Battered to Death (Daphne Martin Cake Mysteries) (12 page)

A
FTER WE
were seated at Dakota’s and waiting for our food to arrive, we had plenty of time to chat since, being the only steakhouse in town, they were swamped. The staff had pushed two tables together to accommodate our group. Alex was seated between Lucas and Leslie, Violet was sitting beside Leslie, and Jason was on Violet’s opposite side. Molly, Alex’s mom, was directly across the table from him, Chris was beside her, Ben was beside Chris, and I was to Ben’s right, facing Jason.

“I write freelance articles for magazines—and websites, now that the print magazine market is dwindling,” she said. “The writing allows me flexible hours and lets me homeschool Alex.”

“That’s great,” I said.

“How about you, Chris?” Jason asked. “What do you do?”

“I’m a pitching coach,” said Chris. “I used to play in the minor leagues, but I suffered a rotator cuff injury that pretty much put a halt to my playing professionally.”

“Did you go to The Show?” Lucas asked.

“Afraid not, buddy,” Chris said. “But I’m currently coaching a young man who I firmly believe will go all the way to the major league.”

“That’s wonderful,” Violet said. “It must be rewarding to be able to help shape a career like that.”

Chis took a sip of his soda before answering. “It is. It’s terrific to be able to look at someone’s face—especially the face of a child or a teen—and know he gets it. He understands what you’re teaching him, he’s applying it, and he’s pitching better than you were at his age. It’s a great feeling.”

“Did you get to meet any of the major leaguers?” Lucas asked. “Like Big Papi, or Dustin Pedroia, or Jacoby Ellsbury?”

“Jacoby Ellsbury is cute,” Leslie said, and then blushed at her confession.

“You’re not a Red Sox fan, are you?” Chris asked with a grin.

“Yeah, I am. Me and Dad both are,” Lucas said. “Are you?”

Chris chuckled. “I like Atlanta myself, but the Red Sox is a super team. I’m sorry to say I haven’t ever had the pleasure of meeting any of those guys.”

“Not yet,” Molly said. “Chris is very talented. I expect the majors to snatch him up and give him a plum pitching coach offer any day now.”

“If only my sister were the general manager for some team with deep pockets,” Chris said.

“Well, if I were, I’d hire you in a heartbeat,” she said.

We all laughed. Even Alex grinned, and it didn’t appear he was predisposed to many displays of emotion.

Then the food arrived, and the small talk turned to the cake show. Everyone thought all the cakes were beautiful, but they nicely told me they thought my wedding cake would win. After seeing the competition, I did not. I did say—sincerely—that I believed Leslie would win her competition.

“Just be glad Jordan Richards wasn’t around to try to disqualify you,” Chris said to Leslie. “He’d have thought no child was capable of making a cake like that without considerable help.”

Molly’s eyes flicked from Chris to Alex to Violet and Jason. “That’s what he told Alex at his competition . . . Alex’s last competition, I mean,” she explained. “We—Chris and I—had hoped to confront Chef Richards . . . to try to make him apologize to Alex.”

“That doesn’t matter now,” Leslie said. “Who cares what that guy thought? We know Alex is an awesome cake decorator, and he’s going to be in the contest next year. Aren’t you, Alex?”

Alex nodded.

“Really?” Molly asked. “Darling, that’s wonderful!”

Alex shrugged.

Chris squeezed his sister’s hand. “I told you this trip would be good for him.”

Molly nodded, blinking back tears.

I was curious about Alex’s dad. Neither Molly nor Chris had mentioned him, and it was obvious that Chris was the major father figure in Alex’s life. Maybe Molly had confided to Violet about Alex’s dad. I’d ask Vi once we were alone.

“Cool,” Lucas said. “I’ll be sure and get his autograph tomorrow.”

“Good idea,” Leslie said. “I’ll get it too.”

“He seemed really nice during the class we were taking from Chef Richards,” I said. “He was my table mate.”

“How did Chef Richards behave during the class?” Molly asked.

“About as domineering and condescending as you’d expect him to be,” I said. “But he knew his stuff.” I frowned. “But then, so does Fiona, his assistant. She did the string work demo today, and she did a better job than he did in class.”

“I don’t know how anybody who was that much of a jerk could get to be where that man was,” Chris said. “Some people work so hard . . . treat everyone with respect . . . and never rise to the level of success he achieved.” He shook his head. “It makes me sick.”

“But professional success isn’t everything,” Molly said. “Chef Richards had to have been a miserable man deep down to have had so much anger and hatred in his heart. It makes me think he didn’t enjoy much
real
success at all.”

He winked at me, and I gave him a small smile.

A
FTER DINNER, WE
all said our goodbyes and went our separate ways. Ben and I walked to the parking lot and got into his white Jeep.

“I have to run home and feed Sandy, and I know you probably need to feed Sparrow,” he said. “I can run you by your house, go home and feed the dog, and then come back to get you.”

I wasn’t sure what he was getting at, so I simply didn’t answer.

“It
would
be easier for you to already be at the hotel in the morning when the ballroom opens and the judging gets under way, wouldn’t it?” he asked. “You wouldn’t have to worry about making yourself any breakfast . . . tidying up . . . What do you say?”

“I think it sounds like a good idea,” I said slowly. “Are . . . are you staying too?”

“No. Something has come up at work, and I need to go back in,” he said. “I don’t know how long I’ll be, and I know you’re tired.”

“Oh.” I nodded. “Then I’d rather go back to the hotel and get my car . . . if you don’t mind. If Sparrow gets out and I have to wait for her to come back, or if something else has happened, I don’t want to delay your getting back to work.”

“Not at all,” I said. “I just don’t know what might happen or what might be waiting for me when I get home.”

“Okay.” He started the car. “I did reserve the room for the whole weekend, you know.” He shot me a glance from the corner of his eye.

“Good.”

“And, hopefully, we’ll have lots to celebrate tomorrow,” he said.

I smiled. “I hope you’re right.” I also hoped we
wouldn’t
be celebrating his upcoming move to Kentucky.

“I hope so too.”

After we pulled into the parking lot at the Brea Ridge Inn, I gave him a kiss that assured him I would miss him this evening and that—I hoped—was better than any kiss he’d ever received from Nickie Zane. I didn’t know I could feel such resentment against someone I’d never met, but I bitterly resented that woman.

We reluctantly separated, and I drove home. I’d no more than pulled into my driveway than my cell phone rang. I was hoping Ben was missing me already, but it wasn’t him. It was Myra.

“Thank goodness you’re home,” she said.

“Myra, what’s wrong?”

“Maybe we should call animal control,” I said. “How big is the dog?”

“It looks kinda like the one that used to sell tacos in those commercials,” said Myra.

“A taco-selling dog?” My mind raced until I could remember the commercials Myra was referencing. “The scary dog on your porch is a
Chihuahua
?”

“Well, I don’t know!” She huffed. “I started to get out of the car, and it ran up barking and growling at me. I didn’t try to make conversation by asking its name and nationality.”

I sighed and rolled my eyes . . . albeit the eye roll didn’t have the desired effect of letting Myra know that I thought she was being ridiculous. “I’ll be right there.”

I got out of the car and stepped into the kitchen to get a slice of ham. Then I walked across both our yards until I was at Myra’s porch. I’d always gotten along with animals, and I didn’t see any reason—at least, nothing obvious—why I should be afraid of this one. As Myra said it did her, the little dog stood up and began barking at me as I neared.

“What’s the matter? You hungry?” I tore off a piece of the ham and tossed it to the dog.

The dog wolfed down the ham and hurried to me with its tail wagging. I gave it another bite of ham.

“Are you sure?” she called.

“I’m almost positive,” I called back.

“I’ll wait until you’re a hundred percent sure!”

I groaned. “I’ll toss the rest of this ham, and when the dog goes after it, you come running, all right?”

“Okay!” she called. “Just don’t throw it between me and the porch!”

Didn’t she give me credit for having any common sense at all? “Fine! Ready, set . . . ” I tossed the ham. “Come on, Myra!”

Myra got out of the car and sprinted to the front door. She quickly unlocked it and got inside. “Ha! You didn’t get me, you little demon! Hurry, Daphne, and get in here!”

Shaking my head, I stepped through the door.

“Quick! Shut and lock the door!” she demanded. She frowned. “I think I have some leftover pot roast we can use to help you get back home.”

“Myra, if you’d have stomped your foot at that dog, I bet it would’ve run off.”

“You never can tell. It looked awfully mean to me. And just because it was small, that doesn’t mean a thing,” she said.

“I guess that’s true,” I said, and then I threw out that old chestnut about looks being deceiving.

I went ahead and stepped out of my shoes, padded into the living room, and sank onto Myra’s sofa.
This ought to be good.

Myra followed me into the living room and sat on the other end of the sofa. “There was this boy in Carl Jr.’s tenth-grade class. He was cute as he could be, but he wasn’t big as a sixth grader. A lot of the other boys gave him a fit . . . well, at least, the ones who didn’t know him well did. He was little, but he could be as mean as an old cross-eyed barn owl.”

“I’ve heard they’re pretty mean,” I said. I actually hadn’t heard that—I mean, how many cross-eyed barn owls were flying around in the world anyhow—but I was getting into the story.

I giggled. “The little guy put his fist over his head and
still
had to jump up to hit the other one?”

“Oh, yeah, honey, Slim was the tallest boy in the class,” she said. “Buck managed to hit Slim twice, and then Slim’s nose started bleeding. Either Slim walked away after that or a teacher broke up the so-called fight—I can’t remember which—but people pretty much left Buck alone after that.”

“I guess so,” I said. “How did you hear about the fight?”

“Carl Jr. told me. He was proud of Buck. They’d always been good friends, and Carl Jr. was tickled that Buck had stood up for himself.” She nodded. “Still, that story proves my point. Just because something is little doesn’t mean it won’t bust your nose and make you bleed. That little demon dog out there might not have big fangs, but they’ll break the skin just the same.”

“But, Myra, I think the poor thing was just hungry and lost. Maybe it belongs to somebody around here.”

“Maybe it does,” she said. “And if you want to babysit the thing, have at it. I don’t want any part of it.”

“All right,” I said. “It might find its way home now that it’s had something to eat.”