Bananas Foster and a Dead Mobster

by A. Gardner

  "Check this out." Cole digs through an open bag on the armchair. The faded red fabric, matching the throw pillows on the bed, is starting to rip at the seams. The curtains framing the window above the kitchen sink look like they used to be white lace.

  "This place gives me the creeps," I respond.

  "Look." Cole hands me a brand new set of binoculars. "And that's not all." He holds up a little black day planner. Cole wastes no time thumbing through it. He stops when he comes to a date with a few scribbles. "Looks like there's a family meeting in New Orleans in two weeks."

  "He won't be making that."

  "Nope." Cole flips pages until he gets to the very end of the date book. Tucked behind the back page is a newspaper clipping. He scratches the side of his smoothly shaven chin and carefully opens it. "Woman dies in house fire?" he says out loud.

  "Where?"

  He glances at the article again.

  "Pascagoula, Mississippi," he answers. "I've been there. It's only a couple of hours from Louisiana." He looks at the paper again, studying the smears of ink and yellowing of the delicate page. "This is old. Look, there's even a picture of the woman. I don't know why he would keep this?"

  Susu trots toward the front door and growls. Cole and I look at each other as the sounds of footsteps trudge toward us. My chest tightens, and I tug at Susu's leash. Cole grabs my hand and pulls me into a tight closet opposite the bathroom door. He closes it gently, leaving the two of us crouching next to each other in the dark with Susu sitting at my side.

  I place a hand on my pounding heart. The front door creaks, and a figure enters the apartment. Light spills in from underneath the closet door, but pieces of it are blocked by feet. Someone is in the room, pacing between the bed and the kitchen counter. I take deep breaths.

  Cole's hand squeezes mine, and I look at him. Our eyes lock in the dim light. It's the first time in a long time we've spent this much time alone. He leans in close enough that I can smell his minty breath. It calms me down a little. I think back to the first time we met outside of the student bakery and all the secrets we've shared since. Cole was the first man to introduce me to sweet tea. He was also the first man to smile at me when I took extra helpings of Bree's double chocolate fudge cake.

  As Cole moves closer, I imagine the two of us doing what I never thought we'd do. My heart races, and my cheeks feel fiery. My palms begin to sweat, and the sound of our mystery guest walking through the apartment blurs out around me.

  I want to know what Cole's thinking. If he's picturing the two of us together like I am. My first kisses with the men I end up dating never go the way I expect them to. They're either a letdown or a welcome surprise.

  Whatever connection exists between us draws us in closer and closer. I can't stop it. Cole's arm flexes as he softly caresses the side of my face. His lips move toward mine until they finally touch. The warmth of his skin travels through my body, extending to the tips of my toes.

  I'm yanked back to reality when Susu lets out a low bark.

  Cole and I snap back into our regular positions.

  Footsteps run toward us, and I squint as sunshine fills the closet. Susu barks again. This time it's at the end of a metal barrel that is pointed right at me. I clench my fists, transported back to the Parisian opera house where this happened to me once before. I barely made it out alive.

  "Poppy?" Detective Reid lowers his gun. "What are you doing here?"

  "Nothing," Cole and I recite in unison. I blush like a teenage girl caught playing seven minutes in heaven with her science lab partner.

  "Get out of there," he scolds the two of us.

  I quickly jump to my feet and head for the door.

  "Sorry," I mutter. "We'll get out of your hair."

  "Stop," Detective Reid instructs. "Turn around and explain."

  "Explain what?" I nervously glance at Cole.

  "Explain what you're doing here," Detective Reid continues. "How did you find this place?"

  "I asked around," I answer, gripping Susu's leash tighter.

  "You shouldn't be here." Derek looks from me to Cole. "My sources say that Bianco has mobilized a capo to come and take Gino's place. He might even be in town already. Poppy, this guy's even more dangerous. You should stay on campus. We have officers on patrol there."

  "Of course," Cole agrees with him. "Our apologies, Detective." He tilts his head toward the way out.

  "Hang on." I fail to follow Cole back outside. "What are you doing here?"

  Derek raises his eyebrows. He paces around the room, gathering the rest of Gino's things into a pile on the bed.

  "Clearing up the last of his stuff," he responds. "It's my job…and yours is to bake cakes, not trap criminals." He tosses Gino's shiny new binoculars into the pile and does a sweep through the bathroom. He sighs, picking up a half-used bar of soap and a shaving razor.

  "Poppy, let's go." Cole calls to me from the deck outside.

  My eyes fixate on the familiar peach color of the bar in Detective Reid's hand. I waltz right up to him and snatch it—my eyes as wide as puffy beignets. Derek makes a sour face when I smell it and nod.

  "The soap sisters," I mumble.

  "Come again?"

  "I know this soap," I say. "It's a Peach Tea Bar from Sweet T Soaps. Gino must have bought it at the farmers' market the morning before he died."

  "So?" the detective replies.

  "So…" I laugh, staring at the lightly colored bar speckled with tea grains in my hand. "…That means Karl was right. The soap sisters did talk to him."

  "Interesting." Despite his criticisms about my rightful place in this investigation, Derek takes back the soap and studies it. I lead Susu back outside and roll my eyes.

  Those little liars.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  On the car ride back, neither Cole nor I have the guts to talk about what happened. It is like it didn't happen at all. I can't think of the right words, and Cole can't either. Judging by the way he starts talking about the newspaper article and quickly jumps to the weather, I'd say he doesn't know what to make of it.

  Me neither.

  I walk into my apartment and let Susu up on the sofa. Bree is scrubbing pans in the kitchen. She looks up when I enter the room and shakes her head. She's going to be mad at me for leaving without her, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. Maybe it wasn't.

  "Thanks for leaving me here alone with Jeff." Bree pauses to take a deep breath. "Well, how did it go? Did you figure out where Gino was staying?"

  "Yes."

  "And?" She places a hand on her hip, flicking a strand of strawberry blonde hair out of her face.

  "We went there and…" Like Bree, I'm at a loss for words. All I can think about is Cole and the kiss. "We found binoculars, a date book, and then Detective Reid showed up."

  "Ouch." She continues scrubbing dishes, and I jump in to help. It might force her to be less mad at me. "I bet he didn't like that."

  "No, he didn't." I stare at the bowl she's rinsing. She scrubs it with soap and rinses it again. She repeats this same process a couple of times before deciding to move on. "Is something wrong?"

  Bree comes to a halt—her cheeks turning rosy.

  "No."

  The way she blurts it out tells me otherwise.

  "Sure," I respond.

  "What about you?" she asks, noticing that I've also been scrubbing an already-clean pan for the same amount of time. "Is something wrong?"

  "No," I blurt out the same way she did.

  "Sure."

  The two of us step away from the sink and retreat to the living room. Bree rubs at the water stains on her apron, and I wipe the beads of sweat from my forehead. The heat, while easier to handle indoors, is something I'm still fighting to get used to. Susu puts her head in my lap.

  "I should take her back to Otto's," I say. "He might be home by now."

  "Want company?" Bree waits for my response. I want to tell her all about Cole and what happened in Gino's apartment, but I'm not sure h
ow to spit it out. Besides, saying it out loud means it really happened. I don't want things to change between the three of us.

  You should've thought of that before you kissed the guy.

  "Absolutely," I answer.

  * * *

  Bree looks shocked when we pull up to Chef Otto's rental house. I hop out of the car with Susu and punch in the garage code only to find that Otto's bright red Ferrari is still absent. I take a deep breath.

  "Come on, girl. Let's get you some food."

  "Did you see all this?" Bree pulls my arm. She jogs back toward the yard where there are piles of fallen pecans. Some that look whole and appetizing and some that have been torn to shreds by squirrels. Crazy things. "I can't believe, out of all people, Chef Otto would let all these go to waste."

  "It wouldn't surprise me if he hasn't even noticed," I respond. "He spends too much time taking selfies and signing fan mail."

  "I'm taking them," Bree replies. She starts loading handfuls into the car while I take Susu inside the house and refill her bowls with dog food and fresh water. She takes a few bites and then looks up at me. I contemplate keeping her for a little while longer. After all, Otto spends most of his weekdays on campus and apparently his weekends in Atlanta. Susu must be lonely. I sigh.

  "Fine," I say out loud. "Finish eating, and I'll bring you back home with me."

  Susu does what I ask. As soon as she's finished, I grab her dog bed and head back outside where Bree is still collecting fallen pecans. I start the car, looking in awe at the whole pecans piled on the passenger's seat. I put Susu in back and help Bree with her remaining pecan piles.

  On our way home, Bree talks non-stop about them. We have enough nuts to make pecan pie, pecan sandies, pecan tassies, pecan and caramel cheesecake, turtles, pralines, and even German chocolate cake. She's so distracted that she hasn't mentioned her supposed allergy to Susu at all.

  "I haven't even made it to the savories," Bree says as we head back inside our apartment.

  "I don't think I can stomach it."

  Bree excitedly retrieves her collection from the car, pulls out a nutcracker, and begins popping open shells. I read a chapter about the history of sugar pulling, Susu resting at my feet, while Bree begins experimenting with recipes. It's not long before our place is overloaded with the smell of cookies and piecrusts. I wait a while to see if she'll slow down, or at least take a water break. The clock is ticking closer and closer to midnight, and she still hasn't left the kitchen. I put my book down, my eyes feeling heavy, and join her.

  The table is filled with pans and an assortment of cookies hot out of the oven. Bree pushes back a strand of frizzed hair and begins mixing cream and sugar and a pinch of salt in a heavy saucepan. She stirs until the mixture turns into a caramel color. She moves it from the heat and adds butter, vanilla, and a pile of chopped pecans.

  "For some melt-in-your-mouth sweetness," she says, spooning the candy onto a sheet of parchment paper.

  "Uh…" I eye the mountain of dishes piling up in the sink and the dozens of baked goods that she'll likely give away tomorrow morning. There's no way we could or should eat all this. "Why don't you power down and head to bed?"

  "But there's still some left," Bree insists. She gestures toward a pile of raw pecans in a bowl near the sink. "I was going to make pie next."

  "Pie?" I raise my eyebrows. If it's possible to bake yourself into a sugar coma, Bree just might do it. "Okay, that's it." I take the handle of the saucepan and force her to let go of it.

  "Hey, my pralines," she whines.

  "Bree, you've gone pecan crazy." I grab her by the shoulders and wait for her to take a breath and look around the kitchen at everything she has made in the past couple of hours.

  "I have not gone pecan crazy," she argues. I can see the worry on her face. She won't make eye contact, and the vein that pops sometimes on her forehead when she's anxious is bulging.

  "Sit down before you have a pecan heart attack." I pull her to the living room where Susu is standing at attention. She sniffs Bree's leg.

  "Fine."

  When Bree finally has the chance to slow down, her thoughts catch up with her. She buries her head in hands, rubbing her eyes. She smears what little makeup is left on her face. She's definitely not telling me something, which is funny because I've been keeping something from her too.

  "What is it?" I ask. "You've been weird all evening."

  "Before we get any further," Bree responds. She extends an arm toward the kitchen. "Try one of my pecan sandies—"

  I cut her off by forcing her arm back down.

  "I'm afraid I'm already pecan-ed out."

  "You haven't even sampled my pralines." She steers us back to the subject of candy.

  "I promise I will once you tell me what's going on," I answer.

  "Ugh." Bree shakes her head. "I wish I could forget it."

  "Is it Jeff?"

  "That man drives me up the wall." She frowns, sticking out her bottom lip like she's tasted something sour. "Or should I say boy. Do you know how hard it was to get him to put his plate in the sink?"

  "He probably did it on purpose just to make you mad."

  "Yeah, well…no, I can't. It's too embarrassing. You go first."

  "Me?" I place a hand on my chest.

  "Yes, you. You've been hiding something too. Normally you'd be in and out of the kitchen grazing. You're avoiding me." She lifts her chin and looks down on me. "You tell me, and I'll tell you."

  "Fine," I agree. "On three."

  "Fine." Bree composes herself, sitting up straight with her legs crossed. "If you want to be all sorority girl about it. On the count of three."

  "One," I count. "Two." I take a deep breath. "Three."

  Time to spill.

  "I kissed Cole," I admit.

  "I kissed Jeff," Bree spits out at the same time.

  My stomach leaps. It's the heat. It's got to be the heat.

  "What do you mean you kissed Jeff?" I ask, shocked.

  "What do you mean you kissed Cole?" Bree responds.

  I stare up at the ceiling. This semester keeps getting weirder and weirder.

  "I think I'll take one of those pralines now."

  CHAPTER NINE

  Chef Otto stands in front of our class like he does every morning—bright-eyed with a practiced camera smile. His cinnamon brown hair is parted to the side, and he has an afternoon shadow on his neck. I lean away from Georgina as she smiles and raises her hand, volunteering to cover a wedding cake with fondant. Life in the front row hasn't given me the opportunity to sit back and observe. Georgina volunteers us for just about everything.

  "Thank you, Georgina," Chef Otto responds. He steps aside, passing the reigns on to her. Georgina has no problem rolling her fondant thin enough to shape yet thick enough to avoid tearing. She lifts the dough onto a round dummy cake made of Styrofoam. She uses her fondant smoother to make the edges flawless, leaving crisp corners around the top. "Perfect and in record time."

  Georgina nods, her dark blonde bun shining in the light, and proudly returns to her seat. Chef Otto moves on to his main demonstration for the day—a more advanced piping technique called Australian stringwork. The basics of frosting crumb coats, piping borders, and florals from marzipan and gum paste are all behind us.

  "Once you've got your royal icing at the correct consistency, you add the pins." Chef Otto places evenly spaced pins at an upward angle along a quarter of the cake. "Remember, this is all about creating a three-dimensional piece. I want this cake to look like she's wearing a garter."

  Laughter on cue.

  Otto proceeds to pipe bridges in between each pin. The idea is to pipe, polish, and embellish so that the cake looks like it has been wrapped in an actual piece of ruffled fabric or even sheer lace. Chef Otto pipes his strings and leaves them to dry on the pins. When he removes them, the design should stay in place, giving the cake a three-dimensional design.

  "There are many different styles of stringwork, but all the conce
pts are the same." He finishes with ease and holds up his hands as if he's competing in a cake competition. "Not bad, huh? All it needs are some sugar berries and greenery, and you've got yourself a product with a hefty price tag."

  "You make it look so easy." Georgina compliments him. I glance at her, knowing that no amount of dirty looks will prevent her from being such a suck-up.

  "Years of practice," he replies. "Now it's your turn. Complete a cake with your partner, and once you've finished you can begin discussing the theme for your final buffets."

  "Wait a second." I raise my hand but speak up anyway. "I thought our final buffets were going to be an individual assignment?" A grand buffet is our final culinary project before graduation. Each of us will be given a certain amount of time to design and create our own tablescape of desserts to be graded and eaten by invited guests. I've been thinking a lot about mine. I want my display cake to be a representation of my past meeting my present—a midnight dance. Plus, I think I'm the only one daring enough to present an all-black final cake. Traditional white wedding cakes are gorgeous. Why can't an all-black be just as breathtaking?

  "There's no way one student could make all the required confections in the time allotted," he answers. "No, the final buffet will be done in pairs. The pairs I assigned at the beginning of the term. I think I've given you all plenty of time to learn to work together."

  Fudge.

  I turn to Georgina, who also has a sour look on her face. So far, we've agreed that we don't like working with each other. That's about it. I prepare fondant for our practice cake, and attempt to wrap my head around the fact that she's going to reject every single design I come up with.

  "Don't worry," Georgina says as she mixes our royal icing. "I already have a concept for our cake centerpiece." I hold my breath. Please, don't say roses. And don't say pink. "An all-white wedding cake with Lambeth piping and pearls. I'm thinking royal wedding style."