She looked at me from the corner of her eye. “You don’t have to stay with me, Rita. I’ll be fine.”
I pushed away from the car and opened the door for her. “Maybe you will, but I don’t want to be by myself. So what do you say? Your place or mine?”
I figured even my aunt Yolanda would understand why I told that lie.
Twenty-nine
Miss Frankie and I spent Monday evening watching those old movies. She dozed off after about an hour, and I tried calling Sullivan to fill him in on everything I’d learned at the Love Nest. He didn’t answer, so I left a voice mail asking him to call me.
I got to work early on Tuesday morning, eager for a normal day, one without murder or drama. Solving Dontae’s murder wasn’t my responsibility, but making Zydeco a success was. I needed to put the Love Nest and Monroe Magee out of my mind and stay focused on my career. It’s what any reasonably intelligent woman would do.
Even so, my mind was pulled in a dozen different directions: anxiety about Zydeco, concern over how Ox would react to the news that we’d have to shelve his idea permanently, worry about what Edie would do with her resignation, confusion over my feelings for both Gabriel and Sullivan, not to mention the fear that Miss Frankie might change her mind about selling the property. I needed to clear my head, and working in the kitchen was the one sure way I knew of to do that.
After checking in with Edie—she seemed almost back to normal this morning—I ignored the stack of unopened mail and the blinking light on my phone signaling voice mail and joined the staff in the design room.
Once again, I felt a wave of panic over the thought that I might lose this place, but I shook it off and got to work. Orders might have tapered off, but they hadn’t disappeared completely and the staff had their hands full today putting together a bananas Foster cake sculpted in the shape of a dragon in flight for a book launch party in a few days.
The fresh bananas in the filling meant that this particular cake was labor-intensive at the last minute. I wanted to be on the floor and present as we kicked into high gear. With private orders dwindling, getting contracts for corporate events and fund-raisers was more important than ever. I wanted to make sure Zydeco was well represented in front of the city’s movers and shakers.
Abe had baked the cake, a delicately flavored rum and cinnamon cake that filled the entire bakery with the most delicious aromas as it cooled. Isabeau seemed a bit subdued as she whisked together the brown sugar buttercream frosting we’d use for the crumb coating and between layers. Estelle had pulled her red curls back under a lime green bandana that almost contained them. She worked slowly and carefully, measuring and double-checking every ingredient as she stirred together the banana slices, brown sugar, nutmeg, and rum for the cake’s fresh banana filling.
Ox was out on a wedding consult, so I started rolling out the fondant that would cover the cake. The scents of banana and caramel made my mouth water. I’d had my first bananas Foster experience years earlier at a restaurant in Chicago. I still remembered that first perfect bite, and I’d spent several years trying to recreate it in cake form.
Dwight, with both his shaggy hair and scraggly beard covered by sanitary guards, carefully cut several fresh cakes into equal layers with a serrated knife and then began the painstaking chore of stacking the layers, separating them with buttercream.
His faded T-shirt was covered by a moderately stained chef’s jacket, leaving only his holey jeans and worn-out tennis shoes visible, though even those looked as if he’d found them while Dumpster diving.
Sparkle, working from the one corner of the design room the sunlight never reached, kept her black-lined eyes downcast. She pretended to be riveted on the hundreds of tiny scales she was making for the dragon cake, but I could feel attitude rolling off her in waves.
I ignored Sparkle’s vibe for as long as I could, then finally looked up from my fondant and said, “Is everything all right, Sparkle?”
She shrugged and slid a heavy-lidded glance at me, pursing her black-painted lips in an attempt to look bored. It’s an expression she uses frequently, and she’s good at it. But I’ve been around long enough now to pick up on her real mood most of the time.
“Sure,” she said, her voice flat. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“You seem a little edgy. Is there something I should know?”
She gave another shrug and rolled her eyes away from me. She worked her ruffle stick over one of the dragon wings for a moment, stepped back to gauge her efforts, and then finally spoke again. “I’m just wondering when you were planning to tell us how bad things are around here.”
Her question caught me off guard. I didn’t like the idea that this was a topic of conversation amongst the staff. “I didn’t want to say anything until I had a better idea just what our situation is.”
Sparkle’s frown deepened. “You talked to Ox and Edie. And Isabeau knows, don’t you, Isabeau?”
Isabeau glanced up, clearly uncomfortable. “I might have overheard one or two conversations,” she said with a shrug.
“I didn’t confide in Isabeau,” I said. “I wanted to come to you all with a plan, not just a lot of bad news.”
Estelle stopped working and drew closer. “Do you? Have a plan?”
“I’m working on it.”
“What about Ox’s idea?” Sparkle asked. “What did Miss Frankie say about that?”
I laughed nervously and tried to make a joke. “What part of
confidential
do you people not understand?”
Isabeau’s cheeks flushed. Estelle’s chins doubled. Sparkle didn’t crack a smile. “We’re a team,” she said. “At least we used to be.” She held my gaze, and I could feel the challenge in hers.
I took a deep breath and looked around the room at the others. Isabeau was watching me closely, and Dwight glanced up briefly from his own work. He didn’t look happy either.
“Of course we’re a team,” I said with a nervous smile.
“Then tell us, how did Miss Frankie react to Ox’s idea?”
I’d have given just about anything to have this conversation later, when I’d had more time to prepare. “Not well,” I admitted. “She’s afraid adding a new line of moderately priced cakes will compromise the bakery’s integrity.”
“In what way?” Estelle asked.
“She thinks we’ll lose our high-end customers if we open the doors to . . . others.”
Sparkle made a noise with her tongue. “I hate to say it, but she’s probably right.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Estelle said. “If we did it right, we could probably have the best of both worlds.”
Dwight laughed and sliced a millimeter of cake from the edge of one tier. “If you think that, you don’t know our clientele. Philippe knew what he was doing when he made this place
by appointment only
. It makes the customers feel special, like they have our undivided attention.”
“We could specialize Zydeco right out of business if we’re not careful,” Estelle countered. She swept banana peels into a nearby trash can at her side. “So? What are we going to do?”
I didn’t answer right away. I thought I should talk to Ox first—even if he hadn’t felt it necessary to extend the same courtesy to me.
“We haven’t made a final decision yet,” I said, hedging. “Ox’s idea is new and different. Miss Frankie wasn’t really prepared to consider it. We’ll have to discuss it some more before we make a decision.”
“And what if she doesn’t want to consider it?” Sparkle asked.
I didn’t have an answer, but I tried to give the illusion of confidence. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
Estelle’s broad face creased, and her eyes narrowed with worry. “What does
that
mean?”
“We’re working on it,” I assured them all. “Miss Frankie and I are talking about the possibility of selling some property to bring some cash in to bridge the gap until business picks up. Believe me, I’m committed to making sure everyone here keeps their jobs.”
“Our jobs?” Estelle squeaked. “Are you talking about letting someone go?”
“No! Of course not. That’s not what I meant.”
“Who’s leaving?” Isabeau asked. “How are you going to decide?”
“It’s not going to come to that,” I promised. “We’ll figure something out.”
Dwight locked eyes with me. “Can you promise that?”
I wanted to shout “Yes!” but the word got stuck in my throat. What if Miss Frankie couldn’t find a buyer for her land in this depressed economy, or what if it took longer than any of us thought?
“You think that will be enough?” Dwight asked.
“Of course. It has to be.”
“That’s not exactly a promise,” Sparkle said in her trademark monotone. “Things are bad out there. My cousin was vice president at a bank. She lost her job to downsizing and was out of work for almost a year. She finally got a job last month doing tech support for a cell phone company, so she’s working nights, never sees her kids, and brings home poverty wages. Plus, she’s on Wellbutrin for depression.”
Wow! Thanks for the encouraging pep talk.
I tried again to get the promise out, but it still wouldn’t come.
“I read somewhere that the average time it takes someone to find a job these days is ten months,” Estelle said, frowning pointedly at me. “If you’re going to fire one of us, you should at least let us get a head start on looking for work. I think you owe us at least that much.”
The pressure was starting to get to me. “Will you please stop assuming the worst?” I said, a little too loudly. I lowered my voice and went on. “We’ll think of something.” And then, because skepticism was shining from every eye in the room, I made a rash promise. “We’re not laying anybody off, okay? Miss Frankie and I will find another way around this. I promise.”
“You mean that?” Isabeau asked.
“Of course.”
Dwight and Estelle exchanged a glance, and Sparkle almost smiled. Whether they believed me or not, they eventually drifted back to work and I did my best to drift with them. I’d crumb-coated the dragon’s tail and covered about half of it with fondant when I felt a shadow blocking the light behind me. I looked over my shoulder and found Detective Sullivan leaning against a support beam watching me work.
He looked great. Tall and rugged and solid—which pretty much sums him up. I hadn’t seen him since Friday night, and I was pleased that he’d responded to my phone message with a personal visit. After spending the weekend with Gabriel, though, I felt more awkward in Sullivan’s presence than I had in months.
I was ready for a break by then, so I took advantage of the interruption to let the muscles in my hand relax for a few seconds. “How long have you been there?” I asked. “
Sullivan glanced at the clock on the wall. “Not long. I was enjoying watching you do your thing. Is this a bad time?”
I shook my head. “Not really. Do you mind talking while I work, or do we need to go somewhere private?”
“We can talk here. Keep doing what you’re doing.” He pulled up a stool and sat. “That smells wonderful. What is it?”
“Cinnamon rum cake.” I found a paper plate and slid one of the pieces Dwight had carved from the cake onto it. I ladled a dollop of the filling over the top and pushed the plate toward Sullivan, along with a fork. “Try it. You’ll like it.”
He took a bite and closed his eyes for a moment in appreciation. “That’s good.”
Which is one of the quickest ways to my heart. I grinned and treated myself to a small piece, too. “Thanks. It’s something we’ve been working on for a while. I’m glad you like it. So what brings you here? Just returning my call, or do you have news about the case?”
Sullivan licked his fork and shook his head. “A little of both, I guess. I spent the day talking to the folks at the Love Nest, and we’ve been looking for anyone in the neighborhood who saw or heard anything unusual the night of the murder.”
“Any luck?”
“Unfortunately, no. The police aren’t exactly popular in that neighborhood. It’s slow going, and that’s being optimistic.” His clear blue eyes swept over my face. “How about you? Have you uncovered any useful information?”
“I think so. Tell me, have you run background checks on the residents of the Love Nest?”
“Not yet. Should I?”
I told him everything I knew, leaving nothing out. The robbery. The murder of the security guard. Willie’s sacrifice. The way the friends had banded together to support Hyacinth ever since.
“So that’s what they’re trying to hide,” Sullivan said, making a few notes and studying them for a moment.
“Apparently. There could be more, of course. They’re full of secrets over there. The only thing I don’t know,” I said, “is who killed Dontae, and why? And where has Monroe disappeared to now?”
“I’ll check out the robbery and murder and see if I can find anything more.” He looked away from his notebook and grinned. “You did good, Lucero.”
Aw, shucks.
I put together a second helping of cake and passed the plate to him. “Any word on how the poison got into Dontae’s system?”
“The arsenic was in a bowl of pudding we found in his room. It was in a bowl from the Love Nest, so we’re assuming it was made there in the kitchen. Maybe served at dinner. Dontae must have taken his bowl back to his room.”
“So the others ate the pudding, as well?”
“We’re assuming that at least some of them did, but we don’t know for sure. Like I said, we’re having a devil of a time getting those old people to talk. Since everyone else is still alive, we’re proceeding on the assumption that his portion was the only one with poison in it.” Sullivan stopped speaking and attacked the cake as if we weren’t discussing a deadly poison.
“What about fingerprints?”
“Unfortunately, there weren’t any on the bowl. At least none that help us. We found a couple of clear prints, but they belong to the victim, It looks like he’s the one who carried the pudding to his room, but we have no idea who served it.” He finished the cake and sat back with a satisfied smile. “You managed to learn a whole lot more than I did. What’s your take on Hyacinth Fiske?”
“She’s hard to read,” I said. “She’s had a tough life and she’s brusque and bossy, but she doesn’t seem to mind that her friends let her husband go to prison alone. She’s definitely the head honcho at the Love Nest. Everybody else seems intimidated by her. She probably made the pudding, and she’s one of several with the means and opportunity to poison Dontae’s bowl, but she had no reason I know of to kill him, and she claims she doesn’t hold a grudge against Monroe.”