Bananas Foster and a Dead Mobster

by A. Gardner

  "Georgina," I mutter, getting closer and closer to my destination. "I don't have time for this right now." My thoughts race as I contemplate what to do next. Don't go home, Poppy.

  "Oh, but you have time to vandalize my kitchen equipment."

  "There's a difference between frosting and spray paint, Georgina."

  "We need to start planning like yesterday," she continues. "All the other teams have decided on themes. Don't force me to sit on your couch and wait for you to see reason." She holds her head high and continues walking at my hurried pace. I eye the parking lot near my front door and my old Honda on its last leg of life.

  "Later, okay?" I turn my head slightly, clenching my jaw when I see that the black Cadillac is still right behind us. I dash to my car, digging into my bag for my keys. I hop in the driver's seat and rev the engine. This is it. This is my chance to beat Detective Reid at his own game.

  I flex the muscles in my torso as the passenger's door slams shut. Georgina puts on her seatbelt and waits for me to back out. She runs her perfectly polished fingers over the dash and wrinkles her nose.

  "Georgina," I shout. "Get out of my car."

  "No." She holds her ground though her distaste for my car's interior is obvious. She looks like she did the moment I stole the Paris internship from right under her nose—disgusted. "I'm going to follow you everywhere until we agree on something."

  "You mean until I agree to the royal wedding theme?" I ask. "If I say yes, will you get the heck out of my car?"

  "You don't mean it." She shakes her head. I glance in my rearview mirror, and my heart sinks when I see the black Cadillac drive past us.

  "Okay, whatever." I put the car in reverse and back out of my parking spot so fast that Georgina grabs onto the door handle for balance.

  "Geez, Poppy. Where'd you learn to drive?"

  I ignore her and drive in the direction of the black Cadillac. In the distance I can see it turning a corner on a road headed toward town. I speed up, turning the same corner. My chest pounds as I lock my sights onto the mystery car and keep driving.

  "Where are we going anyway?" Georgina asks. She glances over her shoulder at the back seat. "Oh Lord, Poppy, it looks like someone lives back there." I promptly check the back seat, expecting to see a foreign collection of blankets and pillows.

  "Are you referring to the one magazine and leftover wrapper from a moon pie that Bree made me try?" I shake my head, turning another corner. She's going to ruin this for me. Georgina shrugs and leans forward to crank the air conditioner. A function in my car that surprisingly still works even at these high Georgia temperatures. But the trick is that I ease into it, and under no circumstances do I turn the knob to the highest setting. "No, Georgina, don't—"

  I'm too late.

  My AC indeed was chewing at its last straw, and Georgina just sent it out to pasture.

  All at once, the cool air ceases to blow on my face.

  The heat takes over, and I'm forced to roll down my windows or risk frying like an egg.

  "What happened to the air?"

  "You broke it," I point out. "Now I'm screwed."

  "This car is really old anyway." Georgina avoids making eye contact.

  The black Cadillac slows down as the two of us come to a red light. I pull up behind it—my pulse soaring as I take deep breaths of the warm, humid air. I stare straight ahead, hoping to catch a glimpse of the driver, but the tinted windows hide his face.

  "Okay, now I can't breathe." Georgina goes as far poking her head out of the window for fresh air. "Where are we going?"

  "I'm not sure yet," I admit.

  "If you're headed for the grocery store, it's a left up here."

  "We're going straight," I respond, unable to take much more of her rambling. If this is all a ploy to get what she wants, it might be working. I'm minutes from agreeing to her ridiculous buffet theme.

  And kicking her out of my car.

  "But—"

  "Georgina," I interrupt, raising my voice. "Look up the meaning of the word quiet."

  The stoplight changes, and I ease onto the gas pedal. The black Cadillac begins moving forward, but it changes lanes at the last second and makes a risky left turn before I can follow it. I continue driving straight until I'm able to flip a U-turn. I turn the car around the first chance I get, and Georgina holds onto the dash.

  "I should've taken my chances waiting in your apartment," she mumbles.

  "Dang it!" I hit my hand on the steering wheel as I turn right and find that the black Caddy is gone.

  "I told you the grocery store was a left turn." Georgina raises her eyebrows. The sound of her voice claws at my brain like a fork scratching the inside of a mixing bowl.

  "We're not going to the grocery store," I blurt out. "We were following a possible lead to the farmers' market murder case, but you blew that one out of the water along with my AC."

  "You're investigating the farmers' market murder?" she repeats.

  "I was."

  "Don't blame all this on me." Georgina waves a hand in the air and leans toward the open window for more air. "Let the police figure it out."

  "You wouldn't get it. That black Caddy that was in front of us was the answer to all my problems." I sigh, turning around again and heading back toward campus.

  "You're right," she scoffs. "I don't see how following some random car through town would help you catch a killer. Unless the driver was the killer. In which case, you are absolutely insane."

  "The car was following us," I admit.

  "Coincidence." She stares out the window as we drive back the way we came.

  "I've also seen that same car parked outside Otto's house."

  Now I have her attention.

  "Are you sure we're talking about the same car here?" she asks, smoothing a strand of her hair as if Chef Otto himself is present for the conversation.

  "Positive." I observe as she studies her reflection. "And you're the insane one if you think Otto is going to drop everything for a no-name pastry student."

  "I won't be a student forever," Georgina argues. "Besides, I'm not a nobody. I'm actually the heiress to a rather profitable chain of specialty food stores and—"

  "You're developing your own line of gourmet cake mixes," I finish. "Yes, I know. The whole school knows."

  "See." She leans back in her seat and crosses her ankles. "My chances are just as good as any of those snakes in Hollywood. I'll pull it off. You wait and see. I plan on leaving CPA a legend."

  "Heartwarming." I can't bring myself to even pretend that I care.

  "Oh, please." Georgina laughs. "Going to class early. The buddy-buddy routine. Dog sitting? You're after him too."

  "Honestly," I respond, "he's all yours."

  "And no one is following you, Poppy. It's all in your head."

  Georgina jolts forward and lets out a squeal. The car behind us pushes my bumper, before backing away slowly. I swallow the lump in my throat—lungs burning from the sudden shock. The impact came out of nowhere.

  I look in my rearview mirror, and my eyes go wider than mini macarons.

  It's the black Caddy.

  It's not paranoia. It's reality.

  "Uh-huh," I say. "So what do you call that?" I glance in my rearview mirror again, and Georgina shoots a death glare over her shoulder.

  "Someone who should learn how to drive," she shouts out of the window.

  The black Cadillac bumps the back of my car a second time. Georgina instinctively rolls up her window and slumps her shoulders, hiding behind her seat. I gulp and keep my hands at ten and two. Stay calm, Poppy. Keep driving.

  "Believe me now?" I say out loud.

  The car behind us hits my bumper even harder, and this time my seat belt digs into my stomach. I'm whiplashed back toward my seat, and Georgina barely misses smacking her forehead on the dashboard. She tugs at her seatbelt—her cheeks looking pasty. Her eyes dart toward me and then to the side view mirror.

  I change lanes, hoping that somet
hing as simple as getting out of his way will help. It doesn't. The black Caddy changes lanes along with me. I try speeding up, but my rickety old Honda is no match for the car in pursuit of us. The mysterious Cadillac catches up in a heartbeat.

  Bang.

  My bumper takes another hit and so does my blood pressure. My fingernails dig into the steering wheel, and I'm too mortified to do anything but speed as far away as possible from our attacker. I change lanes again, and this time the Caddy doesn't follow. I breathe a sigh of relief, but it's premature.

  Bang.

  The black Caddy hits the corner of my Honda, and my car wobbles like a baby wearing roller skates.

  "He's going to kill us," Georgina yells, letting out another squeal. "Poppy, do something!"

  "Me?" I shout back.

  Another crash to the side of my car is all it takes to send us swerving off the side of the road. The tires hit patches of rocks and brush, stopping short of a grove of trees. Georgina screams as we come to a screeching halt. She hits the side of her head against the window, and immediately rubs the bruise.

  I stare at the windshield and slowly catch my breath. My arms are locked into place, and my muscles are flexing so tight that I don't think I can move them. The black Cadillac zooms ahead of us—the driver hidden behind tinted windows.

  "Okay, fine." Georgina finally breaks the silence. "I'll quit bringing up the royal wedding theme."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I thought our slight near-death experience would force Georgina into normalcy, but I thought wrong. I answer the door, and she strides past me like she left something in the oven. It's the perfect way to ruin my Saturday. Sipping my morning coffee with Georgina poking around the apartment.

  "Before you ask," I say, watching as Bree narrows her eyes. She's still in her pajamas about to sit down to a plate of flapjacks. "No, I haven't come up with a new buffet theme."

  "I haven't either." Georgina straightens the collar of her neatly pressed salmon dress shirt. Her hair is curled. The type of curls it takes me hours wearing curlers to achieve. All that's missing are grandmother's pearls.

  "Isn't that why you're here?" I ask her.

  Bree and I exchange nervous glances when Georgina sits on our sofa, studying each object in the room. At least she's refraining from looking disgusted by our simple décor.

  "Not exactly," she answers.

  "Yes, I know." I cut to the chase because I'm not in the mood to be insulted before Monday rolls around. "This room could use a lot of color. We haven't had the time—"

  "Or moolah," Bree chimes in.

  "To decorate," I finish.

  "I see that." She lightly touches the coffee table before resting her hands in her lap.

  "Then how can we help you?" Bree joins in, tearing herself away from her usual Saturday morning breakfast setup including a floral place mat, a porcelain teacup saved for special occasions, and the latest gossip magazine. It's the polar opposite of my Saturday morning ritual, which usually involves eating a piece of toast over the sink and carrying around a cup of coffee until I'm fully awake.

  "I'm here to see Poppy," Georgina responds, giving Bree a once-over that makes her cross her arms to hide the frilly neckline of her pajamas.

  "Whatever you have to say, you can say it in front of Bree." I place my hands on my hips, working up the courage to kick her out if she plans on acting as snobbish as she always does.

  "Wait a second, I know why she's here," Bree retaliates. "She's here to pay for the AC unit she broke the other day."

  "Is that so?" I play along. "Georgina, that's very noble, not to mention kind, of you."

  "You two are adorable." Georgina doesn't look the least bit offended. She smiles proudly—her shoulders straight back and her legs crossed. "Like two sweet little spinster aunts living together on a farm somewhere."

  "You hold her down, and I'll do the punching," Bree mutters.

  "Cool it, Red." Georgina tucks a curl behind her ear. "I'm here about Chef Otto. He's in trouble, and I think we need to intervene."

  "We?" Bree adds. She takes a step forward, and I hold out my arm to restrain her.

  "Uh, Poppy and I were almost killed," Georgina points out.

  "And I haven't slept since," I mutter, taking a deep breath. "Georgina, I don't know why that car was parked outside Otto's house, and I don't know why it ran us off of the road."

  "I do." She laughs. "Whoever's in town is pissed off by all your poor attempts at sleuthing."

  "I'm not even going to comment on that," I reply, tilting my head toward the door. "Otto is in denial about the whole thing, and there's still a killer out there trying to frame me for something I didn't do, so if you'll excuse—"

  "Whatever Chef Otto is mixed up in," she butts in, "I can get him to confess."

  "Come again?" Bree chortles.

  "I've been thinking, and I've decided that you need my help." She bounces to her feet. "You're welcome."

  "Is she serious?" Bree whispers.

  Georgina makes her way back toward the front door and waits.

  "Well?" She checks the time on her cell phone. "Get dressed and let's go."

  "Go where?" I ask. "I've had to limit my trips around town now that my car is a human fryer."

  "I'm driving," she informs me. "We're going to Chef Otto's house." She checks the time again. "And just in time to bring him a batch of my homemade, chocolate-glazed croissant doughnuts."

  "You mean cronuts." I correct her.

  "Sure, whatever." She forces a fake smile.

  "I'm coming with." Bree races to her room, taking her plate of flapjacks with her.

  I'm out of options other than driving all the way down to New Orleans and forcing the soap sisters to talk. A confession is a confession, right? Whether or not it is brought on by the wrath of Georgina Levens.

  * * *

  "Poppy. Bree. Georgina?" Chef Otto looks shocked when he answers his door to find the three of us. I look over my shoulder, waiting for the black Cadillac to zoom toward me and crash into the front lawn.

  "Hello, Chef." Georgina outstretches her box of baked goods as if it's a peace offering, but really it's a bribe. "Can we come in?"

  "Actually, Georgina." He flips the collar of his polo and steps aside so Susu can greet us. "I was just on my way out." He retreats to the nearest mirror to give his gelled hair one last look. "I was going to call you, Poppy, to see if you could check on Susu tonight."

  "Sure," I agree, bending down to let Susu lick my hand.

  "Perfect." He approaches Georgina's box of sweets and flips it open. Chef Otto grabs the first doughnut he sees and takes a bite. He doesn't bother commenting on the taste of it as he grabs his car keys and waves a hurried good-bye. The sound of the garage door opening fills the front foyer, and Susu trots over and sniffs the door.

  "What's the matter with him?" Georgina drops her doughnuts on the kitchen counter looking frustrated.

  "He always gets like that when he goes out with Victoria," I comment, knowing that my mention of Chef Otto's pet name for his cherry Ferrari will piss her off at first.

  "Victoria?" Georgina places her hands on her hips, and her cheeks turn the color of Otto's supercar.

  "His Ferrari," I clarify. "That's what he calls it."

  Georgina rolls her eyes.

  "It's like a croissant that melts in your mouth," Bree says. She takes another bite of one of Georgina's doughnut experiments and observes the shiny glaze on top.

  "Those aren't for you," Georgina snaps.

  The door leading into the garage opens again, and Chef Otto pokes his head into the house.

  "Um, if you ladies don't mind." He tilts his head back toward the front door. "I need to set the alarm."

  "Of course." Georgina's wide smile is back on her face. "Come on, girls." She waits for Bree and me to walk back through the front door. Susu follows me outside—her leash in her mouth. Georgina shuts the front door and joins Otto in his garage after he locks the doors and sets his hou
se alarm.

  "I haven't changed the codes yet, Poppy," he shouts from his car. "Do you need me to write them down?"

  "I've got them," I respond, pointing to my head. It's not that hard to remember two codes that conveniently spell his first and last name.

  Chef Otto hops in his Ferrari and revs the engine. He pulls out of the driveway as I clip Susu's leash on her collar. Georgina watches as Otto closes the garage and zooms down the street without a honk, wave, or nod.

  "Think she'll explode?" Bree mutters.

  "It's Georgina," I respond. "If anything, she would melt."

  Georgina turns sharply, and Bree and I take a step back to avoid being whipped in the face by her blonde curls. She speed walks to the driver's side of her silver Mercedes. Bree and I look at each other. I suppose if she's mad enough to leave us stranded here, Bree and I will just go back inside and surf through Otto's cable. After we snoop some more.

  "Let's go," Georgina shouts impatiently. She starts her car, blasting the air conditioner while she waits.

  "But I have to take Susu—"

  "Bring her along," Georgina replies. "We're losing time. Hurry up."

  I jump in the back seat with Susu next to me before Bree has the chance.

  "I thought we were going to rock, paper, scissors for the back seat," Bree whines.

  "First come, first served," I answer. Bree reluctantly sits next to Georgina. As soon as Bree shuts her door, Georgina zooms toward the freeway like a race car driver. I grab onto my seat belt, studying Georgina's expression in the rearview mirror. Her jaw is clenched, and her hands are clutching the steering wheel so tight that I can see the veins in her hands. She passes the turn leading back toward campus.

  "What are you doing?" Bree asks, glancing over her shoulder.

  "We would've caught up to him by now if you two weren't bickering like an old, married couple about who sits where." She yanks the steering wheel, suddenly changing lanes. Chef Otto's bright red Ferrari comes into view. It's kind of hard to miss.

  "Wait a second," I respond. "You're not thinking of following him all the way to Atlanta, are you?"

  "Do you have a better idea?" She glares at Otto's car and keeps pace with him as he weaves through traffic. It's a good plan. I just wish I didn't have to sit in a car with Georgina through most of it.