Battered to Death (Daphne Martin Cake Mysteries) by Gayle Trent Page B
Authors: Gayle Trent
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Baker. “But don’t leave town.”
“I’ll be right here in Brea Ridge.” I hoped I’d be able to stand up and walk out of this room without my legs giving way.
I WAS WEARY when I got home. I started to finish my orchids for the cake I was entering in tomorrow’s competition, but I figured what was the point? I might be in jail by tomorrow morning. I might just take a bath and then curl up in my bed underneath the covers and hide. So what if it wasn’t even noon?
Myra’s car had not been in her driveway when I’d pulled into mine. I was a tad relieved. I wasn’t ready to talk things over with her yet. I didn’t know whether or not I was ready to talk them over with anyone, which is why I ignored the frantic blinking of my answering machine light.
Sparrow brushed around my ankles.
“Thank you,” I said softly. That’s one of the good things about pets. They let you know they’re there, but they don’t needle you to talk about your feelings. They don’t ask intrusive or scary questions. They don’t speculate with you about what your fate might be if Chef Richards’s killer isn’t found and the Brea Ridge Police Department finds a way to pin the crime on you.
I adamantly did not want to talk about my feelings, answer any questions, or do any speculating. Any of the aforementioned activities would have me falling apart. I was a strong, independent woman. I was not going to fall apart.
As I was making this affirmation to myself, someone tapped lightly on the kitchen door. I turned to see China York standing there, looking like a cross between a wood nymph and Willie Nelson. She had gray braids that hung to her waist, and her tiny frame was swallowed up in a pair of jeans and a blue flannel work shirt.
When I saw her, my lips began to quiver. She opened the door and came on inside, enfolding me in her arms. I clung to her and wept.
“It’s all right, sweetie,” she said. “I heard about that chef on the scanner, and somehow I knew you’d be right in the middle of it. But everything’s all right.” China led me into the living room, and we sat down on the sofa.
I cried until I could barely breathe. “They . . . think . . . I . . . did . . . it.”
“Hogwash,” she said, rubbing my shoulder. “They know better.”
“No, they don’t.” I shook my head vehemently. “They don’t, China! My fingerprints are on the murder weapon. Well, they’re on a cake stand that the police think is the murder weapon.” I took a shuddering breath. “I’m going to go to jail, and Ben’s going to take a job in Kentucky and marry his old girlfriend Nickie Zane.”
“Thank the good Lord I brought this,” China said, reaching into her shirt pocket for an airline-sized minibottle of bourbon. “Drink it.”
“No, thanks. I’m fine.” I let out another wail.
She uncapped the bottle and held it out to me. “Now, Daphne. You need this. Drink it and get a grip.”
I put the little bottle to my lips and turned it up. It burned my throat, and had I not already been crying, I’d have said it made my eyes water. One more drink, and the bourbon was gone. I flung myself against the back of the sofa. “What am I going to do, China?”
“You’re gonna quit this crying and pull yourself together, for one thing.”
“I can’t,” I said.
“You can, and you will.” She got up and went into the bathroom for a damp washcloth. When she came back, she handed it to me and ordered me to wash my face.
I buried my face in the cloth and began to cry all over again.
“Daphne Martin, you stop that! Get up from there and show me the cakes you’re entering in the competition tomorrow.”
I raised my head. “I’m withdrawing from the competition. If the Brea Ridge Police Department has its way, I’ll be in jail tomorrow.”
“Did you kill Jordan Richards?” she asked.
“You know I didn’t.”
“Then stop acting like you did. You hold your head up high at that competition tomorrow and keep an eye out
“I’ll be right here in Brea Ridge.” I hoped I’d be able to stand up and walk out of this room without my legs giving way.
I WAS WEARY when I got home. I started to finish my orchids for the cake I was entering in tomorrow’s competition, but I figured what was the point? I might be in jail by tomorrow morning. I might just take a bath and then curl up in my bed underneath the covers and hide. So what if it wasn’t even noon?
Myra’s car had not been in her driveway when I’d pulled into mine. I was a tad relieved. I wasn’t ready to talk things over with her yet. I didn’t know whether or not I was ready to talk them over with anyone, which is why I ignored the frantic blinking of my answering machine light.
Sparrow brushed around my ankles.
“Thank you,” I said softly. That’s one of the good things about pets. They let you know they’re there, but they don’t needle you to talk about your feelings. They don’t ask intrusive or scary questions. They don’t speculate with you about what your fate might be if Chef Richards’s killer isn’t found and the Brea Ridge Police Department finds a way to pin the crime on you.
I adamantly did not want to talk about my feelings, answer any questions, or do any speculating. Any of the aforementioned activities would have me falling apart. I was a strong, independent woman. I was not going to fall apart.
As I was making this affirmation to myself, someone tapped lightly on the kitchen door. I turned to see China York standing there, looking like a cross between a wood nymph and Willie Nelson. She had gray braids that hung to her waist, and her tiny frame was swallowed up in a pair of jeans and a blue flannel work shirt.
When I saw her, my lips began to quiver. She opened the door and came on inside, enfolding me in her arms. I clung to her and wept.
“It’s all right, sweetie,” she said. “I heard about that chef on the scanner, and somehow I knew you’d be right in the middle of it. But everything’s all right.” China led me into the living room, and we sat down on the sofa.
I cried until I could barely breathe. “They . . . think . . . I . . . did . . . it.”
“Hogwash,” she said, rubbing my shoulder. “They know better.”
“No, they don’t.” I shook my head vehemently. “They don’t, China! My fingerprints are on the murder weapon. Well, they’re on a cake stand that the police think is the murder weapon.” I took a shuddering breath. “I’m going to go to jail, and Ben’s going to take a job in Kentucky and marry his old girlfriend Nickie Zane.”
“Thank the good Lord I brought this,” China said, reaching into her shirt pocket for an airline-sized minibottle of bourbon. “Drink it.”
“No, thanks. I’m fine.” I let out another wail.
She uncapped the bottle and held it out to me. “Now, Daphne. You need this. Drink it and get a grip.”
I put the little bottle to my lips and turned it up. It burned my throat, and had I not already been crying, I’d have said it made my eyes water. One more drink, and the bourbon was gone. I flung myself against the back of the sofa. “What am I going to do, China?”
“You’re gonna quit this crying and pull yourself together, for one thing.”
“I can’t,” I said.
“You can, and you will.” She got up and went into the bathroom for a damp washcloth. When she came back, she handed it to me and ordered me to wash my face.
I buried my face in the cloth and began to cry all over again.
“Daphne Martin, you stop that! Get up from there and show me the cakes you’re entering in the competition tomorrow.”
I raised my head. “I’m withdrawing from the competition. If the Brea Ridge Police Department has its way, I’ll be in jail tomorrow.”
“Did you kill Jordan Richards?” she asked.
“You know I didn’t.”
“Then stop acting like you did. You hold your head up high at that competition tomorrow and keep an eye out
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