Battered to Death (Daphne Martin Cake Mysteries) Page 2

“Of course you do,” I said. “It goes without saying that I’ll be happy to see you.”

  “Yeah, sure.” She laughed. “Way to try and cover. Between you and me, how do you think Leslie will fare in the competition?”

  “I think she’ll do really well. She has a knack for decorating, and she learns quickly. The only problem I think she’ll have at all is stressing out over it too much,” I said. “Just remind her to do her best and then to let it go. Tell her to have fun with it.”

  “I’d like to take this opportunity to remind you of the same thing,” said Vi. “You’ve been known to stress out too much over things like this yourself.”

  She was talking about the time that I went all the way to the Oklahoma State Sugar Art Show in Tulsa and then chickened out of entering my cake in the competition. I wound up giving it to the staff at my hotel, much to show-director Kerry Vincent’s disapproval. Ms. Vincent had basically told me to come back when I was ready to put a little more faith in myself and my ability as a decorator. She was very kind and understanding. Maybe I would return to the Oklahoma State Sugar Art Show and compete . . . but I needed to see how I would fare in the Brea Ridge Taste Bud Temptation Cake and Confectionary Art Exhibit and Competition first. Then I’d think about frying bigger fish . . . in Oklahoma.

  “In my defense, the hotel staff said my cake was gorgeous . . . and that it tasted delicious,” I said.

  “I’m sure it was. And I dare you to bail out of this competition at the last minute like you did that one,” she said. “In fact, I’ll be there to kick your butt if you try. If I’d been in Oklahoma with you, I wouldn’t have let you squirm out of that one either.”

  “But, Vi, you didn’t see all those incredible cakes!”

  “I saw the pictures you took. Granted, they were magnificent—and there will be impressive cakes at this competition too—but you have to stop selling yourself short.”

  “I will,” I said. “I promise.”

  “All right. And I’m not going to let Leslie back out either. Like her aunt Daphne, she merely needs to recognize her own worth and talents and feel confident enough to show them off.”

  “Preach, sister, preach!” I laughed.

  She huffed. “Okay. I’ll get out of my pulpit now and let you go back to whatever you were doing.” She paused. “What were you doing?”

  “Deciding which cereal to have for dinner,” I said. “I’m thinking of going with a granola entrée and following up with either a chocolaty or fruity cereal for dessert.”

  “I take it Ben’s working?” she asked.

  “Yep,” I said.

  “How are things going between you two?”

  “Great,” I said. “He’s wonderful. I should’ve never let him go all those years ago. I’m lucky he gave me another chance.”

  Ben and I had been childhood friends and later high school sweethearts. Although we had tried to make it work, our romance fell apart after we went to separate colleges and I met Todd.

  “Then don’t let him get away again,” she said. She kept her tone light, but there was a word of warning there.

  “Do you know something I don’t?” I asked.

  “No. I’m just saying that it’s rare for a couple to get a second chance like the two of you have been given,” she said. “Make the most of it.”

  “I am.”

  After talking with Violet, I took my bowl of granola into the living room and watched the episode of Chef Jordan Richards’s program I had recorded on my DVR.

  As the show came on, it showed Chef Richards addressing a petite brunette about her three-tiered wedding cake. “What’s this bleep?” he demanded. “What color is this supposed to be?”

  “Burnt orange,” the brunette said, lowering her eyes away from his scalding glare. “It’s what the client wanted.”

  “Well, it looks like bleep brown to me!” He used his right hand to forcefully push the center tier of the cake, effectively knocking the entire cake off the counter and onto the floor. “Clean that up! Then you can start over!”

  The camera zoomed in on the brunette’s face—particularly, her quavering lips—as she went to the corner of the kitchen to get a broom and dustpan. The cameraman followed, allowing the audience to see the woman’s humiliating trip back behind the table to clean up the remains of her hard work. He then panned the camera over to Chef Richards, who was shaking his head in contempt as he wiped his icing-covered hand on a dishtowel.

  I gulped, suddenly dreading tomorrow morning’s class. I tried to reassure myself. I’d dealt with bullies before. Todd had bullied me for years before committing the act of abuse—trying to kill me—that was second only to the final act of abuse—succeeding in the murder attempt. At least Jordan Richards wouldn’t try to kill me during the course of teaching his string work class . . . would he?

  2

  THE BREA Ridge Inn was one of the oldest and the fanciest resort hotels in the southwest Virginia, northeast Tennessee region. Its arched windows and four-sided hipped roof were typical of the Grand Georgian architecture in which it was styled.

  I walked into the lobby, admiring as I always did when I had occasion to come here (which was usually only for a wedding reception or formal birthday party) the ornate oil paintings hanging over the massive fireplace. The paintings were said to depict the original innkeepers, and they had been restored at least once over the years.

  A couple of older gentlemen were sitting by one of the large, floor-to-ceiling windows enjoying a game of chess. I smiled at them as I made my way to the reception desk. One waved a white bishop at me just before using it to take his opponent’s queen.

  “Hi,” I said to the desk clerk. “I’m Daphne Martin. I’m here for Chef Jordan Richards’s Australian string work class.”

  She politely directed me to Ballroom A.

  I turned and made my way through lushly carpeted halls framed by walls that featured an intricately carved chair rail molding and was interspersed every few feet by a cherry crescent table holding a bold floral arrangement.

  The double doors to Ballroom A were open. I nervously wiped my palms down the sides of my black slacks before walking in. I could see Chef Richards standing inside the room, but he was turned away from me talking with a man who was dressed in a white chef’s uniform. Should I have worn a chef’s uniform rather than the dress pants and geometric-print blouse I was wearing? Oh well, too late now.

  Chef Richards was shorter than I had expected him to be. He’d always appeared taller on television. I wondered now if the people he worked with were also short, or if he instructed the camera crew to shoot him in a way that made him appear taller. Despite his height—or lack thereof—he carried himself with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. I supposed that when one was as successful as Chef Richards, one would be allowed a little arrogance . . . a little smugness. I just hoped the attitude didn’t hop the fence and cross that border into full-blown overbearing, narcissistic superiority like it did on TV.

  The chairs had been stacked and moved to the sides of the ballroom, while long tables had been evenly spaced throughout. There were tented cards bearing the students’ names, two to a table. I spotted my table and was making a beeline for it when Chef Richards noticed me.

  He had gunmetal-gray hair. His eyes were brown and, in person, his face appeared to be more weathered than was obvious on television. As he strode toward me, he had the bearing of a smug autocrat, and I felt myself cringing inside. Then, surprising me, he smiled and stuck out his right hand.

  “Welcome! I’m Chef Richards, but I suppose you already know that.”

  “Of course,” I said, shaking his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “And you are . . . ?” he asked.

  “Daphne Martin. I’m a local baker, and I hope to learn a great deal from you in class today and tomorrow.”

  He nodded. “If you work hard, you will.”

  “I certainly intend to do that,” I said. I’d started to say I planned to
get my money’s worth, but I felt that might sound too crass, especially given the fact that the class had been priced well out of my budget.

  Chef Richards told me it was “nice to have me on board” and then went to greet another student who was just coming into class. I felt relieved. Maybe I’d been right in what I’d told Myra—the mean-guy persona cultivated by Chef Richards was for the benefit of the TV cameras. I was looking forward to going home at the end of the day and telling her how nice he’d turned out to be.

  The student who’d just entered the ballroom turned out to be my table partner. His name was Lou, and he was wearing a black chef’s uniform. At least we were wearing complementary clothing.

  Lou was an affable guy with a dark-brown buzz cut and a goatee. He shook my hand and told me he’d come from South Carolina to take this class.

  After everyone had filed in, been welcomed by Chef Richards, and filled all ten of the assigned spots, Chef Richards began the class.

  “Good morning,” he said. “As you can see, you each have before you a bowl of royal icing. I made the batch myself before you arrived, and it is of a perfect consistency. I trust each of you has a passable royal icing recipe, but I guarantee that your recipe won’t surpass mine. I have, therefore, taken the liberty of having my assistant print out my recipe for you. It too is on your table. Don’t bother to thank me—although you will every time you mix up a batch of this icing.” He smiled. “Allow me to go ahead and say you are all welcome.”

  Chef Richards paused momentarily to give us all time to express our gratitude. Then he introduced us to his assistant, Fiona. Fiona was a petite woman with light-pink hair. The color was striking on its own but made even more so by the fact that every piece of her clothing was white.

  Fiona said hello and started to say something else, but Chef Richards cut her off.

  “There’ll be time for you to socialize later, Fiona.”

  “Of course,” she murmured as she moved back to the side of Chef Richards’s table and resumed standing there as unobtrusively as possible.

  “Students, go ahead and fill your piping bags with the royal icing,” Chef Richards instructed.

  I took the plastic wrap off my bowl of icing and used the silicone spatula provided to fill the pastry bag. We’d been provided eight-inch, fondant-covered round cake dummies on metal and porcelain turntables and a flexible plastic dividing wheel to determine where to pipe our string work.

  “You’ll notice there are some toothpicks beside your bowl of royal icing,” said Chef Richards. “Please use one to score your cake for the first row of Australian string work, making your loops one and one-quarter inches apart.” He nodded at Fiona, and she began scoring his cake as we scored ours. “Then stagger another loop—also one and one-quarter inches apart—above your original scoring.”

  “Everyone done with that?” he asked after a couple minutes. He looked around the room and noticed that there was still one student who was painstakingly marking her cake. He blew out a breath. “For cripes’ sake, what’s taking you so long? You do know how far apart an inch and a quarter is, don’t you?”

  With great difficulty, I resisted turning to see who was getting the dressing down. Maybe Chef Richards’s crappy attitude wasn’t entirely manufactured for television after all. On the other hand, he could simply want to keep things moving at a brisk pace. I mean, we only had him for two days, so we were on a tight schedule. I was trying to give him the benefit of a doubt and not write him off after one exasperated comment.

  “Now, if Ms.—” He squinted to read the placard in front of her. “If Ms. Wilson has caught up with the rest of the class, we will continue. Ms. Wilson?”

  She apparently nodded, because Chef Richards told her that a nod or a head shake was not a proper response to any of his questions.

  “If I ask you a question, you will respond to me verbally and with respect. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said softly.

  “Louder,” he instructed.

  “Yes, sir.” Her voice was louder now but tremulous.

  “Very well,” Chef Richards said. “Now, have you finished scoring your cake, and are you ready to proceed with class?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ms. Wilson answered.

  “All right, then.” He went to the back of his table, picked up his piping bag, and instructed us on piping the first thin line of icing to follow the scoring on the cake. “Now, as you can see, this line is rather thick. Undo your coupler and replace the tip you’re currently using with the tiny round tip before you.” He gazed about the room to make sure everyone was complying. He blew out a breath. “Oh, come on! It’s not rocket science, people. Get a move on!”

  Chef Richards began to walk around the room impatiently. I’d already switched tips and reattached my coupler, so I was ready to go when he resumed teaching. I thought he had nothing to pick on me about.

  “Good job, Ms. Martin.” He nodded at my piping bag.

  “Thank you,” I said with a relieved smile.

  “You’re welcome.” He rocked back on his heels. “Is your husband still in prison, Ms. Martin?”

  My smiled faded. “Excuse me?” I couldn’t have heard him correctly.

  “I asked if your husband is still incarcerated in federal prison in Tennessee,” he said.

  I took a second to gather my thoughts. “I’m not currently married, and I don’t see what my personal life has to do with this class.”

  His mouth turned down at the corners. “That was a satisfactory response, Ms. Martin.” He turned his attention to the rest of the class. “You see, students, Ms. Martin’s estranged or former husband was incarcerated for attempted murder—of her, no less. What I just demonstrated to her was the importance of holding up well under pressure. You never know what types of questions the public will ask you or what kinds of people you’ll be required to work with.” He looked back at me and nodded curtly. “Adequate job, Ms. Martin.”

  I didn’t thank him.

  He moved back to his table when he was satisfied that everyone had switched the cake decorating tips in their couplers and was ready to continue. “With this tiny tip, we are going to make a string from the bottom of the thicker string to the top of your next scored line. Like so.” He demonstrated, making strings linking base icing to the scored section so close together that they were almost touching.

  “Fiona, finish this up for me while I observe the students’ progress.” Then he went around the room to look over everyone’s shoulders.

  If he couldn’t criticize, he said nothing. Where was the congenial, albeit arrogant, man who greeted me and the other students when we walked through the door?

  He nodded at my string work, which I took as high praise. To Lou, my table partner, he said, “Little sloppy there, Mr. Gimmel. Steady hands . . . steady hands.”

  Once Chef Richards had passed on to the next table, Lou rolled his eyes at me. I rolled mine back. I felt like telling Lou that at least Chef Richards hadn’t thrown Lou’s personal life onto the ballroom floor for everyone to gawk at. I’m surprised my hands were steady enough to make my string work any neater than Lou’s . . . which in truth wasn’t bad at all.

  “Your work is even sloppier than Mr. Gimmel’s, Mr. Conroy,” Chef Richard said. “I’d scrape that crap off with my spatula and try it again if I were you.” He looked Mr. Conroy up and down. “Are you a professional baker, Mr. Conroy, or are you here simply because you had no other plans for these two days?”

  “I’m a professional,” Mr. Conroy said. “I currently work in a grocery store bakery in my hometown, but I hope to improve my skills enough to either open my own shop one day or to work in an upscale restaurant.”

  “Yes, well . . .” Chef Richards pursed his lips. “In addition to greatly improving your decorating skills, you need to cut that hair, lose about twenty pounds, and have that dreadful tattoo lasered off. Customers expect their bakers to look professional.”

  Mr. Conroy’s eyes narrowed. �
��Have you ever seen Mario Batali?”

  “I have,” said Chef Richards. “His appearance is almost as bad as yours, Mr. Conroy, and I wouldn’t eat anything he prepared for me.”

  “He’d never prepare anything for you,” Mr. Conroy said. “He’d see right through your egotistical, odious attitude in a heartbeat and tell you to hit the road.”

  Lou Gimmel and I looked at each other wide-eyed. I was wishing I’d had the nerve and the quick wit to say something like that to Chef Richards. The class held its collective breath waiting to see how Chef Richards would respond. It was something of a letdown.

  “You’re probably right,” he said, moving on to slam Mr. Conroy’s table mate.

  Still, I couldn’t help but think that he was criticizing Mr. Conroy’s appearance when his own assistant looked like a Japanese anime character with her light-pink hair. Granted, the rest of her appearance was tame in comparison. Maybe to Chef Richards, cotton-candy hair went along with the concept of a confectionary artist.

  By the time Chef Richards had returned to the table, Fiona had expertly completed the string work all the way around his cake.

  “When you’ve completed encircling the cake with the string work as I have done here, we will move on to the next step,” he said.

  My eyes flew to Fiona’s face. It was expressionless. I supposed she was used to standing in the background and allowing the celebrity chef to take credit for her work. And although we’d all seen Fiona do the work, no one spoke up about what he’d said. Maybe I was feeling nitpicky since he’d been so hypercritical of everyone else.

  WHEN I GOT home at about five o’clock that afternoon, I was both physically and emotionally exhausted. Myra wasted no time in rushing over to find out if Chef Richards was as big a jerk in real life as he was on television.

  We went into the living room. I stretched out on my long white sofa, and Myra curled up in my pink-and-white gingham chair.

  I sighed. “I think he’s actually worse in person. When you’re in the room with him, the humiliation he inflicts becomes tangible . . . almost like a poisonous gas or something.”