Battered to Death (Daphne Martin Cake Mysteries) Read Free Page B

person, his face appeared to be more weathered than was obvious on television. As he strode toward me, he had the bearing of a smug autocrat, and I felt myself cringing inside. Then, surprising me, he smiled and stuck out his right hand.
    “Welcome! I’m Chef Richards, but I suppose you already know that.”
    “Of course,” I said, shaking his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
    “And you are . . . ?” he asked.
    “Daphne Martin. I’m a local baker, and I hope to learn a great deal from you in class today and tomorrow.”
    He nodded. “If you work hard, you will.”
    “I certainly intend to do that,” I said. I’d started to say I planned to get my money’s worth, but I felt that might sound too crass, especially given the fact that the class had been priced well out of my budget.
Chef Richards told me it was “nice to have me on board” and then went to greet another student who was just coming into class. I felt relieved. Maybe I’d been right in what I’d told Myra—the mean-guy persona cultivated by Chef Richards was for the benefit of the TV cameras. I was looking forward to going home at the end of the day and telling her how nice he’d turned out to be.
    The student who’d just entered the ballroom turned out to be my table partner. His name was Lou, and he was wearing a black chef’s uniform. At least we were wearing complementary clothing.
    Lou was an affable guy with a dark-brown buzz cut and a goatee. He shook my hand and told me he’d come from South Carolina to take this class.
    After everyone had filed in, been welcomed by Chef Richards, and filled all ten of the assigned spots, Chef Richards began the class.
    “Good morning,” he said. “As you can see, you each have before you a bowl of royal icing. I made the batch myself before you arrived, and it is of a perfect consistency. I trust each of you has a passable royal icing recipe, but I guarantee that your recipe won’t surpass mine. I have, therefore, taken the liberty of having my assistant print out my recipe for you. It too is on your table. Don’t bother to thank me—although you will every time you mix up a batch of this icing.” He smiled. “Allow me to go ahead and say you are all welcome.”
Chef Richards paused momentarily to give us all time to express our gratitude. Then he introduced us to his assistant, Fiona. Fiona was a petite woman with light-pink hair. The color was striking on its own but made even more so by the fact that every piece of her clothing was white.
    Fiona said hello and started to say something else, but Chef Richards cut her off.
    “There’ll be time for you to socialize later, Fiona.”
    “Of course,” she murmured as she moved back to the side of Chef Richards’s table and resumed standing there as unobtrusively as possible.
    “Students, go ahead and fill your piping bags with the royal icing,” Chef Richards instructed.
    I took the plastic wrap off my bowl of icing and used the silicone spatula provided to fill the pastry bag. We’d been provided eight-inch, fondant-covered round cake dummies on metal and porcelain turntables and a flexible plastic dividing wheel to determine where to pipe our string work.
    “You’ll notice there are some toothpicks beside your bowl of royal icing,” said Chef Richards. “Please use one to score your cake for the first row of Australian string work, making your loops one and one-quarter inches apart.” He nodded at Fiona, and she began scoring his cake as we scored ours. “Then stagger another loop—also one and one-quarter inches apart—above your original scoring.”
“Everyone done with that?” he asked after a couple minutes. He looked around the room and noticed that there was still one student who was painstakingly marking her cake. He blew out a breath. “For cripes’ sake, what’s taking you so long? You do know how far apart an inch and a quarter is, don’t you?”
    With great difficulty, I resisted turning to see who