The Fatal Funnel Cake Read online

  A couple of the judges stopped to watch him and talk to him. Sam responded in a low voice, so that Phyllis couldn’t make out the words, but both judges smiled and chuckled. She sighed in relief. The judges seemed receptive both to what Sam was making and whatever he had said to them.

  She wondered if it had been the joke about sushi being invented in Texas.

  The contest didn’t actually take very long, but to Phyllis it seemed longer than it really was. After a while, she figured out why she felt so tense, a lot more so than she had felt in any of the contests she had entered over the years. It was because of how much she cared about Sam and wanted him to win. Even though he had tried to pass the contest off as unimportant, she knew him well enough to be aware that he wanted to do a good job at anything he put his mind to. That was why he had been a successful coach and educator, why he was such an excellent woodworker, and why he knew more about computers than she ever would. He had the drive to excel at whatever he was doing.

  On the other hand, he had enough self-confidence that if he didn’t win or at least place highly, he wouldn’t be devastated. But it would certainly be nice if he received some recognition for his efforts.

  Phyllis glanced over at her friends. She could tell that they were rooting for Sam, too. She sent positive thoughts his way. It couldn’t hurt.

  Eventually the time allotted for preparation was over. The contestants had to present their dishes to the judges. As the evaluations started, Phyllis caught Sam’s eye, smiled, and gave him a thumbs-up. He returned the smile somewhat wearily, as if his efforts had taken a lot out of him.

  When the judges came to Sam’s entry, each of the three men ate a bite of the Spam sushi. Then they each took another, which Phyllis thought was a good sign. They wouldn’t have eaten a second sample if they weren’t considering Sam’s entry for one of the top spots, she told herself.

  The judges moved on, and Sam looked relieved. Phyllis understood the feeling. He had given the competition his best shot, and whatever happened now, it was out of his hands. All he could do was wait for the results.

  That didn’t take long. When they had sampled all the dishes, the judges consulted among themselves for a few moments, then nodded in agreement. One of them took the blue ribbon from a folder and moved toward the far end of the group, where he presented the ribbon to a contestant who had prepared a Spam and black bean pizza with a cornmeal crust. Everyone applauded, including Phyllis and her friends. Even though Sam hadn’t won, they weren’t going to be bad sports about it. Phyllis knew Sam, with his background in athletics, wouldn’t want that.

  The judge took the second place red ribbon from the folder and turned around to walk the other way along the line of contestants. He was going toward Sam this time, and Phyllis felt her pulse quicken. Finishing second in the only cooking competition he’d ever entered would be a tremendous achievement, especially at this level, she thought.

  Her heart leaped as the judge stopped in front of Sam, extended the ribbon to him, and then shook hands. A grin broke out across Sam’s rugged face as he pumped the judge’s hand. Phyllis heard the man say, “Excellent job, Mr. Fletcher.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Sam said. Still grinning, he held up the ribbon so everyone could see it.

  The presentation of the third-place ribbon was anticlimactic as far as Phyllis was concerned, although she was sure the woman who won it was pleased. As the contest concluded, she led the others over to Sam and put her arms around him as she said, “Congratulations!”

  Sam surprised her by kissing her on the lips. “You were my inspiration,” he said as he broke the kiss. “I never would have even entered if it wasn’t for you and Carolyn. I can’t thank the two of you enough.”

  “I don’t mind accepting your thanks,” Carolyn said, “but you don’t have to kiss me.”

  “Dang, how do I get the job of being an inspiration?” Peggy wanted to know.

  “Trust me, dear,” Eve told her. “That position is permanently filled, I think.”

  Since that banter made her feel a little uncomfortable, Phyllis said, “So can we try this batch of your award-winning Texas-style Spam sushi now?”

  “Help yourselves,” Sam told her. “I didn’t fix enough for us to make lunch off of it, but it’s a pretty good appetizer.”

  After snacking on the Spam sushi, which was delicious, Phyllis thought, they helped Sam pack up his supplies, and he took everything back to the car.

  They met back at the food pavilion for some actual lunch. As they were eating, Carolyn asked, “Are we heading back to Peggy’s house now?”

  Phyllis said, “Actually, I thought we might go back to the Creative Arts Building and take in the TV broadcast.”

  “You want to go back there?” Carolyn asked, her eyes widening in surprise. “After what happened yesterday?”

  “I’d like to see how Bailey does. I’m sure she’ll be nervous, so the more friendly faces there, the better.”

  “Everyone will be friendly,” Carolyn said. “The general public won’t care that it’s her first show. Some of them won’t even know it.”

  “I’ll bet almost everyone in the audience will know what happened,” Phyllis said.

  Peggy added, “It’d be hard not to if they’ve watched TV in the past twenty-four hours.”

  Carolyn shrugged. “I don’t mind going. It’s a little morbid, though. I feel a little like we’ll be watching a train wreck.”

  “I certainly hope it’s not that bad,” Phyllis said.

  When they finished eating, they walked back to the Creative Arts Building. It was possible they might not be able to get into the show, Phyllis thought. Joye Jameson’s death might have brought out an even bigger crowd than usual. Carolyn was right: In a way it was like a train wreck, or an accident on the side of the road that turned all the other drivers into gawkers. She felt an instinctive liking for Bailey Broderick, and she hoped for the young woman’s sake that the broadcast went well.

  A lot of people were already lined up to climb into the bleachers and watch the broadcast. Phyllis and the others joined the throng. She waved at Chet Murdock, who was standing next to the steps leading to the bleachers, guarding the rope that kept the audience from filing in yet. Chet grinned and returned the wave.

  “Maybe your chunky friend there would let us go to the front of the line,” Peggy suggested.

  “Goodness, I wouldn’t ask such a thing of him,” Phyllis said. “I doubt if he’d do it, anyway. He seems quite devoted to his job, even if he doesn’t want to make it his career.”

  By this time she had been around the show enough so that she could estimate the crowd, and she knew that they would get in to see the broadcast. As she was standing there, Phyllis noticed a woman ahead of them in line turning around to cast glances toward her. After that had happened several times, she began to wonder what was going on.

  It didn’t take long to find out, because the woman said, “Hey, aren’t you the woman who made funnel cakes on this show yesterday?”

  “That’s right,” Phyllis said, feeling a tingle of apprehension go through her.

  “The one whose funnel cakes killed Joye Jameson?”

  Carolyn’s voice was loud with anger as she said, “Now, hold on just a minute there! Phyllis’s funnel cakes had nothing to do with what happened to Joye.”

  Actually, that wasn’t true, thought Phyllis, or at least it probably wasn’t. But she wasn’t surprised that Carolyn was defending her.

  “That’s not the way I saw it,” the stranger said. “Poor Joye took one bite of that funnel cake, and boom! Down she went. What else are we supposed to think killed her?”

  “There was nothing harmful in that funnel cake,” Carolyn insisted.

  Phyllis put a hand on her arm and said, “It’s all right, Carolyn. I don’t want you getting into an argument on my behalf.”

  Car
olyn snorted. “It’s not an argument. Just the ignorant ranting of a person who doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

  “Hey, lady,” the woman said as she took a step toward Carolyn, “I got your ignorant ranting right here—”

  Sam moved between them and held up his red ribbon. “Came in second place in the Spam cook-off,” he said. “They gave me this red ribbon and fifty dollars. How about that?”

  “Good for you,” the stranger said. “But if you’re with that bunch, I wouldn’t eat anything you fixed. It might be poisonous.”

  Carolyn’s face flushed an even darker red, and trouble might have been unavoidable if Chet Murdock hadn’t come along the line and said, “All right, let’s all settle down here. We’re letting the audience in now, so move along, folks, move along.”

  The audience members climbed into the bleachers. Several more people were staring openly at Phyllis now, and she knew they had either heard what the woman had said or recognized her from the previous day’s broadcast. The unease she felt confirmed that she had no real interest in being a celebrity, certainly not a notorious one like she appeared to be for the moment.

  They sat down on one of the benches about halfway up the bleachers. Phyllis did her best to ignore the looks being sent her way and talked to Sam instead, asking him, “So are you going to enter some more cooking contests now?”

  “I don’t know about that,” he replied dubiously. “I’m not sure I know how to cook anything except Spam and chocolate peanut butter oatmeal cookies.”

  “Well, if you do decide to, I’ll be glad to give you some pointers.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he promised. “I can make a mean pot of chili, come to think of it, and Texas is known for its chili cook-offs. It might be fun to go to one.”

  Bailey was the one who had warmed up the crowd before the other broadcasts began, and Phyllis wondered if she would continue with that job even though she was now the star of the show, at least temporarily. As the time for the broadcast to begin approached, Bailey came out onto the set and picked up a microphone. The audience quieted down and applauded for her, even without being told to. She was dressed in jeans and a pullover sweater, a more informal outfit than Joye Jameson had usually worn, but it looked good on Bailey and fit her personality.

  “Thank you. Thank you, everyone,” she began. “Welcome to The Joye of Cooking.” Her voice caught a little as she said the name of the show, but she pushed on immediately. “We’ll be getting started in a few minutes, and before we do I’d like to mention a few things, like the applause signs . . .”

  She used her free hand to point toward the signs, but as she did, her voice trailed off. Phyllis looked where Bailey was pointing, and as she did, she saw the same thing that must have caused the young woman to fall silent. Detectives Morgan and Hunt of the Dallas Police Department stood at the side of the broadcast set, and judging by the grim expressions on their faces, they weren’t here to carry out any sort of pleasant task.

  Of course, the rest of the audience probably didn’t recognize the detectives, so they must have wondered why Bailey had stopped in the middle of her speech.

  Charlotte Morgan looked over at Al Hunt, who shrugged and nodded as if telling her to go ahead. Morgan stepped up onto the set and started toward Bailey, who suddenly appeared confused and frightened. Phyllis thought Bailey looked like she wanted to turn and run, but she didn’t move. She seemed to be rooted to the spot. Plenty of noise came from the rest of the hall, but utter silence had fallen over this side of the big room. Reed Hayes came through the door at the back of the set and said in a stricken voice, “Bailey . . . ?”

  She didn’t turn to look at him. Phyllis could tell that Bailey couldn’t take her eyes off Charlotte Morgan. The detective stopped in front of her and said, “Bailey Broderick, you’re under arrest for the murder of Joye Jameson.”

  Chapter 20

  That eerie silence hung over the set for several long seconds after Detective Morgan’s pronouncement, but then it exploded into a hubbub of sound from the audience and also from some of the crew members. From his position behind the main camera, Hank Squires yelled, “No! That’s crazy!”

  Hank stepped out from behind the camera and started toward the set. Detective Hunt got in his way. Even though Hank towered over the policeman, he stopped his advance. He kept glowering over Hunt’s head at Detective Morgan, though.

  Reed Hayes said, “Bailey, don’t say a word to these people. Not one word, do you understand? I’ll call the show’s lawyers right now.”

  Phyllis wasn’t sure what good it would do to call a firm of show business lawyers in Hollywood when Bailey was being arrested for murder in Dallas, but other than that, she thought Hayes’s advice was good. She knew the detectives would try to rattle Bailey and get her to say something incriminating, so not saying anything at all probably was the best course of action for her right now.

  Phyllis realized she wouldn’t even be thinking such a thing if she weren’t convinced that Bailey was innocent. That was a mighty big conclusion to jump to, but her instincts told her that Bailey hadn’t killed Joye Jameson. Phyllis had been right there, only a few feet away, and she had seen the genuine shock and sorrow in Bailey’s eyes when Joye collapsed and died.

  Carolyn leaned over to Phyllis and said, “This is insane! I don’t believe that girl had anything to do with it.”

  “Neither do I,” Phyllis agreed. “Of course, we don’t know her that well—”

  “I’ll say you don’t,” Peggy put in. “You’ve only talked to her two or three times.”

  Eve said, “Phyllis has excellent judgment about these things.”

  “Maybe so, but she’s out of her bailiwick here.”

  That was certainly true, Phyllis thought. This wasn’t the familiar, comforting small-town confines of Weatherford. This was cold, impersonal, crowded Dallas. The detectives weren’t going to listen to her. Nobody really cared what she thought.

  Charlotte Morgan was still talking to Bailey, no doubt reading her her rights. Morgan took out a pair of handcuffs. Looking pale and shaken, Bailey turned around. Morgan cuffed her wrists behind her back and then took hold of her right arm. The detective led Bailey off the set.

  “Looks like they’re gonna have to show a rerun today after all,” Peggy said.

  Phyllis glanced at the clock. It was only a few minutes until the show was supposed to begin. Reed Hayes was probably on the phone to his bosses, letting them know what had happened so they could step in and order that rerun. Phyllis didn’t really know how these things worked, but she figured there was a good chance the syndicate always had an old episode ready for any sort of emergency that kept a new episode from going on the air. That seemed like a reasonable precaution to take with a show that was broadcast live.

  In the meantime, the audience didn’t know what to do. Some of them probably realized there wasn’t going to be a show today after all, since the host had been led off in handcuffs, but the others might still expect to be entertained. Everyone stayed in the bleachers, sitting there uncertainly, as more time passed and the hands on the clock moved beyond the top of the hour.

  Reed Hayes had disappeared during the commotion. Phyllis wondered if he had gone to the jail to do whatever he could for Bailey. Hank was still there, pacing back and forth angrily and running a hand over his balding head. The director, Charlie Farrar, came in from the truck and joined the rest of the crew around the set, but he looked just as lost as they did.

  After a while Hayes emerged from the backstage area, so he hadn’t left after all. He conferred with Farrar and then motioned for Chet Murdock to join them. Hayes looked like he was giving orders to the security guard. Chet nodded.

  When Hayes was finished talking to him, Chet came over to the bleachers and held up his hands. “Can I have your attention?” he said, raising his voice to be heard. “Everyone? Can I have yo
ur attention, please?”

  Gradually the members of the audience quieted down. When they had, Chet went on, “The producers of The Joye of Cooking regret to inform you that there will be no show today. They hope you will continue to watch the show when new episodes resume in the near future. Thank you.”

  Groans and mutters of disappointment came from some in the audience, but most of the people just stood up and started to leave the bleachers in an orderly fashion, including Phyllis and her friends. When they reached the floor, she said to Sam, “I want to talk to Mr. Murdock for a minute before we go.”

  “Sure,” he said. “I don’t suppose we’re in any hurry.”

  Phyllis made her way over to the guard. When he saw her, he said, “Hey, Mrs. Newsom. Do you believe that? I never saw anybody arrested in the middle of a TV show before.” Chet shook his head regretfully. “I never saw anybody arrested for murder before, period.”

  “I know,” Phyllis said. “It’s terrible. I don’t think Miss Broderick is guilty, either.”

  “You don’t?” Chet asked with a surprised frown on his face. “I don’t think the cops would have arrested her without some pretty strong evidence against her, do you?”

  Carolyn and the others had followed Phyllis. When Carolyn heard what Chet said, she let out a disgusted snort. “That just shows how much you know about the police, young man,” she said. “We’ve seen them arrest innocent people again and again and charge them with murder.”

  “You have?” Chet still looked confused. “Are you ladies like . . . crime buffs or something?”