The Fatal Funnel Cake Page 11

Phyllis shook her head. “No, the TV show provided everything for the funnel cakes we were making today. There’s nothing out of the ordinary about any of it, though; I can tell you that much.”

  “What kind of oil is that?”

  “Corn,” Phyllis said. “That’s the first thing I thought of, that it might be peanut oil, because I know there are people who are violently allergic to peanuts. But my recipe calls for corn oil, so I’m sure that’s what they used.”

  “We’ll have it tested and make certain of that, but thanks, anyway.”

  “Detective . . . I’m curious about one thing.”

  Morgan looked like she was growing impatient, but she asked, “What’s that?”

  “You have the footage that was being broadcast, don’t you? So all you have to do to know what happened is to look at it.”

  “The camera doesn’t always catch everything. We have to ask questions to know what we’re looking at.”

  That answer made sense, Phyllis thought. She nodded and said, “Thank you.”

  “If we need anything, we’ll be in touch.”

  “What about my friends? Are you going to interview them, too?”

  Morgan glanced over at the bleachers where Sam and the others were sitting. She asked, “Where were they during the show?”

  “In some folding chairs in front of the bleachers where they’re sitting now.”

  “Then they didn’t really see anything more than what the rest of the audience would have seen,” the detective said. “No, we shouldn’t need them. You’re all free to go.”

  “Thank you,” Phyllis said again, and this time Detective Morgan went back over to rejoin her partner. Sam, Carolyn, Eve, and Peggy came down the steps to meet Phyllis as she walked off the set.

  “Are they going to interrogate us, too?” Carolyn asked.

  Phyllis shook her head. “No, the detective said we were all free to go.”

  “Do they know what caused Joye’s allergic reaction?”

  “If they do, Detective Morgan didn’t say anything to me about it,” Phyllis replied.

  “It looked like a peanut allergy to me,” Carolyn went on. “Back when we were still teaching, they really drilled the dangers of peanuts into us. We had in-service training with the school nurse about it every year. And you know, I’ve always wondered where all those peanut allergies came from. I don’t recall ever knowing anyone who was allergic to peanuts while I was growing up, do you?”

  Carolyn looked around at the others, who all shook their heads. “Everybody I knew ate goobers,” Sam said.

  “I don’t understand it, either,” Phyllis said, “but I don’t doubt that it’s real.”

  “Oh, neither do I,” Carolyn said. “I just can’t figure out why it’s so prevalent now.”

  One of the officers at the building’s exit had to check with Detective Hunt on the radio before he would allow them to leave. As they stepped out into the beautiful autumn afternoon, which was a mixture of clouds and sunshine, it was hard for Phyllis to believe that death had struck so suddenly and unexpectedly in the building behind them. Joye Jameson had been so beautiful and vivacious, and a couple of minutes later she was gone. It was tragic, Phyllis thought, and not just because Joye was a television star. She would have felt the same way about anyone who had died like that.

  The fair was still going on, of course, even though the Creative Arts Building had been evacuated and put off-limits to the crowds thronging through Fair Park. Phyllis and her friends started making their way toward the parking lot but hadn’t gone very far when she heard someone behind her call, “Mrs. Newsom!”

  Phyllis turned to see Bailey Broderick hurrying toward them. The young woman looked upset, and understandably so. Her boss and mentor had just died right in front of her eyes not much more than an hour earlier.

  “Bailey, dear, I’m sorry—” Phyllis began.

  “What did you do?” Bailey interrupted her. “What did you do to kill Joye?”

  Chapter 15

  That accusation left Phyllis speechless for a moment, but Carolyn immediately stepped into the breach.

  “How dare you say something like that?” she demanded of Bailey. “Phyllis didn’t do anything to hurt that poor woman!”

  “Seems to me you’re a little out of line there, Miss Broderick,” Sam added.

  Bailey didn’t back down. Still addressing Phyllis, she said, “Joye was eating your funnel cake, and then she died. What am I supposed to think? What’s anyone supposed to think?”

  Phyllis had regained her composure now. She said, “You had that injector ready, Bailey. Clearly you know that Joye was allergic to something. All of the ingredients were provided by the show, so you know everything that went into that funnel cake.”

  Bailey stared at her for a second before saying, “Wait a minute! Are you accusing me of doing something wrong?”

  “Not a very good feeling, is it?” Carolyn asked, clearly speaking from experience.

  “Hold on, everyone,” Phyllis said. “Bailey, I’m not accusing you. Since you obviously knew about Joye’s condition, I’m asking you what she was allergic to. Was it peanuts?”

  Bailey nodded. “As a matter of fact, it was.”

  “I thought so. When people have such a violent reaction it’s usually either peanuts or shellfish that causes it, and there was nothing even remotely connected to shellfish in that recipe.”

  “There weren’t any peanuts, either,” Bailey pointed out. “If there had been, Joye wouldn’t have gotten anywhere near those funnel cakes.”

  “So she knew she was allergic, too.”

  “Of course.”

  “Had you ever had to use an allergy pen like that on her before?”

  “Once,” Bailey said. “A couple of years ago when we were in New Orleans for Mardi Gras. Just before we went on the air, while we were still backstage, she accidentally ate some candy that had peanuts in it. She reacted badly enough that I had to use the pen, although not as violently as she did today.” A frown creased the young woman’s forehead. “But that time the pen stopped the reaction in its tracks. I can’t figure out why it didn’t work this time. In fact it just seemed to make things worse.”

  “No, I can’t figure that out, either,” Phyllis said. “But I’m sure the police will get to the bottom of it.”

  “They’re treating this like they’re suspicious of all of us,” Bailey went on with worry creeping into her voice. “Like they think somebody hurt Joye on purpose. I guess . . . I guess that’s got me all on edge. Otherwise I wouldn’t have gone off on you like that. I’m sorry, Mrs. Newsom.”

  “Don’t worry about it, dear. We’re all upset.”

  Carolyn’s snort made it clear that Phyllis was more forgiving than she would have been in the same circumstances.

  Phyllis nodded toward the Creative Arts Building and said, “I take it the police are through in there and have told everyone they’re free to go?”

  “Actually, the detectives are still talking to a few of the crew members, but they were finished questioning me.” Bailey laughed humorlessly. “They told me not to leave town, though. I guess that means I’m a suspect.”

  “I’m sure that’s not the case. They don’t know yet if there was even any wrongdoing.”

  Peggy said, “Somebody did something wrong—that’s for sure; otherwise, that little gal wouldn’t be dead.”

  Bailey winced at the plainspoken words. Before she could say anything else, a man called her name, and they all turned to see Reed Hayes coming toward them.

  “There you are,” Hayes went on as he came up to them. “I wondered where you’d gotten off to. Are you all right?”

  “What do you think?” Bailey asked. Her voice held a little quaver of emotion now.

  Hayes put his arms around her, reminding Phyllis that Bailey and the producer were supp
osed to be involved in a romantic relationship. She hadn’t seen much evidence of that so far whenever she was around them, but Hayes summoned up a little tenderness now as he hugged Bailey and patted her on the back.

  “I know you’re upset,” he told her, “but you’ve got to pull it together. We’re all counting on you, Bailey.”

  She nodded, sniffled a little, and said, “I know.”

  “Counting on her for what?” Carolyn asked bluntly. Phyllis was wondering the same thing, but her friend had saved her the trouble of asking.

  “We still have another broadcast to do tomorrow,” Hayes said. “Bailey will have to fill in for Joye.”

  “Couldn’t you just show a rerun instead?” Phyllis asked.

  “Our contract with the syndicate calls for us to produce a minimum of four new shows per week unless it’s a scheduled hiatus,” Hayes explained. “In an emergency situation like this, they’d probably grant us an exception . . . but they’d hold it against us when we sit down to hammer out the new contract in a couple of months, and I don’t want to give them any extra advantage.”

  “I didn’t know you were about to negotiate a new contract,” Phyllis said.

  Hayes still had one arm around Bailey’s shoulders. He shrugged with his other shoulder. “No reason you’d know about it. You’re not in the TV business.”

  “That’s true,” Phyllis said. “I’m certainly not.”

  “Wait a minute,” Carolyn said. “You’re going to continue with the show?”

  “For now. We don’t have any choice. We have a contract. As for whether or not it goes on in the long run . . .” Hayes squeezed Bailey’s shoulders. “I suppose that all depends on how Bailey does in the meantime.”

  “Reed, I’ve told you I . . . I just don’t know about this . . . I mean . . . taking over the show—”

  “Who else is going to do it?” he asked her. “There’s no one else who can.”

  “Maybe Gloria Kimball could come back,” Carolyn suggested. “I don’t think she would mind.”

  Hayes sent a sharp glance her way. “That’s not going to happen,” he said. “No matter how much Gloria might like the idea.” With a hand on Bailey’s arm, he started to steer her back toward the building. “Come on. We’ve got to talk to Charlie about tomorrow’s show.”

  Bailey let him turn her around, but she lifted a hand in farewell to Phyllis. “Again, I’m sorry for what I said, Mrs. Newsom.”

  “It’s all right,” Phyllis told her. “You have a lot of other things to worry about now.”

  Once more she and her friends started toward the parking lot. As they walked, Carolyn said, “You know, some people might consider it a lucky break for Miss Broderick that something happened to Joye. Now she gets to step in and take over the show for a while. It’s like a ready-made audition for her to be a star.”

  “I don’t think I like what you’re hinting at,” Phyllis said.

  “Maybe not . . . but you can’t deny that the same thought crossed your mind, didn’t it?”

  Phyllis had to admit that was true enough, although she just shrugged and didn’t say so out loud.

  Maybe it was just because she had stumbled into those murder cases in the past, but once she had gotten over the initial shock of seeing Joye Jameson die right before her eyes, she had begun to ask herself who might benefit from Joye’s death. Bailey Broderick was the obvious answer to that question.

  Bailey had labored for several years in near anonymity, and from what Phyllis had seen, she worked hard to make sure the show was a success while receiving no credit for her efforts. Anyone in that situation might be expected to feel a little reasonable jealousy. Throw in the fact that Bailey would now be taking over the show for the next couple of months, and it certainly appeared that she had a good reason for wanting Joye Jameson dead.

  On the other hand, Phyllis had seen no indications of any hostility between Joye and Bailey. Maybe a little apprehension on Bailey’s part over the fact that Joye could be a temperamental boss, but if that was a reason for murder, then a lot of the world’s bosses would be in danger. Other than that, the two women had seemed to get along very well.

  There had been a hint of friction between Joye and Reed Hayes over Joye’s salary, Phyllis recalled, but again, nothing that wasn’t extremely common in the business world. Instinctively, she had an easier time regarding the producer as a potential killer, rather than Bailey, but there was absolutely nothing to base that feeling on, Phyllis told herself.

  Anyway, the whole thing was absurd. As far as anyone knew now, Joye’s death was just a tragic accident of some sort, and Phyllis was sure that would turn out to be true, once all the evidence was in. She was just wasting her time by letting her mind play with these fantasies of murder.

  “Will you folks be heading back to Weatherford now?” Peggy asked as they reached the parking lot and headed toward Phyllis’s Lincoln.

  “I’ve still got that Spam cook-off tomorrow,” Sam reminded her.

  “Oh, yeah. Well, I wouldn’t want you to miss that, Stretch. And I’ve got to admit, I’ve enjoyed having the company this week. That house of mine will seem emptier than ever once the four of you are gone.”

  Carolyn said, “Maybe we’ll stay until the weekend, if that’s all right with you. I’m not sure we’d want to brave Friday afternoon rush hour in Dallas.”

  Sam laughed. “Since I’ve been doin’ the drivin’, I’m darn sure I don’t want to brave Friday afternoon rush hour in Dallas. I think Saturday mornin’ will be just fine for us to go home.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Peggy agreed. “Like I said, I’ve enjoyed having you here.”

  They got in the car, left the fairgrounds, and headed back to Highland Park. Phyllis didn’t really pay attention to the urban landscape on both sides of the highway. Instead, she was still distracted by thoughts of everything that had happened this week. Her mind kept returning to the way she had seen Bailey and Hank the cameraman possibly sneaking off for a clandestine meeting. Could that have had any bearing on what had happened later?

  Sam glanced over at her and said quietly, “You’re thinkin’ about it, aren’t you?”

  “I can’t seem to help myself,” Phyllis said. “I guess I really am the terrible old busybody some people take me for.”

  “Not hardly,” Sam said. “You’re just puzzled by what happened, like the rest of us.”

  “There shouldn’t have been any peanuts in that funnel cake. There weren’t any peanuts or peanut butter or anything like that added to it. I know that. I was right there. It had to be the oil. That’s the only possibility. But I watched Bailey put the oil in the pan. It was supposed to be corn oil.”

  Carolyn leaned forward and said over the seat, “The label on the bottle said it was corn oil. But that doesn’t mean that it actually was.”

  Phyllis nodded and said, “I know. There might have been a mistake at the factory, I suppose. The wrong label could have been put on the bottle. That would make it just a terrible accident.”

  “Or someone could have switched the corn oil for peanut oil,” Carolyn persisted. “And that would make it . . .”

  “Yes,” Phyllis said. “That would make what happened to Joye Jameson murder.”

  Chapter 16

  Like the proverbial genie in the bottle, once the word was out there, it was impossible to put it back. Phyllis couldn’t honestly say that she had thought about murder as soon as Joye began to choke. She had been too startled and then too horrified for that. But Joye had been dead for only moments when the possibility that her death wasn’t accidental occurred to Phyllis.

  When they got back to the house in Highland Park, Peggy turned on the television and started flipping through the channels as they all sat in the den, still somewhat stunned by what had happened. All she found was normal afternoon programming—judge shows, talk shows hosted by washed-
up celebrities, reruns of fifty-year-old sitcoms, and infomercials—until she abruptly stopped pressing the button on the remote as a familiar face appeared.

  Gloria Kimball looked into the camera with an earnestly sorrowful expression on her face as she said, “—happened to be near the Creative Arts Building, Mike, just as word began to spread that something terrible had happened to Joye Jameson.”

  The shot went to a split screen, with a perfectly coiffed, spray-tanned, and equally earnest male news anchor in the studio on the left and Gloria outdoors with the fairgrounds in the background on the right. The anchorman said, “Yes, and we’ve confirmed now, Gloria, that Joye Jameson, host to the popular Joye of Cooking syndicated TV series, passed away this afternoon during the live broadcast of an episode from the State Fair of Texas. Can you add any more to that, Gloria?”

  Carolyn said, “Anybody who was watching Joye’s show knows that.”

  “Not necessarily,” Phyllis said. “They know something happened to cause the show to cut away to a commercial, but it never came back after that, so they might have thought the problem was just technical difficulties.”

  On the TV screen, Gloria Kimball said in answer to the anchorman’s question, “Yes, Mike, I can. It appears that Joye Jameson had a fatal allergic reaction to something in the funnel cake she had just tasted, a funnel cake made by the winner of this year’s funnel cake competition, one Phyllis Newsom. As a matter of fact, I spoke with Mrs. Newsom earlier today in an interview about her victory that our viewers probably saw.”

  Phyllis winced. She had never been interested in celebrity or fame, and certainly not notoriety like this.

  Sam pointed out, “Hey, she said, ‘one Phyllis Newsom.’ There’s bound to be more of them in the world than just you.”

  “Not helping,” Phyllis muttered.

  The anchorman went on, “So you’re saying, Gloria, that Joye Jameson was killed by this . . . this fatal funnel cake made by Phyllis Newsom?”

  “Good Lord!” Carolyn burst out. “I think you should sue them, Phyllis.”