Murder of a Chocolate-Covered Cherry (2 page)

Chapter 7: Add Egg Yolks

Chapter 8: Add Vanilla

Chapter 9: Slowly Add Dry Mixture to Creamed

Chapter 10: Mix until Smooth

Chapter 11: Beat for Two Minutes

Chapter 12: Set Aside Beaten Mixture

Chapter 13: Beat Egg Whites Until Stiff

Chapter 14: Fold Egg Whites into Batter

Chapter 15: Add Nuts

Chapter 16: Pour Batter into Prepared Pans

Chapter 17: Bake for Twenty-five Minutes

Chapter 18: Toothpick Inserted in Center Should Come Out Clean

Chapter 19: Cool Fifteen Minutes

Chapter 20: Remove from Pans

Chapter 21: Cool Completely

Chapter 22: Frost the Cake

Epilogue: Makes Twelve Servings

S
chool psychologist Skye Denison had endured the situation for as long as she could. Improvements on the outside were well and good, but they didn’t make her feel any better about the ugliness on the inside. It was time to put an end to her suffering.

She ignored the ringing telephone. There really wasn’t anyone she wanted to talk to bad enough to untie the rope, climb down from the ladder, and find the phone in the mess she had created in her dining room. She sighed with relief when the ringing stopped, but let out a small scream of frustration when it started right up again.

Evidently, whoever was calling knew that her answering machine picked up on the fourth ring and was hanging up after the third. This meant it was someone who called her on a regular basis. Skye paused as she tightened the knot. Who would be so determined to reach her that they would keep punching the redial button again and again?

It wasn’t her boyfriend, Wally Boyd, chief of the Scumble River Police Department. He had phoned earlier canceling their date for that night with the lame excuse that “something had come up.” His call had been the start of her bad day.

Another possibility was her best friend, Trixie Frayne, school librarian and Skye’s cosponsor of the school newspaper,
but they had already spoken as well. Trixie had called to tell Skye that a cheerleader’s parents were threatening to sue the
Scoop
for slander, and Trixie and Skye were scheduled to meet with the district’s lawyer at seven a.m. on Monday. Homer Knapik, the high school principal, would have a cow when he heard the news—then make Skye and Trixie shovel the manure.

A quick glance at her watch and Skye knew it couldn’t be her brother, Vince. Saturday morning was the busiest time at his hair salon. Skye’s godfather and honorary uncle, Charlie Patukas, the owner of the Up A Lazy River Motor Court, wouldn’t bother with repeated calls; he’d just jump into his Caddy and come over. After all, few places in Scumble River, Illinois, were more than a five- or ten-minute drive away.

Shoot!
That left only one person, and she would never stop dialing until Skye answered. Moaning in surrender, Skye made sure the rope holding the chandelier up out of the way was tied tightly and reluctantly climbed down the ladder, almost tripping on her black cat, Bingo, as she stepped to the floor. He shot her a nasty glare and darted from the room.

She yelled after him, “You know, you could have answered the phone, buddy. You’re not earning your keep around here.”

The next group of rings helped her locate the handset, and she lifted the edge of the tarp she had placed on the hardwood floor to protect it. Grabbing the receiver, she pushed the ON button and said, “Hello, Mom.”

“It’s about time you picked up.” The voice of May Denison pounded into Skye’s ear. “There’s a family emergency. Get over here right away.”

Skye growled in aggravation as her mother hung up without further explanation. Then her mother’s words penetrated the fog of her bad mood. Emergency! Had something happened to Skye’s father? Her grandmother? One of her countless aunts, uncles, or cousins?

A busy signal greeted Skye’s repeated attempts to call back. No doubt May had taken the phone off the hook to
force Skye to come over as ordered, rather than phone and ask questions.

Catching her reflection as she hurried past the foyer mirror, Skye hesitated. Her chestnut curls were scraped back into a bushy ponytail, the only paint on her face was the Tiffany blue she was using on her dining room walls, which did nothing for her green eyes, and the orange sweat suit she had put on to work in made her look like Charlie Brown’s Great Pumpkin.

Shaking her head, she decided it would take too much time to transform herself into a presentable human being, and instead grabbed her jacket, purse, and keys from the coat stand. She ran out of the house and leapt into the 1957 Bel Air convertible her father and godfather had restored for her a few years ago, after several unfortunate incidents left her previous cars undrivable.

The Chevy was a boat of a car, which made it hard to lay rubber, but Skye stomped on the accelerator and the Bel Air flew down the blacktop, white vapor pouring from the tailpipe in the below-zero temperature. Seven and a half minutes later, Skye wheeled into her parents’ driveway and skidded to a halt on the icy film covering the gravel.

Where were all the vehicles? If there was a family emergency the driveway should be packed with cars and trucks. Did her mom need a ride to the hospital? No, May’s white Olds was parked in the garage. What the heck was going on?

Skye flung herself out of the Bel Air and jogged up the sidewalk and across the small patio to the back door. She spared a glance at the concrete goose squatting at the corner. Except for the holidays, when the statue was dressed as anything from a Halloween witch to Uncle Sam, its costume was usually a good barometer of May’s mood. Given that it was January 10, too late for New Year’s and too early for Valentine’s Day, the fact that it was wearing an apron and a tiny chef’s hat and had a rolling pin clutched in its wing must mean something, but darned if Skye had a clue as to what.

Shrugging, she continued into the house, calling, “Mom, what’s going on? What’s the emergency?”

Silence greeted her as she dashed through the utility room’s swinging doors and into the kitchen. Still no sign of her mother, but Skye slid to a stop as her gaze swept past the counter peninsula and reached the dinette.

She felt all the blood drain from her head and the room started to sway as she stared at the table. She sank to her knees and closed her eyes, hoping she was dreaming or having a hallucination, but when she opened them again the wedding cake was still there—three layers of pristine white frosting with delicate pink roses and a vine of ivy trailing down its side.

Surely even May, a woman desperate for her daughter to get married and produce grandkids, wouldn’t throw an emergency wedding.

Seconds later Skye’s mother bustled around the corner from the living room clutching a cordless phone to her right ear. She clicked it off and leaned down. “What are you doing on the floor?” Grabbing Skye’s arm, she ordered, “Get up. It’s filthy. I haven’t had time to mop it yet today.”

May was dressed in sharply creased blue jeans, a pale yellow sweatshirt with tiny bluebells embroidered across the chest, and gleaming white Keds. Her short salt-and-pepper hair waved back from her face as if she had just finished combing it, and her mauve lipstick looked freshly applied.

“What’s that doing here?” Skye shook off her mother, rose from the light green linoleum, noting that it looked as immaculate as the day it was laid, and pointed a shaking finger at the offending pastry.

May made a dismissive gesture toward the towering wedding cake. “Oh, that. I was bored last night; your father had a meeting at the Moose, so I decided to practice my recipe.”

“Okay.” Skye hesitated in asking what her mother was practicing for, afraid the answer would involve Skye, a church, and a long white gown. Instead she demanded, “What is the emergency? Is it Dad, Grandma, Vince?”

“Oh, well…” May looked everywhere except at Skye. “I suppose I should have made it clear: Everyone is fine. It’s not that kind of emergency.” May stepped toward Skye and
took her hands. “It’s a good emergency. The best. You’ll never guess what’s happened.”

“What?” Skye cringed. Her mother’s idea of
good
was often not close to Skye’s; heck, a lot of times they weren’t even in the same universe.

“I’m a finalist in the Grandma Sal’s Soup-to-Nuts Cooking Challenge.” Grandma Sal’s Fine Foods was one of the area’s biggest employers. They operated a huge factory located between Scumble River and Brooklyn, Illinois, adja-cent to the railroad tracks that ran through both towns.

“Wonderful.” Skye hugged her mom, happy for May and relieved for herself. A cooking contest would keep May occupied and out of Skye’s affairs. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” May took a step back and wrinkled her nose. “You smell funny.”

“I was painting my dining room. Remember? I told you I was taking this weekend to finally get some of the downstairs rooms done,” Skye reminded her mother, then added, “If you wanted me all clean and pretty, you shouldn’t have said it was an emergency.”

“But it is an emergency. I needed to explain something to you before you answered your phone again.” May took a knife from the drawer by the stove and sliced into the wedding cake.

Skye flinched, still unconvinced that her mother didn’t have a groom waiting in the den and a priest stashed in the linen closet. “Explain what?”

“Sit down and I’ll tell you.” May handed Skye a piece of cake and a fork. “What do you want to drink with that?”

A double martini straight up
? Skye settled for a glass of milk.

May finally pulled a stool up to the counter next to Skye and said, “Now, I want you to promise that you’ll let me tell you the whole story before you say anything.”

“Okay.” Skye frowned; she was a school psychologist, for Pete’s sake, a trained counselor. Did her mom really feel it necessary to remind her to be a good listener?

“When I entered Grandma Sal’s contest, I couldn’t decide which recipe to use. Each entrant was only allowed to
send one, but how could I choose between my Two-Hour Decorated Cake and my Chicken Supreme Casserole?”

Skye finished chewing and swallowed. “Well, I think you made the right decision; this cake is scrumptious. I didn’t know you knew how to make frosting decorations.”

“Maggie taught me the basics.”

Maggie was one of May’s best friends and the premier fancy-cake baker in Scumble River.

“They’re beautiful. You must be a quick learner.”

“Thanks.” May fiddled with her coffee cup. “Uh, I didn’t exactly choose the cake recipe.”

“Well, your casserole is great too.” Skye forked another bite into her mouth.

“I’m glad you feel that way.” May stared out the picture window and kept talking. “Because
you
entered the chicken dish.”

“Huh?” Skye choked and had to take a swig of milk in order to speak. “I did what? Why? How?”

“I wasn’t sure which recipe would get the judges’ attention.” May twisted a paper napkin into a raggedy bow. “The cake is more dramatic, but the casserole is more practical, so I wanted to enter both. I just needed another name to use, and I borrowed yours.”

“Why me? Why not Aunt Kitty or your friend Hester or Maggie?”

“They were all entering their own recipes. I needed someone who wasn’t.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” Skye put down her fork; suddenly the sweet frosting curdled on her tongue.

“Because you would have said no. Then I’d have had to use your father’s name, and you know he would have a coronary if I entered him in a cooking contest. He’s barely over the fact that I made him wear a pink shirt to the VFW dinner dance.”

“Dusty rose,” Skye corrected, losing the thread of the argument.

“Pink, red, it doesn’t matter what you call it; Jed still finds it hard to accept that dress shirts come in any color but white.”

“Uh-huh, let’s get back to the contest.” Skye tilted her head. There was something her mom was keeping from her. “So you used my name. What does that have to do with me not answering my phone?”

“Because the woman who called to tell me I was a finalist said that they were notifying you next, and I was afraid you’d tell them you hadn’t entered and ruin everything.”

“I’m a finalist?” Skye took another sip of milk to stop herself from slapping her mother. “Why did she tell you about my entry finaling?”

“While we were chatting she mentioned that more than one entrant with the same last name made the finals. She asked if we were related, and I said yes. I told her that the Chicken Supreme was my daughter.”

“Well, they won’t let us both compete, so I’ll decline when they call.” Skye blew out a breath, thankful for her narrow escape.

“No! That’s just it. We can both be in the contest. There aren’t any rules against it.”

“But I don’t want to be in it.”

“Please. For me?” May’s happy expression melted away. “We’ll have a great time. We can spend some quality time together.”

“I talk to you every day and see you at least twice a week. That’s enough quality time for any thirtysomething daughter to spend with her mother.” Skye wasn’t falling for that old line. The only way May would ever feel she and Skye spent enough time together would be if Skye moved back home. Heck, knowing May, she wouldn’t be satisfied unless Skye crawled back into the womb.