The Fatal Funnel Cake (19 page)

Chapter 27

M
iller seemed intrigued by the idea, even though he said, “I don't really know who that woman is. Does she have a strong enough motive to have done such a thing?”

“Well, she used to be a major star of daytime television,” Bailey said, “and she blamed Joye for taking that from her.”

“Did she? I mean, did Ms. Jameson take the job away from this Kimball woman?”

“I don't know,” Bailey said. “I wasn't working for the show then. From everything I've heard, though, and from what I've seen of how Joye operates . . .”

When she paused, Miller said, “Go on. This could be important for your defense, Ms. Broderick.”

“I honestly don't know. Joye might have done something to sabotage Gloria. Joye was very ambitious. When she started talking about the new contract, she made it clear that she wanted to be the highest-paid star of a cooking show on television. I'm sure she was every bit as ambitious several years ago when she was Gloria's assistant. So I really can't rule anything out when it comes to what she might have done.”

Phyllis said, “And it doesn't really matter whether Joye actually did anything to ruin Gloria's career or not, as long as Gloria
believes
that she did. That's sufficient motive right there.”

“And by framing Bailey at the same time,” the lawyer mused, “she creates a possible opening for her triumphant comeback. As a theory, I like it. I like it a lot.” Miller shook his head. “But that's all it is—just a theory. We don't have a shred of evidence to indicate that's what took place.”

“We know Gloria was there at the fair,” Phyllis said. “She was always close by anytime anything happened. She might've had a chance to tamper with the cooking oil and the injectors. The problem is that there were always security guards around the broadcast set and the backstage area, too. Gloria would have had to slip in and out without being noticed. I'm not sure how difficult that would have been for her.”

“The security camera footage ought to help us with that,” Miller said. “If we can find any shots of her skulking around where she wasn't supposed to be, not long before Ms. Jameson's death, then given her potential grudge against the victim . . .” Miller shrugged. “That might be enough right there to create reasonable doubt in the minds of the jurors.”

Bailey said, “I'm not sure I want just reasonable doubt. Even if I'm acquitted, there'll always be people who believe that I was responsible for Joye's death. I'd rather that my name was cleared once and for all by finding out who really killed her.”

“And I'd like to have a full head of hair, be six inches taller, and weigh forty pounds less,” Miller said. “We do what we can with what we have, and in this case, my job is to keep you out of prison, no matter how I go about it. That said . . .” He looked meaningfully at Phyllis. “Solving the murder
would
be the most effective way of going about that.”

“No pressure there,” Sam said.

“I'll do my best,” Phyllis said. “I'm sure we all will. Bailey, if you remember anything that might be helpful . . . anybody hanging around the set who shouldn't have been there . . . anything unusual that you overheard . . . you'll let us know right away?”

“Of course.”

Miller looked at Phyllis again and asked, “Is there anything else we need to cover today?”

Phyllis thought about it, then shook her head. “Nothing that I can think of.”

“We'll be in touch on Monday, then, after I've had a chance to rattle the district attorney's cage a little more.” The lawyer turned his attention back to Bailey. “Ms. Broderick, how would you feel about staying here for the time being? The apartment is small, but it's quite comfortable.”

“I don't know,” Bailey said with a frown. “Why would I do that?”

Miller held up his hands in a reassuring gesture. “Please, don't think for a moment that I'm suggesting anything improper. I'd just like for you to be somewhere safe, somewhere the media can't get at you and provoke you into saying anything or doing anything that would sensationalize the case any more than it already is.”

“I have a room in the hotel where everyone from the show has been staying—”

“Which the press already knows about, I promise you. I could put you up somewhere else, at some other hotel, but when you do that you always run the risk of leaks. There are too many people who are eager to trade information for money or celebrity.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” Bailey agreed. “But if I stay here I'll need a few of my things.”

“My assistant Karen can pick up anything you need for the next few days. Trust me, she has excellent taste.”

“You're making it too difficult to say no,” Bailey responded with a smile.

“That was the general idea.”

“All right, I'll stay. But I'll have to let a couple of people know where I am.”

“Mr. Hayes and Mr. Squires?”

“That's right.”

Miller thought it over for a moment and then nodded. “If you think they can be trusted, I suppose it's all right,” he said.

“I trust them,” Bailey said.

That didn't mean the two men were completely trustworthy, Phyllis thought. Hank Squires seemed harmless enough despite his size, and as far as Phyllis could see, he had no reason to kill Joye Jameson and frame Bailey for the murder.

Reed Hayes was a different story. Joye had caused considerable trouble and embarrassment for him in recent weeks, during the contract negotiations. He might have decided that it would be easier to get rid of her, in a fashion that might well be deemed accidental, than to continue trying to deal with her. As for framing Bailey for the killing . . .

If Hayes had discovered her affair with the cameraman, he might have been hurt and angry enough to do such a thing. Bailey seemed to think that Hayes didn't know about her involvement with Hank, but she could be wrong about that. Hayes might have discovered it but kept his knowledge to himself while he plotted his revenge.

That sounded pretty melodramatic, Phyllis told herself as the thought crossed her mind. But melodrama was just an exaggerated version of real life. Human emotions—love, anger, resentment—existed, and sometimes they drove people to do things that were almost beyond belief. She had seen proof of that with her own eyes, more times than she liked to think about.

“I'll be in touch,” Miller said as Phyllis and Sam got up to leave. “And thank you for coming down here today, Mrs. Newsom. I think the picture is considerably clearer than it would have been if we hadn't had your input.”

“I'm glad to help,” Phyllis said.

Bailey said, “Yes, I appreciate it, too. You don't owe me a thing. In fact there have been a few times when I wasn't very nice to you. And you're willing to go out of your way to help me.”

“We all need people to pitch in from time to time. I like to do what I can.”

As they left the lawyer's private office, Miller called on the intercom for his blond assistant to come in. Phyllis and Sam passed her on their way out. Karen paused long enough to ask, “Do you need my help with anything, Mrs. Newsom?”

“Just take care of Miss Broderick,” Phyllis said. “This case is liable to get worse before it gets better.”

•   •   •

The ride down in the elevator was about as nerve-racking as the trip up to the twenty-second floor. Phyllis was glad to leave the car and get solid ground under her feet again.

As they left the building, a chilly wind swept across the plaza with its modernistic sculpture. “Feels like that cool front got here,” Sam said. Gray clouds thickened overhead.

“Yes, it certainly seems more like autumn now,” Phyllis agreed, somewhat distractedly. She was thinking about everything they had learned during the meeting with Bailey and Miller. There was no shortage of suspects in this case, but they needed more information. At this point, Phyllis couldn't see anything that would allow her to prove Bailey Broderick was innocent. It was a frustrating feeling.

That frustration stayed with her the rest of the day, and by Sunday it had reached an annoying level. The overcast skies had hung around all day Saturday, but now the clouds had blown on out, leaving an almost cold but clear and sunny day.

“Do you have any plans for today?” Phyllis asked Sam later that morning as they ate breakfast in the kitchen.

“Figured I'd watch the Cowboys lose to a team they ought to beat or win a game they ought to lose. I forget who they're playin', so I don't know which it'll be today. Why? If you've got somethin' better in mind, I'm open to suggestions.”

“I want to go back out to the fair.”

Carolyn was standing at the counter, waiting for some toast to pop up from the toaster. She looked over her shoulder and said, “I don't. I've had enough of the traffic and the crowds. I knew there had to be a good reason I don't go to the state fair very often.”

“I don't figure Phyllis wants to go for the fair itself,” Sam said. “She's got something else in mind. Like solving that murder.” He leaned forward. “That's it, isn't it? You've figured it out, and now you just have to confirm your deductions.”

Phyllis smiled and shook her head. “I wish that were true. I don't have any more idea who killed Joye Jameson than I did the moment she collapsed.”

“Well, that won't last long, I'll bet.”

Phyllis wasn't so sure, but she was still a long way from giving up. Her determination to uncover the truth had come in handy many times before, and she told herself that this case wouldn't be any different.

Eve and Peggy didn't want to go back to the fair, either. Phyllis didn't blame them. They had already seen everything they wanted to see, and a person could only eat so many deep-fried foods. Phyllis felt bad about dragging Sam back down to Fair Park, and she said as much as they were driving along North Central Expressway.

“Aw, I don't mind,” he told her. “I know you don't like drivin' over here in Dallas, and I sure don't like you goin' out and investigatin' by yourself.”

“Yes, that's nearly gotten me in trouble a few times, hasn't it? Or it would have if you hadn't shown up when you did.”

“Told you all along, you're the brains and I'm the brawn of this outfit.”

“Don't underestimate your brains, Sam. I think it takes both of us to figure these things out.”

He glanced over at her and nodded. “We make a good team, all right.”

Something about his voice caught Phyllis's attention. From time to time in the past, they had talked about getting married, but the discussion had never reached serious levels. The thing of it was, she was very comfortable with what they had, and after being happily married to Kenny for so long, she wasn't sure she ever wanted to tie the knot again. And although he had never come right out and said it, she had gotten the feeling that Sam felt the same way. Then Eve had gotten married and that hadn't worked out well, so out of consideration for her friend's feelings, Phyllis certainly hadn't wanted to take that plunge herself, and over time the whole idea had sort of . . . faded away. She hoped it wasn't resurfacing now, because she didn't want to face it.

Sometimes it was easier to solve murders, she thought, than it was to untangle the mysteries of the human heart.

Chapter 28

“W
e're gettin' our money's worth out of those season passes we bought online before comin' over here,” Sam commented as they walked through the fair's main gate. “If we'd had to buy new tickets every day, the price would've really added up by now.”

“Well, I didn't know we'd be coming here
quite
so often,” Phyllis said, “but it seemed like a good idea since you and I were entering contests on different days.”

Even on a Sunday during football season, the fairgrounds were busy. Phyllis and Sam walked past the giant figure of Big Tex, where people were taking the usual pictures of their families in front of the towering statue, and headed for the Creative Arts Building.

Phyllis couldn't have said exactly what she hoped to find there, but she might see something that would jog her thought processes into action.

On the way, they passed a massive RV parked outside the building. A door in the side of the vehicle opened as they went by, and a familiar figure stepped out. Phyllis recognized him as Charlie Farrar, the director of
The Joye of Cooking
.

Everybody on the show referred to “the truck,” where most of the technical equipment was located, along with the production office. Phyllis realized now that it wasn't a truck at all, but rather this big recreational vehicle. The term was probably a holdover from the days when actual trucks had been used to fill those roles.

She stopped and said, “Hello, Mr. Farrar.”

The director paused and looked baffled for a second, but then recognition dawned on his face. “Mrs. Newsom,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

Phyllis decided not to say anything about how she was working with David Miller to try to clear Bailey's name. “Just taking another look around. I'm still upset about what happened the other day.”

“I'm not surprised,” Farrar said. “We all feel that way. It was a tragic loss.”

Phyllis remembered what Bailey had said about how Joye would lose her temper with Farrar over any camera angles she didn't like when she watched the tapes of the episodes. That didn't really seem like enough of a motive for killing someone, but you could never tell how people might react to things. Sometimes even the smallest incident was enough to set a person on a road that eventually led to murder.

Because of that, she asked a question to which she had already figured out the answer. “Is this what they call the production truck?” She waved a hand toward the RV.

“That's right. This is where all the technical magic happens.”

“I'm surprised you're out here today. Aren't the broadcasts from the state fair over?”

“Yeah, we were only gonna be here a week, even before . . . well, you know what happened,” Farrar said. “I was just doing some housekeeping. Backing up files, updating logs, things like that. Securing everything for the trip back to L.A.” He paused. “After what happened, I was afraid for a while that the cops wouldn't let us leave, but then . . . well . . .”

“Once Ms. Broderick was arrested, the rest of you were free to leave town.”

Nodding, Farrar said, “Yeah, that's pretty much the size of it. I feel really bad for Bailey and all, but I didn't want to be stuck here in Dallas, either. I'm sure we'll have to come back for the trial, but who knows when that'll be.”

Sam asked, “What's gonna happen with the show now?”

“I wish I knew. Reed's been talking nonstop to the execs, trying to figure it out. We've got reruns slated for this week, but after that . . .” Farrar shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, friend. I wouldn't be surprised if they shut down production permanently.”

“You mean cancel the show?” Phyllis asked.

“Yeah. That'll put some people out of jobs, including me. It's not like it'll be the first time, though. That's one thing about this business. No job lasts forever. Sooner or later everybody has to scrounge up more work. Luckily I have a couple of Emmys on my shelf at home. I'll be able to line up something else if it comes to that.”

“I hope you're right,” Phyllis said. “This may be out of line, but . . . would you mind letting us take a peek in there? I've never seen the inside of a television production truck before.”

Farrar laughed. “It's not like it's that interesting.”

“Not to you, maybe, but it's all new to me.”

“Well, sure, I can understand that. And I've got a few minutes.” He took some keys out of his pocket. “But it'll have to be quick.”

“You keep it locked up all the time?” Phyllis asked as Farrar inserted one of the keys in the door he had used.

“Have to. There's a lot of expensive equipment inside.” Farrar opened the door. “Watch your step when you come in.”

Phyllis climbed the portable steps that had been set down beside the RV. Sam followed her. They entered something that looked like the control center at NASA, at least to Phyllis's eye. There were a lot of monitor screens, computer keyboards, consoles full of dials and switches and levers and gauges.

The same thought must have gone through Sam's mind, because he said, “Looks like you could launch a rocket from in here.”

“Well, we can communicate with satellites, but no rocket launches,” Farrar said. “Do you want me to try to explain all the equipment to you?”

“That's not necessary,” Phyllis told him. “In fact, just thinking about what all of it must do sort of makes my head hurt. I'm not that technologically inclined. But it certainly looks impressive.”

Farrar pointed to the screens in front of one of the consoles. “The main thing is that each of those screens is fed by one of the cameras. That's where I sit and switch between them. That determines how they move and which shot goes out on the broadcast.”

“You talk to the cameramen over headphones?” Sam asked.

“Yep.”

Phyllis said, “That must be a stressful job, keeping track of all that. Like an air traffic controller.”

“It can get pretty hectic. But I'm used to it, and hey, not to be overly modest, I'm good at what I do.”

“And you have the Emmys to prove it.”

Farrar grinned. “Yeah.”

“What about the production office? It's in here, too, isn't it?”

“Yeah, in the back. But I can't let you look in there.”

“Oh? Is it top secret?”

“Not really, but I don't have the key,” Farrar said. “Reed and Bailey are the only ones who do. Oh, and Joye had one, too, of course. Joye went wherever she wanted to, whenever she wanted to.”

And from the tone of the director's voice, it was clear to Phyllis that there was no love lost between Farrar and Joye, either.

“I'll bet you had to turn over tapes of all this past week's shows to the police,” she said.

“That's right. Although we don't actually use tapes anymore. It's all digital now, stored on hard drives. We burned DVDs for the cops. It's funny, though, how people still use the word
tape
when they're talking about recording TV. Habit, I guess, because we used videotape for so long.”

“Habits are hard to break,” Phyllis agreed.

“If there's anything else you'd like to see . . .”

“Oh, no, we've taken up enough of your time, Mr. Farrar. Thank you for showing us around.”

“Glad to,” Farrar said. He ushered them back outside the RV. “If I don't see you again, Mrs. Newsom, it was nice to meet you. Although, come to think of it, we probably will see each other again, won't we? At Bailey's trial, I mean.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Phyllis said, although she hoped it never came to that. She wanted the real killer to be exposed long before the case against Bailey ever came to trial.

As they walked away from the RV and headed toward the entrance of the Creative Arts Building again, Sam said quietly, “You weren't really interested in all that TV equipment, were you?”

“No, but it did look impressive, didn't it? I wanted to find out more about the production office.”

“Where some of those injector pens are kept,” Sam said. “But the one Bailey used came from Joye's dressin' room.”

“Yes, but if they were tampered with, the killer had to get hold of the ones he doctored up somehow. He could have taken some of them from the production office, removed the epinephrine, and replaced it with peanut oil, then switched them with the ones in the dressing room.”

“By
him
, you mean . . .”

“Reed Hayes had a key to the production office,” Phyllis said. “And he had a motive for getting rid of Joye, as well as a possible reason for wanting to frame Bailey.”

“Like that lawyer fella would say, that's a good theory. We've got plenty of 'em.”

“And no proof for any of them,” Phyllis said with a sigh. “I know.”

They entered the building. Only a few contests would be held in the hall today, and they wouldn't take place until that afternoon, so the place wasn't very crowded.

The sound of hammering drew Phyllis's attention. It was coming from the side of the hall where the broadcast set was located. Phyllis nodded toward it and said, “Let's go see what's going on over there.”

“Sounds like somebody's either buildin' somethin' or tearin' it down,” Sam said.

Phyllis remembered what Bailey had said about how the set could be broken down into components and transported from location to location, so she wasn't surprised to see that that was exactly what was happening. Half a dozen workmen were busy disassembling the kitchen, which wasn't nearly as sturdy as it appeared to be on TV. Everything was built of thin plywood so that it wouldn't weigh much.

Another familiar figure stood nearby, watching the activity. Phyllis was a little surprised to see Chet Murdock, although she realized there was no reason for her to feel that way. The fair had security guards on duty around the clock, she was sure, and she didn't know what Chet's schedule was.

“Hey, there, Mrs. Newsom,” he greeted her. “I didn't expect to see you back here.”

“I know.” Phyllis smiled. “I didn't really expect to come back, either. I guess I just wanted to revisit the site of my one brush with fame. Or infamy, rather, as it turned out.”

“What happened wasn't your fault,” Chet said. “Everybody knows that.”

“Not everybody. I'll bet some people who saw the part of the show that aired will always think of me as the lady who cooked the fatal funnel cake.”

“Well, you can't worry about them,” Chet told her.

“Has Mr. Hayes been here today?”

“He came by a while ago to check on the carpenters. He may still be around somewhere. I don't know. Do you need to talk to him?”

“No, not really. What about Gloria Kimball?”

“Who? Oh, the local TV lady. Haven't seen her.”

Phyllis nodded. She hadn't really expected Gloria to be around. Of the two main suspects in Joye's murder, Phyllis believed that Reed Hayes was much more likely to be the killer. And the fact that he had been here while the set was being disassembled could be taken to mean that he was checking to make sure that all his tracks were covered.

That was a real reach, Phyllis told herself. Supervising the work today would be part of Hayes's job as the producer. She didn't need to start inventing things to point to his guilt.

“I'm sure you'll be sorry to see them go,” she said to Chet. “I remember you said you're a big fan of cooking shows.”

“Yeah, but this one didn't turn out very well. What a tragedy. And they should've been able to prevent it. I mean, they knew Ms. Jameson had a bad reaction before. Somebody should have double-checked everything so they wouldn't have a repeat of what happened in New Orleans. You'd think they would have learned their lesson.”

“I know.”

“But I guess the person responsible for checking things is the one they arrested,” Chet said with a sigh. “There's a big difference between murder and an accident.”

“That's true. What do you think, Chet? Do you believe that Miss Broderick murdered Ms. Jameson?”

“Well, the cops wouldn't have arrested her if they didn't think so, would they? I sure don't know any more than them. As a fan of the show, I just hate to see things end this way. I don't see how they can carry on, though.” Chet brightened a little. “But maybe they'll launch a whole new show, get some new blood in there.”

“I'm sure they will,” Phyllis said. “There's too much money involved just to abandon everything. They'll find someone else to be their star.”

“But it won't be Bailey Broderick,” Chet said.

“No,” Phyllis agreed, “right now it looks like it won't be Bailey Broderick.”