Just What I Kneaded

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The rock star blushed and said in his British way, Jane rescued me from the clutches of the coppers. They were questioning me like a common bloke. Me, Vaughn Zachman! He stuck out his chest.

They were just doing their job, Vaughn. Jane took a seat opposite the famous rock star, and her friends found places to lean against the tiny doorway and walls in the crowded, decked-out tour bus.

It was pretty exciting, actually. Vaughn flashed a smoking hot smile, like the sensitive, brooding James Dean with a little of Johnny Depp thrown in. Never thought I’d find a dead body. Did they catch the guy who stabbed that baker?

No. Jane cast a glance at Dale and waved her arm first toward him, then at the other two. This is my fiancé, Dale. I told you about him. And these are my friends, Doug and Olivia Ladner.

Vaughn became chummy, saying any mates of Jane’s were mates of his. He gave them all bear hugs in turn. I’ll never forget Jane, here. She waited while the cops grilled me, and she made sure I got away from them. She was even going to call her attorney for me.

Just my boss. I’m sure he would’ve rushed over. Jane patted his arm. I wonder why they questioned you for so long. I was the one who saw the killer, who heard his voice. She stared off for a moment. I’ll never forget those voices. Jane could almost smell the cake just thinking about it.

They both shivered, sharing a memory no one but the two of them could completely understand.

Praise for Karen C. Whalen

Take one feisty widow and her appealing friends, add a gourmet dinner club, sprinkle with murder and you have a recipe for a delightful read!

~Laura DiSilverio, author of the

Readaholics Book Club mysteries

~*~

This culinary cozy mystery dishes up a serving of humor, wit, and a desire to keep turning the pages to find out whodunnit.

~ Rhonda Blackhurst,

author of Shear Madness and Shear Deception

~*~

Whalen will have you simultaneously cooking up recipes for your own dinner club and eyeing everyone suspiciously.

~Rachel Weaver,

author of Point of Direction

Just What I Kneaded

by

Karen C. Whalen

The Dinner Club Murder Mysteries, Book 5

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Just What I Kneaded

COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Karen C. Whalen

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

Cover Art by Kim Mendoza

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Mainstream Mystery Edition, 2018

Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2178-3

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2179-0

The Dinner Club Murder Mysteries, Book 5

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

To the attorneys I’ve worked with over the years

at Hall & Evans, LLC,

and to my son,

who also chose to become a member of the bar

Chapter 1

Jane Marsh promised, no more lying or cheating.

She swore not to pass off the bread from the bakery as her own creation. Buying bread for her dinner party was not cheating if she didn’t lie about making it herself, right? She stooped down to the bottom shelf where artisan table breads nestled in a wicker basket… yum…but, as usual, a clerk was nowhere in sight.

The bell on the door rang when another customer entered the store. Before Jane could straighten up, the slim person—medium height, black pants, bulky black leather jacket—as she later described to the police—rushed past. But she didn’t catch a glimpse of the customer’s face, since he, if it was a man, was oddly enough still wearing a motorcycle helmet with the dark visor lowered. Definitely wacky, but he was obviously in a hurry. He swerved around the checkout counter and banged open a door to a back room.

Standing up a little too fast, she caught a head rush and a stabbing pain in her left knee. She stretched out her leg and rotated the ankle. Holy cow…she didn’t want to admit to being fifty but really needed to get back into yoga for seniors.

The door swung on its hinges, like a saloon door, exposing the largest wedding cake she’d ever seen, towering at least eight feet tall, with a dozen layers balanced on sparkly pillars, adorned with a fondant of white cascading flowers and lacy cream ribbons. A crystal bride and groom topper perched on the highest tier. The strong smell of sweetness scented the air… eight feet of sweetness.

The cake was as extraordinary as the wedding cake in the movie, The Lady Eve. The ginormous kitchen could have been on The Food Network Channel. Maybe she could hire this bakery to bake the cake for her own wedding. A widow of several years, now engaged to be married, she was planning on a romantic ceremony and an elegant cake.

The kitchen door swung forward and closed, then opened again, and words slipped through the crack.

Be reasonable. The voice may have been either a man’s or a woman’s, but if a woman’s it was low, even mannish like Lauren Bacall’s, and if a man’s, it was high. You’re in the way.

A deeper, bass voice sounded. I can’t…

The door rotated shut, then swiveled toward Jane once more.

What’d you say again? The bass voice.

Taking care of business. The higher, indeterminate voice. The door swung in its semicircle, opening smaller this time, then wobbled shut. Just as Jane was about to nab a loaf of pumpernickel off the shelf, startling sounds penetrated through the closed door, scuffling, feet scraping the floor, and a brisk slap…

"No! No! Stop!" A long, terrifying scream, followed by a slam! Like a body hitting the floor.

That sounded bad, really bad, as if someone was hurt. What was going on in there? Was the motorcycle man a disgruntled customer? Was there a billing dispute? Or—her mind couldn’t help but imagine the worst, the scream sounded so savage—was it murder? Oh please, not that!

The door banged open and she ducked down. Footsteps pounded out of the kitchen and paused behind the counter. Jane made herself small, her back shoved against the wall on the other side of the checkout. The drawer in the cash register pinged open, then the sound of the man’s tread crossed the bakery, and the bell rang as his steps went out the door. A robbery, then?

Jane scrambled across the black and white checkered linoleum on shaky hands and knees, then peeked out from behind a table covered with a flowing white cloth. Outside the bakery window, the person in the black jacket jumped onto a motorcycle, hammered his left foot on the gear shift with an urgent vroom, VROOM, and hightailed it out of the parking lot.

Was someone in the kitchen, in pain…bleeding?

She jumped up, to heck with her sore knee, and ran through the swinging door. Her fist flew up to her mouth. Oh, my God.

A white-clad baker had fallen onto the cake, flattening it underneath him. Mounds of white frosting billowed out around his face and shoulders, as if he were sleeping on a fluffy white down comforter on a snowy white feather mattress. He appeared short and rotund, lying prone in his white baker’s apron. A clump of cake adhered to his black handlebar mustache. The only color was a red circle on his round stomach, a red bull’s eye, with a knife plunged into the center.

The rich aroma of vanilla mingled with the sugary-sweet smell of frosting. She drew in the overpowering scent as she struggled for even breaths and her heart pounded. She crouched down to lift the baker’s hand from the valley of frosting. His flesh was warm, but no pulse beat beneath the skin. With the thumb of her free hand, she keyed 9-1-1 on her cell, then yelled into the phone, Help! Ambulance! A man has been stabbed! In a hurried, quavering voice, she gave the dispatcher the name of the bakery, Just What I Kneaded, and the address on Eisenhower Blvd. Trembling, she shoved herself to a stand.

She must have been in shock when the doorbell signaled someone coming back inside, since she didn’t even try to hide.

A handsome young man, with thick blond hair and contrasting dark brows and eyes, strode into the kitchen. Blimey! Look what happened to the cake! He spoke with a British accent.

Another man burst through the door and started shooting pictures with a large, professional-looking camera. The handsome Brit spun around and cuffed the photographer in the shoulder. Get out of here you, you…wanker!

You can’t hit me. I’ll get you for assault. The cameraman shoved him back, and soon their feet were skidding in the cake, unbalancing them. The photographer’s hair was speckled with frosting. They were about to join the baker on the floor.

Stop it! Jane held up a palm. Time out. This is a crime scene. The police are on the way. Her sharp words cut short their fist fight. The handsome Brit leaned against the door frame typing into his cellphone, while the photographer continued to snap pictures.

The Brit said, Wedding’s off at least. In an about-face, his anger disappeared, and he smiled with white teeth flashing. He twisted his phone screen in their direction to show them his tweet: Vaughn and Felicity nuptials nixed #weddingoftheyear #weddingfiascos #getmeouttahere.

Hey man, Felicity’s name should’ve been first. The photographer thrust his chest forward, and the Brit’s face turned red, and his cheeks puffed out, but the police siren’s wail in the distance caused both men to stand down.

****

After several hours of police questioning, Jane was allowed to leave with a loaf of pumpernickel bread. At her party that night, she told the dinner club members the loaf had come from the bakery. They not only enjoyed the pumpernickel, but also the news that she’d met handsome British rock star Vaughn Zachman the day before his wedding to mega-celebrity Felicity Floyd, a country-western singing star. She had the photos to prove it, having gotten off a few snapshots of her own…not of the victim—pictures of the dying baker would’ve been insensitive—but of the handsome Brit. She hadn’t asked for an autograph under the circumstances.

The story hit the tabloids the next day. The wedding had been cancelled as Vaughn Zachman predicted. The über-rich, celebrity-types had their reasons, she supposed, for stopping a wedding because of a cake, as incredible as it sounded. Felicity Floyd had cried, screamed, cussed, and thrown a tantrum over the destroyed cake that had the price tag of three hundred thousand dollars.

Yes, three hundred thou! Jane almost dropped her Sunday morning cup of coffee upon reading that bit of news. Felicity Floyd had been much quoted that her cake would be over ten times better (and more costly) than Kim Kardashian’s cake (which cost $20,000) and four times Princess Kate’s cake ($78,000). She’d seen a spectacular wedding cake at the Luxury Bridal Show in Beverly Hills for several million dollars. So, she ordered one specially made where she was to be married in Loveland, Colorado, the Valentine’s Day capital of the world…for the bargain price of three hundred thousand. The article explained that the cake tiers were designed to be broken down. The baker was in the process of assembling the confectionary masterpiece at the bakery to make sure everything fit together perfectly before stowing each tier securely in a special carton for transportation.

Photographs taken by the cameraman at the scene were on every news channel and the front page of major newspapers worldwide. The photo opportunity was too good to pass up with the rotund baker in his white apron and white toque and black handlebar mustache—the caricature come to life, or rather, death. The same articles included swoon-worthy Vaughn Zachman wearing sleeveless tee shirts to show off his muscles and tattoos. Felicity Floyd’s famous pout was splashed across the pages as well, usually on the opposite side of the fold from the photos of her former fiancé, so their faces met when the paper was closed.

Not much was mentioned about the baker, except for his name buried in the last line—Xavier Del Orte. Jane’s name wasn’t mentioned at all, for which she was grateful.

The murderer was ridiculed for stealing money out of the cash register instead of making off with the cake. He was never apprehended.

****

Jane was sitting in her closet-sized, paralegal office at the law firm where she’d worked for too many years to admit when she got the call six months later.

Hello. This is Jane Marsh.

Hi, Jane. Nash Truett here. Nash Truett was the insurance adjuster she’d spoken with on the phone many times over the years, but had never met. His quiet voice was easy to place, since he always spoke in a low undertone. I have a favor to ask. Immobile Equity was served with a Summons and Complaint today in a bad faith claim.

The deadline for the Answer would be three weeks from the date of service. Using a red pen, she circled June 16 on the flat calendar covering the top of her desk. If you give me the plaintiff’s name I can start opening the file. What’s the claim about?

Well, Jane, don’t open the file, yet. There’s a conflict because the suit involves that homicide at the bakery, Just What I Kneaded. I saw from the police file that you were a witness.

She threw her pen down on the desk. Right. I doubt we can take the case. Why is the insurance company being sued?

I’ve got the Complaint in front of me. It says here, Yates Yarborough, on behalf of Just What I Kneaded, Inc., let me read it…it alleges…‘the failure to pay an insurance claim in violation of an implied covenant of good faith and fair dealing.’ As usual in these bad faith cases, he’s claiming treble damages. The amount of the demand is three hundred thousand dollars, plus interest, costs, and attorney’s fees.

Treble damages in a three hundred thousand dollar lawsuit meant the claim was actually for nine hundred thousand, plus interest, costs, and attorney’s fees. So, close to a million.

I’m assuming the three hundred thou’ demand is for the cake. Her stomach rolled as the memory returned—the sweet smell of the towering cake, the voices behind the door. Her breathing became shallow and her office even more claustrophobic than usual.

Uh-huh. Nash always spoke with the fewest words possible.

I read in the paper it really did cost that much, as hard as that is to believe. She took a gulp of air. I can assure you the cake was totally destroyed. Is that why Nash called her? To verify the facts? She couldn’t help but be interested, even if the firm was unable to work on the defense. So, why was the claim denied?

Because it was an inside job…staged.

She inhaled a long, jagged breath. The whole robbery and stabbing certainly felt real to her. Seriously?

The police found, and I quote, ‘intentional destruction of property and goods with an attempt to make it look like a robbery.’ The detective said the victim’s body had been pushed into the cake.

She flopped back and chewed on her lower lip. So, the baker didn’t just land on the cake when he fell after he was stabbed.

No, he didn’t. And the insurance policy had an exclusion for intentional destruction of property. The intent was to destroy the cake along with killing the chef. At least that’s the company’s position.

She swallowed hard. It sure seems you have a good reason to deny the claim.

A sharp resound of footsteps echoed in the background as if he was walking. But the investigation is ongoing. The police can change their determinations later. Until the case is closed, we can’t use the police findings as the basis for the denial, since the findings aren’t conclusive.

Wow. This is so interesting. Jane’s breathless voice had gone up a notch. She dropped it down. You said you wanted a favor?

Uh-huh.

What do you need? She rocked back in her chair. Her mind raced around, but she had no idea what he would ask her to do.

Since the Answer isn’t due for three weeks, I might have time to resolve the lawsuit before litigation gets underway.

You mean, get the case dismissed? Wow, if you do that, you could land that supervisory position.

That’d sure be nice. Can you meet me outside the bakery for a look at Yates Yarborough? I’d like to see if you recognize him.

You think he was the killer? The vision of the faceless man in the motorcycle helmet, visor down, swam in front of her eyes. If the owner killed the chef and ruined the cake himself, he should not profit by receiving insurance proceeds. That would be wrong, which was the reason for the policy exclusion.

It’s possible, if the killer’s intent was to make it look like a robbery, destroy the cake, and file an insurance claim.

That’s criminal in more ways than one. She brushed the back of her hand across her forehead. The owner showed up at the bakery after the police arrived, at least they told me he was the owner, but I didn’t get a good look at him. There was a woman with him. They didn’t say who she was. The police separated those two right away.

The woman was probably the bakery’s bookkeeper. Her name’s on the police report. She’s listed as the witness who arrived at the same time as the owner.

Nash, the killer hid his face behind a motorcycle helmet. How is it possible for me to recognize him? I did look at a police lineup right after it happened and couldn’t identify anyone, and now six months have passed.

Nash sighed a deep breath into the phone. I’d like you to try anyway. Maybe his walk or stance or something will look familiar.

Yeah, that’s what the police said about the men in the lineup, but I couldn’t tell from the way they were standing. Were there any security cameras, like the ones at convenience stores? Did they get the guy on video?

No. There were burglar alarms but not cameras. Video would have been great to have, but no such luck. The owner will be leaving the bakery when it closes at nine tonight. Can you meet me in the parking lot across the street fifteen minutes before nine?

Jane had a full Friday night planned, a date that did not include revisiting a crime scene, but said, All right. I can make it.

Okay. I gotta go. I’m about ready to walk into a meeting. Nash gave her his cell number and she responded with hers before they disconnected. Then she called her fiancé, Dale, to let him know about the change in plans.

She should probably give her boss this news, too, since Immobile Equity Insurance Company was their biggest client.

She rose from her chair and crossed the hall over to the immense corner office belonging to Tad Wolfert. I got a call from Nash Truett about a bad faith lawsuit, but we can’t take the case since there’s a conflict.

How do you know there’s a conflict? Wolfert creased his eyebrows as he glanced up from his computer monitor. He had on a white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to the middle of his forearms, and was seated in his burgundy leather office chair at his dark mahogany desk. A black suitcoat and a red necktie always hung on a hanger behind his door in case he was called to a meeting or to court. Younger than Jane by ten years, he was still in the warrior-conqueror phase of his career, climbing his way to the top of the partnership. Stress had marred his thick hair with progressive gray and the corner of his eyes with premature wrinkles.

She stepped inside the doorway, one hand resting on the doorknob. Glare from floor to ceiling windows hit her face. Remember, I told you about that robbery I witnessed in January. She gave him an encouraging smile, wide open, but he only returned a blank stare, eyes empty. When the pastry chef was stabbed… He continued to look puzzled, head down, chin low. Anyway, the bakery filed a bad faith suit against Immobile Equity.

His stare morphed into a glower. He hated to lose work. Getting new assignments made him happy and missing out on assignments made him huffy and ill-tempered.

Jane took a step closer and let go of the doorknob. Nash asked me to meet him across the street from the bakery tonight at closing time so I can get a look at the owner when he leaves. See if I can recognize him. The police think the whole thing was an inside job. I can meet him, can’t I?

Her boss tented his fingers in front of his nose and gave her a long level look over the tops of his fingertips. As long as you have no contact whatsoever with the plaintiff, you can go. No contact, he repeated, as if she hadn’t heard him the first time. I’ll give Nash a call and see if he can assign the case to us anyway. Maybe we can put up an ethical wall. His mouth drew into a thin line. Success meant keeping old clients satisfied…old clients so satisfied they’d be sure to send new cases his way.

But it wasn’t as if Jane had any control over what had happened. It wasn’t her fault she was a witness.

Chapter 2

Slime lime, Jane. Are you sure you want this car? In this green?

This is the color I love, Dale. I really love, love, love this color. Especially on this vehicle. Jane clutched the new keys in her hand and waved goodbye to her old, boring black car with the dented rear bumper. And the name of the color is ‘spring bud’ not ‘slime lime.’ Thanks for coming with me to pick up my new car.

This compact size suits you, anyway. Dale Capricorn was of average height, not too tall for her five foot one frame, but with legs a bit long for comfort in the compact. He did