Free The Fatal Funnel Cake by Livia J. Washburn Page A

But the strands didn’t break and the cake formed the way it was supposed to. There were minor variations, of course—like snowflakes, no two funnel cakes were exactly alike—but it was obvious that all three were poured by the same hand. Phyllis adjusted the temperature on the stove’s burner, bumping it down a little to keep the oil from getting too hot. She picked up the tongs and turned the cake.
    This was the home stretch, she told herself. As soon as this side finished browning, she would be almost done. Again relying on instinct, she waited as the seconds ticked by and turned into minutes. Then, holding her breath, she reached out with the tongs and grasped the cake.
    When she lifted it from the pan, she heard a murmur of approval from the spectators. She supposed that like any other activity, there were funnel cake aficionados who knew all the ins and outs of the game and recognized good work. She began soaking up the oil from her third and final funnel cake.
    Ramón Silva wore a dark scowl now. He had his third cake cooking. Phyllis didn’t take a good look at the first two he had cooked until she was finished pouring the maple syrup and sprinkling the pecans over her third cake. Silva’s cakes were beautiful; there was no denying that. And she was sure they were light and fluffy inside and would taste wonderful. There would be no shame in losing to an old pro like him.
    Phyllis hoped her cakes would at least be competitive. She thought they would taste good. There was no reason they shouldn’t.
    She stepped back, looked at the three funnel cakes on the counter next to her stove, and heaved a sigh of relief. She was finished, anyway. She had done her best. Now it was up to the judges.
    She turned to look at her friends. They all smiled broadly at her, and Sam gave her a thumbs-up. Phyllis returned the gesture, feeling a little foolish as she did so, but Sam’s enthusiasm was infectious.
    Ramón Silva stepped back, beamed at his cakes with obvious pride, and said, “Those are the winners, right there.” He looked over at Phyllis. “They’ll see they never should have opened the contest to amateurs.”
    â€œOh, I don’t know; it adds some excitement to the proceedings, don’t you think?” she said.
    Silva snorted. “This isn’t a game. It isn’t about excitement. This is business. If I can claim I make the fair’s best funnel cakes, I’ll sell more of them.”
    Phyllis could understand that, and she didn’t have any desire to hurt anyone’s business. But she hadn’t made the rules, and as far as she could see the contest had been fair for everyone involved, concessionaires and amateurs alike.
    The judging got under way. Phyllis glanced at the clock on the wall. Nearly an hour remained until Joye Jameson’s broadcast would be over. She hoped that she and the others would be able to see part of the show and meet Joye afterward.
    Now that the cooking was finished, the spectators were allowed to mingle with the contestants. Sam, Carolyn, Eve, and Peggy came over to Phyllis and congratulated her.
    â€œIt’s a little early for that,” she told them. “The judges haven’t even tried my cakes yet.”
    â€œYeah, but you got through it,” Sam said, “and I could tell it was a little nerve-rackin’.”
    â€œPhyllis has always handled pressure without any trouble,” Carolyn said. “When you’re a teacher you learn how to do that, or you don’t last long in the job.”
    â€œThat’s certainly true,” Eve agreed. “And she’s never broken under the pressure of all those murder investigations, either, even when she got thrown in jail because she was trying to help me.”
    The others looked at her in surprise.
    â€œOh, for goodness’ sake,” Eve went on. “Do you think I don’t know you’ve been avoiding talking about anything