Killer Sweet Tooth

Chapter

Six




WHEN I got up Monday morning, I looked like death on a cracker. More specifically, I looked as if I’d tossed and turned all night feeling sorry for myself. This was mainly because I’d tossed and turned all night feeling sorry for myself. It was a good thing that I’d adamantly studied Bobbi Brown’s makeup book shortly before my thirty-eighth birthday and knew all about using yellow-based corrector and only lining your upper lids to help camouflage dark under-eye circles. I know most women freak over turning forty rather than thirty-eight, but I was pretty much over the age thing by the time I turned forty. It’s probably because I was dealing with arrest warrants and trials by jury as my fortieth birthday approached.

I followed the memorized makeup instructions and then peered into the mirror. “Well, now what, Bobbi?” I asked, as if the famous makeup artist would magically appear and fix the rest of my face.

She didn’t. Left to my own devices, I did the best I could—added some lipstick and mascara—and then shuffled into the kitchen. While the coffee was brewing, I stepped outside to get the morning paper. The front-page headline was POLICE STILL STUMPED OVER DENTIST’S MURDER. The article went on to say that they were aggressively pursuing all leads. There was no mention of the fact that police were following Myra and me around all over town and acting as interim taxis when necessary.

The bottom-right corner of the front page showed a photo from last night’s concert with the header ELVIS INVASION LEAVES BREA RIDGE “ALL SHOOK UP.” I inwardly groaned. I’d had my fill of the concert—thank-you-very-much—so I didn’t read the article, but I did check the byline. The article had been written by Suzanna Leonard, a newbie who was interning at the paper while studying journalism at one of the nearby colleges. Most of the work she was given was fluff pieces.

I thumbed through the rest of the paper before tossing it in the recycle bin. It was time to get to work.

I didn’t feel like working on the Cadillac cake today. I was too tired and irritable to do something that required that much thought and precision. I decided to make the brownies and cookies to put onto the party trays I was preparing for the Save-A-Buck. Once the house smelled like chocolate, maybe I’d start feeling better.

I got out my favorite blue mixing bowl and my chewy chocolate fudge brownie recipe. I put on my headset before spraying the bottom of three brownie pans with baking spray. I intended to triple the recipe in order to have enough brownies for all five party trays.

The phone rang, and I stopped spraying midair. Should I sound chipper, contrite, pleasant, professional . . . ? I went with professional, since the caller might not be Ben after all. It turned out to be a wise choice. It was Myra.

“Good morning, honey,” she said. “How did things go with Ben last night?”

“Things went pretty much right out the window,” I said. “We had a big argument and haven’t spoken since. I even hitched a ride home with Officer Kendall, who seemed to be following us around.”

“Yeah, I spotted Halligan tailing me when I dropped China and Juanita off at your house to pick up their cars,” she said. “Didn’t Ben even call to find out how you got home?”

“He called a couple times, but I didn’t answer, and he didn’t leave a message. Maybe he saw the squad car taking me away. He wasn’t concerned enough to drive over here and see for himself that I got home okay.”

“That’s all right,” Myra said confidently. “That means he’s good and jealous. If he didn’t care about you, he wouldn’t be jealous.”

“I guess you’ve got a point there,” I said.

“I know I do. Oh, honey.”

My lips curled into a smile. When Myra said oh, honey, you could count on getting a good story. I sat down on a stool at the island.

Myra continued. “One time me and Carl went to a Valentine’s Day dance at the Moose lodge. Well, I looked as pretty as a picture . . . had on a sparkly red dress with an A-line skirt and a white crinoline underneath so that when we danced I could spin around and show my crinoline instead of my butt—I’d done practiced it in front of the mirror and everything.”

“Good thinking,” I said.

“I know. I’d thought of everything,” she said. “Anyway, Carl didn’t have any reason whatsoever to have a straying eye that night, but he did. That old Mary Breedlove was there with a hot-pink minidress on that was cut down nearly to her belly button. While I was worried about people seeing my butt, she’d apparently been worried that people wouldn’t see hers . . . along with everything else the good Lord gave her. And one of the things He’d given her was apparently a push-up bra, because otherwise her boobs would’ve been down there at her belly button with the neckline of that dress.”

I giggled. I had no clue who Mary Breedlove was, but Myra was obviously still mad at her and at Carl for whatever indiscretion he’d made, even though he’d been dead for five years.

“Well, you will absolutely not believe what Carl Jenkins did,” Myra said. “He asked that trollop to dance! Oh, yes! It wasn’t bad enough for him to ogle her, he actually asked her to dance. And, of course, she did. Old home-wrecking hussy.”

“So, what did you do?” I asked.

“I got up and sashayed over to Will Pennington. He’d always had a thing for me, and his wife was dead. He’d showed up at the Moose lodge to look for love in all the wrong places, I reckon, so why Mary didn’t set her cap for him instead of my Carl is beyond me. ‘Will,’ I said, ‘I’d like for you to take me home, please.’ Well, his eyes lit up like . . . like . . . like two big porch lights, and we left.”

Like two big porch lights? Oh well, no one could accuse Myra of using too many clichés. “You didn’t tell Carl you were leaving?” I asked.

“No, indeed, I did not tell Carl,” she said.

“What did he say when he got home?” I asked.

“I don’t know, because I wasn’t there.”

“You weren’t there?” I asked. “You were actually out with Will?”

“Yes, I was. Once we got in the car, I said, ‘Will, I’d really rather not go home just yet. Why don’t we go see a movie?’ And that’s what we did. In fact, we saw a double feature,” Myra said.

“Are you kidding? What time did you get home?”

“About one in the morning,” she said.

“Was Carl still up or had he gone to bed?” I asked. Or had he left home? was what I was really wondering.

“Oh, yeah, he was up,” Myra said. “He was sitting there in his recliner as mad as an old one-horned bull. I asked him if he and Mary Breedlove had enjoyed themselves at the dance. He said he’d felt like a fool when he came back to our table and I was gone. I said, ‘You looked like one out on the dance floor with that trashy Mary. It’s a wonder your eyes didn’t pop plumb out of your head and into that push-up bra of hers.’ ‘What about you?’ he asked me. ‘One of the—’ Mooses . . . moosers . . . meese . . . ?”

“Lodge members,” I suggested.

“Yeah, one of them. They’d told him I’d gone off with Will Pennington. At first, Carl figured I’d just gone out into the parking lot to spite him—although he’d known me plenty long enough to know I can spite a whole lot better than that—so he came outside and looked around for a while. Then he drove around town looking for us. He even drove over to Will Pennington’s house!”

“Did you tell Carl where you’d been?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Myra said. “I didn’t want him to beat the tar out of poor old Will. Didn’t want him to divorce me either. I even showed him the tickets to convince him we’d been at the movies and that nothing had happened. He pouted around at me for a day or two, but he never danced with another woman again. And if he was ever eyeing one, he never let me catch him at it.”

I laughed. “At least Mary Breedlove didn’t kiss Carl on a stage in front of a room full of people.”

“If she had, I’d have ripped her lips off,” Myra said. “But that just goes to show you, honey, jealousy is a powerful thing. Once Ben calms down a little, he’ll be back.”

“I hope you’re right,” I said. “He and I had been dating when I met Todd—the guy I eventually married. So I guess he has reason to be jealous.”

“The killer?” she asked. “You were dating Ben when you met the killer?”

“Well, Todd didn’t kill me. I’m still here.”

“You know what I meant. By the way,” she said in a singsong voice. “I could’ve sworn I saw a pink Cadillac in your driveway last night.”

“Does nothing get by you?”

“Not a thing,” she said smugly.

“Scottie stopped by to apologize.”

“Did he now? I knew it! That Elvis has the hots for you!” She chuckled. “If Ben doesn’t come around, I’ll let you borrow my Ann-Margret wig . . . only not until after lunch today.”

“Are you wearing it to lunch with Cecil?” I asked.

“Of course I am. How many times in my life am I going to get the opportunity to be Ann-Margret? Especially if I have to go to prison. I don’t want to be Ann-Margret there,” she said. “I’d rather look like Sister Mary Margret in prison.”

“Speaking of prison,” I said, “let’s get together this afternoon and decide how we can figure out who really knocked Dr. Bainsworth in the head.”

“Will do, honey. Talk with you later.”

With that, she was gone. She was probably off to put on her wig and wait for Cecil to call . . . unless she’d already called him. Ann-Margret is feisty, you know.

I mixed up the brownies and had them baking by the time I got another phone call. “Daphne’s Delectable Cakes,” I said.

“Hey there, delectable Daphne.”

“Hi, Scottie.”

“How are you this morning?” he asked.

“I’m fine. How are you?” I asked.

“The boys and I are getting a little hungry and restless for some home cooking, and we were wondering if you could put together a nice lunch for us,” he said.

“Um . . . you want me to make you lunch? Today?” I gulped. “As in, within a few hours?”

“Yeah. We’re paying. We’re not a bunch of freeloaders, you know.”

“I know, but I don’t run a diner, Scottie. I don’t even have enough food here to make a decent snack for the EIEIO.”

“You don’t have to feed all of us, just about ten of us, and Cecil is bringing that friend of yours, the one who thinks she’s Ann-Margret,” he said. “We thought you could maybe make us some steaks and some steak fries . . . and a little dessert would be good. Could you whip us up a banana pudding?”

“You love your bananas, don’t you?”

“Maybe I’m part monkey.” He laughed. “Anyhow, what do you say?”

“Scottie, they have fantastic steaks at Dakota’s.”

“So? Dakota’s is really crowded at lunchtime,” he said. “You can hardly hear yourself think, much less talk. Come on. Be a sport. Please.”

I sighed. “I have a lot of work to do. On your cake, for one thing.”

“Did I mention we’re paying?” he asked.

I mentally calculated whether or not I had time to work this unexpected luncheon into my day.

“Top dollar,” he said. “No missionary discount.”

“Fine,” I said. “What time will you be here?”

“Is twelve thirty all right?”

“That’ll work.” Twelve thirty would give me time to get my brownies out of the oven and then hurry to the Save-A-Buck for steaks, steak fries (yes, the Elvises would have to settle for frozen), rolls, and the ingredients for a chef’s salad and a banana pudding.


AS I WALKED the aisles of the Save-A-Buck, I wondered if Myra knew her lunch date with Cecil was going to include nine other Elvises and me. On the one hand, I thought maybe I should call Myra and warn her. On the other hand, I didn’t want to be responsible for sticking a pin in her balloon. She’d already illustrated this morning how spiteful she can be when you get her riled up. Let Elvis/Cecil bear the brunt of that burden himself. Besides, there was still a chance that after talking with Myra, Cecil would change his mind and tell Scottie that he and Myra were having a cozy meal alone somewhere . . . somewhere like Dakota’s.

There were a couple soccer moms—although, this time of year, I supposed they were basketball moms—whispering in the produce aisle. I heard Dr. Bainsworth’s name mentioned, and then one of the women nodded in my direction.

I listened more closely as I examined the lettuce.

“. . . the one who found him,” one said.

“What was she doing there that time of night?” the other asked.

“Probably having a fling with him. They say she moved back here after living in Tennessee for about fifteen years. I heard her husband tried to kill her.”

“Wonder if he caught her cheating on him?”

I placed the lettuce into my basket and quickly left the aisle. Although tears were threatening, I felt the desire to tell the women exactly why Todd had fired a shot at me. I wanted to yell at them that I’d never been unfaithful to Todd and that I’d never even met Dr. Bainsworth. How dare they speculate about me like that! They didn’t know me!

By the time I’d finished shopping, I had my emotions under control. I realized this was the big drawback to living in a small town, and it was something I’d simply have to deal with if I wanted to stay here in Brea Ridge. And I did . . . at least, for now.

Juanita was surprised to see me come through her line with a dozen steaks, two bags of steak fries, rolls, and enough salad fixings to feed a small army. Not to mention more bananas.

“You must be hosting a dinner party,” she said.

I explained about Scottie’s phone call asking me to make lunch for a group of the Elvises. “I tried to tell him that I don’t run a restaurant, but he was so insistent . . . and he said they’d pay me well.”

“I understand their need for some privacy,” said Juanita. “Aaron told me that when they go out, the people in town keep asking for their autographs or to have their pictures made with them—especially the women.”

“That makes sense,” I said. “I hadn’t looked at it that way, but I suppose they do enjoy a bit of celebrity status. Will Aaron be at the lunch today?”

“No, he is working. He is planning to go on the next mission trip, though, so he’ll need to get together with some of the EIEIO members to discuss that before they leave at the end of the week.” She leaned over and touched my wrist. “I hope things work out however you want them to between you and Scottie, but guard your heart, Daphne. He will be gone in a few days, and you don’t know for sure that you will ever see him again.”

“I know. I have no interest in Scottie,” I said.

“And did you and Ben make up?” she asked.

Someone came up behind me in the line with her cart full of groceries, so I simply gave Juanita a slight shake of my head and made a banal comment about the drizzly weather we were having today.

Juanita finished ringing up my groceries, and I paid her and left. Something she’d said lingered in my thoughts. The Elvises would be gone in a matter of days. If the woman at the Sunoco had seen an Elvis with blood on his sleeve, Myra and I had better be talking with her and pursuing that angle before those suspects left town.


BY THE TIME Scottie and four of the Elvises showed up at my door, the steaks were almost done and I’d just taken the fries out of the oven. The chef’s salad, complete with hard-boiled egg slices, ham, cheese, and bacon, was sitting in the center of the table. The banana pudding was in the refrigerator.

It was going to be a tight fit, but I had five Elvises and Myra seated at the kitchen table and four set up at the island. I had also set up a card table to accommodate two other people. It wasn’t the perfect seating arrangement, but it was the best I could come up with.

“This house smells like a slice of heaven,” Scottie said as he came into the kitchen, gave me a peck on the cheek, and hung up his black leather jacket. “Daphne, I want you to meet Craig, Mike, Sam, and John.”

I shook each of the Elvises’ hands. I told them to make themselves comfortable at the kitchen table and that I had iced tea, soda, or coffee to drink. Not surprisingly, all five Elvises—Scottie included—requested iced tea.

While the other four men sat around the kitchen table, Scottie asked me if there was anything he could help me with.

“No,” I said with a smile. “Everything is fine.”

“Do you have an invoice for me?” he asked.

“I do. I’ll get it for you before you leave,” I said. “But for now, go ahead and enjoy the meal. Are the others on their way?”

“They’re supposed to be,” he said. “They’re in the van with Cecil.”

My eyes widened. “Myra is not going to be a happy camper.”

“Why not?” Scottie asked. “If she was expecting one Elvis to show up at her door, five is five times better, right?”

“If you say so.” I poured tea into the men’s glasses and directed my next comment to the table in general. “Tell me, what made you decide to become members of EIEIO?”

Craig, a tall Elvis with neatly trimmed blond hair and a mustache, spoke first. “I’ve always enjoyed working with children, Daphne. When you go on these trips and see those little faces light up, it makes it all worthwhile.”

“I imagine it does,” I said.

John—a skinny redhead who appeared to be in his midthirties—smiled shyly. “I’m just a small-town southern boy, ma’am. Craig heard me singing in church one Sunday a few years ago when the group was in our town, and he told me I ought to sign up for the EIEIO. I hadn’t ever been too many places before, and I thought the EIEIO might be a way for me to get out of Shady Springs, Georgia, and see the world.”

I laughed. “I guess it was at that.”

“It sure was,” he said, “and opened other doors for me too. Doors I never would have imagined opening.”

“I like the kids and the travel too,” said Sam, a beefy Elvis who wore a thick gold chain around his neck. “But mainly I joined up because I love to perform.”

“We all enjoy being onstage,” Scottie said with a wink in my direction, “but I think we all appreciate the fact that we’re giving something back too.”

There came a knock at the door. It had to be Myra and the other five Elvises.

Myra/Ann-Margret strode in first. Her wig was a little skewed, and her mouth was flatter than a breast implant during a mammogram.

I greeted the newcomers and then pulled Myra aside. “Are you okay?”

“I’ve never been so humiliated in all my life . . . except for that time—oh, never mind, I’ll tell you later. I had no idea I was being brought all the way next door for a romantic lunch with a dozen other people!” Her eyes narrowed. “Did you?”

“No . . . not until a little bit ago. Scottie called and asked if I could make lunch, but he said not all the Elvises would be here.” I shrugged and offered up a silent prayer for my version of the truth that was only slightly more skewed than Myra’s wig. I reached and adjusted the wig as if that would help—and to ease my conscience. I probably should have called and warned her. “Maybe Cecil is planning on taking you somewhere—just the two of you—after lunch.”

“In the stupid EIEIO van? What’re we gonna do with the other four? Strap them to the luggage rack?” She sighed. “I’m going home.”

“Please don’t. I’ve made a really nice lunch,” I said, “and the EIEIO is paying for it, so it would be a shame for your rib eye to go to waste.”

“Rib eye?”

I nodded. “And chef’s salad, steak fries, rolls, and banana pudding.”

“I’ll stay . . . but only because you’ve gone to so much trouble, and I don’t want to make a scene in front of this bunch of buffoons,” she said. “They’ve besmirched the good name of Elvis Presley is what they’ve done—the whole lot of them. And don’t you get involved with that slimy little Scottie. He’s probably the worst one of the bunch—other than Cecil.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” I said.

Myra and I walked into the kitchen, where Scottie asked us all to gather in the middle of the floor, join hands, and bow our heads. I was standing between him and Myra, so I took one of each of their hands.

“Dear Lord,” he prayed, “we thank You for bringing us here today and providing this opportunity for us.”

Some of the other EIEIO members chimed in with “Amen” or “Yes, Lord.”

“We thank You for the food we’re about to receive,” Scottie said, continuing, “and we thank You for Daphne.”

I raised my head in surprise, looked at Scottie—who, like everyone else, still had his head bowed—and then lowered my head again.

“She’s been good to us, Lord,” he said. “And we ask You to bless her and to reward her for her hospitality and warmth. She has a heart for others—as You well know—and we appreciate her. Amen.” He gave my hand a squeeze before releasing it. Then he raised his head, grinned at the group as a whole, and said, “Let’s eat!”

Myra seated herself with the five Elvises at the kitchen table.

“Thank you for joining us, ma’am,” John said. “You give the rest of us a pretty view.”

She giggled like a schoolgirl.

Three of the Elvises sat at the island. Scottie insisted on joining me at the card table. He pulled out one of the folding chairs for me, moved the other to my right instead of across the table where I’d positioned it, and sat down.

I looked around to make sure all the condiments were available. Fortunately, I had enough steak sauce and ketchup to go around. Salad dressing wasn’t as much in demand since the chef’s salad was dismissed by most of the EIEIO members. I’d have thought they’d have at least been interested in the meats and cheeses, but I suppose they wanted to save enough room for that banana pudding.