Arsenic and Old Cake

by Jacklyn Brady

  We found a parking spot near the Renier family vault and carefully made our way across the uneven ground carrying the flowers. When we reached the vault, Miss Frankie turned her face to the sun and took a couple of deep breaths, then dashed away her tears and put the jar of flowers she was holding on the ground.

  While I tried not to think about the fact that Philippe was inside that hot stone structure, Miss Frankie seemed determined to dwell on it. She ran her fingers over the words chiseled into the stone:

  PHILIPPE RENIER

  BELOVED SON AND HUSBAND

  His name was just below his father’s, and previous generations were listed above that. Miss Frankie’s fingers lingered over the date of Philippe’s birth, moved across that tiny dash that encompassed his whole life, and came to rest on the date of his death.

  I focused on breathing in and out while she did that, but I hated this place as much as I hated my parents’ graves. In my opinion, my parents weren’t there. Philippe and his father weren’t here. It felt morose to me to focus on their graves and turn them into some kind of shrine. But that’s exactly how Aunt Yolanda deals with death, and obviously Miss Frankie felt the same way. I didn’t want to ruin the experience for her.

  She finally looked away and sent me a tremulous smile. “You must think I’m a silly old bird.”

  “Not at all,” I assured her. “I think you’re a grieving mother.”

  She pulled out a hanky and mopped away a fresh round of tears. “I’d give my own life if I could bring Philippe back. I’m having a little trouble reconciling all of this with God.”

  Over the years I’d heard lots of meaningless platitudes at funerals, starting with my parents’. I’d listened to people natter on about God’s will and how it was their time to go. Wearing kindly expressions, perfectly nice people told me that my parents were in a better place and how God needed them in heaven more than we needed them here . . . yadda, yadda, yadda.

  None of it had ever made a bit of sense to me. What kind of selfish God thought he needed my parents more than I did? Who would do that to a twelve-year-old?

  I’d spent the next few years angry with God for taking them away and leaving me alone, but I’d finally worked out my own answers to all the questions their accident had left me with. I didn’t know if anyone else would agree with me, but at least I’d found a way to live with my personal tragedy.

  “Someone chose to end Philippe’s life,” I said gently. “Just like someone chose to drive drunk and ended up taking my parents’ lives. It was horrible and wrong and you have every right to feel angry. I used to think God should have stopped that drunk driver. Now . . . I don’t know. But I have to believe that those who hurt innocent people will suffer the consequences of their actions one way or another.”

  Miss Frankie tried to smile at me, but she failed miserably. “There’s no consequence bad enough, if you ask me.”

  I chuckled softly. “I agree, but maybe that’s why you and I aren’t in charge of the world. It’s taken me a long time to understand that bad things sometimes happen to good people. We can’t stop or control it. The only compensation for our loss is that we’re given the chance to make something positive out of it.”

  Miss Frankie’s lips trembled a little, and she reached for my hand, clutching it gratefully. “I have you now,” she said. “I call that good.”

  I squeezed her hand in return and blinked to clear my own eyes. “I feel the same way.”

  “And I think Philippe approves, don’t you?”

  “I’m sure he does,” I assured her. I nodded toward the flowers waiting for us on the sidewalk. “Which of those do you think he wants?”

  “He dearly loved magnolias. Let’s give him some of those.”

  We spent a few minutes transferring flowers from the glass jars to the stone pots permanently attached to the front of the vault. Miss Frankie snipped and arranged and moved flowers from pot to pot until she was satisfied, then stepped back to judge the effect from a distance.

  “What do you think, sugar?”

  “I think it’s lovely. Are you finished? Shall I gather the jars?”

  She gave a halfhearted nod. “Yes, I suppose there’s no sense hanging around, is there?”

  I shook my head and kept my mouth shut. I bent to gather the jars, dumped out the excess water, and then extended my arm to Miss Frankie for the walk back to the car.

  “Speaking of moving along, I called Thaddeus last night,” she said. “He’ll have a list of properties for me first thing in the morning. How soon will you be free to look at them with me?”

  I almost lost my balance on an uneven piece of flagstone. “So soon?”

  “Zydeco’s in trouble and you’re about to lose staff. We might as well move now, before the need becomes too great. We don’t want to end up in a hole we can’t climb out of.”

  I knew she was right, but I still felt guilty at the idea of her selling family land to bail me out. Logically, I knew the fault wasn’t all mine, but I couldn’t help feeling responsible.

  We reached the car, and Miss Frankie leaned against the door, staring out over the cemetery while she waited for me to stow the empty jars in the trunk. After all the drama of the past several nights at the inn—and sharing a bed with Gabriel—I’d been looking forward to spending the evening at home, but the look on Miss Frankie’s face convinced me I couldn’t leave her alone. “How would you feel about watching a couple of old movies with me tonight?” I asked.

  She looked at me from the corner of her eye. “You don’t have to stay with me, Rita. I’ll be fine.”

  I pushed away from the car and opened the door for her. “Maybe you will, but I don’t want to be by myself. So what do you say? Your place or mine?”

  I figured even my aunt Yolanda would understand why I told that lie.

  Twenty-nine

  Miss Frankie and I spent Monday evening watching those old movies. She dozed off after about an hour, and I tried calling Sullivan to fill him in on everything I’d learned at the Love Nest. He didn’t answer, so I left a voice mail asking him to call me.

  I got to work early on Tuesday morning, eager for a normal day, one without murder or drama. Solving Dontae’s murder wasn’t my responsibility, but making Zydeco a success was. I needed to put the Love Nest and Monroe Magee out of my mind and stay focused on my career. It’s what any reasonably intelligent woman would do.

  Even so, my mind was pulled in a dozen different directions: anxiety about Zydeco, concern over how Ox would react to the news that we’d have to shelve his idea permanently, worry about what Edie would do with her resignation, confusion over my feelings for both Gabriel and Sullivan, not to mention the fear that Miss Frankie might change her mind about selling the property. I needed to clear my head, and working in the kitchen was the one sure way I knew of to do that.

  After checking in with Edie—she seemed almost back to normal this morning—I ignored the stack of unopened mail and the blinking light on my phone signaling voice mail and joined the staff in the design room.

  Once again, I felt a wave of panic over the thought that I might lose this place, but I shook it off and got to work. Orders might have tapered off, but they hadn’t disappeared completely and the staff had their hands full today putting together a bananas Foster cake sculpted in the shape of a dragon in flight for a book launch party in a few days.

  The fresh bananas in the filling meant that this particular cake was labor-intensive at the last minute. I wanted to be on the floor and present as we kicked into high gear. With private orders dwindling, getting contracts for corporate events and fund-raisers was more important than ever. I wanted to make sure Zydeco was well represented in front of the city’s movers and shakers.

  Abe had baked the cake, a delicately flavored rum and cinnamon cake that filled the entire bakery with the most delicious aromas as it cooled. Isabeau seemed a bit subdued as she whisked together the brown sugar buttercream frosting we’d use for the crumb coating and bet
ween layers. Estelle had pulled her red curls back under a lime green bandana that almost contained them. She worked slowly and carefully, measuring and double-checking every ingredient as she stirred together the banana slices, brown sugar, nutmeg, and rum for the cake’s fresh banana filling.

  Ox was out on a wedding consult, so I started rolling out the fondant that would cover the cake. The scents of banana and caramel made my mouth water. I’d had my first bananas Foster experience years earlier at a restaurant in Chicago. I still remembered that first perfect bite, and I’d spent several years trying to recreate it in cake form.

  Dwight, with both his shaggy hair and scraggly beard covered by sanitary guards, carefully cut several fresh cakes into equal layers with a serrated knife and then began the painstaking chore of stacking the layers, separating them with buttercream.

  His faded T-shirt was covered by a moderately stained chef’s jacket, leaving only his holey jeans and worn-out tennis shoes visible, though even those looked as if he’d found them while Dumpster diving.

  Sparkle, working from the one corner of the design room the sunlight never reached, kept her black-lined eyes downcast. She pretended to be riveted on the hundreds of tiny scales she was making for the dragon cake, but I could feel attitude rolling off her in waves.

  I ignored Sparkle’s vibe for as long as I could, then finally looked up from my fondant and said, “Is everything all right, Sparkle?”

  She shrugged and slid a heavy-lidded glance at me, pursing her black-painted lips in an attempt to look bored. It’s an expression she uses frequently, and she’s good at it. But I’ve been around long enough now to pick up on her real mood most of the time.

  “Sure,” she said, her voice flat. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “You seem a little edgy. Is there something I should know?”

  She gave another shrug and rolled her eyes away from me. She worked her ruffle stick over one of the dragon wings for a moment, stepped back to gauge her efforts, and then finally spoke again. “I’m just wondering when you were planning to tell us how bad things are around here.”

  Her question caught me off guard. I didn’t like the idea that this was a topic of conversation amongst the staff. “I didn’t want to say anything until I had a better idea just what our situation is.”

  Sparkle’s frown deepened. “You talked to Ox and Edie. And Isabeau knows, don’t you, Isabeau?”

  Isabeau glanced up, clearly uncomfortable. “I might have overheard one or two conversations,” she said with a shrug.

  “I didn’t confide in Isabeau,” I said. “I wanted to come to you all with a plan, not just a lot of bad news.”

  Estelle stopped working and drew closer. “Do you? Have a plan?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “What about Ox’s idea?” Sparkle asked. “What did Miss Frankie say about that?”

  I laughed nervously and tried to make a joke. “What part of confidential do you people not understand?”

  Isabeau’s cheeks flushed. Estelle’s chins doubled. Sparkle didn’t crack a smile. “We’re a team,” she said. “At least we used to be.” She held my gaze, and I could feel the challenge in hers.

  I took a deep breath and looked around the room at the others. Isabeau was watching me closely, and Dwight glanced up briefly from his own work. He didn’t look happy either.

  “Of course we’re a team,” I said with a nervous smile.

  “Then tell us, how did Miss Frankie react to Ox’s idea?”

  I’d have given just about anything to have this conversation later, when I’d had more time to prepare. “Not well,” I admitted. “She’s afraid adding a new line of moderately priced cakes will compromise the bakery’s integrity.”

  “In what way?” Estelle asked.

  “She thinks we’ll lose our high-end customers if we open the doors to . . . others.”

  Sparkle made a noise with her tongue. “I hate to say it, but she’s probably right.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Estelle said. “If we did it right, we could probably have the best of both worlds.”

  Dwight laughed and sliced a millimeter of cake from the edge of one tier. “If you think that, you don’t know our clientele. Philippe knew what he was doing when he made this place by appointment only. It makes the customers feel special, like they have our undivided attention.”

  “We could specialize Zydeco right out of business if we’re not careful,” Estelle countered. She swept banana peels into a nearby trash can at her side. “So? What are we going to do?”

  I didn’t answer right away. I thought I should talk to Ox first—even if he hadn’t felt it necessary to extend the same courtesy to me.

  “We haven’t made a final decision yet,” I said, hedging. “Ox’s idea is new and different. Miss Frankie wasn’t really prepared to consider it. We’ll have to discuss it some more before we make a decision.”

  “And what if she doesn’t want to consider it?” Sparkle asked.

  I didn’t have an answer, but I tried to give the illusion of confidence. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  Estelle’s broad face creased, and her eyes narrowed with worry. “What does that mean?”

  “We’re working on it,” I assured them all. “Miss Frankie and I are talking about the possibility of selling some property to bring some cash in to bridge the gap until business picks up. Believe me, I’m committed to making sure everyone here keeps their jobs.”

  “Our jobs?” Estelle squeaked. “Are you talking about letting someone go?”

  “No! Of course not. That’s not what I meant.”

  “Who’s leaving?” Isabeau asked. “How are you going to decide?”

  “It’s not going to come to that,” I promised. “We’ll figure something out.”

  Dwight locked eyes with me. “Can you promise that?”

  I wanted to shout “Yes!” but the word got stuck in my throat. What if Miss Frankie couldn’t find a buyer for her land in this depressed economy, or what if it took longer than any of us thought?

  “You think that will be enough?” Dwight asked.

  “Of course. It has to be.”

  “That’s not exactly a promise,” Sparkle said in her trademark monotone. “Things are bad out there. My cousin was vice president at a bank. She lost her job to downsizing and was out of work for almost a year. She finally got a job last month doing tech support for a cell phone company, so she’s working nights, never sees her kids, and brings home poverty wages. Plus, she’s on Wellbutrin for depression.”

  Wow! Thanks for the encouraging pep talk. I tried again to get the promise out, but it still wouldn’t come.

  “I read somewhere that the average time it takes someone to find a job these days is ten months,” Estelle said, frowning pointedly at me. “If you’re going to fire one of us, you should at least let us get a head start on looking for work. I think you owe us at least that much.”

  The pressure was starting to get to me. “Will you please stop assuming the worst?” I said, a little too loudly. I lowered my voice and went on. “We’ll think of something.” And then, because skepticism was shining from every eye in the room, I made a rash promise. “We’re not laying anybody off, okay? Miss Frankie and I will find another way around this. I promise.”

  “You mean that?” Isabeau asked.

  “Of course.”

  Dwight and Estelle exchanged a glance, and Sparkle almost smiled. Whether they believed me or not, they eventually drifted back to work and I did my best to drift with them. I’d crumb-coated the dragon’s tail and covered about half of it with fondant when I felt a shadow blocking the light behind me. I looked over my shoulder and found Detective Sullivan leaning against a support beam watching me work.

  He looked great. Tall and rugged and solid—which pretty much sums him up. I hadn’t seen him since Friday night, and I was pleased that he’d responded to my phone message with a personal visit. After spending the weekend with Gabriel,
though, I felt more awkward in Sullivan’s presence than I had in months.

  I was ready for a break by then, so I took advantage of the interruption to let the muscles in my hand relax for a few seconds. “How long have you been there?” I asked. “

  Sullivan glanced at the clock on the wall. “Not long. I was enjoying watching you do your thing. Is this a bad time?”

  I shook my head. “Not really. Do you mind talking while I work, or do we need to go somewhere private?”

  “We can talk here. Keep doing what you’re doing.” He pulled up a stool and sat. “That smells wonderful. What is it?”

  “Cinnamon rum cake.” I found a paper plate and slid one of the pieces Dwight had carved from the cake onto it. I ladled a dollop of the filling over the top and pushed the plate toward Sullivan, along with a fork. “Try it. You’ll like it.”

  He took a bite and closed his eyes for a moment in appreciation. “That’s good.”

  Which is one of the quickest ways to my heart. I grinned and treated myself to a small piece, too. “Thanks. It’s something we’ve been working on for a while. I’m glad you like it. So what brings you here? Just returning my call, or do you have news about the case?”

  Sullivan licked his fork and shook his head. “A little of both, I guess. I spent the day talking to the folks at the Love Nest, and we’ve been looking for anyone in the neighborhood who saw or heard anything unusual the night of the murder.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Unfortunately, no. The police aren’t exactly popular in that neighborhood. It’s slow going, and that’s being optimistic.” His clear blue eyes swept over my face. “How about you? Have you uncovered any useful information?”

  “I think so. Tell me, have you run background checks on the residents of the Love Nest?”

  “Not yet. Should I?”

  I told him everything I knew, leaving nothing out. The robbery. The murder of the security guard. Willie’s sacrifice. The way the friends had banded together to support Hyacinth ever since.