totally mad at her. She says she’s not letting me help you with the investigation into Fred’s death anymore.”
“Really? Did she say why?”
“She thinks you’re a busybody and that you’re only doing this to help your boyfriend score another popular newspaper article.”
“No, really,” I said, “tell me how she truly feels. I can take it.”
“That is how she feels!”
“Fran, I was being sarcastic. It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay! How can she do this to me? This is important to me, and I’m not gonna let her ruin it! She ruins everything!”
“Calm down,” I said. “It’s not that bad.”
“It is totally that bad! She’s never wanted me to be a criminologist, but she cannot stop me from pursuing my dream. She can’t!”
“Would you please hear me out?” I asked softly.
“Yeah, sure. I’m sorry.”
“How would your mom feel about your helping me prepare to cater a party for Belinda Fremont?”
“ The Belinda Fremont . . . with the mansion and the award-winning hamsters?”
“Guinea pigs, actually. Satin Peruvian guinea pigs.”
“Are you serious? About the catering, I mean.”
“Yes. I would get the help I desperately need with this party, you would learn something about baking and make a few bucks, and we could—when we have time—compare notes on the investigation.”
“All right .”
“Don’t mention this to your mom yet,” I said. “I’ll ask her permission for you to be my paid assistant—” I affected a haughty accent. “—with regard to the Fremont affair.” I returned to my normal voice. “In the meantime, you go home and make nice with your mom.”
“Got it. You so rock, Daphne.”
We hung up and I picked up my portfolio and headed out the door. The last thing I wanted to do was come between Fran and her mother. But I really did need help with Belinda’s party, and maybe the arrangement would placate Fran and help her feel she was still in the investigation “loop.” I wasn’t even sure I was in the investigation loop—or that I wanted to be—but, at least, Fran would know as much as I did.
It’s bemusing how the name “Belinda Fremont” opens so many doors in Brea Ridge. Of course, when I got to Belinda’s house, I remembered why.
Belinda’s home is modeled after Crane Cottage on Jekyll Island, Georgia. It’s an elegant, white home patterned after an Italian Renaissance villa. Belinda’s house even copies the enclosed courtyard with formal garden surrounded by arcaded loggias.
I pulled up to the gate and pressed the intercom button. “Daphne Martin to see Mrs. Fremont.”
Belinda’s gatekeeper/assistant—whom I’d once mistaken for her husband—replied, “Mrs. Fremont is expecting you, Ms. Martin. Please come on in.”
The gate slowly opened, granting me entrance into the fairytale kingdom. I drove onto the white and terra cotta brick mosaic drive. The last time I was here it was to deliver cakes for Guinevere’s birthday party—one cake for the human guests, and one for the guinea pigs and their guests. You see, Guinevere, Lancelot, Morgan, Arthur, Beatrice and Merlin are the champion Satin Peruvian guinea pigs. They have their own suite on the second floor. I’m hoping they’ll invite me to a sleepover sometime.
I never cease to be impressed by Belinda Fremont’s poise and put-together appearance. Maybe she has what some people call an “old soul,” because even though she’s only about 35, she has the sophistication and polish of someone older. I wish I had that much sophistication, and I’m lucky to get polish on my nails once in awhile.
Unlike my first meeting with Belinda, I didn’t bring cake samples. As I quietly explained to her (it’s nap time for the cavies, you know) when we’d sat down in her Victorian inspired parlor with the uncomfortable Louis Quatorze furniture, I’d prefer to get her ideas for the dessert bar and then bring samples next week so she can see how the flavors will
“Really? Did she say why?”
“She thinks you’re a busybody and that you’re only doing this to help your boyfriend score another popular newspaper article.”
“No, really,” I said, “tell me how she truly feels. I can take it.”
“That is how she feels!”
“Fran, I was being sarcastic. It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay! How can she do this to me? This is important to me, and I’m not gonna let her ruin it! She ruins everything!”
“Calm down,” I said. “It’s not that bad.”
“It is totally that bad! She’s never wanted me to be a criminologist, but she cannot stop me from pursuing my dream. She can’t!”
“Would you please hear me out?” I asked softly.
“Yeah, sure. I’m sorry.”
“How would your mom feel about your helping me prepare to cater a party for Belinda Fremont?”
“ The Belinda Fremont . . . with the mansion and the award-winning hamsters?”
“Guinea pigs, actually. Satin Peruvian guinea pigs.”
“Are you serious? About the catering, I mean.”
“Yes. I would get the help I desperately need with this party, you would learn something about baking and make a few bucks, and we could—when we have time—compare notes on the investigation.”
“All right .”
“Don’t mention this to your mom yet,” I said. “I’ll ask her permission for you to be my paid assistant—” I affected a haughty accent. “—with regard to the Fremont affair.” I returned to my normal voice. “In the meantime, you go home and make nice with your mom.”
“Got it. You so rock, Daphne.”
We hung up and I picked up my portfolio and headed out the door. The last thing I wanted to do was come between Fran and her mother. But I really did need help with Belinda’s party, and maybe the arrangement would placate Fran and help her feel she was still in the investigation “loop.” I wasn’t even sure I was in the investigation loop—or that I wanted to be—but, at least, Fran would know as much as I did.
It’s bemusing how the name “Belinda Fremont” opens so many doors in Brea Ridge. Of course, when I got to Belinda’s house, I remembered why.
Belinda’s home is modeled after Crane Cottage on Jekyll Island, Georgia. It’s an elegant, white home patterned after an Italian Renaissance villa. Belinda’s house even copies the enclosed courtyard with formal garden surrounded by arcaded loggias.
I pulled up to the gate and pressed the intercom button. “Daphne Martin to see Mrs. Fremont.”
Belinda’s gatekeeper/assistant—whom I’d once mistaken for her husband—replied, “Mrs. Fremont is expecting you, Ms. Martin. Please come on in.”
The gate slowly opened, granting me entrance into the fairytale kingdom. I drove onto the white and terra cotta brick mosaic drive. The last time I was here it was to deliver cakes for Guinevere’s birthday party—one cake for the human guests, and one for the guinea pigs and their guests. You see, Guinevere, Lancelot, Morgan, Arthur, Beatrice and Merlin are the champion Satin Peruvian guinea pigs. They have their own suite on the second floor. I’m hoping they’ll invite me to a sleepover sometime.
I never cease to be impressed by Belinda Fremont’s poise and put-together appearance. Maybe she has what some people call an “old soul,” because even though she’s only about 35, she has the sophistication and polish of someone older. I wish I had that much sophistication, and I’m lucky to get polish on my nails once in awhile.
Unlike my first meeting with Belinda, I didn’t bring cake samples. As I quietly explained to her (it’s nap time for the cavies, you know) when we’d sat down in her Victorian inspired parlor with the uncomfortable Louis Quatorze furniture, I’d prefer to get her ideas for the dessert bar and then bring samples next week so she can see how the flavors will
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