A Sheetcake Named Desire (12 page)

“Intentionally?” Isabeau shook her head thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t go that far, but Philippe was so wrapped up in her, he couldn’t see anything else.”

My breath caught, and a sharp pain shot through my chest to hear about Philippe’s infatuation, but it only lasted a second. Was I surprised? Not really. Disappointed? A little. Knowing that he’d left me and taken up with someone like Quinn was a blow to my ego. I told myself I’d have felt better if he’d traded up, picked someone more intelligent or more talented than me. Or if I’d found out he was gay. Okay, maybe not. But knowing that he’d lowered his standards for someone like Quinn was downright insulting.

“He didn’t do it,” Isabeau said, jerking me back to the moment. I must have looked blank because she clarified. “Ox. He didn’t kill Philippe, you know.”

“I know,” I assured her. At the moment, my money was on Dmitri Wolff. Or Quinn. I wouldn’t put anything past her. I was also curious to know just why the alligator wrestler seemed so hostile toward Philippe. Was it just the alcohol talking, or was there something more sinister afoot?

“But Ox is so stubborn,” Isabeau said, dragging my attention back to our conversation. “He’s making things worse for himself, not better.”

I nodded agreement. “You need to talk him into telling the police what happened between him and Philippe.”

Isabeau laughed, but she wasn’t amused. “Are you kidding? The mood he’s in, I couldn’t talk him into brushing his teeth. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

“Why me?”

“Because Ox has told me about you, about how you and he and Philippe were such good friends. About how you were always the smart one.” Isabeau gripped my hands and squeezed. “Please, Rita. He’s going to end up in prison if he’s not careful. Can’t you talk to him again? Make him tell you what happened that morning.”

I tried to pry my hands away from hers, but she wouldn’t let go. “Weren’t you paying attention in the meeting this morning?” I said. “He’s not exactly thrilled with me right now.”

“He’s angry and hurt,” she said, “but he’ll listen to you. I know he will.”

The rational side of my brain told me to just say no. But Isabeau looked so worried I had trouble getting the word out. I could hear Aunt Yolanda warning me to keep my nose out of other people’s business, but I ignored her just as I always had. I wanted to help Ox, and I was really curious about what had come between these two men who’d once been so close.

And I really wanted to know who
had
killed Philippe.

“I’ll try,” I told Isabeau, “but I’m not making any promises.”

Tears shimmered in her eyes. “Oh, thank you! If I can ever help you with anything, just let me know.”

“You could start by letting go of my hands.”

She let out a self-conscious laugh and loosened her grip. “I’m sorry. I’m just . . . Well, you know.”

Actually, I think I did.

She lifted her hand, and two bartenders made a beeline for our section of the bar. There were a lot of things about New Orleans that made me feel oddly out of place, but some things are the same wherever you go: if you’re twenty-two, blonde, and curvy, the world’s yours for the asking. Add ten years, mousy-brown hair, and twenty pounds, and you can wait all night for someone to notice you.

I looked around the rest of the bar, and as I did, my gaze lit on an unexpected face. Unlike me, Detective Sullivan seemed right at home inside the bar. I didn’t know why he’d showed up for Philippe’s memorial, but I was pretty sure he wasn’t here as a mourner.

I didn’t object to him doing his job, but I didn’t want him ruining the memorial for Philippe’s friends who
weren’t
guilty of murder.

It felt like it took forever to work my way through that raucous crowd. A few more people had drifted onto the dance floor, but most were gathered at tables, huddled deep in conversations I couldn’t make out over the music.

When I finally drew up to Detective Sullivan, he was leaning against the wall by the front door, arms folded, one leg crossed over the other in a pose I was beginning to recognize. He greeted me with a jerk of his chin and a lazily drawled, “Evenin’, Miss Rita.”

“Good evening, Detective. What brings you here? Following a suspect, or looking for one?”

He uncrossed his feet and straightened slightly. “Maybe a little of both. How’s it going so far?”

I flicked a glance at the chaos behind me. “Loud. Other than that, I’m not sure.”

“How’s your mother-in-law?”

I probably should have argued with him over technicalities, but I was too tired. Besides, it was nice of him to ask. “Miss Frankie is hanging in there; thanks for asking. How’s the investigation going?”

He shrugged and pushed away from the wall with one shoulder. “Slow. There’s not a lot of physical evidence to go on, and nobody on your staff is interested in talking with us.”

Disappointment landed hard inside my chest. “There’s
no
physical evidence?”

He stepped out of the way to let a heavyset man come inside. “Seems odd, doesn’t it?” he said as the man moved past us. “It’s almost enough to make me officially rule out a crime of passion.”

“You really think someone planned to kill Philippe?”

“It’s looking more and more that way.”

Before I could stop myself, I glanced at Zydeco’s table and found everyone at it watching me and Detective Sullivan. Edie had joined the others while I wasn’t looking, and she glared at me as if I’d turned traitor.

The band ended one song and started another, and more people came inside, bringing with them a blast of hot, moist air from outside. How did people live like this? All this warm, moist air made me feel like a mousse in a bain-marie. I swiped perspiration from the back of my neck, but the noise, the people, and the music were beginning to wear on me. A dull throb started up in the back of my head. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think it was anyone from Zydeco,” I told Sullivan. “In fact, I may have a lead for you. But I don’t want to talk about it here.” Just in case Dmitri Wolff had spies at the bar.

The smile slid from Sullivan’s face. “You know something?”

I shook my head quickly. “I don’t
know
anything, but there is something I’d like to talk to you about. It may or may not mean anything.” I stole another look at my temporary comrades and asked, “Could we talk tomorrow? I really don’t want to ruin this for Philippe’s friends.”

Sullivan gave that some thought, but finally dipped his head. “You want me to come to you, or do you want to talk at the station?”

I didn’t like either option. I didn’t want to talk at Zydeco, and I wasn’t excited about the idea of going down to the station. “Can we meet at Miss Frankie’s? Say, eight o’clock?”

“You got it.” Sullivan jerked his chin toward the table. “Looks like your friends are wondering what you’re doing.” Which I figured was copspeak for, “We’re through here.”

“Right. Tomorrow.” I inched my way back to the bar. I expected Sullivan to leave, but as I caught my reflection in that massive mirror, I saw him claim a recently vacated table, where the last group’s empty glasses hadn’t yet been cleared away.

I dragged my eyes away from him and finally found a narrow opening in the crowd in front of the bar. Hot Cajun slid a beer onto a coaster, took an order from the cocktail waitress, and then made his way toward me. He settled a frankly assessing look on my face. “What’ll it be?”

I tried not to let his look make me self-conscious, but I felt myself shifting uncomfortably under its weight. “I’m not sure. What do you suggest?”

He shrugged and flicked at the lock of hair that insisted on drooping over one eye. “That depends. You a beer drinker, or are you interested in something stronger?”

“I’m not really a drinker at all, but tonight seems to call for something.”

“Ah. You’re here for the memorial.”

I nodded.

“You were a friend?”

“You could say that. Philippe was my ex-husband.”

The bartender pulled back slightly. “You’re Rita?”

Okay,
that
was awkward. “He told you about me?”

“Not exactly.” He offered me a hand to shake. “Gabriel Broussard.”

His hand was warm and hard, his handshake as bold as the look in his eye. “You were a friend of Philippe’s?” I asked.

“Not exactly. So, about that drink . . .”

“Can you make a blended margarita?”

“The best in New Orleans. Salt?”

“Of course. Do you have any of that delicious-smelling jambalaya left?”

“Sorry. We ran out about ten minutes ago.”

She who hesitates, starves. “Another time, maybe.” A couple of young women abandoned their bar stools, and I hitched myself onto the closest one to wait. The band stopped playing, and in the abrupt silence, several conversations stilled. The band’s lead singer, an aging man with a shaggy Fu Manchu moustache and long graying hair pulled back in a ponytail, shifted his guitar so that it hung at his side. “Y’all know why we’re here,” he said, his voice deep and surprisingly gruff. “Philippe was a good friend. A great guy. The kind of guy who’d give you the shirt off his back and buy you a beer to go with it.”

Murmurs of agreement rose up from all around the bar, and that lump that was never far away these days landed in my throat again.

“It’s a helluva thing that’s happened, and we’re holdin’ Philippe’s mama and all y’all in our hearts.” Fu Manchu mopped at his eyes with his sleeve and cleared his throat a couple of times. “The mike’s yours if anybody wants to say a few words.”

A handful of people rushed to the stage, and I wondered if the staff would expect me to say something. I wanted to honor Philippe in some way, but in front of two hundred strangers?

I’d rather crumb coat a thirty-tier cake with nothing but a butter knife.

Fifteen

Gabriel returned with my margarita a minute later. I took a sip and sighed with appreciation. The perfect blend of tequila and triple sec. Just the right ratio of salt to glass on the rim. It was love at first taste. I slid a ten onto the bar and began the laborious process of squeezing through the crowd to rejoin the staff. I hadn’t gone far when Quinn blew into the bar in a wild-eyed, overly emotional whirlwind that caught everyone’s attention. Did she always have to make a grand entrance? I was in no mood for another confrontation with her, so I scooted back into the crowd and settled in at the bar for the duration.

Quinn found a seat at Zydeco’s table and cried on every shoulder she could reach, moving from Edie to Burt to Dwight and on around the circle, soaking up sympathy and attention like sponge cake.

What
had
Philippe seen in her?

“How are you doing?” Gabriel asked as he passed from one end of the bar to the other. “Ready for another?”

I shook my head and reluctantly pushed my nearly empty glass away. “Probably not a good idea.”

“No? Why not?”

I jerked a thumb toward Zydeco’s table and the blonde bombshell holding court at its center. “I don’t need my inhibitions lowered right now.”

“Ah. The new girlfriend.” Gabriel leaned on the bar and shook his head slowly. “I never did understand that relationship.”

I whipped around to look at him, delighted to find someone else who didn’t seem hypnotized by Quinn. “I know, right?”

His warm brown eyes traveled over my face. “So what’s the story with you and Philippe? You’re the ex, but you’re here for the memorial? That’s unusual, isn’t it?”

“It’s complicated.”

“You must have had a pretty good relationship.”

A shrill cry erupted before I could respond, and I glanced behind me to see Quinn staggering toward the stage.

“This ought to be interesting,” Gabriel said with a grin. “Sure you don’t want another margarita?”

I hesitated, torn between the desire to numb myself and the more sensible desire to remain rational. This night wasn’t about me, and I didn’t want to do anything that might ruin it for Philippe’s friends. On the other hand, the margarita was delicious, and another round of tequila might ease the tension I was feeling. “Okay. One more. Thanks.”

Quinn stumbled on the short step to the stage and lunged for the microphone once she maneuvered the difficult climb successfully.
Please
, I begged any higher power that might be paying attention,
don’t let her do something stupid
.

Apparently, the higher powers were busy because Quinn stumbled backward and lowered the microphone in front of a large black speaker, resulting in an earsplitting screech that drew groans from most of the crowd.

I took the second drink from Gabriel and swallowed enough to give me a brain freeze. Fu Manchu grabbed Quinn’s hand and helped her move the microphone away from the speaker. If he’d stopped there, we might have been okay. But then he made the disastrous mistake of putting the mike in front of her mouth. I could only guess that he’d never met her before.

“Philippe Renier was my boyfriend,” she said, her voice high and tight.

I swallowed another mouthful of frozen tequila slush.

“But he was a real son of a bitch. He told me he loved me, but that was a lie. He was still married, but he never told me.” She swayed slightly, then zeroed in on something, which turned out to be me. “Married to . . .
that
.”

Every head in the place turned to see who she was pointing at, even the people who already knew the answer. Some people in the crowd looked curious. Some amused. But most of Philippe’s friends looked outraged. My face burned with embarrassment, and I’d have given anything for a shovel so I could dig a hole and crawl into it.

“I thought you said he was your
ex
,” Gabriel said, in the silence that followed.

“I told you it was complicated,” I shot back. With every eye in the place on me, I tried desperately to think of a way to salvage the moment. Lifting my chin, I got to my feet, but the room tilted precariously beneath me. Apparently, two margaritas was one too many. I gave up on the idea of walking to the stage and held onto my bar stool for support. “It’s not what it sounds like,” I said. “Philippe and I were separated. If he hadn’t . . . died, our divorce would have been final by the end of the month.”

Quinn let out a sharp laugh, and the crowd turned to her like spectators at a tennis match. “Yeah. So
you
say.” She appealed to the crowd. “Don’t you think it’s a little too convenient that he died while they were still married so she gets everything? All his money. His house? She’s even managed to talk Miss Frankie into letting her run the business—”

“Miss Frankie
asked
me to take over for a few days.”

Thankfully, Dwight saved me from further embarrassment by jumping onto the stage and taking the microphone away from the airhead. The band launched into a song, and little by little, conversations struck up at tables around the bar. But the damage had been done. I could see several of Philippe’s friends eyeing me with suspicion. Worst of all, the memorial had been ruined, all because one stupid woman couldn’t keep her mouth shut.

I could only think of one thing as I stood with my face burning and ears ringing.
Get out
. But my purse was still beneath the chair at Zydeco’s table. That meant I had a choice: abandon my purse and everything in it, including my car keys, or go back to that table and get my stuff. It wasn’t an easy choice to make.

To buy myself some time, I ordered a third margarita, told Gabriel that I’d be right back, and went outside to clear my head and catch my breath. The temperature had dropped a few degrees, but the air was still heavy with humidity, and my clothes felt damp as I walked from the bar toward the corner, where a signal light flashed its red light on and off.

Zydeco music followed me out of the bar, its sharp accordion notes muted by distance. At first, I thought I was alone, but when a few desultory notes sounded on a trumpet, I realized that someone was sitting on a bench, partially hidden by a tree.

I moved closer out of curiosity and saw a man of indeterminate age, his dark face smooth and unlined, his body softly rounded. Even in the darkness, he wore sunglasses, and he tilted his head at the sound of my footsteps in a way that made me suspect he couldn’t see me.

I started to move on past him, but he stopped playing and turned his head in my direction. “You da wife?”

His question surprised me, and I hesitated, uncertain how to answer. “You were inside?”

“I was. I have friends in the band. I sit in wid dem sometimes.” He lowered his trumpet, clasped in both hands, between his knees. “You’re hurtin’, no?”

I laughed softly, surprised by how much he could tell without seeing my face. “I’m hurting, yes.”

“I can feel it. It come out of you like a cloud.”

His observations left me feeling raw and exposed. I folded my arms across my chest, as if I could keep him from reading me. “It’s strange,” I said, with a smile he couldn’t see. “We weren’t together anymore. I was over him, and he was definitely over me. But since he died, I . . .” I broke off, annoyed with myself for spilling my guts to a perfect stranger.

“Dese things, dey make you feel like to die for a while, but it get better wid time. You’ll see. Old Dog Leg, he know what he talking ’bout.”

“Dog Leg?”

“You heard of me mebbe? Dog Leg Magee?”

He sounded so hopeful that I hated to say no. “I’m new around here,” I reminded him. “I haven’t heard of anybody.”

Dog Leg laughed and patted the seat beside him. “I like you, wife.”

After enduring the hostile stares of the people inside the bar, his friendliness was hard to resist, but I didn’t move. “You knew Philippe?”

The smile on Dog Leg’s face faded. “I knew him, all right. Long time. Dis t’ing that happened . . . it shouldn’t have.”

“That’s an understatement.” I glanced up and down the street, trying to decide whether to sit and talk with him or to keep walking.

“You don’t have to worry,
chérie
. You’re safe wid me. Come. Sit. Tell me how’s his mama?”

“You know her?”

“Sure do. Miss Frankie’s a mighty fine woman. If I were twenty years younger . . .”

I couldn’t resist moving closer to get a better look. If he was too old for Miss Frankie, that would make him—

“Seventy-eight on my next birthday. Too old to be much good anymore.”

Seventy-eight and blind. Probably not much of a threat. I sat on the bench and waved a hand in front of my face in a vain attempt to create a breeze. “I doubt that’s true,” I said. “Seventy-eight’s not all that old.”

He let out a gravelly laugh and shook his head. “Not all dat young either. You helpin’ Miss Frankie out down the bakery?”

“For a few days. Until the funeral’s over and she can figure out what to do next.”

“It gonna take her more’n a few days to get past this.” He mopped his face with a handkerchief and stuffed it into his pocket with a shake of his head. “What do the po-lice say? Dey got any idea who done this?”

“Not yet,” I admitted. “But they’ll figure it out.”

“You got more faith than I do. ’Round here the po-lice got their hands full. Dey don’t solve a case in a day or two, somethin’ else comes to take its place. I wouldn’t count on dem catchin’ the killer.”

I didn’t like hearing that, but it was probably true. Dog Leg put his trumpet to his mouth and played a few bars of a song that sounded vaguely familiar. I watched a man stagger from the front door of the Duke, stop to relieve himself on the wall of a nearby shop, and then disappear around the corner. Charming.

I fanned the front of my shirt, still trying to cool off. “I hope they do catch this one,” I said as his tune trailed off again. “For Miss Frankie’s sake.”

“You ’n’ me both, wife. You ’n’ me both.”

I smiled and set the record straight. “It’s Rita, not wife.”

“Ah. Lovely Rita, meter maid.” He played the opening riff of the old Beatles song, the notes clear and sweet. “Dat girl in dere. She don’t know what she talking about. You not the kind to kill a man just to get your hands on his money.”

I laughed softly. “I could kiss you for saying that.”

He leaned toward me, presenting his cheek. “What you waitin’ for den?”

I brushed a brief kiss to his full cheek and felt myself relax a little more. “I wish I knew more about Philippe’s life,” I said as I sat back on the bench again. “I don’t have a clue who might have wanted to hurt him.”

“Mebbe the girlfriend.”

“Quinn? Do you know something I don’t?”

“She foun’ out he was married. Hell hath no fury—”

“Like a woman scorned,” I finished for him. “But I don’t think she knew that before he died.”

“You don’t
t’ink
.”

He had a point. So far, I’d taken everybody at their word, but what if Quinn had found out that Philippe wasn’t free before he died? I shook that idea off almost as soon as it formed. Philippe could have been free within weeks. He
would
have been if someone hadn’t murdered him.

Unless . . .

I thought about the message he’d left for me. Had he changed his mind about ending our marriage? Had he told Quinn that their relationship was over?

“Was their relationship in trouble?”

Dog Leg shook his head. “Don’ know ’bout that, but there was some kinda trouble. Dat I do know.”

My heart skipped a beat. “What kind of trouble?”

“Somethin’ Philippe wasn’t talking about. I don’t know more’n that. But something was bothering him those last couple a days. I could tell.”

“Have you told the police?”

Mopping his face again, Dog Leg frowned as if I’d asked a stupid question. “You t’ink the po-lice gonna believe an old man like me? I don’ see nothin’. I don’ hear nothin’. I just know.”

“Well, then, tell me. How do you know?”

“Because Philippe was distracted. He was here two, maybe three days in a row, but he couldn’t hardly carry on a conversation. His mind was somewhere else.”

My nerves buzzed, and my heart beat a little faster. “Do you have any idea what kind of trouble? Was it something about work? About Quinn?”

His face scrunched, and for the first time since I sat down beside him, Dog Leg looked like an old man. He shook his head slowly, his disappointment palpable. “Wish I knew, Miss Rita. I truly do.”

“It’s all right,” I assured him. “That’s more than I knew five minutes ago. Can you think of anyone else who might know what was bothering him?”

“Not offhand. He wasn’t the kind of guy to air his dirty laundry.”

No, he hadn’t been. He’d lived in the “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” camp. I put a hand on Dog Leg’s arm and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Thank you. If you think of anything else, please let me know. I’ll be at Zydeco during the days.” I took a deep breath and made a promise I hoped I didn’t regret. “And maybe I’ll come here in the evenings while I’m in town.”

A slow smile curved his old face. “You gonna step in where Philippe left off mebbe? Learn to play wid us?”