The Cakes of Monte Cristo (15 page)

“Yeah. Looks like the place is still pretty torn up.”

“It is. But we'll get it fixed.”

“So the necklace? Is it real?”

I shrugged. “I don't know yet. I was having it appraised but then it was evidence in a break-in so the police took it. I'll have to find another appraiser but there's no time now until after the Belle Lune Ball. Apparently, it has an interesting history—if it's the genuine article, that is.”

“So I've heard.”

“So then you've heard the rumors that there's a curse on it?”

Calvin gave me an odd look followed by a shrug. “I've heard a little.”

“Not that I believe in curses,” I said to clarify my position.

“Maybe you should. I've spent enough time with Auntie Odessa to know there's some real mojo out there. You oughta show it to her. If there's a curse, she'll be able to tell you.”

“I might do that if I find out that the stones are genuine,” I said. “But I'll worry about that if I need to. My bet is that an appraiser will tell me the thing is worthless and that will be the end of it.”

Calvin wagged his head slowly. “You really haven't been in New Orleans long, have you? Around here, you find something like that hidden away? It's worth something and you've got yourself a story to tell.”

“Well, you know more about it than I do,” I conceded. “I don't mind a story—as long as the story doesn't include things that go bump in the night.”

Calvin laughed. “You got a lot to learn about New Orleans, sis. Practically every story is about something that goes bump in the night. This city was built on ghosts and spirits and secrets.”

“So that's why it's such a big deal? Somebody might have tried to steal it, my mother-in-law is going crazy because of it, and there's even a reporter who wants to talk to us, but I don't know that much about it, and even if I did, why would I talk to him?”

“The guy's got a job to do,” Calvin said reasonably. “That necklace has some history behind it. I guess it's the kind of thing people want to read about.”

“I guess,” I grudgingly agreed.

“Face it, scandal sells.”

“So does sex,” I said. “And that necklace has both.”

“Right.” Calvin shifted in his seat. “So what are you going to do with it now that the police are giving it back?”

“I honestly don't know,” I admitted. “Miss Frankie thinks I should toss it into the river and be done with it.”

“She wants you to do what? Why?”

“She believes in the curse. She's convinced that it's bad luck. She thinks the only way to make sure nothing else tragic happens is to get rid of it for good.” I smiled and watched the SUV in the rearview mirror. It certainly was staying close. “I don't know. Maybe she's right.”

“Don't you think it probably belongs to somebody? Family. Right?”

I squeezed between two cars so I could make another right turn. “I haven't heard anything from the Toussaint family. Though I have had interest from a few vintage dealers and jewelers who want to buy the necklace. And that reporter. His name's Carlo Mancini. Have you ever heard of him?”

Calvin shook his head. “I don't think so.”

At the last minute, the SUV changed lanes to get behind me, earning an irritated blare of the horn from another driver. An uncomfortable feeling scratched around inside. Was the driver following me, or was I just being paranoid?

“Why the Toussaint family?” Calvin asked. “Shouldn't the necklace go to Delphine's kin?”

I dragged my attention away from the SUV. “Delphine never owned the necklace,” I said. “The story is that Armand was originally going to give it to her, but since he actually gave it to Beatriz instead, it's always been in the Toussaint family.”

“That's what caused all the trouble in the first place,” Calvin pointed out. “Maybe if the necklace goes back to where it was meant to go in the first place, maybe then the curse will end.”

“First of all,” I said, “the curse is baloney. None of the Toussaints were killed. They died. Period. Armand and
Beatriz probably caught some disease that was making the rounds. And then when Gustave's wife and his daughter both died, people started imagining connections that weren't actually there.”

Calvin didn't say anything for a block or two, and I wondered if I'd offended him. I hoped not, but even for the sake of our brand-new friendship, I wasn't going to pretend to believe in a curse.

The SUV was still behind me, but a car had moved between us and the SUV's driver hadn't tried to pass it. My uneasiness faded.

“You're not from New Orleans,” Calvin said at last. “You don't know how things work. But believe me, if Delphine Mercier put a curse on that necklace, the thing is cursed to this day.”

“Let's say the curse is real,” I said. “Just for the sake of argument. Do you think Delphine knew that Beatriz was expecting a baby when she put the curse on the necklace? I mean, it's bad enough to want the adults dead, but somehow it seems so much worse with a baby involved. Two babies, actually. They were both pregnant at the same time.”

Calvin shrugged. “Armand's old lady didn't care about Delphine's baby, so maybe she figured it evened the score.”

I couldn't believe my ears. “How do you figure that? Beatriz was Armand's
wife
. She had every right to object to him giving another woman a gift like that. Any gift, really. Beatriz just took what should have been hers in the first place.”

“She took a lot more than that,” Calvin said. “Armand could have tossed Delphine aside like yesterday's garbage anytime he wanted to. How was she supposed to take care of herself and her kids? Who were
his
kids, by the way. It's not like she would get alimony or palimony or . . . whatever.”

His response surprised me, but I had to admit he had a point. Plus, I kind of liked the way he stuck up for Delphine rather than take the man's side. “I think it's fair to say that both
women were treated badly by that system,” I said. “The whole situation was unfair. I can't imagine living in a world where my husband could have a whole second family and nobody would think twice about it. And even if I hated it, I'd be expected to keep my mouth shut and look the other way. It's cruel and demeaning to the women on both sides.”

“Yeah. I guess you're right,” Calvin said. “But you can't blame Delphine too much. She had to look out for her family, didn't she? Family's the most important thing there is. And she did it the only way she knew how.”

I braked for a red light and sighed. “For what it's worth, I can't even begin to understand how difficult Delphine's life was. Or Beatriz's either. And the truth is that if I'd been in Delphine's shoes, I might have been tempted to cast a curse or two myself.”

Calvin grinned. “I knew you were reasonable. I told Ox so, too.”

I laughed. “Well, thanks. Did he agree with you?”

“Of course! He's not stupid.”

Half a block later, I pulled into a parking lot near the police station. I watched as the white SUV drove on by and convinced myself that it hadn't been following me. We spent the next hour in a waiting room that smelled of stale coffee and unwashed bodies, although except for one middle-aged woman sobbing noisily in one corner and a resigned-looking businessman who checked his phone every few minutes, we had the place to ourselves.

Eventually, the officer at the front desk produced some paperwork for me to review and sign, which took all of five minutes. Once I'd finished, we went back to waiting. I didn't want to talk about the necklace in that room where anybody could hear, and to my relief, Calvin had either run out of things to say or he picked up on my feelings.

We chatted for a bit about inconsequential things until,
after what felt like forever, a tall young man in uniform came over. He was probably mid-twenties with dark hair and an engaging smile. He introduced himself as Officer Reagan, and led us into a small, musty-smelling room. In the center was a wobbly table with a scarred top, and around it were four industrial-looking plastic chairs. All the comforts of home.

After Calvin and I made ourselves relatively comfortable, Officer Reagan put a cardboard box on the table in front of us. “I need you to look over the property and make sure everything is there,” he said. “Then you'll sign the inventory form and you're free to leave.”

“This shouldn't take long,” I said with a dubious glance at the box. “I only have one thing to pick up.”

Officer Reagan took the lid off the box and motioned for me to look inside. The wooden box I'd come to know rested inside, its fleur-de-lis pattern gleaming even in the glow of the overhead fluorescent bulb. I checked inside it to make sure that the ruby necklace was there.

“This is it,” I said, barely repressing a shudder at the thought of Orra Trussell clutching the necklace in her hand as she died. “Is there anything else you need from me?”

Reagan handed over another form. “I just need you to sign one more thing,” he said. “Then we're done.”

I glanced over the form to make sure I wasn't signing my life away or confessing to some unsolved crime, then scribbled my signature in all the appropriate places. “You wouldn't happen to know if they've figured out who broke in to the Vintage Vault, would you?”

“I thought the case was closed,” Calvin said.

Officer Reagan took the form from me and tossed it into the empty cardboard box. “It is. That's why we're returning the evidence.”

“It's only been a couple of days,” I protested. “Have you even looked for the burglar?”

“Of course,” Reagan assured me. “To the best of my knowledge, it was a cold case to begin with. No evidence. No leads other than the second 911 call, and that didn't pan out.”

I'd been about to pick up the wooden box, but I snatched my hand back quickly. “What second 911 call?”

Guilt flashed across Reagan's boyish face. “I probably shouldn't say anything—”

“You already did,” I pointed out. “Come on. It's not as if you're talking about an ongoing investigation. So what's the harm in answering a couple of questions, right? Who made the second 911 call?”

Reagan shook his head, resigned. “It came from a pay phone about a block away from the Vintage Vault. We have no idea who placed it.”

“Male or female?”

“Don't even know. Could have been either. The voice was whispering.”

I waited for him to say more. He didn't.

“That's it? That's all you've got?”

“That's it,” Reagan said firmly. His gaze flashed on my face and away before he could make eye contact. “Why do you think we closed the case?”

“Did you even try to find a witness? Did anyone see the person who made that second call?” Officer Reagan was inching toward the door. “Exactly what did the caller say?”

Reagan stopped inching. “He—or she—just said that there was a woman in distress at the Vintage Vault on Andorra. That's all. The call disconnected before the operator could ask for more information.”

“Obviously it was someone who saw Orra inside the store,” I said. “There were no witnesses to the robbery, so it had to be the thief who called.”

“Not necessarily. It might just have been a Good Samaritan—somebody who saw that Mrs. Trussell was in
trouble and called for help, but who didn't want to get involved. You'd be surprised how often that kind of thing happens. And even if you
are
right,” he said, cutting me off before I could argue, “we have no evidence or witnesses pointing to the caller as the burglar. I'm sorry, ma'am, but it's a dead end. Now if there's nothing else . . .”

There was plenty more I wanted to say, but I recognized a lost cause when I saw it. I told myself to be happy with the information he'd given me and stuffed the wooden box into my bag. “No. Nothing else.” I shot a look at Calvin. “Are you coming, or not?”

He scrambled to his feet, followed me out the door, and all the way back across town, he listened to me vent about the police and the halfhearted job they'd done investigating the burglary. He didn't even interrupt me once. Is that a friend, or what?

Calvin asked me to drop him at the Dizzy Duke so he could catch a ride home with Ox. I figured, why not join him? The rest of the staff was probably there, and I could use a chance to unwind. Not that there was anything at home to keep me wound up, but it wouldn't hurt to let my concerned coworkers see that I'd made it all the way to the police station and back unharmed.

Luck was with me for once. I snagged a parking spot just half a block from the Duke, and Calvin and I trotted inside. The band hadn't started playing yet but the jukebox was blaring a tune loud enough to make conversation difficult. Which was fine with me. I didn't want to talk about the trip to the police station anyway.

I checked behind the bar to see if Gabriel was working, but the relief bartender was on duty. I stifled my disappointment and dragged a chair to the table that was already crowded with Zydeco folk. Even Zoey had decided to join the others, which I took as a sign that she was fitting in.

“You made it!” Isabeau shouted when she saw me.

“Safe and sound,” I shouted back. “Calvin could have stayed behind.”

“I didn't mind,” he assured me, straddling an empty chair. “It's all good.”

“And you got it okay?” Isabeau asked. “The you-know-what?”

Not exactly subtle but at least it didn't seem like anyone was paying attention to us. “Everything's fine,” I said. “Let's move on.”

Sparkle treated Isabeau to a dark scowl. “Why don't you wave a banner over her head and paint an X on her back?”

Isabeau flounced in her seat and frowned back. “Why don't you lighten up?”

“Why don't we all talk about something else?” I shouted just as the music died away. The question reverberated in the relative quiet, and heads from nearby tables swiveled in our direction. Yeah, I was that cool.

Thankfully, Sparkle stepped up and drew the attention from me by passing around a tablet containing some pictures she'd taken of JD on her last visit. We all spent some time oohing and ahhing over them and then got down to the business of rehashing the day. I'd just started to relax when I saw Ox focus on something over my shoulder. His expression tightened and he flicked a look at me.

I glanced behind me and saw a man of around forty, around my height but sturdy, with dark hair and a goatee-mustache combo that gave him a slightly unsavory look. He looked kind of familiar, but I couldn't place him. “Rita Lucero?”

From the corner of my eye I saw Ox give the guy a chin jerk. “Who wants to know?”

“Carlo Mancini.” He addressed his answer to me. “Sorry to bother you here, but I've left several messages and I haven't heard back.”

Ahh, so that's why he looked familiar. I'd seen him on the news but never paid enough attention to link the face with the name. “That's because I'm not giving interviews,” I said. “Now if you'll excuse us . . .”

I didn't really expect him to give up easily, and he didn't surprise me. Instead of bowing out with a
mea culpa
, he dragged a chair up to our table.

Estelle looked up from the table and gave Zoey a nudge with her elbow. Zoey's posture straightened abruptly and a flush tinted her round cheeks. Isabeau fluffed her ponytail and looked around, probably to see if he'd brought a camera crew with him. Ox glared at him and Dwight went for a more casual reaction, leaning back in his chair and flipping his coaster over and over on the table. Calvin scooted his chair closer to mine. Only Sparkle seemed unaffected.

“I understand you found the famous Toussaint necklace,” Mancini said. “I'd like to get a sound bite for our viewers.”

“Sorry,” I said with a thin smile. “You're wasting your time.”

Mancini gave me a sickeningly friendly smile. “Oh, come on, Ms. Lucero. It's a great story. Old world feud. A cursed necklace. I promise I won't take up much of your time.”

Ox half stood, ready to leap to my defense. I waved him back into his chair, determined to prove that I didn't need to be protected. “Look, Mr. Mancini, I understand that this is the kind of story some people want to hear about, but there's really nothing to tell. In order to make the story exciting enough for TV, you'd have to fabricate most of it and I'm not going to help you do that.”

“So it's not true? You didn't find the necklace?”

“Oh, we found it all right,” Zoey said from the other end of the table. “Rita and me. We found it together.”

I shot her a “shut up” look, which she pointedly ignored. “I'm the one you've talked to when you call the bakery,” she
said. “And
I
think it's exciting. I've got a picture of it and everything.”

I groaned aloud—I think. The sound was smothered by the music on the jukebox. “Zoey—”

“What? Why can't I tell him about it? It's not going to hurt anything.”

Estelle gave me a round-eyed look. “You can't really forbid her to talk to this guy, Rita. It's a free country.”

I swore under my breath and stood. “Fine. You want an interview? Let's go.” I jerked my head toward the door. “I'll give you five minutes.”

Mancini flashed a triumphant smile and got to his feet. “Terrific. What say we have your friend come along?”

I shook my head. It wasn't that I wanted to rob Zoey of her moment in the sun, but I had no idea what she might say and I wanted to contain the damage as much as humanly possible. “Just me,” I said. “Otherwise, it's no deal.”

Zoey crumpled under the weight of holding her spine straight and slumped back in her chair looking mutinous. I hated putting that look on her face, but I had to consider Miss Frankie and Zydeco. My decision was for the Greater Good.

I could see Mancini weighing his options for a moment. On the one hand, Zoey was almost certain to give him a more interesting interview than I would, but as Zydeco's owner, my version would probably carry more weight. It was a crap shoot, and I wasn't sure I'd win, but eventually he dipped his head and turned away from the table.

He motioned for me to go ahead, and I did, clutching my bag close to my side. First thing tomorrow I was taking the necklace to the bank and locking it in a safe-deposit box. I checked over my shoulder every few seconds to make sure he hadn't doubled back to get a one-on-one with Zoey. When we finally stepped outside, I saw that a thick fog had settled in, shrouding the neighborhood in mist.

Now that we were alone, I started to get a little nervous. I'd seen Carlo Mancini on TV, but what did I really know about him? I glanced around to see if anybody else was out and about, but my visibility was down to almost nothing.

I did my best not to look nervous. “You got a camera crew hiding out somewhere?”

Mancini nodded. “They're here. I'll bring them over in a minute. But first, tell me the story. How did you find the necklace?”

“Before we get to that,” I said, “I also want your word that you'll leave my mother-in-law alone.”

“Mrs. Renier? I don't know if I can agree to that. She's pretty well known. A lot of people will want to hear what she has to say.”

“That's too bad,” I said. “I need your word that you'll stop bothering her.”

Mancini stroked his chin thoughtfully. “You're awfully demanding. I don't need to agree to any of your terms, you know.”

“Maybe not. But you will. Miss Frankie will not be giving you an interview, no matter how many times you call. You might as well back off and save both of you some grief.”

He conceded that point with a dip of his head. “What about your friend inside the bar?”

“She was involved for all of five minutes,” I said. “She doesn't have much of a story to tell. I'm the one you want to talk to.”

“Okay then. Talk. How did you find the necklace?”

“It was an accident,” I said. “We were moving some boxes and a couple of them fell down the stairs. In the process they opened up a hole in the wall and ripped up some of the floorboards on the steps. That's where we found the necklace.”

He scribbled something on a notepad and grinned at me. “What did you do then?”

I shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Then how did the necklace end up at the Vintage Vault the night Mrs. Trussell died?”

“I took it to her for an appraisal.”

“So . . . not exactly ‘nothing' then.”

“Not exactly ‘something' either. I dropped the necklace off with her and went home. End of story.”

“What do you say to people who think the necklace is cursed?”

“There's no such thing as a curse,” I said. “And there certainly isn't one on the Toussaint necklace—
if
that's the necklace we found at Zydeco. We don't even know for sure that's what we found, or even whether our necklace is genuine.”

“According to Dominique Kincaid, it is.”

That caught me by surprise and I could tell Mancini knew it had. “How would she know?”

“Apparently Mrs. Trussell called her the night she died, and told Ms. Kincaid that the necklace was the real deal.”

“Dominique told you and not me?” I tried to look amused. “You expect me to believe that?”

Mancini did a better job of looking amused than I had. “You can believe whatever you like, Ms. Lucero. So what do you plan to do with the necklace now that you have it back?”

Surprise number two. The guy was a jerk, but a jerk who was good at his job. Maybe some people would admire that, but I was stuck on the part where he was a first-class jerk. “What makes you think I have it back?”

“You went to the police station today. I assume you picked up the evidence.”

Lights went on inside my head and that itchy feeling I'd had earlier came back, stronger than before.
The white SUV.
“You followed me?”

Mancini shrugged. “A reporter's gotta do what he's gotta do. So what are your plans?”

“I don't have any,” I snapped. Maybe not the best response, considering I was talking to a man who had access to microphones and cameras, but he was seriously beginning to tick me off. “You wanted to know how I found the necklace and I've told you. Your five minutes are up.”

I thought Mancini would try to stop me from leaving, but he just stood there with his arms folded across his chest and a smile playing across his lips as I strode back into the Dizzy Duke. I stopped just inside the door and watched as a couple of guys moved out of the fog to join him. One had a video camera on his shoulder and the other held a clipboard filled with papers. He laughed as if they'd just scored the coup of the century, and I tried desperately to convince myself I hadn't said anything I wouldn't want broadcast to the world.

Carlo Mancini had just earned himself a spot on my list of least favorite people. The trouble was, I didn't think he'd care.

*   *   *

I didn't sleep well that night. Snippets of my interview with Carlo Mancini kept playing through my head and I kept seeing Zoey's sullen face and Estelle's disapproving glances when I went back into the Dizzy Duke. Carlo Mancini's interruption had put a damper on the group's mood—or maybe it was me. In any case, I wasn't in the mood to party so I'd excused myself and hurried home.

By the time morning broke, I was no longer sure what I'd actually said to anybody. Part of me wanted to stay home and watch whatever station Carlo Mancini worked for until I saw what he'd done with our conversation. The other part wanted to pretend that last night had never happened. That's the part that won.

I brewed a travel mug of coffee and hopped into the Range Rover a few minutes before eight. Instead of driving to Zydeco, I aimed myself at the bank . . . until I remembered
that it was Saturday and the bank would be closed. I didn't want to lug the necklace around with me, but there weren't many options available. I couldn't ask Miss Frankie to hold it. Bernice might say yes, but she'd almost certainly tell Miss Frankie and I'd have to dredge the river to find it again. Not that I believed in the curse, but I didn't want to ask one of my staff to hold on to it either.

My phone chimed a reminder so I checked it at the next stoplight. Meet Simone. In all the recent hullabaloo, I'd almost forgotten that Simone had asked me to stop by so we could touch base. Finding a safe place for the necklace would have to wait.

Touching base isn't my favorite part of the job, but it's a necessary one. When the client is as gracious as Simone, it's almost pleasant. She greeted me with a broad smile and led me into her office, where I found an array of fresh fruit and pastries. The room was redolent with the aroma of good-quality strong coffee.

I filled a plate and a cup and we settled down to business. We chatted amiably about space and decorations, about progress on the cakes and last-minute alterations to the menu. I don't know how long we'd been at it when Corinne Carver poked her head into the room. She looked better than the last time I'd seen her at the Monte Cristo. Her hair was done, her makeup flawless, but an unhappy expression dragged at the corners of her mouth.