Killer Sweet Tooth

Chapter

Two




MYRA AND I spent the next several hours at the police station. We were fingerprinted, so our prints could be compared with others found in the office. They questioned me, then waited for Dr. Huffington to fill Myra’s tooth and for her anesthesia to wear off so they could talk with her alone and understand what she was saying. After interrogating us separately, they questioned us together. This after leaving us alone in the interrogation room for an hour or so to see if we would say anything incriminating. We’d both seen enough crime shows to know better than to say anything at all to each other.

Naturally, our stories matched up. We were telling the truth. And we had both—separately and jointly—told the exact same story, down to where we’d picked up the dental props because we’d heard something in the office. They had then taken our formal, sworn statements. Finally, they’d agreed we could be released. Officer Kendall had kindly offered us a ride to the dentist’s office to pick up my car.

“It’s been a long night,” Officer Kendall said as he ushered Myra and me into his patrol car. “I’m used to it. I work twelve-hour shifts from six P.M. to six A.M. every evening. But I reckon you ladies are tuckered out.”

“We’re tuckered, all right,” Myra said.

“I could probably take you home rather than to the dentist’s office,” he said. He turned to look at me. “Is there somebody who can drive you over to pick up your car later today?”

“No,” I said. “I mean, yeah, somebody could, but I want to get my car now.”

“You’re sure you’re up to driving home?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” I insisted.

“How about you, Ms. Jenkins? Would you like me to take you home?” he asked.

“Gosh, no,” Myra said. “After being out all night, can you imagine what god-awful things folks would say if I came rolling up in a police car? I’d rather take my chances with Daphne.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said. “You so give me the warm fuzzies.”

Officer Kendall drove us back to . . . well, to the scene of the crime, where yellow police tape had been affixed across the front door.

I ran my hands over the knees of my jeans. “How did Dr. Bainsworth’s assailant get in?”

“The crime scene techs said there was no sign of forced entry,” Officer Kendall said. “They figure either Dr. Bainsworth allowed the person or persons in, that the murderer had a key, or that someone had neglected to lock all the office doors when they left yesterday.”

“Then you think it might’ve been an inside job,” I said.

“It’s too early to form a definitive conclusion at this time,” he said.

“I wanna go home,” Myra said.

“All right. Let’s go.” I thanked Officer Kendall for the ride as he let us out of the patrol car.

We got into my car, and I started the engine. It felt good to be behind the wheel—back in control—of something. I noticed that Officer Kendall followed us for a while to make sure I was okay to drive.

After I had seen Myra safely home, I drove the few remaining yards to my house and pulled into the driveway. The sun hadn’t come up yet, but the sky showed that it was considering doing so. I was so weary it was all I could do to put one foot in front of the other as I walked to my front door. I still wanted that shower, but I didn’t know if I could stay awake long enough to manage it. I fumbled as I tried to put my key into the lock.

“Well, hey there, pretty mama,” a warm, mellow voice said from behind me.

I turned around quickly to see who had sneaked up on me. It was Elvis. Elvis Presley. And it appeared as though he’d just stepped out of a pink and white 1955 Cadillac Fleetwood with whitewall tires. This was the young, thin Elvis, and he was wearing black leather pants, a matching jacket, and a white and black striped shirt.

I was so tired I simply started laughing, and I couldn’t stop. Tears flowed down my face, and I couldn’t catch my breath. The fact that I was so exhausted I was seeing Elvis and a pink Cadillac should have had me worried, but, oddly enough, I found it hilarious. I guessed it beat pink elephants.

Elvis frowned. “What’s so funny, darlin’? Was it something I said?”

“It’s everything you said. Either the paperboy has really stepped up his game, or I’m hallucinating. That, or I’m dead. Are you Elvis?”

“Well, yeah . . . I mean, no. I’m an Elvis impersonator and a member of the Elvis Impersonators’ Evangelical Interdenominational Outreach. . . . We’re a national charity organization otherwise known as the EIEIO.”

That sent me into another fit of laughter, and Elvis chuckled right along with me this time.

“The founder’s last name was MacDonald,” Elvis said.

I had called my boyfriend Ben when we were leaving the police station and told him briefly what had happened to Myra and me. Moments later, Ben pulled up to find me and Elvis huddled together laughing hysterically with me holding my door key.

He got out of his white Jeep. “What’s going on?”

I held up my hand. “Do you see this guy?”

“Yeah,” Ben said.

“Does he look like Elvis?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Ben said, planting his hands on his hips.

“Thank goodness,” I said. “I haven’t lost my mind.”

“Is it so strange to find an Elvis look-alike at your door?” Elvis asked.

“It’s not even light out yet,” Ben said.

Elvis tilted his head. “You’ve got a point there, buddy. But I was just driving by and I saw this young lady pulling into her driveway, and I stopped.” He shrugged. “I was planning on talking with her sometime today anyhow. I got her name from Aaron, one of our local boys. When I saw the sign in her yard, I knew I was in the right place.” He shrugged. “Seemed like this was as good a time as any since she was here and I was here.”

“What did you want to see me about?” I asked him. “Are you looking for a cake?”

“Well, I just told you about the EIEIO. We’re in town this week at the Brea Ridge Hotel for a convention, and we’d like you to make us a cake for next Friday night’s gala.”

I turned and unlocked the door, then invited Ben and Elvis in and stifled a yawn as the men followed me inside.

“What’s the EIEIO?” Ben asked.

“The EIEIO is a group of missionaries who dress up and perform as Elvis,” I explained.

I sat my purse on the counter and took a magnetized notepad off the refrigerator door. “How many people will your cake need to serve?” I asked as I slid the bowl of last night’s popcorn on the island over to make room to write.

“Well, there are twenty-five of us in town for the convention. Those who have wives or girlfriends will bring them to the gala.” He looked up at the ceiling as he calculated. “Some of our event coordinators will be there. Let’s make it seventy-five just to be on the safe side.”

“All right. Is there a particular design you’d like?” I asked.

He grinned. “Yes, ma’am. A pink Cadillac.”

I smiled. “I should’ve known it would be that or blue suede shoes.”

“Yep.” He stuck out his hand. “Just dawned on me I haven’t properly introduced myself. I’m Scottie Phillips.”

I shook his hand. “Daphne Martin.”

Ben extended his hand. “And I’m Ben Jacobs.”

I looked at Ben as he and Scottie shook hands. “What are you doing here this time of the morning?” I asked Ben.

He glanced at Scottie and then back at me. “We’ll talk about it after you finish your business here.”

“Okay.” I turned my attention back to Scottie. “What flavor cake would you like?”

“Can you make a peanut butter and banana cake?” he asked. “You know, Elvis loved his peanut butter and bananas.”

“I’ve never made one before . . . but if there’s a recipe out there for peanut butter and banana cake, I can certainly make it,” I said.

“You are an angel,” he said with a smile.

“She certainly is,” Ben said.

Scottie gave me his cell number and told me to call him if I had any questions. He invited Ben and me to a performance at the Brea Ridge Hotel on Sunday night, and then he left.

Ben wanted lots of answers as soon as Elvis—I mean, Scottie—left. But I simply couldn’t talk about last night’s ordeal yet.

“Thanks for coming over, Ben, but, please, can we wait until I’ve taken a shower to get into it?” I asked. “I was scared half to death, then I was in the back of the squad car. And then I had to mingle in the jail with other people who’d been hauled in.” I shuddered. “I really need to bathe.”

“Of course. Sorry.”

“Do you mind opening a can of food for Sparrow and putting it into her bowl?” I asked. “She won’t eat it unless you go into the living room, though.”

“Is she ever going to get used to me?” he asked as he opened the small can of food and dumped it onto her plate by the kitchen door.

“Eventually.”

I heard him toss the can into the recycle bin before going into the living room to wait for me. I took my nearly scalding shower, washed my hair, rinsed, repeated . . . repeated . . . and repeated just one more time for good measure. Then I scrubbed my body with a loofah and even went over and under my fingernails with a nail brush.

I towel-dried my hair and dressed in black yoga pants, a teal sweatshirt, and shea-butter-infused lavender socks. I didn’t figure I’d win the Damsel of the Day award, but then, I wasn’t vying for it. I was more tired than I thought by now and was hoping to answer Ben’s questions so I could turn the ringer off on my phone and go to bed.

I walked past Sparrow furtively eating her breakfast in the kitchen. She looked up at me as if to admonish me for being out all night. Cats can look so haughty and condemning. Then, as if her expression hadn’t spoken volumes, she nonchalantly went back to eating.

I went into the living room and found Ben sitting on the couch watching an early morning news show. I sat down beside him, and he put his arm around me.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Hi,” I said. “Now, are you going to tell me what brings you by so early this morning?”

“I just wanted to check on you and make sure you’re okay. You want to talk about it now?”

“There’s not much to say.” I stifled a yawn and nestled my head on his shoulder. “Myra lost a filling . . . we called the dentist . . . and he said he’d meet us there. . . . So we . . . went to his office . . . and found him. It was terrible. I thought he was only unconscious.”

“And you said earlier on the phone that he died from a blow to the head. Did the police find the murder weapon?”

“Not that I know of. They weren’t exactly forthcoming with Myra and me.” My eyelids were so heavy. I went ahead and let them shut. “Tell me they’ll find whoever did this.”

“They will,” he promised.


WHEN I AWOKE, I was lying on the sofa covered with a fleece throw. There was a note from Ben on the coffee table.

Hi, sweetheart. You’re obviously exhausted. I’ll be back later with dinner.



—Ben




I looked at the clock. It was nearly two in the afternoon. I rubbed my eyes and went into the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee. While the coffee was brewing, I cleaned up the Scrabble game and the almost-untouched refreshments. What should have been a night of relaxing fun had turned into a nightmare. Poor Dr. Bainsworth. I wondered who’d want to hurt him. He’d seemed really nice over the phone, super-indulgent toward Myra. . . . I couldn’t dwell on that now, though. After a long dry spell, I had work to do. And since baking is the best form of therapy I’ve found yet, I was glad I’d found Elvis and his crazy cake order on my porch that morning.

I took my coffee and the notes I’d made about Scottie Phillips’s Cadillac cake into my office and turned on the computer. Carving the cake wouldn’t be easy, especially with the fins and all the other angles. Still, a template would help. I just hoped I could find a peanut butter and banana cake recipe.

To my surprise and delight, there were a number of peanut butter and banana cake recipes online. I scanned several until I found the one I felt would both taste the best and be the best consistency for carving. I made myself a grocery list and printed the recipe.

Before shutting off the computer, I checked my e-mail to see if anyone had requested a cake quote. No one had. That made me realize that “the King” and I hadn’t discussed my fee. I decided to give him a call before heading out to the Save-A-Buck. Unfortunately, I got his voice mail. I left a message quoting a price and went on to the grocery store. Right now, any business was business. Plus, while I was at the Save-A-Buck, I could talk with the manager, Steve Franklin, about making some cakes and cookies for the store. The Save-A-Buck is a smaller store and doesn’t have an in-store bakery, so Mr. Franklin allows me to bring in baked goods with my logo and contact information on the boxes and sell them on consignment.

I went into the bathroom, splashed some water on my face, and then put on a little makeup. I still looked pale and tired eyed, but at least I was wearing mascara and lipstick. People couldn’t accuse me of not trying. I pulled on my boots, coat, and gloves, grabbed my purse off the counter, and headed out.




AS I WALKED across the Save-A-Buck parking lot, I was greeted by China York, who looked like a female Willie Nelson. The tiny little woman was wearing her typical ensemble—jeans and a white tee under a red and black flannel shirt—but today she was also wearing a quilted jean jacket and men’s work gloves. She sort of looked like a cross between a pixie and a lumberjack. She had a plastic bag hanging from each arm.

“Hi,” she said. “You doin’ all right?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “How about you?”

“I’m good. It must’ve been rough on you and Myra finding Dr. Bainsworth like that last night,” China said.

“How’d you know?”

“Heard it over the scanner.” She shifted her weight from one booted foot to the other.

“They gave our names?” I asked.

“No, but as soon as they gave the descriptions, I knew it was you and Myra.”

I smiled wanly. “Yeah, it was a rough night.”

“How’s Myra doing?” she asked. “Did she get that tooth fixed?”

“Yeah, the dentist—a Dr. Huffington—was there at the jail to help an inmate, and he refilled the tooth for her.”

“Butter Huffington?” China laughed. “I’d have loved to have seen the expression on Myra’s face when she saw that Butter would be her dentist.”

“You know, he seemed really capable,” I said. “I think he did a good job.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt he’s a good dentist, but when you know someone in one capacity, it’s hard to imagine them in another.” She cocked her head. “Take your niece and nephew . . . do you know any of their friends?”

“I know a few of them.”

“Now imagine going to the gynecologist twenty years from now and having one of those kids come into the exam room,” she said.

My eyes flew open in horror. “Ewww!”

China grinned. “Exactly.”

“So, let’s change the subject quickly,” I said. “Do you know anyone who might’ve wanted to hurt Dr. Bainsworth?”

“I wanted to hurt him last year when he did a root canal on one of my teeth. But I got over it.” She shrugged. “I’ll keep my ear to the ground and let you know if I come up with anything. By the way, I’ve got some potato soup in the slow cooker. I’m going to take some to Myra later on. Want me to bring you some?”

“I appreciate the offer, but Ben said he’d bring dinner later.”

She nodded. “That’s good. Let him take care of you. It’ll make him feel strong, and it’ll make you feel cherished.”

“Let me know if you hear anything about Dr. Bainsworth,” I said.

China waved as we went our separate ways.

Before doing my shopping, I asked my favorite checkout girl, Juanita, if I could speak with the manager, Mr. Franklin. She paged him, and he came to the front.

“Hi, Steve,” I said. “I thought I’d see if you need any cakes, cookies, or candies while I’m here. You haven’t ordered brownies in a while.”

He nodded. “How about some football-themed stuff? The Super Bowl is coming up in a couple weeks. Maybe people getting in the spirit of the game will give up their New Year’s diets and give in to temptation.”

“Okay. Would you like a few cakes and some dessert party platters with cookies, candies, and mini brownies?”

“Sounds good, Daphne. Can I count on five cakes and five party platters to start with?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Great. Bring the invoice when you bring in the cakes.” With that, he returned from whence he came as if he were a man of great importance with scant time to spend on the little people. I wondered if the fact that he was dating the well-to-do Maureen Fremont had contributed to his increased sense of self-worth. Maureen was the sister-in-law of Belinda Fremont, the rich client for whom I’d made a guinea pig birthday cake. The guinea pigs are “champion cavies” and have their own suite in the Fremont home.

After Mr. Franklin left, Juanita said, “I’d like to talk with you before you leave. I want you to cater my sister’s quinceañera.”

“A quinceañera . . . that’s her fifteenth-birthday celebration, right?”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s a very special occasion.”

“That’s wonderful, Juanita. When is it?”

“It is next Saturday. I know this is very last-minute. My mother and I had planned to make the cake ourselves, but I know you could do such a great job,” she said.

“Why don’t you come by my house after work and we’ll look at some books for ideas?” I asked.

“I can’t today, but maybe I can come tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow sounds super.” I grinned. “Well, I’m off to buy lots of bananas.”

She gave me a quizzical look. “You’ve adopted a monkey?”

I laughed. “No, but I’m making a peanut butter and banana Cadillac cake for the Elvis Impersonators’ Evangelical Interdenominational Outreach.”

“Oh, I know the EIEIO,” she said. “My boyfriend is a new member. He learned of them through our church.”

“So your boyfriend looks like Elvis?” I asked.

“Not so much. He is better, I think. But when he puts on the wig and sunglasses and flashy clothes, yes, he does resemble Elvis Presley . . . at least, as much as some of the other EIEIO people I’ve seen,” said Juanita. “And he has a beautiful singing voice. That’s how he won my heart—singing to me.”

“Sounds romantic.”

“He is romantic.” She lowered her eyes. “Sometimes I feel I do not deserve him.”

“Yes, you do. You deserve the best, Juanita.”


WHEN I GOT home, I put away my groceries and made enough batter for three large peanut butter and banana sheet cakes. I was only able to put one cake into the oven at a time, so I covered the rest of the batter and put the mixing bowl in the refrigerator.

While waiting for that first cake to bake, I called Myra.

“How are you today?” I asked when she answered.

“I’m feeling much better, thanks.”

“I’m sorry my cashew brittle caused you so much pain and aggravation,” I told her.

“Me too,” Myra said. “Want to know the worst part? I didn’t get to eat any of it. I messed up my tooth with the first bite. Save me some?”

“Of course . . . if you aren’t afraid to eat it,” I said. “I think if I were in your position, I’d never want to see another piece of cashew brittle for as long as I lived.”

“Not me. I don’t hold grudges against food,” she said. “I’ll just chew my brittle on the other side of my mouth. I think those fillings are in pretty tight.”

“So I never got around to asking last night, did Dr. Huffington do a good job?” I asked.

“He did all right,” Myra said. “I just had to get my mind around the fact that he’s not a little, clumsy football player anymore. Now he’s a big, clumsy dentist.” She giggled. “He liked you, by the way.”

“He did?” I asked. I hadn’t been aware he’d really even noticed me.

“Yep. Asked if you were married. I told him you were divorced but that I believe you’re seeing someone.”

“Thank you. I mean, he seemed nice enough, but I am seeing Ben and . . .” I let the sentence trail off.

“Right. So were you too tired to bake today?” Myra asked.

“As a matter of fact, I have a cake in the oven right now.” I explained to her about the EIEIO and the cake I was making for their Friday-night end-of-convention festivities.

“Sounds interesting. I used to love Elvis,” she said. “Not literally love, you know, but I sure thought he was the berries.”

“Lots of people did. Lots of people still do, I guess,” I said. “Scottie—my client—invited Ben and me to go to the show at the hotel tomorrow night.”

“Are you going?” she asked eagerly.

“Maybe,” I said. “I’ll ask Ben this evening. He’s bringing over dinner.”

“If you decide to go, ask if he’d mind my tagging along.”

“If we decide to go,” I said, “I’m sure he’d love to have you tag along.” Actually, I wasn’t sure of anything. But I felt obligated to take Myra to the Elvis concert the next night either way.