Free Battered to Death (Daphne Martin Cake Mysteries) by Gayle Trent

plates while Ben took sodas from the fridge.
    “Did you have a good day at work?” I asked.
“Well, it was an exciting news day,” he said. “The fact that you were right in the midst of it did sort of put a damper on it for me, though.” He poured our sodas into glasses and put them on the kitchen table. “You?”
    “I got to meet some new people, such as Officer Baker.” I put the pizza box and our plates in the center of the table. “And I got reacquainted with a couple folks I already knew.” I got us some forks. “Officer McAfee comes across as nice as pie outside of the jail, but he can be pretty imposing in an interrogation room.”
    “I imagine he can.” Ben put a slice of the pizza onto each of our plates and placed them in front of our chairs. Then he came around and put his hands on my shoulders. “I know you’re not as all right with everything that has happened today as you’re trying to pretend.”
    “I’m not,” I admitted. “But I’m not the wreck I was when China York arrived just after I got home.” I caressed his cheek. “I am starving, though. We can talk about it while we eat.”
    We sat down and for the first couple of minutes we both just stuffed our faces. The pizza was so good and hot and cheesy and comforting. Maybe it was the starches and carbohydrates releasing chemicals into my brain and body, but soon I was feeling as if I could weather this storm, even though it was the worst one I’d been in to date. Sure, I’d previously found two dead bodies and one of my cakes had been suspected of killing a third, but this was the first time my fingerprints had ever been on an actual murder weapon. And, yes, my former husband had shot at me, but he had missed.
I swallowed my bite of pizza and looked at Ben. “Don’t you think that a cake stand is the most improbable murder weapon ever? I mean, did the medical examiner measure the dent in the cake stand and compare it to the wound on Jordan Richards’s head to make sure it was a definite match?”
    He nodded. “Of course. But what that means to police is that it wasn’t a premeditated crime. The murderer used whatever weapon was at hand.”
    “And someone planning to kill Chef Richards would have not only taken along a more suitable weapon but would have worn gloves,” I said. “That’s why Pauline Wilson and I are the prime suspects.”
    Ben lowered his eyes but nodded.
    “But what if the killer intended for it to look spontaneous?” I asked. “Then he or she might’ve worn gloves, used whatever could be found there in the kitchen—I mean, you know there’s most likely going to be a rolling pin in a baker’s kitchen, right? And . . . and . . .” I trailed off. “I’m not even buying that myself.”
    “We’ll figure this out,” he said. “I say the first thing we do is take a serious look at Pauline Wilson. I’ve done a little preliminary work and put out some feelers already. I’ll let you know what I find out.”
    “Thanks.”
He took my hands. “It’s going to be all right. We’ll get through this.”
    “What if we don’t?” I asked. “What if the police zero in on me? What if they truly think that I killed Chef Richards?”
    “One, I don’t believe they do. Sure, they have to ask you the tough questions and they have to take a serious look at you because your fingerprints were found on the murder weapon,” Ben said. “But if that’s all the evidence they have—a cake stand with your fingerprints and one other woman’s fingerprints on it—they can’t arrest you.”
    “Somehow that doesn’t give me much reassurance. Even if I’m not convicted, if Chef Richards’s murderer is never brought to justice, people in Brea Ridge will still look at me suspiciously. My business will fail, and I’ll be ruined here.”
    “Then we’ll move to Kentucky.”
    I brought my head up sharply. “Does that mean you’ve made your decision about taking the job?” I asked.
    “No,” he said. “I was