A Sheetcake Named Desire (6 page)

Eight

I couldn’t sleep. I lay awake, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of night in Louisiana. The temperature had cooled off only slightly after the sun went down, and my desert-dry skin soaked up the moisture in the air as I listened to a chorus of frogs rivet, ping, and sigh outside. Every time I closed my eyes, images of Philippe lying dead in the garden filled my mind. I curled into the fetal position and wept until I had no more tears left. My reaction to Philippe’s death confused me. We’d been apart for a long time. I’d moved on with my life, and so had he. Until I heard his message that morning, I’d never even considered reconciling. So why did losing him hurt so much?

Images of our first meeting danced relentlessly through my head. Our first kiss. Our wedding day. Philippe singing “Our Love Is Here to Stay” at the reception. It was our song, and I still couldn’t hear it without thinking of him. I probably never would.

Around two in the morning, I gave up and crept downstairs. Baking has always been cathartic for me. Whenever I have a problem I can’t easily work through, you’ll find me puttering around in the kitchen.

I found some overly ripe bananas on the counter and dug around in the cupboards to see if Miss Frankie had everything else I needed to put them to use. Luckily for me, her kitchen was well stocked. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Philippe had probably spent time here, and he’d have seen to it that she had ample supplies to keep him happy.

I pulled chocolate chips, flour, cinnamon, brown sugar, and vanilla from the cupboards and found eggs, butter, and sour cream in the fridge. I’d just finished coating a baking pan with butter and flour when a noise behind me brought me around so fast I almost dropped the pan.

“What’s the matter, sugar? Can’t sleep?” Miss Frankie stood in the open doorway wearing a nightgown beneath a threadbare robe—a gift from Philippe the year he left home. I wasn’t at all surprised to see that she still had it, or that she’d chosen to wear it tonight. She’d scrubbed her face clean, and she looked frightened and vulnerable.

I shook my head. “I’m afraid not. Did I wake you?”

Miss Frankie dropped into a chair at the table. “Good Lord, no. I’ve just been staring up at the ceiling and wondering how much Philippe suffered. It just about kills me to think about him lying there hurt and alone.”

I felt the same way. “I thought I’d make my aunt’s chocolate-banana coffee cake so it will be ready in the morning. I hope you don’t mind.”

Miss Frankie shook her head and glanced around the room. “This is going to be a lonely old house now that Philippe is gone.”

“He lived here with you?”

“No, he had his own place, but he was always around, fixing this and dropping off that. And I raised him here.” She took another look around and released some of her pain on a sigh. “He’s all over this house. I don’t know how I’ll stand being here knowing he won’t ever come back. But I don’t know where else I’d go. I’ve lived here myself since I was nothing but a twinkle in my daddy’s eye.”

I envied her roots. My childhood home belonged to someone else now, sold shortly after my parents died. Aunt Yolanda and Uncle Nestor’s house just wasn’t the same. They’d taken me in after the accident, and they’d done their best, but I’d always been aware that I didn’t quite belong.

Miss Frankie sighed again and propped up her chin in both hands. “I’m glad you came, sugar. It helps, seeing you. Makes me feel as if the whole world hasn’t suddenly imploded.”

I found a mixing bowl and a wooden spoon. “I’m glad you’re holding up okay, but I’d feel better if someone could stay here with you for a few days.”

“I’m a tough old bird,” Miss Frankie said with a sad smile. “I’ll survive this, though Lord knows I don’t want to.” She looked down at her hands and sighed again. “It’s unnatural, a parent outliving her child. And for him to go like this . . .” She shook her head and fell silent. When she looked up again, steel and determination had replaced the pain and uncertainty. “I truly do hate the circumstances that bring you here, but I’m so glad you are. I always hoped you and Philippe would find your way back to each other. You were a good wife to my boy. I never stopped loving you, and neither did he.”

I smiled tightly at her as I measured ingredients. I stirred the chocolate chips, brown sugar, and cinnamon together for the streusel topping, and the combined scents pulled me back to my childhood. I’d lost count of how many times I’d talked over some school problem with Aunt Yolanda while she made this recipe for breakfast.

Setting aside the streusel, I popped butter into the microwave for a few seconds to soften it, then creamed it in a bowl with the sugar, egg, and bananas. When I had the texture just right, I added the dry ingredients. Instead of using the mixer, I put my pain and confusion into stirring the ingredients into a smooth batter by hand.

Miss Frankie watched me for a few minutes before breaking the silence that fell between us. “I called Thaddeus Montgomery, our family attorney, and I have an appointment to meet with him tomorrow morning at Zydeco. I’d like you to come with me.”

I stopped stirring. Batter dropped from my spoon to the bowl with a loud plop. “Me? But I’m going back to New Mexico. My flight leaves at two.”

“You can’t go,” she said. “I don’t want to do this alone, Rita. The attorney, the funeral, the arrangements . . .”

I left the bowl on the counter and sat across from her. “You want me to help you plan the funeral?”

She nodded and lifted her eyes to meet mine. “Would you?”

“You don’t think people would talk? I mean, I’m the ex-wife.”

“Not technically.” Miss Frankie smiled sadly, trying to shine light into the dark corners of both our hearts. “And for the record, I don’t give two hoots what anybody else thinks. I need you. I can’t do this on my own. Will you stay for a while?”

“I guess I can stick around for a few days,” I said. Uncle Nestor might grumble about me taking more time off from helping in his restaurant, but that was just his way. Aunt Yolanda would smooth things over for me. That was
her
way.

Miss Frankie patted my hand gently. “I’ve always thought of you as a daughter, not just a daughter-in-law. I guess you’re all I’ve got left now.”

My heart twisted. “I know it’s early, but have you given any thought about what you’ll do with the bakery in the long term?”

“I’ll keep it open somehow. That’s all I know. Philippe and I were partners in Zydeco. I put up the money. He provided the talent and the know-how. We set it up so that if one of us died, the other would inherit, but we always thought that
I’d
be the one to go.”

I felt better knowing that Miss Frankie was behind the wheel at the bakery. “Well, you’ve got a good staff—at least the people I know. They’re who I’d want to hire if I opened my own shop.”

She tilted her head and studied me in silence for a moment. “
Do
I have a good staff? I thought so once, and I know Philippe felt he’d hired the best. But what if it was one of them who did this horrible thing?”

I thought about the staff—my old friends and the people I’d met that morning. Could one of them be capable of murder? “I’m sure the police will solve the case,” I said, trying to convince both of us. “If anyone on staff had a hand in what happened today, they’ll pay for what they did.”

Miss Frankie looked up at me, her expression skeptical. “You have more faith in the system than I do. Read the paper. Watch the news. Murders go unsolved all the time. That young detective seems eager enough, but NOPD doesn’t have the best track record. They say that NOPD stands for “Not Our Problem, Darlin’.”

“I’m sure Detective Sullivan will do everything he can to find justice for Philippe.”

Miss Frankie nodded slowly. “He does seem like a fine young man. Polite. Brought up right, it appears. But these things can take time, you know. And in the meantime, here I am with a business on my hands I know nothing about, and a staff I can’t trust.”

I gave the batter a stir, checking the consistency to make sure I hadn’t accidentally overworked it. I didn’t want the cake to turn out heavy or tough. “You can trust Ox.”

“Can I?”

I checked the oven to make sure it had preheated, then poured the batter into the pan. “I thought you told Detective Sullivan that you did.”

“I did. I
do
. At least, I want to. But he did get into a fight with Philippe this morning, and a few minutes later, Philippe was dead.”

“I’ll admit the timing looks bad, but all the police have is a bunch of circumstantial evidence. You could say the same thing about me.”

“But you had no reason to want Philippe dead.”

“I refuse to believe Ox did either,” I said.

Miss Frankie shook her head slowly. “I don’t know.”

“Okay, then, what about Edie? She’s been around for a while, and being manager gives her a bird’s-eye view of the business.”

Miss Frankie pushed air out between her teeth and swatted at the air between us. “Edie’s a wonderful girl. Just wonderful. But you know Philippe didn’t hire her for her decorating skills, and Zydeco needs a creative eye overseeing things.”

That was true. Edie hadn’t exactly failed pastry school, but she’d come close a few times. “Still, she might be a decent temporary solution,” I suggested. “Or what about Dwight?”

“Dwight Sonntag?” Miss Frankie scowled at me. “Sugar, that man’s not a manager. Even if he had the skills, he looks like something the cat dragged home.”

An image of Dwight’s shaggy hair and scruffy beard flashed through my head. Much as I liked him, I had to admit he wouldn’t be good as the public face of Zydeco. “You might be right about that,” I agreed reluctantly. “But there’s no reason you can’t trust him, is there?”

“I don’t know,” she said again.

“What about—?”

She cut me off before I could finish. “Rita, there’s just no other solution. You’re the obvious person to take over. You know as much about cake decorating as Philippe did, and you’re just as talented. Besides, you’re technically still his wife.” She slanted a glance at me and sighed again. “I might as well be honest. There’s something else you should know.”

“Oh?”

“There’s been some kind of trouble at Zydeco for a while now. Philippe told me about it a week or two ago.”

That got my attention. “What kind of trouble?”

“Strange accidents. Missing equipment. Disappearing inventory. Philippe was convinced that someone was trying to sabotage the business.”

“What!? Don’t you think you should have told Detective Sullivan about this while he was here?” I couldn’t believe she’d kept this information a secret.

She looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. “Do you know what it would do to Zydeco’s reputation if this got out?”

“It couldn’t do more damage than murder.”

She shook her head firmly. “The point is I don’t know who I can trust. I need eyes and ears at the bakery. I want you to help me figure out who’s doing this.”

I gaped at her. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m completely serious,” Miss Frankie said. The set of her jaw and the steely look in her eye convinced me.

“But I don’t know anything about sabotage,” I argued.

“You know about running a kitchen. You know the business end of things. You know most of the staff. You’re the obvious choice.”

“I’m a cake artist, not a private investigator.”

Miss Frankie waved off my arguments. “You’re the perfect person to help me, sugar. I trust you. I need you.”

I took a second to think about it. Half of me wanted to refuse. Stepping in for Philippe would be awkward at best. But the other half felt a little thrill at the idea of working in that beautiful kitchen and design center, even temporarily. “I have a life and a career back in Albuquerque, you know.”

“Working for your uncle? Is that a better career than running Zydeco for me?”

No. Working as a sous chef in my uncle’s restaurant couldn’t compare with running my own cake shop, but the idea of running this particular shop made me more than a little uncomfortable. “Working
with
Uncle Nestor is a great opportunity,” I said, out of loyalty.

Miss Frankie stood and pulled a couple of glasses from a nearby cupboard. “I’m not going to talk bad about your family, Rita, but you and I both know that what you’re doing isn’t worthy of you and your talents.”

She certainly knew which buttons to push. “I can’t just pack up everything and move here,” I argued. “Uncle Nestor put me through pastry school. I owe him.” I wondered what Uncle Nestor would say if I agreed to stay here in New Orleans. Or, rather, I wondered how long it would take Aunt Yolanda to calm him down. I contemplated the reactions of Philippe’s staff. Would they be willing to take orders from me?

But in the end, it was the pain in Miss Frankie’s eyes that convinced me. How could I say no?

“I’ll stay for a few days,” I agreed. “But just until you can find someone permanent to take over.”

Miss Frankie threw her arms around my neck and kissed my cheek soundly. “Oh, thank you, sugar. You’re a lifesaver. You won’t be sorry, I promise.”

Famous last words? I hoped not. I really wanted her to be right.