Murder Takes the Cake Text by Gayle Trent

there. I knew he’d ask all the right questions, and I’d end up telling him about Mom, Vern March and Uncle Hal. I wasn’t ready to do that yet . . . or, at least, I wasn’t ready to tell Ben. I didn’t want to drag all the scary skeletons out of my closet until I knew where I stood with him. Even if we were destined to be “just friends,” I didn’t want to screw that up with a sob story at this point. Besides, there wasn’t a wedding ring on Ben’s hand.
    Not that I’m interested . . . really . . . very much. I mean, there is Sally to consider. But Ben has always had the sweetest smile.
    I gave myself a mental shake, got into my car and drove a bit over the speed limit getting home. Hey, I had stuff to do: a freezer to replenish with cakes; a diary and a set of keys to return; a call to Uncle Hal to make . . .
    When I saw the van in my driveway, I wished I’d kept to the letter of the law on that speed limit thing. The van had “Virginia Department of Agriculture and Consumer Services” emblazoned on the side in large blue letters. Suddenly, I wasn’t in such a hurry to be here.
    I got out of the car and walked up to the driver’s side of the van. A man with an official-looking clipboard put down the window.
    “Hello. Are you Daphne Martin?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    The driver jerked his head toward his partner. “We’re here to inspect your home.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “We’re with the Department of Agriculture.”
    “And?”
    “And under the Virginia Food Laws, you’re subject to an inspection.”
    I glanced from the driver to his chubby partner. They looked like Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy in drab olive coveralls. Maybe I was being punked. “Is this a joke?”
    Hardy grinned. “No joke, ma’am.”
    “Someone came out and inspected my home about a month ago . . . when I first set up my business. This must be a mistake.”
    “We received information that your products might present a risk,” Laurel said, “so we’re here to do a repeat inspection.”
    “What do you mean my products might present a risk?”
    Laurel consulted his clipboard. “Did you deliver a cake to a Yodel Watson on Monday morning?”
    “Yes, but—”
    “Mrs. Watson died,” Hardy said.
    “I know that, but she never even saw the cake.”
    “We have our instructions to inspect this residence,” Laurel said. “Do we have your permission to do so or should we suspend your operations?”
    I put my hand up to my forehead. “Fine. Come on in.”
    “We won’t take but a few minutes of your time,” Laurel said.
    “All right.” I unlocked the door as Laurel and Hardy got out of the van.
    When they came inside, Hardy was carrying what appeared to me to be a cross between a tool box and a doctor’s kit.
    I pointed at the box. “What’s that for? The first inspectors didn’t have anything like that.”
    “This contains our tools and sample bags,” Hardy said. “We’ll need to take food samples back to our lab.” He sat the box on the island and opened it.
    Laurel went directly to the sink, turned on the faucet and placed his hand in the stream of water. After a few seconds, he announced the hot water was sufficient. He shut off the water, took a flashlight from the box and opened the cabinet under the sink.
    As he moved my cleaning supplies onto the kitchen floor, I asked, “What exactly are you looking for?”
    Laurel didn’t look up from his task. “Pest infestation, inadequate refrigeration, contaminated food.”
    “That’s why we need samples,” Hardy said. “Of your cakes, icing, flour, sugar. And we may need to come back once Mrs. Watson’s cause of death has been determined.”
    “Like I told you, the cake I delivered to Mrs. Watson was never even cut! Mrs. Watson didn’t see the cake; she didn’t touch the cake; she didn’t smell the cake; and she darn sure didn’t eat the cake!” I flailed my arms. “The police know the cake wasn’t cut! If they’d thought something was wrong