?”

“They’d been working on a drug to quickly combat the effects of gastroenteritis.”

“What’s that?”

“Stomach flu.”

“But aren’t there already a lot of those types of drugs on the market?” I asked.

“Apparently none that work as quickly as this one, barring IVs.”

“What a coincidence they had this on hand when everyone fell ill at the Christmas party. Looks pretty suspicious to me.”

“I made that same observation,” Ben said, “but Holloway seemed to have been genuinely surprised when the people at the party became ill.”

“You said they were working on this drug. It hadn’t been approved yet?”

“Yes and no. Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals had been performing various clinical trials with the drug, and it’s due to be released as a prescription drug shortly after the first of the year.”

“So the party attendees weren’t the first test subjects for this drug,” I said.

“No. The product had already been widely tested. Fred is the only person who died after taking it.”

“Did Dr. Holloway offer any speculation about why Fred was adversely affected?”

“He has no clue . . . unless Fred was allergic to some component of the drug, which Holloway feels is unlikely,” Ben said. “And unlike his girlfriend, he seems to feel genuinely bad about Fred . . . and I don’t mean because of the legal hassles this will prompt. The guy is in the business of saving lives. He thought dispensing that drug the other evening was a heroic action.”

“Are there any drug interactions that have an adverse effect when taken with this drug?” I asked.

“None that they’re currently aware of.”

“Did Dr. Holloway ask the people if they were currently taking any meds or had known drug allergies prior to dispensing the drug?”

“He did. He also had them sign waivers. Well, I think they more literally initialed the waivers,” Ben said. “Most of them weren’t physically able to sign their names.”

“Ugh. Why didn’t they rush the people to the hospital rather than doing on-the-spot first aid?”

“They did call an ambulance. While they were awaiting paramedics, they administered the new drug. By the time the ambulance arrived, seventy-five percent of the people affected were feeling some better.” Ben spread his hands. “Everyone else—with the exception of Fred, of course—recovered completely within twenty-four hours.”

“Wow. Whatever the drug is, it must be a hundred times better than the over-the-counter stuff.”

“I guess so. Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals stands to make billions off it. Or, at least, they did.”

“So now what?”

“Now they have to see what the fallout from this incident will be.”

“Is Dr. Holloway optimistic?” I asked.

“He’s guarded. He’s waiting for Fred’s autopsy report to see what that reveals.”

“Was he guarded when he talked with you?”

“No. He was open and candid. He did ask me to refrain from painting Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals in a bad light to the best of my ability.”

“What did you say to that?” I asked.

“I told him I certainly didn’t want to portray Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals negatively and that I would report the facts objectively,” he said. “And I told him I’d report the fact that he and Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals are working diligently to learn what happened to cause Fred Duncan’s death.”

“That’s good.” I sighed. “I feel so sorry for Fred’s family. You know they’re thinking, ‘Why Fred?’”

“I know. But, then, that’s what we’re all wondering. Isn’t it?”

Chapter Four

After leaving the newspaper offices, I was ready to go home, rock out and lose myself in a virtual world for a little while. Then I got home and checked my messages. Mr. Franklin had called with eight more cake orders—four birthday and four seasonal. Cara had called with the name and number of the publicist I “absolutely
have
” to call. And Belinda Fremont, who has the prize-winning guinea pigs, wanted to talk with me about catering a New Year’s Eve affair.

The video game would have to wait. I decided to unwind by losing myself in butter cream. Belinda would also have to wait, for at least an hour or so. Cara’s publicist would have to wait longer . . . much, much longer.

Eight cakes. Mr. Franklin hadn’t specified what kinds—other than four birthday and four seasonal. I had two white round cakes in the freezer, along with two chocolate quarter sheet cakes. I sat those out to thaw. For two of the cakes, I decided to prepare a pumpkin crème cake with cream cheese filling and vanilla butter cream frosting.

I got out my favorite blue mixing bowl, my whisk, my pumpkin crème cake recipe and the necessary ingredients. I put my phone headset on, turned on the radio and began singing Christmas carols while I worked. Soon the kitchen smelled like pumpkin and vanilla, and my soul was content.

While the pumpkin cakes were baking, I mixed up two marble cakes and poured those into the pans. Then I put the ingredients for a double batch of vanilla butter cream in my stand mixer bowl.

The phone rang and I answered, “Daphne’s Delectable Cakes. How may I help you?”

“Daphne, it’s Fran. Sorry about how my mom acted this morning.”

“Oh, sweetheart, that’s fine. She’s only concerned about your aunt.”

“I know,” Fran said, “but sometimes she can be a little over the top.”

I chuckled. “All moms can be.”

“Thank you for breakfast. Everything was delicious. I wish I could cook like you.”

“Thank you.”

“Instead of tomorrow, would you care to go with me to Aunt Connie’s house later this afternoon?” she asked. “The funeral home is having Aunt Connie come to view Fred’s body at four-thirty to make sure he looks okay . . . or something. Mom is taking Aunt Connie over there, so I thought that might be a good time for us to begin investigating. What do you think?”

“Is it all right with your Aunt Connie?”

“Yeah, sure, it’s fine. I asked her. Only I didn’t let Mom hear me.”

I didn’t blame her, but I refrained from saying so. “Shall I meet you there then?”

“Or I could come by and pick you up at around four,” she said.

“All right. I’ll see you at four.”

“Good deal.”

After talking with Fran and while keeping butter cream off the sides of the mixing bowl with a silicone spatula, I returned Belinda’s call.

“Daphne, darling, how are you?” she asked.

“I’m doing well. And you?”

“I’m excited. As you already know from the message I left you earlier, I’m hosting a New Year’s Eve soiree. Of course, I’ll need something for the people and something for the cavies. Can you come by sometime tomorrow to discuss?”

“I certainly can. Morning or afternoon?”

“Let’s do one-thirty, but we’ll have to be quiet. The babies go down for their naps at one p.m.”

The “babies” are, naturally, Belinda’s champion Satin Peruvian guinea pigs. “I’ll be all tiptoes and whispers,” I said.

“Great. And bring not only your ideas about cakes but also about dessert bars and cold buffet foods . . . maybe hot buffet foods, too. We’ll see what we come up with when we put our heads together.”

*

By the time the four freshly baked cakes had cooled enough—and the four previously frozen cakes had warmed enough—to be crumb coated, it was two-thirty. By the time I’d crumb coated all eight cakes, Fran was pulling into my driveway. She knocked on the kitchen door as I was cleaning up.

“Come on in,” I said. “Can you give me five minutes?”

“No problem. Anything I can do to help?”

“Nope. I’ve almost got it.” I followed her confused stare to the eight crumb-coated cakes sitting on cake stands on the island in the center of the kitchen. “Don’t worry,” I said with a laugh. “I’m not leaving them like that. That’s a crumb coat.”

“Oh, sure. Yeah.”

I could tell she still had no idea what I was talking about. “It’s like a paint primer . . . or a base coat when you polish your nails. When I get back, I’ll put another layer of frosting on the cake; and the cakes will be even and crumb free.”

She turned and smiled at me. “I get it now. Cool.”

I finished putting bowls, spoons and spatulas into the dishwasher. Then I threw away the waxed paper I’d been using as a tablecloth and ran a kitchen wipe over the counter.

“All done,” I said. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah. And we’ll probably need to be finished at Aunt Connie’s house by five o’clock.”

I cocked my head. “Are you sure your Aunt Connie knows we’re coming?”

“She does. But Mom doesn’t.”

“Don’t you think we should tell her?” I asked.

“Later, maybe. Not tonight, though. We’d better go.”

Although still a little hesitant given the fact that Fran’s mother wasn’t on board with our investigation—and neither was my sister, for that matter—I went on with Fran. After all, Connie knew Fran and I would be there; and she was desperate to know what had happened to her son. I felt I owed it to her and to Fran to help find out, if I could.

The house was still and quiet when Fran unlocked the door and we walked in. I hadn’t expected it to be loud and lively, of course, but the air of sadness and gloom hung in the house like a thick fog. Somewhere a clock ticked, a constant reminder of time’s limits and preciousness.

Fran flipped a switch, but the ensuring overhead light did little to expel the gloom. The room had dark wood paneling and dark furniture. I wondered if I’d have found it cozy under different circumstances. Somehow, I didn’t think so.

“Fred’s room is this way,” Fran said.

I followed her down a narrow hallway lined on both sides with pictures of Fred at various stages of his life. In high school, he’d evidently been quite the athlete: baseball, football, basketball. There was even a photo of Fred as a member of a bowling league. I wondered—not for the first time, but more intensely now—how Fred’s car accident had affected his life . . . how it had affected Connie’s life.

Fran led me into a room cluttered with clothes, sketchbooks and magazines featuring athletes and reptiles. I was struck by the fact that there were no video game systems in the room. Maybe his brain injury had prevented him from playing video games. Fran had said computers gave Fred a headache.

Fran turned on the lamp which sat on Fred’s nightstand, and I got a better view of the room. There was a shelf on the wall across from the neatly-made bed that held an array of trophies. The dresser held a small television set, another trophy and an aquarium containing Fred’s ball python Rusty.

Fred must have had such a promising future before the accident. Not that he didn’t have a promising future after the accident, but this was not the room of a young man whose dream was to bag groceries at Save-A-Buck for the rest of his life.

“I never knew Fred was so invested in sports,” I said.

“Yeah,” Fran said, running her finger gently over the nameplate of the trophy on the dresser. “He was something.”

“We don’t have to do this right now.”

She sniffled. “We need to. Let’s get it done.” She wiped her nose on the back of her hand. “What are we looking for?”

“An address book, notebook, phone numbers, business cards . . . anything like that.” I picked up a sketchbook from off the nightstand and began thumbing through it. The sketches were mostly of cars, and I knew I didn’t have time to look through it carefully. “Can we take this with us? We can look it over at my house, and you can bring it back.”

Fran looked over her shoulder. “Yeah, that’s fine. What about this?” She held up a small, black, spiral-bound notepad. “It has some writing in it.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s take anything that might have potential back to my house where we’ll have time to look it over. You can return it later this evening.” At her troubled expression, I added, “Or, you know, at your discretion.”

“Okay.” She looked relieved.

I understood. Sneak it out; sneak it back in. Mom is none the wiser. That one gave me a momentary twinge of guilt, but I had a speedy recovery. I felt Carol had been a tad harsh with Fran at breakfast; although, admittedly, having no children of my own left me in no position to pass judgment.

I didn’t find any business cards or scraps of paper with phone numbers written on them. Neither did Fran. We decided Fred would have likely kept anything like that which was important to him in his wallet. And we had no idea where that was.