Read Battered to Death (Daphne Martin Cake Mysteries) Online
Authors: Gayle Trent
Battered to Death (Daphne Martin Cake Mysteries) (11 page)
“That’s true enough. Chef Richards even destroyed
a child’s dreams and fragile mental health, for goodness’ sake. You saw the boy—Alex. He was with Lucas and Leslie.” I groaned. “People were probably lined up to throw a punch at that man.”
“Yeah, but it only took one of them to land a punch with a cake stand and then drown him in cake batter,” she said. “I need to get back to loitering unobtrusively and listening in to people’s conversations so I can see what I can dig up on this end of things. Call my cell phone if you need me.”
“All right,” I said. “I appreciate all your hard work.” And I did. But I wondered how long it would take Myra to be forcibly removed from the premises by security. As I watched her sidle up to a group of people and try to blend in, I figured she had another hour at best.
L
OU
G
IMMEL
was personable and funny while he did his figure molding demonstration. I hoped I came off both as knowledgeable and as friendly, but I’d been nervous and doubted I had related to the audience as well as Lou was doing.
“The first thing I’m going to make is a puppy dog,” he said. His eyes sought out the children in the audience. “Does anybody here like puppy dogs?”
The children, as well as many adults, intoned, “Yes!”
“Fluffy!”
There were a couple of boys in the audience who yelled out “mean” and “snarly,” but they were in the minority.
Lou laughed. “All right, then. You’ve come to the right place. I’m going to show you how to make a plump, fluffy, friendly puppy dog. First I’ll need some fondant.” He gestured toward the table where the fondant supplier who was sponsoring his demonstration was located. “I’d like to thank our good friends at Franklin Fondants for supplying this yummy buttercream-flavored fondant for me to use to make our puppy.”
I heard a low male voice about two rows behind me and to my left say, “He’s good. Not only is he likable with the audience, he plays to the sponsors.”
Had I thanked the sponsors as I did my demonstration? I couldn’t remember.
“We’re going to start by rolling our fondant into two kinda large egg shapes, and then we’re gonna make six smaller ovals. You’ll see what they’re all for in just a minute.” As Lou talked, he quickly formed the eight ovals out of the white fondant. He put all but the largest oval into a plastic bag and zipped it shut. “I put the ones I’m not using into the plastic
bag so they don’t dry out before I’m ready to use them, all right? Now, this biggest fondant egg will be the doggie’s body.” He molded it a little more so that it would appear to be in a sitting position. “Okay. I told you this puppy was going to be fluffy, didn’t I?”
The audience—especially the children—responded with an enthusiastic “yes.”
“He
is
good.” This time the voice—also male—came from my right. I guessed this man was talking with the other one because they both sounded close. “I like how he continuously keeps the audience engaged.”
“So do I,” the other man agreed. “And it’s wonderful with a live audience, but will he be as charming when it’s only him and the camera crew? I mean, it’s one thing to entertain a live audience, but how will he come across to a television audience? Or maybe we should have a studio audience if we decide to go with him.”
“I think we should test him both ways—with just a camera crew and with a studio audience—and see how he performs best.”
“Do you think he’ll be interested?” the first man asked. “I mean, he lives in South Carolina. That’ll mean a lot of traveling for him.”
“So? Paula Deen lives in Georgia,” said the second man.
These were television producers. I knew they sometimes came to the bigger cake events to see if they could find any rising stars. I hadn’t expected
any to show up here in Brea Ridge, though. Had they seen my demonstration? If so, what had they said about me? Would they even consider me? Would I even
want
to be considered?
I turned my attention back to Lou who was now “fluffing up” the puppy with large dots of white icing.
“Well, now our little guy is fluffy, but he looks like his hair is sticking every which way, don’t you think?” Lou asked. “He looks like he just rolled out of bed . . . and then maybe stuck his paw in an electrical outlet.”
The audience members laughed.
“I’ll fix that like this.” Lou took a small paintbrush, dipped it into a ramekin of water, and patted down the peaks on the dots. “Ah, that’s better. Now he’s presentable to go out in public.”
“Yeah, Richards would never have played to an audience the way this guy does,” the man to my right whispered. “Gimmel is a natural with people. I think that would work well for him on the talk-show circuit. We should definitely test him.”
“I agree,” said the man to the left. “One reason Richards’s show was in the crapper might’ve been because he wasn’t nicer to the talk-show personalities. No one would have him back on after an initial visit. They went with Paula, Giada, Emeril, or some other person who was easier to work with.”
“Can you blame them?” asked the one on the left.
“And this Gimmel guy isn’t?” asked Mr. Left. “Look at how quickly he’s taken what was essentially a mound of clay and half a cup of icing and turned it into an adorable puppy.”
I was dying to turn around and get a look at these guys. Would I recognize them by their voices if they should talk with me later? I doubted it. They were whispering.
Well, good for Lou. He was a nice guy. And the producers were right—he’d do great on a baking show.
After making the puppy, Lou created a person for the audience. The person was a boy with a baseball cap, and he was created in proportion to the dog. Lou even linked them—both figuratively and literally—by having the boy hold a red leash that went to the dog’s collar.
Ben came in as Lou was finishing up. He sat down and kissed my cheek. “How’s everything going?”
“Lou Gimmel is doing a fantastic job,” I said softly. “In fact, I think some people behind me believe he’s destined for greater things.”
“Really?” Ben asked.
I nodded.
Lou concluded the demo and asked if anyone had questions. Ben and I were quiet as the audience
asked and Lou answered. When everyone began scattering, I tried to see if two men approached Lou; but so many people were headed toward the demo table, I couldn’t tell. I assumed the men would wait until the fans that had gone up for a closer look at Lou’s work had left before moving in to talk with him. But I wasn’t able to watch long enough to see because Ben was pulling me aside.
He caught me looking toward Lou and gently turned my chin back toward him. “This is important.”
“Okay . . . okay,” I said.
“Wait. What is it?” he asked. “Do you think he might be the . . . you know, the
guy
?”
“No. I was just trying to see which ones the producers were.” I shrugged. “You know . . . I wondered if they attended my demo . . . if I’d even recognize them. Not that it matters. It isn’t like I could just walk up and say, ‘Hey, what did you think of my demonstration?’ Right?”
“Is that something you’d be interested in?” Ben asked. “Having your own TV show?”
“No . . . I mean, I doubt it. I just . . . it would be nice . . . you know . . . to be considered.” I shook my head as if physically clearing away the crazy dreams of becoming the next celebrity chef. “What did you find out?”
Ben looked around to ensure that no one was paying any attention to us. Then he said quietly, “Fiona is the one who found Chef Richards’s body
and called nine-one-one. When the police arrived, she was pacing back and forth wringing her hands . . . and she was wearing white gloves.”
“And if she was wearing gloves, then she could’ve hit him with the cake stand without leaving prints,” I said. “So why are the police bearing down so hard on Pauline and me?”
“Because they haven’t ruled out any of you as suspects. Sure, Fiona was wearing gloves, and she might’ve had more motive to kill Chef Richards than you or Pauline had, but that doesn’t mean she did, in fact, crack the guy over the head with the cake stand.”
“Have they looked into Fiona’s past?” I asked. “Or how about
their
past—hers and Chef Richards’s? Maybe the two of them were having an affair.”
He shrugged. “I’m sure the Brea Ridge Police Department is exploring every possibility as quickly as they can. They know time is crucial in this case.”
“Fiona has the next demonstration,” I said. “She’s doing the Australian string work demo.”
“I think we should watch it,” said Ben.
“Yeah . . . maybe she’ll confess or something,” I said. Of course, I was being sarcastic. I didn’t really believe she would confess. In fact, I didn’t believe she was the murderer. But then, like China had told me the day before yesterday, all I
really
knew was that
I
hadn’t killed Chef Richards.
“Australian string work is a lovely and prestigious cake decorating technique that makes it appear as if there is lace on your cake,” she said.
“Could you speak up, please?” called someone from the back.
Fiona nodded, cleared her throat, and tried again. “I’ll be demonstrating basic drop strings and lace points today.”
It was better, but still not great. I could see why Chef Richards was the chef and Fiona was the assistant.
But then Fiona began decorating. And she became more confident. Her voice became stronger and louder as she explained what she was doing. Her work was magnificent—better even than Chef Richards’s.
I looked at Ben, who was sitting beside me. He appeared unaffected by Fiona’s talent.
“She’s a master at this,” I whispered. “I think she’s even better than Chef Richards.”
Violet, Jason, Lucas, and Leslie joined us. Violet sat beside me.
“Why is she wearing those white cotton gloves?” Violet asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know.” I made a mental
note to ask her after the demo. Maybe they kept her hands from slipping or something.
The thought returned that Fiona could have bashed Chef Richards over the head with the cake stand and not left fingerprints on it if she’d been wearing the gloves at the time, but I dismissed it. If you’re angry at a boss, you simply quit your job. A decorator as talented as Fiona would have no trouble whatsoever securing another position. Besides, statistics show that people are more likely to kill a lover than an employer.
That begged the question of whether or not there had been something other than a professional relationship between the two of them. Somehow I couldn’t see that either. Fiona wasn’t the femme fatale type. Plus, I couldn’t imagine Chef Richards being attracted to anyone other than himself for long. A woman more ambitious than Fiona might’ve tried to seduce Chef Richards for whatever career boost he could offer her, but Fiona didn’t appear to be comfortable in front of an audience. I doubted it was something she’d want to do for a living. I could see her happily working behind the scenes making gorgeous wedding cakes or working in a five-star restaurant as a pastry chef. I was guessing Fiona viewed her apprenticeship with Chef Richards as a necessary evil on the road to working in a more private, quietly prestigious position.
When Fiona completed her demonstration, I
excused myself from Ben, Violet, and her family, and I went to speak with Fiona privately.
Once the crowd had thinned, I stepped up to the table. “You did an excellent job. You’re so much better than Chef Richards. I was thinking as I watched you that you should be head pastry chef in an extravagant hotel somewhere.”
She shrugged. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it? I guess I’ve never had much confidence in myself before.” She lifted and dropped her shoulders again.
“I doubt Chef Richards ever helped you realize how talented you are,” I said. “During our class, it appeared that if he couldn’t belittle someone he didn’t say anything at all.”
“He could be all right once you got to know him. But, no, he wasn’t terribly encouraging.” She took off the cotton gloves.
“He was probably afraid he’d lose you . . . as an assistant . . . if you realized how good you were.” I’d watched her face as I’d said he might be afraid of losing her, but I didn’t detect any sign of her having more than a professional relationship with her boss. But then, I wasn’t a facial expression or body language expert by any stretch of the imagination.
I nodded toward the gloves. “Do those help keep your hands steady?”
“They do. Plus, they’re greener than latex gloves. I have several pairs of these, and I just toss them into the washer with my uniforms.” She smiled.
“They can get a little warm in the summertime, but you get used to it.”
I nodded. “I’ll have to try those. Thanks.”
Most of the time I didn’t wear gloves when I was decorating . . . usually only when I was tinting fondant or using modeling chocolate. When I did wear gloves, I used thin, plastic ones that were very inexpensive. They might not have been as environmentally friendly as Fiona’s cotton gloves, but I couldn’t imagine tossing a pair of gloves with black gel coloring all over them into the wash with my other clothes . . . especially if my uniforms were white.
An announcement rang out in the ballroom: “Today’s activities for the first annual Brea Ridge Taste Bud Temptation Cake and Confectionary Arts Exhibit and Competition have now concluded. Please make your way carefully toward the exits and plan to join us again tomorrow morning at ten o’clock for another day of delicious fun. Thank you!”
I smiled at Fiona. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“Yeah. Have a good evening,” she said.
“You too.”
I turned and spotted Ben standing with Violet, Jason, Leslie, Lucas, Molly, Chris, and Alex. I made my way through the exodus to join them.
“We’re talking about going to dinner,” Jason said. “What do you think about us all descending on Dakota’s like a pack of ravenous wolves?”