A Sheetcake Named Desire (15 page)

“Does the name Guy LeBeau ring any bells?”

Miss Frankie shook her head. “No.”

“How about Rikki?”

“Not that I recall. Should they?”

“I don’t know for sure,” I admitted, “but I’ll try to find out if they were involved with the incident you mentioned.”

“You see why you have to run Zydeco for me,” Miss Frankie said with a satisfied nod. “You’ve already made progress. What about the sabotage? Anything new on that front?”

“Nothing yet, except that apparently Philippe thought Ox was responsible.”

Miss Frankie’s mouth pinched so tightly, little lines fanned out from her lips. “Like I said, you’re the only person I can trust. Just promise me you’ll stay and keep Philippe’s dream alive. I’ll make you a partner. We can have the same agreement that Philippe and I had.”

That offer of a partnership dangled in front of me like a piece of carrot cake. Oh so tempting. “Zydeco was Philippe’s dream, not mine.” But even as I said it, I knew that was a lie. Philippe’s shop was my dream store in almost every particular.

Miss Frankie knew it, too. “But now it can be yours. It doesn’t make sense to turn your back on such an opportunity. How can you let the business fail because of foolish pride? Besides, you’re family,” she said stubbornly, leaning forward and grabbing both of my hands the same way Isabeau had at the Dizzy Duke. “There’s no time to search for someone else with the insight, talent, and business acumen to take over. Zydeco is doing very well right now, but if Edie has to cancel all of the bakery’s contracts while I try to find someone to take over and then we waste more time bringing someone new up to speed, the business will never recover. And that man will get his hands on it after all. Philippe would be mortified if I let that happen.”

A dozen different emotions warred inside me. The temptation to accept her offer was hard to resist, but how could I stay in New Orleans? What would Uncle Nestor say, and how much of it would I be able to understand?

On the other hand, what if the business began to falter?
Would
Dmitri get his Wolff paws on it? I didn’t like that possibility at all. Especially since I was 75 percent convinced that he’d murdered Philippe to get the business in the first place.

I couldn’t make the decision now. I needed to get rid of my hangover and think about it. I offered Miss Frankie a reassuring smile and a compromise. “I promise I’ll think about it.”

Her eyelids fluttered shut, and she loosened her grip on my hands. “I’ll have to be content with that, I suppose.”

Guilt washed over me like a wave for offering Miss Frankie false hope, for even thinking about turning my back on Uncle Nestor and Aunt Yolanda, and for allowing the very sweet idea of being a partner in Zydeco to tempt me, even for a moment.

Eighteen

I hurried outside half an hour later carrying a travel mug filled with Miss Frankie’s excellent coffee. Thanks to the rain, I hadn’t really noticed the car parked in the driveway last night, but it was hard to miss it this morning. Sleek, black, and sporty. A convertible built for two. The kind of car I’d never have let myself dream about. I stared at it for a long time, unable to make myself move toward it.

Eventually, the sun—already bright and hot—pulled me out of my stupor, and I stepped over a puddle on the driveway, left from last night’s storm.

Which reminded me . . .

I put the coffee and my bag in Philippe’s Mercedes and dragged the garden hose from its neat coil at the side of the garage toward the flowerbed where I’d tossed the margaritas last night. The rain seemed to have washed away all evidence of my bleak moment, but I turned the spray on the flowerbed anyway, just to be sure.

As I was about to finish the job, a flash of sunlight reflected off something shiny on the far side of the lawn, and I spotted a woman watching me from behind a low hedge.

Great. Nosy neighbors. Just what I needed.

The woman straightened when she realized that I’d noticed her and shielded her eyes with one hand to get a better look. She was medium height with a plump figure and a halo of white hair, the perfect picture of a cookie-baking grandmother. Had she also been watching last night as I crawled around on the driveway? Is that why she was staring at me this morning?

I ignored her as I hurried back to the Mercedes.

“Hello?” she called.

Drat! I considered pretending that I hadn’t heard her, but she’d already reached the end of the driveway, and I could see her waddling toward me holding a pair of hedge clippers. Unless I ran over her, there was no way to avoid her.

“Excuse me? Hello?”

I turned to face her and pasted on a smile. “Can I help you?”

She was huffing a little by the time she reached me, and I could see grass stains on the knees of her linen slacks. The cost of staking out the neighbors, I guess. “I’m Bernice Dudley. From next door? You’re staying with Francis Mae, am I right?”

Francis Mae? I hadn’t heard Miss Frankie’s real name in a while, and I couldn’t help but wonder if she approved of Bernice using it. “I’m Rita,” I said. “I’ll be here for a few days.”

“Well, thank the good Lord for that.” Bernice huffed as she battled to catch her breath. “I heard what happened, of course. We all did. And I want you to know that I’m utterly devastated.”

“Thanks.” I think. “It’s been difficult.”

“Difficult? Goodness! That’s an understatement, isn’t it?” She swatted at a mosquito with her free hand and scowled. “I can’t even imagine how Francis Mae is handling it.”

Was she offering condolences or pumping for information? I couldn’t be sure. I tried to offer a response that fell in safe ground. “She’s hanging in there.”

“Well, I am so glad to hear that,” Bernice said with a sigh of relief. “It’s not natural, a woman losing her only son. I was afraid this would destroy her.”

“She’s devastated,” I admitted, “but she’s a strong woman. It won’t be easy, but she’ll get through it.”

“Well, of course she will.” Bernice pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and mopped sweat from the back of her neck. “I’ve been thinking of bringing over a covered dish for supper, but I wasn’t sure when would be a good time. When I saw you out here, I decided that now was the time to ask. Can I bring something over tonight?”

I remembered neighbors rushing to our door with meals after my parents died. I’d been too young to appreciate their offerings at the time, but age and experience had helped me learn to appreciate the tradition. In a time when family was too shell-shocked to care about food, having meals already prepared helped in a very practical way.

“That’s very generous,” I said. “But we’ll be out this evening.”

“Tomorrow then?”

“Maybe,” I said uncertainly. “Maybe you could just call her later and see how she’s feeling.”

“Of course. Of course.” Bernice squinted at the house and let out another heavy sigh. “Francis Mae and I have been neighbors more than twenty years, but I don’t have the faintest idea how to deal with this. It’s just so awful.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “It is.” The air was still and hot this morning, the calm after the storm, I guess. In addition to the humidity I was breathing, hot moist air rose up from the saturated ground, giving New Orleans a double-shot of misery. Imagine enduring this without clean water or electricity. Just the thought made me weak in the knees. I looked longingly at the Mercedes—specifically at its air-conditioner controls—and wondered how long good manners required me to stand in the broiling sun.

“I’ve been so worried since I heard,” Bernice prattled on. “But, then, my husband said he thought she had family with her. You
are
family?”

The truth was too complicated for this conversation, so I hedged, “I’m a friend of the family.”

Bernice smiled up at me as if I’d introduced myself as Mother Teresa. “Well isn’t that sweet of you? You don’t often see that kind of devotion these days, do you?”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I mumbled vaguely and moved closer to the car door. “It’s very nice to meet you, Bernice. I appreciate your concern about Miss Frankie.”

“Well, she’s a wonderful woman,” Bernice said, with a nod that set her chins wobbling. “An absolute gem of a woman. But I’m sure you know that, or you wouldn’t be here.”

“A gem,” I agreed, and started to slide behind the steering wheel.

Apparently Bernice was just getting warmed up. “What do the police say? Do they know who killed Philippe?”

I stopped sliding and shook my head. “Not yet, but they’re working on it.”

“Terrible. Terrible.” Bernice noticed a smudge of dirt on one pant leg and took a moment to brush it off. “He was such a nice man. So devoted to his mother. And so sweet with that young lady he was seeing.”

Gack. Mentions of Quinn on an already sour stomach? Not a good way to start the day. “Well, that was Philippe,” I said, trying to keep the smile from sliding off my face. “Considerate to a fault.”

Bernice dropped the hand she’d been using as a sun filter. “Isn’t that the truth? I don’t like to speak ill of people. I really don’t. But that girl wasn’t half good enough for him. I never did understand what Philippe saw in her.”

All of a sudden, I felt myself warming to Miss Frankie’s neighbor. “You know Quinn?”

“The little blonde?” Bernice shook her head. “Not exactly. We met once or twice. In passing. You know how it is. But I saw them together quite often. Here. There. Sometimes in town . . .” Her lips compressed in a thin line, and she glanced toward Miss Frankie’s door almost guiltily. “I never said anything to Francis Mae, but I don’t think that girl was good for Philippe.”

Obviously a woman of intelligence. “What makes you say that?”

Bernice put a hand on her ample bosom and sighed heavily. “I shouldn’t say. I don’t like speaking ill of anyone.”

“No, of course not,” I said in my most sympathetic tone. “But if there’s some reason you feel that way, I think it would be a kindness to let Miss Frankie know. After I leave, it will be just her and Quinn.” Which, now that I thought about it, didn’t comfort me much.

Bernice glanced down at her hedge clippers for a moment. “I don’t think she was faithful, if you know what I mean.”

My mouth fell open in surprise. “You think she was cheating on him?”

“I’m almost certain of it. I saw her with another man. More than once.”

I knew it. I
knew
it. “Do you know who he was?”

“No. He was a good-looking guy, though. That much I can tell you.”

“And you’re sure they were together romantically?”

Bernice’s eyes flashed scorn. “They were sitting close together every time. Whispering. All cozied up. What else could it be?”

What else, indeed? “Do you remember when you saw her with this other guy?”

Bernice scrunched up her round face and thought about that. “The first time was probably a couple of months ago. Right after I met her, as a matter of fact. I saw her at a little coffee shop while I was out shopping. I started over to say hello. You know, because I’d met her just a few days earlier and it was the polite thing to do.”

“Of course.”

“But then I realized she wasn’t alone.” Bernice’s frown deepened as she relived the memory. “What is it with the young women these days? In my day, that kind of behavior was unheard of.”

I pretended to believe that to keep her talking. “You said you saw them together more than once?”

“Two or three times,” she said, with a knowing look. “And every time it was the same thing. Sitting close together. Whispering things they didn’t want anyone else to hear. I never said a word to Francis Mae, of course. I didn’t want to worry her.”

Keeping such a secret must have been difficult for Bernice. Unless she hadn’t actually kept it a secret. “Did you ever mention what you saw to Philippe?”

Bernice’s eyes grew huge. “You don’t think—?”

“You did tell him?”

She nodded slowly. “I mentioned it about a week ago. After I saw them together the last time. Philippe was a good boy. I’ve known him since he was a teenager. I didn’t want her to take advantage of him.” Her chins wobbled, and she looked as if she was ready to cry. “You don’t think that had anything to do with what happened?”

Bernice looked so heartbroken, I couldn’t leave her believing she’d unwittingly brought on Philippe’s death, even as I wondered it myself. “I’m sure it didn’t,” I lied, and because she hadn’t answered me the first time, I asked again. “You don’t know who the man was, by any chance?”

She shook her head and bit her bottom lip. “I don’t. I’m sorry. He was tall, dark, and handsome. That’s all I know.”

That wasn’t much to go on, but it was something. I was convinced that Philippe had confronted Quinn about cheating on him. Even if he hadn’t ended their relationship then, she would have seen the writing on the wall. She might be an airhead, but she wasn’t stupid. She would have sensed that she was about to lose the future she’d been planning for herself.

I put a reassuring hand on Bernice’s shoulder. “Please don’t worry. You did the right thing.”

Bernice gazed up at me, her eyes full of hope. “You’re a sweet thing, you know that?”

I laughed softly. “It’s nice of you to say so.”

She looked as if she wanted to say more, but just then the front door opened and Miss Frankie came onto the porch. Bernice let out a little cry and forgot all about me. “Francis Mae, how are you, dear? I’ve been beside myself with worry since I heard about poor Philippe.”

I watched her hurry up the sidewalk and wrap Miss Frankie in a warm hug. Bernice had passed the litmus test as far as I was concerned, and I felt better knowing that Miss Frankie had friends nearby. But I couldn’t stop thinking about Quinn and her secret man-friend. Who was he, and what had Philippe done when he found out that Quinn was cheating?