A Sheetcake Named Desire (19 page)

The ever-supportive Bernice glared down at him, too. “What in heaven’s name is wrong with you?” she hissed.

Sawyer’s eyes widened in horror at the thought he’d insulted a prospective customer, and he hurried to undo the damage. “Naturally. Of course. I only mentioned these other options because so many people these days are worried about the environment. It’s a perfectly acceptable option. Not an indicator of income or social status at all.” He held out a hand, both to placate her and to steer her back toward the other end of the room. “Some people are unnecessarily worried, if you ask me. It’s all well and good to recycle your newspapers, but a person ought to be buried in a proper coffin.”

Apparently mollified, Miss Frankie walked on slowly, taking in the obvious benefits of the most expensive products—here an ornate brass fitting, there a satin interior—and finally stopped walking in front of a coffin I thought Philippe might have liked. Solid cherrywood. White velvet interior. Even an eternal rest adjustable bed. The Commander in all its glory.

“It’s really lovely,” I said, trying to hide the fact that the whole topic was increasingly creeping me out. “In fact, I think it’s perfect.”

“It’s beautiful,” Bernice said almost reverently. “Just beautiful.”

Miss Frankie turned toward me, her eyes shimmering with hope. “I do think he’d like this one, don’t you?”

Sawyer Biggs must have smelled a tidy profit coming his way because his nose twitched as he moved in to seal the deal. “These sculpted corners are a nice touch. And you’ll notice inside there’s a matching pillow and throw made of the same white velvet. Would you like to feel it?”

I backed a step away, but Miss Frankie surged forward, eager to touch the fabric that would go into eternity with her baby boy. “Very nice,” she agreed. “Looks like a good quality, as well. But I don’t know. What do you think, Bernice?”

Bernice ran her fingers over the velvet throw and gave a businesslike nod. “I think it’s perfect.”

Miss Frankie pulled her fingers away from the velvet throw and turned to me. “It doesn’t look big enough, and I worry about that adjustable bed. Will that hold up?”

Sawyer assured her that it would, and I refrained from pointing out that Philippe wasn’t going to be moving around much once he got inside.

But she still wasn’t convinced. “I’d feel so much better if I knew that it would be the right size.”

“Unless the dearly departed is unusually large—” Sawyer began.

But Miss Frankie wasn’t listening. “I think you should try it,” she said to me. “Just so we’ll know for sure that it’s roomy enough.”

I gaped at her. “You think I should do
what
?”

“Try it.” She gave me a gentle nudge. “I just can’t spend that much money without knowing for sure that Philippe is going to fit and be comfortable for all eternity.”

“Of course he’ll fit,” I told her. “He’s not even six feet tall, and he probably didn’t weigh more than one-eighty-five. He’ll be fine.”

“I think it’s a good idea,” Bernice said, once again stepping up to support her friend. “It’s best not to leave important details to chance.”

I stared at her in disbelief. Despite my best efforts, the irritation I’d been trying to ignore surged to the surface. “He’ll be
fine
,” I insisted. I could tell by the look on Miss Frankie’s face that she heard the sharpness in my voice.

Her eyes flashed, and she lifted her stubborn little chin, sure signs that we were in for a showdown. “I don’t want him to be fine. I want him to have the best.”

“But he can’t
feel
it. He can’t see the praying hands or appreciate the delicate quilting on the velvet pillow. That’s all for you. He’s not going to care.”

“You don’t know that,” Bernice said.

“Yeah, I
do
.”

Sawyer Biggs shifted around on his feet as we talked and finally muttered something about leaving us alone to discuss matters before disappearing entirely. Chicken.

I rubbed my forehead with one hand and tried again. “I know you’re upset, Miss Frankie. I am, too. But let’s try to remain rational.”

“I’m being perfectly rational,” she insisted. “They’re going to put my boy inside one of those boxes. I see nothing wrong with making sure it’s acceptable before I write out the check.”

Bernice glared at me. “Surely you aren’t going to let a little pride stand in the way of Miss Frankie’s peace of mind. She has enough to worry about.”

“It’s not a matter of pride,” I reasoned. “It’s common sense. And I’m trying to make things easier for her, not worse. Do whatever you want to make sure it’s acceptable. But I am
not
climbing into that casket.”

Miss Frankie looked at me as if I’d betrayed her. “I’m not asking you to be buried in it, Rita. I’m merely asking that you lie down for a minute to see how it feels. Is that too much to ask?”

“It’s
way
too much to ask,” I said. “I’m not going to do it.”

Bernice patted Miss Frankie’s shoulder gently and served me another disapproving scowl at the same time. “I’m so sorry, dear. Really. I’m sure she’s not trying to be difficult. She just doesn’t understand. Why don’t I check it out?”

Miss Frankie clucked at her friend. “With your knees? Don’t you even think about it.” She turned back to me. “Please, Rita.”

“My climbing into that coffin won’t change anything for Philippe,” I said. “Now, can we please just move on?”

Giving a sniff of dissatisfaction, Miss Frankie put down her purse and mumbled something. I couldn’t hear all of it, but I thought I heard Quinn’s name—which should have been a clue. “If you won’t do this for Philippe,” she said as she straightened up, “I will.”

I didn’t believe her. I truly thought she was bluffing when she took hold of a nearby chair and began dragging it toward the coffin stand.

“Miss Frankie—”

She positioned the chair carefully and put both hands on the open coffin. “At least be so kind as to give me a hand.”

“I’m not going to help you climb in there,” I whispered, glancing over my shoulder to see if Sawyer Biggs was on his way back. “It’s not safe. Bernice, please. Help me talk sense into her.”

Miss Frankie ignored me and lifted one leg, swinging it easily into the open box. But it was just enough to throw off her already precarious balance. She and the chair began to wobble. I reached for her and tried to prevent the disaster I saw coming, but I wasn’t fast enough.

I watched in horror as Miss Frankie and the chair tilted toward me. The next thing I knew, I landed on my back with a thump hard enough to knock the wind out of me. I gasped for air, but Miss Frankie and the chair came crashing down on top of me before I could catch my breath, and the coffin tilted unsteadily above us. Showing remarkable agility, Bernice threw herself in front of the heavy wooden casket and managed to keep it upright.

I lay there in stunned disbelief, reluctantly acknowledging that Miss Frankie was much closer to the edge than I’d previously thought. Could I really just go back to Albuquerque and leave her alone in this state? What would happen to Zydeco if I did?

Twenty-two

An hour later, over dinner, Miss Frankie and Bernice chitchatted as if we were enjoying a normal meal on a normal day. As if Miss Frankie hadn’t created serious doubts in my head about her mental state. As if the thought of leaving her to run Zydeco on her own hadn’t just become a little frightening.

I wrapped my worries in a creamy crawfish pie baked inside a flaky puff pastry followed by a crisp salad covered with perfectly breaded catfish and pecans roasted to perfection and laced with lemon and butter. I wasn’t sure I could eat another bite, but when the next course arrived, I gave it my best. Miss Frankie suggested that we share the “Cajun Sampler,” which included cool, creamy coleslaw; Cajun meat pies; and a chicken gumbo so perfectly seasoned I could have lived off it for a week.

We ate alligator sausage—more tender than I’d expected—shrimp etouffée, jambalaya, and red beans and rice with andouille. By the time dessert arrived—peaches Foster in a brown sugar–cinnamon sauce served over rich, creamy vanilla-bean ice cream—I’d almost forgotten about the visit to the funeral parlor.

Miss Frankie told me that the restaurant we were dining at had been a famous brothel before what she termed the “War of Northern Aggression.” Bernice raved over the menu—
The best gumbo this side of heaven!
—and the two of them gossiped about mutual acquaintances—
I swear, sugar, that woman could make a preacher cuss.
After a while, the conversation hit a lull, and I thought surely they’d simmer down. But Miss Frankie turned up the heat.

“I suppose there’s no sense putting it off any longer, sugar. We’re going to have to decide when we’re going to the house.”

I swallowed wrong, so it took me a few minutes to answer. “The house?”

“Philippe’s house. Your house now. It’s a beautiful place, and I can’t bear the thought of it standing there empty. Abandoned. All of Philippe’s things . . .” Miss Frankie medicated a sob with half a glass of wine. “I’m going to need your help to sort through his clothes and things. I don’t think I can do it on my own.”

The pleasant food buzz I’d picked up over dinner fizzled out with an almost audible pop. Sorting through Philippe’s personal belongings was just about the last thing I wanted to do, but how could I say no?

Besides, I was curious about the house even though I still hadn’t wrapped my head around the facts that, one, Philippe had owned a house at all, and two, that house was technically now mine.

I held back a sigh and gave in to the inevitable. “When do you want to go?”

“Tomorrow? Or the next day. I’d like to take one of Philippe’s suits to the mortuary and find a particular pair of Italian leather loafers he picked up a few months ago. Lord, he loved those shoes.”

I smiled softly. “I’m sure he did.”

She blinked at me, and I watched the reality settle heavily on her once again. She drained her glass of wine, then covered her mouth with her hands and caught back a sob. “I can’t do this, Rita. I just can’t. How am I supposed to just go on?”

I reached across the table and put a hand on her arm. A weak gesture, but it was all I had. “You’re going to take it one day at a time. One minute at a time if that’s what gets you through.”

“I can’t believe—” She glanced around to see if anyone was paying attention to her and lowered her voice just in case. “I can’t believe that this is what it all comes down to. Everything he worked for, everything he loved. It’s all so meaningless.”

“I know it feels overwhelming,” I said. “And worrying about Zydeco must make it even more difficult.” I took a deep breath and put the idea that had been nagging at me since we left the mortuary on the table between us. “You know, there’s no reason to hang on to the bakery if it’s too much. Maybe you should consider letting it go.”

Miss Frankie jerked backward as if I’d slapped her. “Never in a million years!”

Bernice looked at me as if I’d suggested we all run through the restaurant naked. “I can’t believe you said that,” she hissed at me. “You ought to be ashamed.”

“It was just a suggestion,” I assured them both. “I’m still no closer to figuring out who’s been causing the accidents at the bakery, and I can’t stay here forever.”

Miss Frankie’s lips quivered. “But I need you.”

After the episode at the mortuary, I couldn’t argue with that. Tears brimmed in her eyes, and I felt guilty for upsetting her. I reached for my bag, hoping to find a tissue I could offer her. As I lifted it to the table, the strap caught on the back of my chair and the purse jerked out of my hand. I had enough momentum going to make the whole thing flip over onto the floor, spilling keys, wallet, lip gloss, and a dozen other things as it fell.

Could this evening get any worse?

Swearing under my breath, I began gathering my stuff. The ever-helpful Bernice leapt out of her chair and came around to my side of the table to help. “Don’t worry,” I told her. “I’ve got it.”

She scooped up a couple of receipts and my keys and shoved them into my hands. “It’s okay. I’m happy to help.” She reached for something under Miss Frankie’s chair, but instead of handing it to me, she stared at it with her mouth open. “This is the man,” she cried, holding up the business card Dmitri had given me earlier. “The one I told you about the other day.”

Dmitri Wolff was the man Bernice had seen canoodling with Quinn? “Are you sure?”

Miss Frankie’s gaze darted back and forth between us. “What man? What are you talking about?”

Bernice’s excitement faded, and a sheepish look took its place. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I just didn’t want you to worry.”

Miss Frankie’s brows beetled together, forming a little worry ridge over her nose. “Tell me what? What are you talking about?”

“This man. And Philippe’s girlfriend.” Bernice handed her the card. “I’ve seen them together more than once. I told Rita about it this morning.”

Miss Frankie snatched the card out of Bernice’s hand and glanced at it briefly before turning a furious glare on me. “Quinn and Dmitri Wolff? You knew about this and you didn’t tell me?”

I squirmed a little under the force of her anger. “Bernice told me that she thought Quinn was seeing someone else. I didn’t know who until now.”

Miss Frankie turned on her best friend. “You
knew
she was seeing someone else and you didn’t tell me?”

“Don’t be angry with her,” I said. “She was just trying to keep you from being hurt.” I kept my voice low and my tone soothing. The last thing I wanted was another scene. “And I think it might be best if we talk about this later, don’t you?”

Miss Frankie glanced around as if she’d forgotten where we were. “I think it would be best to discuss it now.” She rose to her feet, her back stiff and her anger palpable. “Please take me home.”

While Bernice kindly offered to take care of the bill, I trailed Miss Frankie to the car, feeling like a child headed for time-out. Once we were all settled in the car, I tried again to explain. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” I said. “I wanted to be sure before I gave you something else to worry about.”

Miss Frankie didn’t even look at me.

“It’s not as if you have any right to be angry,” I went on. “After all, you haven’t been entirely truthful with me either.”

That brought her head around with a snap. “What are you talking about?”

“Dmitri’s offer to buy Zydeco. I had to find out about that from him.”

She looked away again and stared at the road in front of us. “That’s hardly the same thing, Rita. After all, you’ve made it very clear that you don’t intend to stay.”

“But I’m here now,” I argued. “I can’t help you figure out who’s trustworthy and who’s not if I don’t know what’s going on.”

But the damage had been done. We drove the rest of the way in silence. Bernice set off across the lawn, and Miss Frankie disappeared into her room without so much as a good-night. I climbed the stairs, swallowed three ibuprofen tablets, and vowed to put the whole mess out of my mind for a few hours.

I awoke the next morning to the insistent beeping of my cell-phone alarm and a downpour, complete with flashes of lightning and peals of thunder deep enough to shake the entire house. I managed to hit snooze on the phone and collapsed back on my pillow with a shudder. Groaning, I leaned up on one elbow and looked out the window. The sky was a dismal gray, which matched my mood perfectly.

After the day I’d had yesterday, all I wanted to do was pull the covers over my head and go back to sleep. Not only did every inch of my body hurt from the incident at the mortuary, but my pride had taken a beating over the past couple of days, as well. The ache in my head and the stiffness in my joints warned that it was going to be a long day.

Another boom of thunder shook the house, and I silenced the alarm on my cell phone. Rolling onto my side, I reached for the window and inched open the curtains so I could watch the storm for a few minutes. But even that small movement made me groan in protest. I felt as if I’d been beaten with a rolling pin—twice.

After a while, I dragged myself out of bed and padded down the hall to the bathroom. I swallowed another dose of pain relievers and hit the shower, then limped back to the guest room and tried to put together an outfit from the meager contents of my suitcase.

I wanted to find Quinn and demand a few answers from her, but it would be smarter to tell Detective Sullivan about the latest development and let him handle it. Besides, Edie had scheduled a meeting for me with J. J. Hightower and his lovely bride for this morning. I had to be across town in an hour to talk about the bill they still refused to pay.

I wanted to look professional and put-together for our meeting, not an easy task considering that I’d packed to stay in New Orleans just a couple of days and nothing I’d brought was particularly businesslike.

After shaking the wrinkles out of my black pants, I dug through the guest-room closet and found a peach-colored sweater-set that I thought might work. The sweater was a bit too tight for me and too warm for summer in Louisiana, but it would have to do.

After making a mental note to find an inexpensive clothing store where I could pick up a few items, like . . . oh, some more underwear and an extra bra, I hurried downstairs. To my surprise, the kitchen was empty. No coffee. No breakfast. No Miss Frankie. Either she was sleeping off yesterday’s bourbon or she was avoiding me. Maybe both.

I hesitated for a few minutes over whether to knock on Miss Frankie’s door or leave her alone, but I decided that it would be irresponsible and rude to walk out the door without at least checking to make sure she was okay.

I could hear her moving around behind her bedroom door, but she made me wait for a while before her muffled voice responded to my knock. “Yes?”

I took a page from her book and tried pretending that yesterday had never happened. “I’m getting ready to leave,” I called out in my most chipper voice. “Is there anything I can do for you before I go?”

“No. Thank you.” Another bit of shuffling reached me, followed by a weak sounding, “I’m fine.”

If she was fine, I was Miss America. “Why don’t I make you some breakfast?” I suggested. “I can have it ready in half an hour at the most.”

“Don’t bother. I don’t have much of an appetite.”

“I have to eat, too,” I said. “And some protein may make you feel better.” Yes, it was a bit snarky of me to throw her own words back at her, but I reasoned that if a good meal had worked for me yesterday, it should work for her today.

She didn’t respond, so I decided to stop pretending and go for the direct approach. “Listen, about last night—”

The door flew open, startling me and revealing Miss Frankie as I’d never seen her before. Her short chestnut hair was spiked from sleep, and her face was bare of makeup. Exhaustion and grief etched deep lines into her face, and she looked every minute of her true age—whatever that was. “If you don’t mind, I would prefer not to discuss yesterday’s unfortunate incident. I have no doubt that sad little man is already spreading rumors to anyone who cares to listen.”

“I’m sure he’s not,” I said, wincing at the memory of the tongue-lashing she’d given poor Sawyer Biggs after we’d tumbled to the floor. I didn’t point out that he didn’t have to resort to rumor. The truth was juicy-enough gossip.

Apparently, she was going to pretend that the rest of the evening had never happened, and I wasn’t going to force the issue. “We never did work on the obituary,” I reminded her. “I can come home early if you’d like, and we can do it this afternoon.”

Her rigid expression softened slightly, and one hand fluttered to her chest like a wounded bird. “Yes. Thank you. That would be nice.” She started to shut the door, but I stopped her.

“Are you feeling all right, Miss Frankie?”

She worked up a thin smile, but the effort seemed to cost her. “I’m a little tired, that’s all. I’ll be better by this afternoon.” She shut the door between us as if the conversation was over. And I guess it was.

I made a mental note to check up on her partway through the day and whipped up a light breakfast for two of scrambled eggs, bacon, and fruit. I ate my share, then rinsed the dishes, loaded them into the dishwasher, and left a note about breakfast for Miss Frankie on the table.