Authors: Jacklyn Brady

Tags: #Suspense

Cake on a Hot Tin Roof (18 page)

Having delivered his warning, Percy walked away, and I made no effort to stop him. Which turned out to be a smart decision. I set off in the other direction and pulled out my cell phone just as Sparkle came around the corner on foot. Her coattails billowed out behind her as she walked, and her skin looked paler than usual in the bright sunlight.

“Hey,” she said when she saw me. “You all right?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

“Did you get what you wanted?”

“Not exactly.”

Sparkle and I trudged back to the van in silence. I probably should have been thinking about work, or about the murder, or about Uncle Nestor’s health, or even trying to devise a new scheme to get an audience with Ivanka Hedge. But for once, all the other voices in my head were quiet, leaving me time and space to think about the way Sparkle had come to check on me.

I was surprised by my reaction to that. Frankly, it gave me the warm fuzzies, but I wasn’t going to tell her that. Sparkle isn’t the warm fuzzies type, and I wasn’t about to repay her kindness with an insult.

Twenty-four

The bakery was in chaos by the time Sparkle and I made it through traffic and back to Zydeco. The new temp had moved all twenty-four chocolate roses for the Valentine’s Day cake into a sunny spot near the window, which meant it was all hands on deck to make twenty-four more. Even our baker Abe, who typically kept vampire hours but had recently started coming in earlier to help with the workload, got into the act.

By the time we finished, Dwight was in a thoroughly sour mood, so I decided not to ask him about his interview with Sullivan. Maybe tomorrow.

I had plenty of other things to think about in the meantime. I’d been trading phone calls with Miss Frankie for a couple of days, but I hadn’t actually talked to her since the night of the party. We finally made a plan for me to go over that night, once I got off work. Now that Percy had reminded me about it, I needed to talk to her about the funeral. Not to mention, with the date of the Bacchus parade approaching rapidly, I had to get serious about finding a costume, and Miss Frankie was my only hope to find anything remotely appropriate.

As I drove across town, I thought about what Percy had said and pieced it together with what I already knew. Presumably, Violet had been under the impression that Big Daddy was going to leave his wife for her. He hadn’t exactly seemed lovey-dovey with her in my opinion, but there’s no accounting for some people’s choices. It appeared that she’d wanted a big jerk who treated her like dirt, and she was upset to learn that she wasn’t going to get him all to herself.

Then again, maybe she hadn’t actually been in love with Big Daddy. By all accounts, he had money…and lots of it. Maybe that’s what Violet objected to losing. At some point during the party, she’d found out she wasn’t going to get the future she’d been planning on. Either way, that put her high on my personal list of suspects.

And what about Susannah Boudreaux? If she’d found out that Big Daddy was cheating on her, that could give her a pretty strong motive for murder. I put her in the number two spot on my potential killer list and mentally wrote in Percy’s name as number three. He wasn’t off the hook. Not by a long shot.

I parked in Miss Frankie’s driveway a little after ten that evening. She was waiting for me with a warm smile and a welcoming hug. “Come on back to the kitchen, sugar. I started coffee after you called, and I’m so glad you did. We’ve been needing to talk. I’ve warmed some rolls left over from lunch so we can nibble on those.”

I was still pleasantly full from the ribs and slaw, but Miss Frankie’s homemade rolls are a taste sensation not to be missed. I trailed after, admiring her black silk lounging pajamas with a birds of paradise design that exactly matched the shade of her hair. A pair of black sandals showed off her feet—the recipients of a recent pedicure—with toenails painted the same shade of burnt orange. Which, naturally, matched the shade of polish on her fingernails. At least I knew how she’d been keeping herself busy since the party.

I sat in the kitchen and inhaled the rich aroma of chicory coffee. It’s the little things.

Miss Frankie splashed in the condensed milk and filled a mug for me, then put a plate with two steaming dinner rolls and a generous pat of butter on the table in front of me. She gathered some for herself and sat across from me, giving me a look. “So what is it, sugar? What brings you to my door in the middle of the night?”

“It’s only ten,” I said with a rueful smile. “But if you’re ready for bed, I’ll come back tomorrow.”

“Not on your life. I’ve been wantin’ to see you for a couple of days now. How you holding up?”

“I’m fine,” I assured her. “Just a little tired. I’m hoping you can help me with my costume for the Bacchus parade next weekend.”

“You don’t have one?”

“Not yet,” I admitted. “I know, I should have taken care of it weeks ago.”

Miss Frankie smiled gently. “Don’t you worry. I have plenty of things in the attic. We’ll fix you up. Now are you going to tell me why you’re here, or are you going to keep me guessing?”

“I left you a message about Big Daddy’s funeral. Do you want to go together?”

“You know I do. Shall I pick you up around ten on Wednesday?”

“Perfect.” I tore off a piece of roll and smothered it in butter. “What’s on your calendar for the next couple of days? Would you and Bernice have time to show Uncle Nestor and Aunt Yolanda around the city? They’re stuck here in town, and I’m not going to have time to spend with them.”

“Of course. I’m sure Bernice will be delighted. I’ll call her first thing in the morning. Is that all?”

I nodded, then stopped and shook my head. “You could tell me what you know about the current Mrs. Boudreaux.”

“Susannah?” Miss Frankie wrapped her hands around her mug and stared at the ceiling for a minute, gathering her thoughts together. “Susannah’s an interesting woman,” she said after a few minutes. “She was Bradley’s third wife, you know.”

“So I’ve heard. How long were they married?”

“Oh, goodness. I don’t know. Four years? Maybe five.”

“Was it a good marriage?”

“I always assumed it was. Bradley seemed content enough. At least he was as content as he ever got.”

“But he was cheating on her,” I said. “He was having an affair with his assistant.”

Miss Frankie dismissed my comment with a wave of her hand. “Bradley wasn’t the kind of man who does well in a committed relationship. He had a tendency to stray, but I’m sure Susannah knew that before she married him. After all, that’s how she met him.”

My lips curved slightly. “That doesn’t necessarily mean she’d be okay with him cheating on her.”

“If they’ll do it with you,” Miss Frankie said, “they’ll do it to you.”

“That’s true,” I said with a smile. “What about her? Was she faithful to him?”

Miss Frankie sipped, then put her cup on the table. “I wouldn’t know about that, sugar. She and I don’t exactly run in the same social circle.”

“Really? I thought you did.”

“Gracious no. She’s young and energetic and interested in all sorts of things I’m not. The only time I see her is at charitable events or Musterion functions, and then only to say hello. I’ve always suspected she’s the reason Bradley didn’t make it to Philippe’s funeral.”

“He did say they were on a cruise,” I pointed out.

“Yes, I know. At times I thought she seemed a little threatened by Bradley’s past, as if she felt the need to keep all his attention focused on her.”

“So you think she purposely kept Big Daddy away from Philippe’s funeral?”

“I’m saying I don’t think she’d have rushed home for it, even if they could have.”

That made her unlikeable, but not necessarily homicidal. I decided to get right to the point. “Do you think she could have killed her husband?”

Miss Frankie’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Of course she
could
have. The question is why would she?”

“Because he was cheating on her,” I said. “And because he’d done something she was very unhappy about, and it had something to do with Musterion. Or at least with that guy Percy. Anyway, she gave Big Daddy an ultimatum to make it right, or else.”

Miss Frankie’s thoughtful expression turned grim. “Are you sure about that, sugar?”

“That’s what Estelle overheard. Percy denies it, of course. He claims it was all about some unimportant Musterion business. But you heard what he said to Big Daddy at the party. It sure didn’t sound unimportant to me. Did it to you?”

“Percy did seem upset,” she admitted. “When did you talk to him about it?” she asked, looking a little worried.

I waved off her concerns. “I ran into him while Sparkle and I were delivering a cake. It was no big deal. The question is, why was Susannah Boudreaux so eager to throw suspicion on my uncle? She had to know Uncle Nestor didn’t kill her husband.”

Miss Frankie looked skeptical. “How would she know that?”

“Well, because…if she saw him do it, why didn’t she stop him? Or at least let the rest of us know that something horrible was happening? Why wait until the police were there to make her big, dramatic accusation?”

“That’s a good question.”

I thought so, too, but neither of us had answers. I finished off one roll and changed my tack. “What can you tell me about Judd Boudreaux? Why would Big Daddy have been upset with him that night?”

Miss Frankie sighed softly. “There’s a lot to be upset with when it comes to Judd, I’m afraid.”

“He was Philippe’s friend?” At her nod, I asked, “Why haven’t I heard of him before? Why didn’t Philippe ever mention him?”

“Probably because Judd’s life is such a sad, sad story. Back when they were boys, Judd was a golden child. Smart. Funny. And so good-looking. He had a way with people and everyone loved him.”

I could easily believe that. “He sounds like Philippe,” I said, and for the first time I wondered if that’s why I’d felt drawn to him when we met.

Miss Frankie nodded again. “They were very much alike, and they bonded almost the minute they met. They went everywhere together, like two peas in a pod. And they both looked up to Bradley.”

I made a face. “Please tell me he was different back then.”

She laughed a little. “Oh, yes. Both Boudreaux boys were. They got a little older and Judd started playing the guitar and writing music. He was talented, a rising star, and we all thought he’d end up being signed to some big-time record label. Thought we had us our own version of Elvis or something.”

I tried to reconcile that dream with the Judd I’d met. If he’d been sober, it would have been easier. “So what happened?”

Her smile faded and deep sadness flooded her eyes. “It was such a terrible tragedy. He was driving a car late one night. He’d been drinking, of course, and he went off the road. The car flipped a few times and he was thrown free. The young woman with him wasn’t so lucky.”

My breath caught, and the pain I’d sensed in Judd flashed through my mind. Shades of Ted Kennedy, only apparently Judd hadn’t bounced back. “She died?”

“Yes.” Miss Frankie sighed, reliving a time that obviously still had the power to wound. “It turned out she was younger than she’d claimed to be. Only seventeen. Her parents were devastated. His parents were devastated. And Judd…well, that boy has never been the same.”

“That’s tragic,” I said softly.

“You don’t know the half of it, sugar. Judd pushed everybody away after that and started drowning his future in a bottle. Their mama took it hard, poor thing. Bradley stood by him, bless his heart. He was just about the only person Judd would let get close. Philippe tried to help, but Judd turned him away time and time again. Bradley never gave up though, even when their daddy threatened to disown Judd if he didn’t straighten up, stop drinking, and get his life together.”

“Which Judd refused to do?”

“I think he tried a few times, but his heart was never in it. I don’t think he’s ever forgiven himself for that girl’s death. I’m not sure he ever will. For all his faults, Bradley stuck with him. He’s bailed him out of trouble more times than I can count.”

I tried to reconcile
that
image with the Big Daddy I’d met at the party, but it was even harder to do. One last question hovered on my lips. I didn’t want to ask it, but I knew I had to. “Do you think Judd could have killed Big Daddy?”

“I can’t imagine why he would,” Miss Frankie said. “Big Daddy was just about all Judd had left.”

Twenty-five

Monday passed in a blur of work. I was at Zydeco by sunrise and crawled into bed well after midnight. Tuesday flew by as well, and it was Tuesday evening before I found a chance to ask Dwight about his interview with Sullivan and the conversation Sparkle said he’d had with Uncle Nestor. Before I could, though, Edie informed me that I was tardy for the website meeting, and that Ox was already upstairs with our website designers. I rushed into the meeting room, conveniently forgetting that I’d opted not to cancel the meeting and cursing Ox under my breath for scheduling the appointment at all. Frankly, there was no reason for me to be there, and not being all that web savvy, I found that most of what they talked about was over my head. But maybe that’s because I was struggling just to keep my eyes open. By the time we all stood up to shake hands and declare our mutual delight to be working together, they’d been discussing meta tags, pixels, and search engines for an hour. That was an hour of my life I’d never get back. But Ox was smiling as he walked them to the front door, so I guess it was worth it.

The sun had gone down and most of the staff had packed it in for the day while Ox and I were otherwise occupied. “Isabeau and I are heading over to the Duke for a drink,” he said. “Want to join us?”

I almost said no, but it occurred to me that (1) the Duke served a killer jambalaya, and (2) Dwight was probably there. So I nodded and said, “Sure. Sounds great.” You know, for the greater good.

Uncle Nestor and Aunt Yolanda would be waiting for me at home, but I promised myself I’d be quick. Thirty minutes tops.

The Dizzy Duke has been the staff’s after-hours hangout since the bakery opened almost three years ago. It’s an ancient red-brick building squatting in the midst of a bunch of aging, sagging buildings two blocks east of Zydeco. The whole neighborhood smells faintly of rotting wood. That’s not a smell I’m used to, coming from the western half of the country, where dry, not damp, is our cross to bear, but I’m learning to like it.

Ox held the door and I trailed Isabeau inside, pausing for a moment to let my eyes adjust to the low lighting and neon. Here, too, carnival season had left its mark. The whole bar looked as if it had been dusted with Mardi Gras colors. I spotted my favorite bartender, Gabriel Broussard (whom I’ve mentally dubbed “Hot Cajun”), behind the polished wood bar and waved a greeting. He scooped a lazy hank of dark hair off his forehead and grinned back. The house band was playing a low-key jazz number I didn’t recognize—which wasn’t saying much. I’m still new to that world, too.

Near the bandstand, someone had pulled a couple of tables together, and most of my staff lounged around them along with a couple of the temps. I was embarrassed to realize I’d forgotten their names. In my defense, I maintain that the brain can only hold so much information at one time. Mine was already chock-full.

I could see Dwight in the center of the group, his usually rumpled clothes looking worse than ever, his face gaunt and pale. We were all burning out fast, and I wasn’t sure what to do about it. I made an executive decision and headed for the bar. Maybe I couldn’t cut their hours or lessen the workload, but at least I could let them know how much I appreciated what they were doing.

Gabriel spotted me coming, tossed a towel over his shoulder, and leaned on the bar in a sexy sort of way to wait for me. I don’t mind admitting that his obvious interest does a little something to my insides, but I was far too tired right then to dwell on it.

I hitched onto a bar stool and offered him a weary smile in response to the slow grin he aimed at me. “Well, well, well,” he said as I tried to wrangle my purse onto the bar beside me. He ran a glance over me from head to toe. “Busy day?”

“Little bit,” I said. “Why?”

“No reason, except you’re a mess.”

“Thanks. That means I look better than I feel.” I patted the hair I knew had probably frizzed up like a Chia Pet and swiped at a couple of unidentifiable spots on my jeans.

“So what’s going on to put that look on your face?”

I shrugged. “Just the normal stuff, times about ten. Surprise out-of-town guests and way too much work.”

“You work too hard,” Gabriel said. “You need to let your hair down and have a little fun.”

“You’re not the first person to tell me that,” I said, struggling to hold back a yawn. “It’s not as easy as it sounds.”

“Sure it is. Just let yourself relax.”

I propped up my chin in my hand and sighed. “I was raised by a professional worrier. It’s in my genes.”

“That’s a cop-out.”

He might have been right, but I was also too tired for self-examination. “Are you going to take my order, or what?”

“Fine. What can I get for you?”

“A virgin margarita,” I told him. “And make
sure
it’s a virgin. I’m driving.” He started to turn away but I called after him. “And jambalaya. Please tell me you have some left.”

“Sorry. It’s shrimp étouffée tonight.” The Duke isn’t a restaurant, but the owners throw together a pot of something wonderful almost every night and serve it on a first-come, first-served basis. I miss out far more often than I actually score a meal.

“That’s just as good,” I assured him. “Make it a small bowl,” I said, knowing there was probably a plate of something waiting for me at home. “And send a round of whatever everyone’s having over there, on me,” I said, jerking my chin toward the staff’s tables. “They deserve it.”

Gabriel wandered away and returned a few minutes later with a frosty glass on a fragile stem, filled with sweetly sour frozen slush. He knows me pretty well by now, so he doesn’t have to ask if I want salt on the rim. If you ask me, drinking tequila without salt is almost sacrilegious; the rule also holds for anything that should have tequila in it, but doesn’t.

I sipped cautiously. Not that I don’t trust Gabriel to leave the alcohol out…but I don’t. He’s been known to pour with a heavy hand around me, so it’s always better to be safe than sorry. When I didn’t detect any tequila, I took a healthier swallow and sighed happily. I appreciate a skilled artist, no matter what medium he may work in.

Gabriel filled an order for one of the cocktail waitresses and gravitated toward me again carrying a bowl of étouffée brimming with shrimp, onions, jalapeños, and just enough rice to give it body. I dug in with gusto.

Étouffée-loving foodies have been known to debate certain aspects of the dish. Is it acceptable to use more than one kind of seafood, or does that make it gumbo? Should étouffée be made with a roux (flour and oil whisked together over heat until it’s perfectly smooth) or without? Does a proper étouffée contain tomatoes or not? Personally, I loved the Duke’s version: single seafood, includes a roux, and excludes tomatoes. It was a well-balanced and flavorful dish with just the right amount of kick to it.

While I shoveled shrimp, peppers, garlic, and rice into my mouth, Gabriel got to work on the order for the staff. “So I hear Big Daddy Boudreaux met his demise at your party,” he said.

I stopped eating just long enough to stick out my tongue at him. “It was my party in name only, and I had nothing to do with his untimely demise.” I plied a napkin over my mouth to make sure I hadn’t left any unsightly bits. “What did people see in him anyway? I don’t get it.”

“You weren’t blown away by Big Daddy’s charm and sex appeal?”

I pretended to stick my finger down my throat and made a little gagging noise. “Seriously. I don’t get it. What
did
people see in him?”

Gabriel laughed and added 7-Up to the whiskey in Ox’s glass. “Money is power, baby. And power is sexy. It’s always been that way.”

I made a face. “That’s a stupid rule.”

“It’s not a rule,” he said. “It’s a universal truth. Rules you can break or change. The truth just is. You can’t avoid it.”

I put down my spoon and took another mouthful of slush. “So you’re a philosopher now?”

“I’m a bartender. It’s part of the job description.”

I licked a little salt from the rim of my glass. “Yeah? Well, I sure hope you’re right. Otherwise, my uncle might be paying a very high price for a mighty big lie.”

Gabriel pulled a couple of beers from the cooler behind him. “What lie would that be?”

He looked genuinely interested, so I unloaded on him. Bartender, remember? The next best thing to a therapist.

I told him about Big Daddy’s behavior at the party and, in the interest of honesty, gave him a brief summary of the fight between Uncle Nestor and Big Daddy. I told him about meeting Judd and overhearing his conversation with Mellie. About finding Big Daddy floating in the pool. About the conversation between Big Daddy and Judd that Ox had witnessed and Mellie’s search for Judd later by the pool.

I topped the whole thing off with a second virgin margarita and an account of the Widow Boudreaux making it sound like Uncle Nestor had killed her husband. By the time I’d finished sharing, I felt much better. “She has to know it’s not true,” I said as I wound down. “Uncle Nestor barely knew the guy. He had no reason to kill Big Daddy.”

Gabriel had listened to my whole diatribe without interrupting. Now he cocked his head to one side and asked, “If she knows it’s not true, why would she say it?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” I said, yawning again. “Because she’s crazy? Because living with Big Daddy drove her nuts? Because she had to be out of her head to get involved with him in the first place?”

Gabriel cashed out a tab for a regular customer I recognized by sight and wiped a spill from the bar, glancing at me from the corner of his eye. “You’re not thinking clearly. The woman’s not crazy. She might not be the brightest star in the sky, but she’s not stupid either. I’m guessing either she believes it’s true, or she’s lying to divert attention.”

I sat up a little straighter and a couple of heavy gray clouds floated out of my head. “You mean, like, from herself?”

“Could be. My understanding is the Boudreauxes weren’t getting along all that well.”

I started to say something, but sudden realization wiped whatever it was right out of my head. “Wait a minute. Do you know them?”

“Sure. Doesn’t everybody?”

“No, I mean, like really
know
them? Not just from the TV? That stuff you said about her not being stupid. How do you know that?”

He dropped a cherry into a tequila sunrise and gave me a half-grin. “I’ve spent some time with them.”

“They’re friends of yours?”

“Acquaintances.”

“From where? How do you know them?”

He spritzed soda into a glass and reached for a straw. “We’re all members of the same krewe.”

You could have knocked me off that barstool with a feather. “You’re a member of Musterion? Why weren’t you at the party?”

“I’m not on the board this year. Not involved in the planning either, thank God. But I’ll be there for the ball and for the parade.”

“In costume?”

He grinned. “That information’s on a need-to-know basis.”

I was getting distracted, so I finished my étouffée and licked my spoon—discreetly, of course. With my stomach pleasantly full, I managed to string a few coherent thoughts together. “Does that mean you also know Ivanka Hedge and Richard Montgomery?”

“I do. I was on the parade committee with Rich a couple of years ago.”

My exhaustion fell away and I bounced up in my seat. “Are you serious?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Would I lie to you?”

I shook my head quickly. “Not if your life depended on it. Could you introduce me to them?”

“I suppose I could.”

“Will you?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On what’s in it for me.”

Everybody has an angle. “How about my undying gratitude?”

He did a little shruggy-thing with his mouth. “That’s the best you can do?”

I shrugged back. “I don’t know. Maybe.” When he didn’t relent, I did. “If that’s not good enough, what
do
you want?”