Murder Takes the Cake Text Read Online Free Page B

Doo cartoons. I thought she was cool. Plus, Violet and I would play Scooby Doo with two boys in our neighborhood—Joe Fenally was Freddie and Ben Jacobs was Shaggy. Naturally, I’d be Daphne, and Violet would be Velma. Vi hated being Velma.
    Vi called me last year and told me Joe had gotten killed in Iraq. I’d cried off and on for two weeks.
    If memory served, Ben worked for the Brea Ridge Chronicle . A wave of sentimentality hit, and I decided to give him a call.
    By the time I’d looked up the number and had spoken to the receptionist, that wave of sentimentality had broken against the shore of common sense. However, also by that time, I was on hold for Ben. As I thought about hanging up, he came on the line.
    “Ben, hi,” I said. “It’s Daphne Martin.”
    “Hi, Daphne. What can I do for you?”
    My mind raced. Ask for a subscription. Say I have the wrong number. Ask if he wrote the obituary for Yodel Watson. “Nothing really. I’m feeling a tad sentimental with the holiday so close, and I decided to give you a call and tell you happy Thanksgiving… Shaggy.”
    He laughed. “You, too, Daphne. I . . . I heard about your finding Yodel Watson.”
    “Let me guess—Joanne Hayden?”
    “No, I heard it at the police station. Are you all right? I mean, I remember you used to hyperventilate when we came across road kill . . . Uh, n-not that Mrs. Watson was . . . that . . . I mean . . . but . . . well, you know what I mean.”
    “I do know what you mean,” I said with a chuckle. “And, thank you. You’re the first person I’ve talked with yet who’s been concerned for me because I found a dead body.”
    I suddenly remembered how Ben used to try to shield me from the sight of a dead animal lying by the road while trying to keep his leashed dog Mutt, alias Scooby, under control.
    “Hey,” Ben said, “have you had lunch yet? I was getting ready to go grab a bite, and—”
    “Of course,” I said. “I didn’t consider what time it was when I called. I’ll let you go.”
    “Well, if you haven’t eaten, I’d like to buy you lunch and catch up.”
    “No,” I said, “I couldn’t possibly. I have ten cakes to decorate today.”
    “Whoa. Maybe another time then.”
    “Maybe so. That’d be terrific.”
    We rang off, and I took another ibuprofen and checked the consistency of my butter cream icing. The last thing I needed today was a pity lunch. I transferred the first batch of icing into a bowl and began preparing batch two. I was going to need at least seven to complete the ten cakes and the one I’d be making for Thanksgiving dinner.
    After I’d made up all the icing and set it into the refrigerator, I took out my favorite mixing bowl. It’s blue. No corny reasons. It’s simply blue and deep enough that I don’t slop cake batter all over the kitchen when I’m mixing, and I like it.
    Did I mention I love my kitchen? It’s the main reason I bought this house. The walls are beige, and the cabinets are white. There’s a light-colored wood floor and a huge island with a butcher-block top. The island is the ideal place to decorate cakes.
    I was taking three yellow, three spice and four white cakes to the grocery store in the morning. I was making a chocolate cake for Thursday because Lucas and Leslie love chocolate. I thought about adding a white chocolate ganache filling to try to impress Mom, but I figured she wouldn’t notice and that the tweens might not like it, so I decided to stick with the basic chocolate cake with butter cream frosting.
    I measured out my butter and sugar and beat them together with my hand mixer. I added my vanilla and eggs, and then took out my second-favorite mixing bowl—it’s yellow—for my dry ingredients.
    Wouldn’t you know it? The phone rang. I started not to answer it, but thought it might be someone needing a cake for Thursday, and I desperately needed to build up my clientele.
    “Hello,” a soft female voice said when I answered the