The Cakes of Monte Cristo (12 page)

Bernice touched the end of her nose with a finger. “Bingo! It makes sense, doesn't it?”

“It does,” I agreed, “but that doesn't mean it's true. I wish there were somewhere I could learn about all of this in Delphine's own words. And Beatriz's. Both of them were victims of an awful system. Men allowed to cheat and wives not allowed to say anything about it. Women like Delphine forced to hand themselves over to some rich jerk just to survive. Either way, I'm not sure I could have survived back then without calling up a few curses of my own.”

Bernice laughed. “That makes two of us. That's one of the reasons my daddy taught me how to shoot straight.”

“Armand should count himself lucky that he didn't end up with us in his stable.” I took a jolt of really terrific coffee and sighed. “I'm worried about Miss Frankie. I don't want her to do something reckless.”

“I'm sure she's fine,” Bernice assured me. She studied her cup for a long moment and said, “Now that I think about it, she could be paying calls on some of Armand's descendants. She'll want to make sure they know the necklace has been found.”

“You mean there are some of his descendants still living around here?”

Bernice nodded. “Well, of course, they'd be descendants of Armand's nephew, Gustave, but the family is very much in evidence.”

“But I thought Gustave's daughter died six months after her wedding.”

“She did, but Gustave married again later and had other children,” Bernice said. “Two sons and another daughter, if I remember right.”

“Do you know where I could find them?”

Bernice laughed softly. “Me? No. But I'm sure there are records. You could check with the Daughters of the Confederacy. I'm sure they'd have some genealogy you could look through. Or maybe talk to someone at the voodoo museum. They have Beatriz's portrait. They may have other information.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” I said. But secretly I hoped Miss Frankie would turn up before I had to take that step. I'd love to see the portrait everyone kept talking about, but searching for Gustave Toussaint's descendants in a hundred years' of genealogical records would be like searching for a needle . . . in a stack of needles. Not only did the thought of it make my
eyes glaze, but I had other things I should be doing. Things like working so I could keep my employees happy with a paycheck.

I hugged Bernice good-bye and extracted a promise that she'd call me the minute she heard a peep out of Miss Frankie. Feeling confident that I'd done everything I could reasonably do, I hurried back to Miss Frankie's, where my Range Rover lounged in the driveway waiting for me to come back. There was still no sign of her, but talking to Bernice had helped calm my nerves. Miss Frankie had survived without me before. I had to trust that she could get along without me now.

I spent the rest of the afternoon at Zydeco with my nose to the grindstone and ignoring the unusually high number of incoming calls. I wanted to believe they were all business calls, but I'm not naïve. I had to trust Zoey to take messages where necessary and transfer any calls that were actually about cake to the appropriate person. I fielded a couple of calls about the Belle Lune Ball and checked in with Simone to make sure all was well at her end. As far as I could tell, Zoey was doing a good job deflecting calls about the necklace, and that let me focus on the work I was supposed to be doing.

By six, I had two hundred fondant peacock feathers stored in airtight containers, which was a major accomplishment. My neck ached from hours spent hunched over my worktable and the muscles in my fingers were stiff, but I gave myself a mental high-five and drove home in a reasonably good mood.

Sullivan called while I was on the road, which lifted my
spirits even further. His schedule makes it hard to plan in advance, so in spite of the advice Aunt Yolanda had given me as a girl to keep the guys guessing, most of my dates with Sullivan were arranged on the spur of the moment.

He suggested dinner out; I countered with an offer of an evening in. I thought staying in might be more relaxing, but that wasn't my real motive for wanting to stay home. I wanted to stay close to my home phone in case Miss Frankie called. She has my cell number, of course, but she prefers using a landline whenever she can.

Luckily, Sullivan liked the idea of staying in and offered to grab takeout on his way. I hurried home, gave everything in the house a quick once-over, stuffing junk mail into a decorative box that was already overflowing with stuff I'd been ignoring, and running my sleeve over the end tables to remove the dust.

I hopped into the shower just long enough to wash the day away and back out in time to change into black pants and a sheer black shirt paired with a teal tank top. I hooked matching earrings into my ears, piled my hair on top of my head, and gave my face a quick swipe with eye shadow and blush before the doorbell rang.

Sullivan looked great when I opened the door. Either he'd showered at work or stopped at home for a few minutes. I could smell his soap and aftershave, both pleasant and manly. The scents of garlic and oregano told me he'd brought Italian. My stomach growled in appreciation. “Well, hello,” he said with a seductive eyebrow waggle.

My insides forgot about food and flipped around for a few seconds before his eyebrows did a quirky thing that helped me remember to invite him in. “Sorry to keep you standing there. It's been a long day.”

“Trouble at work?”

“Sort of,” I said with a sigh. “But nothing work-related.
I spent half of the afternoon looking for Miss Frankie and I still haven't heard from her. I have no idea where she is.”

Sullivan closed the door behind him, put the food down, and pulled me in for a hug. “She's probably just out shopping with Bernice.”

“That's the one thing I know she's
not
doing,” I said as I took a deep breath and let the scents that had come inside with him wipe away the remaining knots of tension in my shoulders. “Bernice doesn't know where she is either.”

Sullivan slid a curious glance at me. “You sound worried.”

“I am a little, I guess. I keep telling myself she's fine, but it's that stupid necklace. We got inundated with calls at work today from people wanting to talk about it. After the first couple of calls came in, every time the phone rang, I felt a little more edgy.” I stepped away from him and he grabbed the food. We moved together toward the kitchen. “It seems like everybody wants to talk about the Toussaint necklace and I have to assume that if they're calling me at Zydeco, they're also calling Miss Frankie. It's no secret that she's part owner of the bakery.”

“I'm sure she can handle it,” Sullivan said. “She's tougher than you think.”

“I hope you're right,” I said. “Anyway, that's one of the reasons I wanted to stay in. I hope you don't mind.”

Sullivan grinned. “I get to be here alone with you. What's to mind?” While I pulled plates from the cupboard, he made himself at home, finding a bottle of wine and holding it up for my approval before getting to work on the cork. He handed me a glass and I savored the warmth as it spread through my body. “You worry too much. Miss Frankie is just out on the town. She'll call. You'll see.”

I grabbed utensils and carried everything to the table. “I want to believe you,” I said, “but you didn't see her the night I showed her the necklace. I've never seen her so upset, except when Philippe died. I even checked with Bernice this
afternoon. She hadn't seen Miss Frankie either, but she did suggest that Miss Frankie might be visiting some of Armand Toussaint's living relatives. Which is either a comforting thought or an even bigger reason to worry. She's been out of touch for such a long time now, all I can think about is the trouble she could be getting into.”

Sullivan laughed softly. “She's a character, all right. But she's also all grown up. She doesn't need a babysitter.”

“I don't want to babysit her,” I said with a roll of my eyes. He was probably right, but on previous occasions, he'd been just as concerned about Miss Frankie as I was. I didn't know what had brought about this change in him.

Sullivan studied me for a long moment before putting his hand on top of mine. “Really, Rita. She's fine.”

The feel of his hand on mine made me feel marginally better. I turned my hand over and wove my fingers through his. “Thanks. That helps. I'd just feel better if I heard from her. I'm sure she's heard about the break-in at the Vintage Vault and Orra Trussell's death. She canceled her lunch plans with Bernice right after the morning news. And since it's no secret that the Toussaint necklace was there—thanks to my newest employee and social media—she's probably convinced the necklace killed poor Orra.”

I sighed and rolled my head on my neck. “At least tell me there's good news about the investigation. Have the police found any leads? Do they have a suspect?”

Sullivan's expression didn't change, but his hand went utterly still for a moment and I suspected that I'd asked a question he didn't want to answer. “It's not my case,” he said. “I don't know what's going on.”

“Really. Hmmm. You haven't talked to your friend who caught the case? You expect me to believe that?”

Sullivan shrugged and rubbed his thumb gently over the back of my hand—as if he thought I'd lose interest in his
obvious white lie if he upped the sexual tension. “We're in two different departments,” he said at last. “We don't see that much of each other.”

“Hmmm,” I said again, as if I were giving that serious consideration. “Interesting. So you don't know whether there was anything missing from the store? You don't know the thief actually took something from the Vintage Vault after he frightened poor Orra into a heart attack?”

Sullivan expelled a heavy breath and gave me an exasperated look. “Nothing was missing,” he said firmly. “At least not according to Ms. Trussell's assistant.”

“So you've talked to Dominique then?”

“No.”

“Ah. I see. Well, however you got wind of her statement, it doesn't sound as if you believe her.”

Sullivan's thumb stopped moving. “I don't have any reason
not
to believe her. I didn't talk to her myself, and I won't, so get that gleam out of your eye.”

“My eyes aren't gleaming,” I said. “I'm interested, that's all. And before you say anything else, I happen to know there's no law against curiosity—especially since it was
my
necklace the thief was after.”

“You don't know that,” Sullivan reminded me.

I waved his reminder away with an impatient flick of the wrist that wasn't currently under his control. “No, I don't
know
that, but we both recognize the truth. Under the circumstances, I think I have a right to know what's happening with the investigation.”

I could feel tension radiating down Sullivan's arm. “Nothing's happening,” he said. “It's a nothing case, Rita. Nothing was actually stolen. Robbery Division isn't going to spend any more time on it.”

“But a woman is dead,” I protested. “Surely that's worth somebody's attention.”

“People die every day in this city.” I would have pulled my hand away from his, but he anticipated the move and tightened his grip. “I know that sounds callous, but it's not. Orra Trussell died of a heart attack.”

“Even if that's true, the heart attack was caused by the thief. He scared her to death.”

“It would take a whole lot more evidence than the department has to prove that in a court of law. Robbery Division has bigger cases on its docket and new ones coming in all the time. I'm sorry, Rita, but since all we really have is broken glass in the front door, this one's just not going to get any more attention.”

I gaped at him. “The case is closed?”

“It will be tomorrow.”

“But that's horrible.” I managed to extricate my hand from his and reached for my wineglass to keep him from grabbing it again. “How can they just close the book on poor Orra?”

“There
isn't
a book,” Sullivan said. “That's the whole point.”

“So what does that mean? What happens to the necklace?”

“It will be released from evidence. You'll probably get a call in a day or two telling you to pick it up at the station.”

Assuming, of course, I wanted it back. It had been nothing but trouble since Zoey and I found it. “And that will be that, I suppose. I wonder if things would be different if Orra had a family to make some noise about this. Or money. The police would probably pay more attention if she was rich, wouldn't they?”

Sullivan scowled and sat back in his chair. “Don't start, Rita. Bad things happen to good people. It's a fact of life. We do our best, but we can't fix everything. And you—” He shook his finger at me. “You can't fix this.”

“Well, somebody should,” I said. “Oh, don't worry,” I said in response to his frown. “I'm not going to rush out and look
for the would-be thief on my own. I just hate thinking of that poor woman dying without anyone to care what happened to her. Simply because it happens every day doesn't make it right.”

“I won't argue with that,” Sullivan conceded. He looked into my eyes and I saw the worry and frustration in his morph into something warm and suggestive. “And now how about changing the subject. I didn't ask to see you so we could talk about heart attacks and burglaries. I don't even want to talk about curses or family.”

My insides flipped again. With a silent apology to Orra, I held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Okay. You're right. I'm sorry. What would you like to talk about?”

Sullivan half stood and leaned across the table, so close I could feel his breath on my cheek. “Who said anything about talking?” he asked and planted one doozy of a kiss on my lips.

It would have taken a stronger woman than me to resist the pull of that kiss, and I didn't even try. What can I say? It was the first time all day something had been able to drive Orra Trussell and the Toussaint necklace out of my mind.