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

background. Did you know that last year he was arrested for assaulting his former spouse?”
    “No, I didn’t. Maybe that’s why he mentioned Todd to me in class.” I scoffed. “Maybe he was a fan . . . thought Todd was a hero.”
    “Maybe he did. Or maybe he thought Todd was stupid because he couldn’t worm his way out of the attempted murder charge. The only reason Richards didn’t do jail time was because his ex-wife dropped the charges before the case went to trial.” Myra leaned back and folded her arms over her chest. “I think we need to see where the former Mrs. Richards was yesterday morning, don’t you?”
    “Sure,” I said. “But that happened a year ago. It isn’t likely she’d come after him now. Is it?”
    “That might be what she wants us to think.” Myra nodded, trying to appear sage. “That could be a major part of her plan.”
    “It could be.” I was in an agreeable mood this morning. Or, at least, I wasn’t in an argumentative mood. Sometimes the best thing I can do is simply go along with whatever Myra dreams up.
“Now, what’s this about Ben moving to Kentucky?” she asked.
    I sighed. “He’s got a job offer from a new magazine, and the position would require him relocating.”
    She shook her head, her face showing her obvious skepticism. “He’s not going anywhere, hon. Why in the world would he? He’s the boss over at the Chronicle, he’s got a beautiful woman here who loves him to pieces, and he’s lived in Brea Ridge all his life. Don’t get all up in the air over that one, Daphne. You’re adding to your worries for no reason.”
    “I wouldn’t be so concerned about it if his old girlfriend—who is gorgeous, by the way—weren’t the one offering him the job,” I said.
    Myra’s arms dropped to her sides. “What’s her name?”
    “Nickie Zane.”
    Myra’s eyes dropped from mine to her lap.
    “Myra, what do you know?”
    She shook her head. “I don’t know anything . . . except that you’d better get ready to go to the cake show. Don’t you have to be there pretty soon?”
    “Yes, but I want you to tell me what you know about Ben and Nickie Zane first,” I said.
    “Honestly, I don’t know a thing,” she said, pushing back her chair.
    Myra never admitted to not knowing something. That meant she knew something, all right. She just didn’t want to tell what she knew.
“I’ll see you at the show,” she continued. She gave me a quick hug and then hurried toward the door. “Oh, and Daphne, why don’t you wear that emerald-green silk blouse you look so pretty in?”
    I nodded. “I’ll do that.”
    She knew something . . . something big. I got the distinct impression she was telling me to fight for my man . . . in green silk.
    F ORTY MINUTES LATER, I was dressed in the emerald silk blouse, a matching green-and-black-print skirt, and black boots. I was satisfied that my hair and makeup looked as good as I could get them, and I was resigned to the fact that my cakes were also as good as they were going to get. There was no time for any final tweaks.
    I boxed up the superhero cake and was carrying it out to the car when Ben arrived.
    “Good morning, beautiful,” he said. “Need any help with that?”
    “Good morning,” I replied. “Actually, I’ve got this one. It’s the wedding cake that’s going to give me fits.” I put the cake into the passenger seat of my car. When I straightened, Ben pulled me to him in a tight hug.
    “Nothing is going to give you fits today,” he said. “I don’t want you to worry about anything . . . not the cake competition, not Jordan Richards . . . not anything.”
Not Kentucky wasn’t said but was implied.
    “You’re right,” I said. “Whatever happens will happen, right? I’ve done the best I can with the cakes. If I’m a winner, then great. If I’m a loser, then I’ll deal with it.” That comment also applied to more than just the cake competition.
    “Whether or not your cakes place in this