A Sheetcake Named Desire (4 page)

“How about when you found out that he was seeing someone else?”

I swallowed wrong and spent a minute coughing before I choked out, “He was
what
?”

Sullivan’s eyes bored into mine. “Are you saying you didn’t know?”

“I had no idea.”

“That’s not why you suddenly felt the need to come all this way to see him in person?”

The heat in the room climbed a few degrees higher. “No,” I insisted. “I had no idea he was even dating again. But why shouldn’t he see someone else? We’ve been separated for two years.” I tried to convince myself I meant that as I said it.

Sullivan ran a long look over my face, and I wondered what he saw there. Embarrassment at learning that Philippe had moved on with his life? Confusion over why he’d left the message asking me to meet him here? Or just my bonedeep exhaustion? I snapped a little. “Listen, I know you have a job to do, and I don’t mind answering questions, but while you’re talking to me, Philippe’s killer is out there doing who knows what. He could be destroying evidence, for all you know. Covering his tracks.”

Sullivan’s mouth quirked up on one side. “You think I’m wasting my time talking to you.”

“Yes, I do. I don’t know anything about Philippe’s life now. Like I’ve been telling you, we’ve been separated for two years, and it’s been a year since I even spoke with him on the phone.”

“So he didn’t know you were coming to New Orleans?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t tell him.”

“Why not?”

I hesitated for a second and then voiced a suspicion I’d been trying to ignore for the past few weeks. “Because I wasn’t completely convinced that he was getting my messages or the documents I’ve been sending him. I thought I’d have a better chance of actually reaching him if I showed up in person. I was wrong.”

Detective Sullivan glanced up from his notebook. “You think someone has been intercepting your messages?”

“A little less cloak-and-dagger than that, but yeah. Sort of.”

“You’re talking about Ms. Bryce?”

I shrugged. “Maybe. She’s a friend, but she’s always been overly protective of Philippe, even when she had no reason to be.”

Sullivan pondered that for a moment, then asked, “What about the rest of his staff? How did he get along with them?”

I shook my head slowly. “I don’t know all of them. Philippe and I went to pastry school with Edie, Ox, Dwight, and Abe. We were all good friends . . . Obviously, they’ve kept in touch with Philippe, since they’re all working here. As for the other staff, I have no idea what his relationships with them were like, but Philippe was a great guy. Friendly. Fun loving and easy to get along with. I just can’t imagine someone hating him this much.”

“So why did you split up?”

“We wanted different things.”

“Who pulled the plug on the marriage?”

“He did. But that was a long time ago.”

Sullivan scribbled something in his notebook. “What about family? Any of them have a grudge against your husband?”

“Ex,” I reminded him. “Philippe has several cousins, but as far as I know, he got along great with all of them. Other than that, it’s just him and his mother. Philippe was an only child, and his father died when he was eleven or twelve.” We’d had that in common. I’d lost both my parents when I was a child. Philippe had understood that part of me, and I’d gravitated to his empathy. Thinking about that made the lump in my throat grow large and painful again. “His mother,” I choked out around it. “Miss Frankie. How did she take it?”

Sullivan shook his head. “She doesn’t know yet. I’m heading over there next.”

I think my mouth fell open. “You haven’t
told
her?”

“I’ve been a little busy.”

“But that’s horrible! You’re here wasting time talking to me, asking me questions, and treating me like some kind of criminal. Meanwhile, Miss Frankie could be finding out that her son was murdered from somebody else!”

“That’s not going to happen,” Sullivan assured me. “My men are keeping an eye on everyone who hasn’t been interviewed yet. No one is allowed to make calls.”

“But—”

“I’ve got it under control.” He started to rise, and panic rose up in me at the same time. How could I just walk away and leave my ex-mother-in-law alone at a time like this?

A few minutes ago, I couldn’t wait to get away from Detective Sullivan. Now, suddenly, I didn’t want the interview to be over. Crazy? Maybe a little. But what can I say? When trouble hits, I panic. It’s what I do.

Four

I gripped Sullivan’s arm. “Take me with you.”

His gaze dropped to my hand and lingered there. He didn’t say anything, but the message came through loud and clear.

Sheepishly, I pulled my hand away and mumbled, “Sorry. But you have to listen to me. Miss Frankie can’t be alone when she finds out that Philippe is dead.”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve had to talk with the family of a homicide victim,” Sullivan assured me. “I know what I’m doing.”

“But you don’t know Miss Frankie. She’s going to need someone with her.”

He almost smiled. Almost. “And you think
you’re
the person she needs?”

“Yes I do.” He made a noise of derision and the urge to grab his arm rose up again. I linked my hands together in my lap instead. “The divorce wasn’t my idea. She was never angry with me.”

Sullivan looked interested in that. “She was angry with Philippe?”

“No!” I sighed in frustration. My relationship with Miss Frankie was difficult to explain. Here in the United States, we like to tell ourselves the class system doesn’t exist, but, of course, the truth is it’s alive and well. As a poor Hispanic girl from Albuquerque, New Mexico, with no immediate family of my own, I’d felt
way
out of my league around the Thibodeaux-Renier tribe, with their old money and even older customs. But from the start Miss Frankie had welcomed me, the woman who stole her baby-boy’s heart, and treated me almost like her own daughter. Philippe and I had been together seven years total, five of those as man and wife. During that time, Miss Frankie had helped fill the void left by my own mother. I’d missed her almost as much—maybe even more—than I had her son over the last two years.

I scowled at Detective Sullivan, trying to figure out how to make him understand. “It’s complicated, okay? But I need to be there when she finds out. Please?”

He stared at me for a long time. “There’s no other family?”

I shook my head and tried to come up with a more persuasive argument, or maybe a plan B. Maybe I could call a cab and hope I made it to Miss Frankie’s before Sullivan delivered the bad news. He couldn’t stop me from doing that, could he?

“Are we through here?” I asked as I reached for my bag.

“For now.”

“Good. Any reason I can’t take my things with me?”

Sullivan shook his head. “Fine by me.”

While I gathered myself up, Sullivan crossed to the door and opened it. But there he paused with his hand on the knob. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Are you coming or not?”

My head snapped up and gratitude bubbled to my lips, but he’d already left the room. I lurched out of my chair and hurried after him. “You’re taking me with you?”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Well, yeah, but—” I broke off and hurried to catch up with him as he turned the corner. “Yes. Yes, it is. Thank you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

He glanced back at me. “You can be there for your mother-in-law if you’ll keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking. Can you do that?”

“Absolutely.” I rounded the corner behind him and caught a glimpse of my reflection in a window, gasping aloud at what I saw. My hair looked as if I’d spent the morning playing with a light socket, and the makeup I’d put on at the hotel had melted off my face like the fondant on the paddle-wheel cake. Dirt smudged my forehead and cheeks, making me look like a kid who’d found the cookie jar.

And I panicked. “Hold on,” I said. “I need five minutes.”

Sullivan ground to a halt and frowned at me. “You what?”

“I need five minutes,” I said again, waving my hands around my face and hair. “I don’t want to show up on Miss Frankie’s doorstep looking like . . . this.”

Sullivan shook his head. “Either come as you are, or forget it. I’m not waiting around while you do whatever it is you do.”

“But
look
at me. I can’t go anywhere looking like this.”

“Fine. Stay here then.” Sullivan started to turn away.

“I’m asking for five minutes,” I argued. “The woman was my mother-in-law. Do you have any idea what that means?”

“That you were married to her son?”

“Exactly! I can’t show up for the first time in years looking like a bag lady, especially under these circumstances.”

He took a closer look at me, seemed to realize what a disaster he had on his hands, and relented with an annoyed shrug. “Fine. Five minutes. Any longer and I’m going without you.”

I didn’t know whether to be grateful or insulted, but I hurried to the bathroom before he changed his mind. Five minutes wasn’t nearly long enough to repair the damage I found when I looked into the mirror, so I concentrated on the worst areas first, scrubbing at the dirt on my face and the streaks of mascara with a moist paper towel, then wiping off what little was left of my eye shadow.

With my face reasonably clean, I dug around in my bag for a hair clip. I found several empty gum wrappers, some loose change, and three receipts from Ortega’s—the best place in Albuquerque for homemade tamales outside my Aunt Yolanda’s kitchen—but nothing I could use on my hair.

As I tossed the receipts and wrappers, I checked my watch and realized my time was almost up. I gave up the search and plunged my fingers into the stream of water from the faucet instead. I plucked at the frizz, trying to tame it and make it look like stylish curls, but as usual, my hair resisted any effort that didn’t include gel, pomade, and a heavy layer of hair spray.

With thirty seconds to go, I swiped a layer of Cinnamon Singe over my lips and stepped back to check the results. Not great. Not even good, but it would have to do.

I let myself out into the hall and found Sullivan leaning against the wall, one foot crossed over the other. He straightened when he saw me and gave me a once-over. “Ready?”

To take the worst news ever to my ex-mother-in-law? Not even close, but I nodded and fell into step beside him. We descended the stairs to the first floor and walked through the front office, where the staff sat in stony silence supervised by a couple of stern-faced policemen. “So what made you change your mind?” I asked, uncomfortable with all the unnatural quiet.

He flicked a glance at me. “Guess we’ll find out if Mrs. Renier is as fond of you as you claim.”

“That’s why you’re letting me tag along?”

He shrugged and pushed open the heavy front door, following me out into the heat. “I’m letting you tag along because I think you’re right. I’m about to tell a woman that her son is dead. She shouldn’t be alone.” He took the steps to street level two at a time and headed toward a red Impala parked at the curb. “But don’t think this lets you off the hook. I still think you look good for this.”

I had to run to keep up with him, and I was out of breath before I reached the street. “I’d argue with you,” I huffed, “but I can’t breathe.”

Sullivan actually cracked a full smile and aimed his keyless remote at the car. “Hop in and buckle up.”

I did as I was told, and a few minutes later, we pulled into traffic. Sullivan didn’t talk much, which was fine with me. This was the first quiet moment I’d had since stumbling over Philippe in the garden, and I needed it to steel myself for what was coming next. I also needed to find a way to convince Sullivan I wasn’t a murderer. I had what seemed to be a clear motive
and
I’d been at the scene of the crime.

Yep, clearing myself of suspicion ought to be a piece of cake.

Five

Twenty minutes later, we pulled up in front of Miss Frankie’s house in Lakeview. I’m embarrassed to admit that I couldn’t have found it on my own. I’d only visited New Orleans a handful of times while Philippe and I were married. Which, now that I thought about it, might not have been often enough.

My mother-in-law lived in an affluent neighborhood filled with graceful old houses, all untouched by Hurricane Katrina, all still surrounded by manicured lawns and ornate gardens. The community whispered wealth at every turn. Miss Frankie’s house whispered as loudly as the rest, reminding me of all the reasons I’d felt uncomfortable the few times I’d been around Philippe’s family money. Just as I began to wonder if I’d made the right decision by coming here, Sullivan broke the silence. “You okay?”

I nodded slowly. “Yeah. Sure.” I took a couple of deep breaths as we climbed the stairs to the broad front porch, and did my best to beat back those old self-doubts. My place in the family wasn’t an issue anymore. Making sure Miss Frankie was okay and that Sullivan wasn’t going to badger her were the only things I should be worrying about.

Sullivan pressed the doorbell, and I heard several rich tones peal deep inside the house. A few seconds later, I heard the scuff of footsteps, and then I was looking at my mother-in-law for the first time since two Christmases ago, when I spilled red wine on her white carpet. My stomach lurched and nervous perspiration pooled beneath my arms.

Miss Frankie is several inches taller than I am, and rail thin. Her chestnut hair gleamed in the sunlight, sparkling with vibrant color that I knew came from her stylist, not nature. She looked confused, but only for a moment before I saw recognition dawn in her golden-brown eyes. “Rita? Is that you?”

Everything I’d planned to say got stuck in my throat, and I barely managed to nod.

“Well, my goodness, darlin’, come here.” She pulled me into a hug so tight I couldn’t catch my breath. She smelled familiar—spicy with a note of citrus, like Philippe’s orangespice cake. “I can’t believe you’re here! What are you doing in New Orleans, and why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

My eyes blurred and my throat burned. “I’m sorry,” I croaked out. “I should have called.”

Miss Frankie turned me loose and flapped a hand. “Don’t you dare apologize. I’m just so glad to see you.” She waved us in out of the heat, pausing to run a curious glance over Sullivan. I could see the questions in her eyes, but she was far too polite to ask and I wanted to wait until we were inside to explain.

“Y’all must be melting. Let me get you some sweet tea.”

I tossed an uncertain glance at Sullivan. He nodded for me to accept, and we followed Miss Frankie into a spacious living room painted pale sea-foam green, accented with white crown molding and chair rails. I loved this room, with its rich brocade upholstery and soothing colors. Though as sunlight streamed in through a bank of French doors that led out onto a deck as big as my apartment in Albuquerque, once again I felt insignificant and out of place.

Miss Frankie motioned us toward the same white-on-white sofa Philippe and I had sat on when we’d told her we were getting married. Then I’d been filled with giddy excitement. Now, sharp dread prodded uncomfortably. I sat. Sullivan stood behind me.

“Does Philippe know you’re here?” Miss Frankie asked. I started to answer, but she raced on before I could get a word out. “Maybe we should call him.” She tilted her head and seemed to reconsider, flicking a glance at Sullivan. “Then again, maybe you’d be uncomfortable. I don’t want to push.”

Sullivan cleared his throat. “Actually, Mrs. Renier, I’m here on official business. Detective Liam Sullivan, NOPD.” He produced his identification and held it out for her to inspect. “Maybe you should have a seat yourself.”

Her expression changed slowly from delight to confusion. “You’re with the police?”

“Yes ma’am.”

She sat in a wingback chair upholstered in the palest green and turned to me. “What’s going on, Rita?”

Leaning forward, I took her hands in mine. “I’m afraid we have some bad news.”

Miss Frankie’s eyes registered shock, and I knew that on some level she’d already guessed what we had to say. But denial is a strong emotion, and she clung to it desperately. “I don’t understand. What are you doing here with the police?”

“I can answer that,” Sullivan said.
Be gentle
, I begged him silently. “Your son and one of his employees were attacked this morning,” he said. “The employee is stable, but your son was critically injured. I’m afraid he didn’t make it.”

I appreciated him softening the truth for her, but Miss Frankie didn’t see it that way. Anger and pain flashed through her eyes, and she jerked her hands away from mine. “Is this some kind of joke?”

I shook my head, wishing I could say yes. “I’m so sorry. I’d give anything for this not to be true.” Grief and sympathy for Miss Frankie’s pain bruised my heart and made it even harder to breathe. I’d thought that I’d cried myself out at Zydeco, but now tears spilled over again and burned track marks down my cheeks.

Standing unsteadily, she backed away from both of us. “Philippe? Dead?”

“I’m afraid so,” Sullivan said. He went to stand beside her, offering moral support without touching her. “Can I get you anything? Ms. Lucero here was visiting the shop, so she agreed to come over, but is there anyone else I should call?”

Miss Frankie shook her head slowly. “No, there’s no one.” Her voice rasped in her throat, and every breath she took sounded as if she was choking. “My son is dead. There’s no one else.” She steeled herself and lifted her chin. “I’ll be fine. Just tell me you know who did this.”

“I wish I could.” Sullivan put a hand on Miss Frankie’s shoulder. “Why don’t you sit down, Mrs. Renier? Maybe Ms. Lucero can bring you a glass of that tea.”

Miss Frankie took her seat again and leaned her head against the headrest. “Yes. Thank you. Tea would be nice.”

Eager to be useful, I shot to my feet. But before I could make it even halfway across the room, the front door flew open and a young woman with platinum hair and unnaturally large breasts burst into the foyer. She looked like any one of a hundred blonde-haired southern belles, all hair and eyes and . . . hips.

I disliked her on sight.

She slammed the door behind her and started up the stairs to the second floor. “Miss Frankie? Miss Frankie? Are you here?”

Miss Frankie closed her eyes and muttered, “Oh dear Lord.” But when she opened her eyes again, her irritation seemed to have disappeared. “I’m in here, Quinn.”

Footsteps clattered down the stairs again, and the blonde bombshell surged into the living room, her face tight with emotion. Or maybe it was Botox.

She wore an expensive-looking sheath dress belted at the waist and cut short enough to reveal a set of slinky long legs. On her feet were a pair of strappy white sandals that had probably cost more than I earned in three months.

When she spotted Miss Frankie, the blonde let out a wail of pain. “I
just
heard,” she said, throwing herself on Miss Frankie’s neck and sobbing as if she was the one who’d suffered the greatest loss. “What are we going to do without him?”

We?

Miss Frankie endured the blonde’s hug for much longer than I could have, and then she gently pressed Miss Melodrama away. “What are you doing here, Quinn?”

Quinn. I searched my memory bank for the name but drew a blank.

Quinn’s eyes widened in surprise. “I
had
to come. I
had
to see that you’re doing okay.” Without pausing for a response, she straightened up, swaying slightly and managing to look sexy and distraught at the same time. “The minute I heard, I told myself I just had to be here with you. Are you all right? Do you need me to call the doctor? I’m sure he could give you a sedative.”

“I’m fine.” Miss Frankie straightened her posture and folded her hands in her lap. “The detective here was just about to tell me what happened.”

Quinn whipped around to face Sullivan and me. “You’re the police?”

“Yes ma’am.” Sullivan produced his badge and let her look it over for a moment. “You said you decided to come as soon as you heard,” he said as he tucked it into his pocket again. “Would you mind telling me how you heard about Philippe’s death?”

“Well, from Edie, of course.”

Sullivan’s eyes flashed with irritation. “Ms. Bryce called you?”

I felt a little flush of vindication. Hadn’t I warned him?

Quinn made a pass at her eyes with a tissue and shook her head. “No. She didn’t call.” She took a breath deep enough to make her breasts strain against the fabric of her dress and exhaled as if she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. “I stopped by the bakery to see if Philippe wanted to have lunch. The place was swarming with cops.”

“I see. And you are?”

“Quinn Goddard. Philippe and I are . . .
were
. . . seeing each other.” The last few words came out on a sob, and she sagged toward the floor, apparently on the verge of imminent collapse.

The melodrama made my gag reflex kick in, and I struggled to wrap my mind around the concept that this was Philippe’s new girlfriend. Sullivan swept into action, offering support and guiding Quinn gently toward the sofa. No snarky cop voice for her. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said soothingly.

Quinn lounged back on the sofa and turned her tearstained face toward him. She looked more sultry than griefstricken, if you asked me, and I caught her sizing Sullivan up as if she was trying to figure out which of her many feminine charms might work best on him.

“I can’t believe that he’s gone,” she wailed again. “I saw him just last night. We . . . we had dinner together. And now he’s dead?” She threw herself back on the sofa and draped an arm over her forehead in a classic “Woe is me” pose. “What kind of monster could do a thing like this?”

I expected Sullivan to laugh. Instead, he got all gushy faced and sweet. “I intend to find out,” he assured her. “Do you feel up to answering just a few questions?”

“Me?” Quinn sat up sharply, looking as shocked as if he’d asked her to volunteer in a soup kitchen.

“If you don’t mind.” He looked at all three of us women in turn. “I know this is bad timing, but since you’re all here together, it would be very helpful to my investigation if you could give me just a few minutes of your time.”

Miss Frankie nodded. “Anything to help you catch the person who did this.”

Her strength amazed me, but it didn’t surprise me. She’d raised Philippe on her own after her husband died, and she’d done a pretty good job of it. Sure, he’d had his faults, but he’d been a good guy. One who worked hard and respected women. At least he had when I knew him.

Yet somewhere along the line, he’d apparently gone off the deep end. He’d started fighting with his friends and dating eye candy. And I couldn’t help wondering how many other things had changed.