A Sheetcake Named Desire (2 page)

Across the room, a small crowd clustered around a wide metal door that led onto a loading dock. Edie made a beeline toward it, and the young woman who’d raised the alarm trailed after her, talking a mile a minute.

“It was the cake. The paddle wheel, you know? Ox and Philippe were going to deliver it, and then . . . I don’t know what happened. It was just ruined!” Another shout went up from the crowd at the door, and the next few sentences got lost in the noise. “And then Philippe went after Ox,” I heard her say, “and Ox . . . well, you know how he gets. Should I call the police?”

Hearing my old friend’s name made my step falter. Ox was working here, too? Since when? And why hadn’t anyone bothered to tell me?

I tamped down my hurt feelings and tried to pay attention to the more important issues. Like the fact that Ox and Philippe were apparently trying to kill each other. Surely I’d heard that wrong.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Edie snapped at the blonde over her shoulder. “Everything will be just fine.”

Her certainty made me feel better. The two men had been like brothers in pastry school, and they’d grown even closer after graduation. No way they were going at each other with fists flying.

Edie and the blonde moved away, but I stayed where I was and took a good, long look at my surroundings.

Each of the four walls was painted a different color—bright hues of gold, fuchsia, teal, and lime. In a smaller room the almost neon colors might have been overbearing, but in this large space they worked. Huge white-paned windows overlooking a lavish garden let in bright summer sunlight and added another layer of cheer to the workspace. A workspace I’d sketched more than once while Philippe and I were married.

I counted at least a dozen gleaming metal tables, half of which were in use, judging from the fondant, icing, and pastiage scattered around them. Countless sets of aluminum shelves were filled with every piece of baking equipment someone in my profession could hope to own.

Seeing my dream laid out in front of me made the breath catch in my throat. The shouting died away, but I could still hear excited voices coming from outside as I turned slowly in a circle to take it all in. This was my idea, my design,
my
bakery. How dare Philippe take it and make it his?

I’m not sure how much time passed before footsteps sounded behind me, followed by a startled, “Well, hello!”

I whipped around at the unexpected voice behind me and found myself staring at one of the most attractive men I’ve ever seen. Tall. Tanned. Athletic. Great body and a killer smile. I gawped like a prepubescent schoolgirl and got out a one-word response. “Hello.” Brilliant.

He shrugged into a chef’s jacket and buttoned it slowly. “Who are you and what are you doing here?” His voice was warm and lazy, an unhurried drawl that conjured up mint juleps and porch swings. I think my toes curled at the sound of it.

I dragged my gaze away from his shoulders and forced it back to his face. “I’m here to see Philippe.”

Adonis glanced around at the now-empty room. “Philippe Renier?”

“You have more than one Philippe working here?”

One of those shoulders rose and fell in a shrug, and his gaze drifted briefly toward the loading dock. “He’s kind of tied up at the moment.”

What? Who? Oh. Yeah. Philippe.

“I’d be glad to help you,” he said, flashing that smile again. “Burt McGuire at your service.”

His tone was flirtatious and playful, and I don’t mind admitting that his interest did wonders for my ego. I might have stayed right there, lapping up his apparent admiration, but a new round of excitement rose up from the loading dock, and I couldn’t ignore it. I nodded toward the open door. “Trouble?”

“A little,” he admitted. “Nothing important.” He put one hand on the small of my back and tried to steer me back toward the front office.

When I realized what he was doing, I slammed on the brakes. “If you could just point me in the right direction, I’d appreciate it. I only need a minute of Philippe’s time.”

Burt shook his head slowly. “Sorry, darlin’. Wish I could help, but I don’t think he’s here. I’d be happy to pass on a message when he gets back.”

Aw. Darn. Strike one. I hate being lied to. “Thanks, but this is a personal matter. I’m sure he’s around somewhere. Rumor has it, he’s knocking the stuffing out of his best friend Ox on the loading dock.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear.” Burt leaned against an empty table and grinned as if we were BFFs. “So it’s personal huh? What did he do? Stiff you with the tab last night? Not call when he said he would?”

I wondered if unhappy women showed up looking for Philippe on a regular basis and added that question to the growing list I intended to ask Philippe when I found him. “Maybe you could just tell me where he was the last time you saw him.”

With a shrug, Burt picked up a spatula covered in pale-blue buttercream and wagged it at a door across the cavernous room. “Last time I saw him? He was in the kitchen talking to Abe. But that was an hour or two ago. Abe’s usually gone home long before this.”

My head snapped up so fast, I felt a twinge in my neck. “Are you talking about Abe Cobb?”

“Yeah. Why? You know him?”

“We’ve met.” Apparently, Edie and Ox weren’t the only old friends who’d joined Philippe in his new business. I wondered if any of them would have come running if I’d been doing the hiring, but I was afraid to ask. Philippe had always been the gregarious one. I’d been more reserved, and I’d never been sure whether our friends had really liked me or if they’d hung around because that’s where Philippe was. Guess I had my answer.

None of that mattered now, I reminded myself. I was moving on to a new life—whatever that turned out to be. There wasn’t room in my new world for the old insecurities.

Burt grabbed a clean latex glove from a nearby box. “I doubt Philippe’s in the kitchen anyway. He’s supposed to deliver a cake in a little while, so he probably
is
out on the loading dock.”

Exactly where I intended to go next since Philippe was allegedly involved in the trouble, which seemed to be escalating. I started to walk away but stopped and turned back to ask one more question. “Aren’t you even a little curious about what’s going on out there?”

Burt shook his head and snapped the latex glove onto one hand. “Don’t have to be. I know what’s going on.”

“Oh?”

“Just a couple of guys blowing off steam. It’s been building up for a while now, but they’ll be okay.”

With Philippe and Ox involved, that’s probably exactly what it was. But part of me wanted to see for myself—the part that resented Philippe for choosing work over me, for stealing my dream bakery, and for signing on half our friends behind my back. That Rita needed to know there was trouble in her ex’s new paradise. And who was I to deny her?

I made my way through the cavernous room toward the back door and stepped out onto the loading dock, where the oppressive heat slammed into me. The heaviness of oxygen at sea level landed on my altitude-loving chest like a fiftypound bag of flour. I resisted the urge to run back inside and instead tried to catch up on the excitement.

I found half a dozen people milling about on the loading dock and Edie trying to calm the chaos from the back of a white van bearing the “Zydeco Cakes” logo. I might have chosen a different image than the cartoon alligator playing an accordion beside a five-tier wedding cake, but I appreciated the fact that Philippe had come up with at least one semi-original idea.

The blonde who’d alerted us to the trouble had given in to tears, and a plump, middle-aged woman with red frizzy hair was doing her best to offer consolation. A sour-faced young woman with pale skin and lips painted as black as her hair watched the chaos from one corner of the dock, careful to stay out of the sun, and Burt wandered outside behind me.

The van’s back door and driver’s door were both wide open, and I could see a big cake in the shape of a paddle-wheel boat leaning heavily to one side. Several large holes had been hacked into the showpiece, causing chunks of cake to fall away which left yellow patches gaping in the smooth white fondant.

I recognized the recipe immediately, but I wondered why Philippe had used it for such a huge job. The cake had a lovely, light lemon flavor, and the lavender cream between the layers was heaven on earth, but the cake itself was moist and heavy in texture, and that made it difficult to work with. Philippe was one of the most skilled cake artists around, but even for him this seemed an unlikely choice for a cake this size.

As I watched, a glob of buttercream icing slid from beneath the fondant, forming a lumpy pool on the plywood used to create a solid foundation during transportation. Apparently, the cake didn’t like the heat and humidity any more than I did.

In spite of my irritation with Philippe, my stomach twisted in unexpected sympathy as I looked at the carnage. That riverboat must have taken at least a week to put together, and the damage was so severe it would take someone with incredible cake skills to repair it. I knew of only two cake artists I’d trust with a job like that. From what I was picking up from the cacophony around me, one of us was nowhere around.

“Get the cake inside,” Edie ordered. “If you leave it out here any longer, it will be totally ruined.”

Good call. I wanted to suggest that they put it straight into the refrigerator to prevent further melting, but it wasn’t my place to say anything. I swallowed my advice and moved deeper into the shade of the dock, not only to avoid the oppressive heat, but because it seemed like a bad idea to get in Edie’s way.

Leaning against the coolish wall, I mopped sweat from the back of my neck. When the door behind me squeaked open again, I whipped around, still expecting to see Philippe. Once again, I got a blast from the past as Dwight Sonntag, shaggy and bearded and wearing a faded T-shirt and holey jeans, flew past me and hopped from the dock to the parking lot.

Et tu
, Dwight? I was beginning to think Philippe had hired
all
our friends to work at Zydeco. And yeah, I was annoyed by that, but the fact that none of them had mentioned it to me bothered me a whole lot more. It wasn’t as if we talked on the phone once a week, but we were all Facebook friends and stayed in touch through the occasional e-mail. They could have said something, and the fact that none of them had mentioned it, even in passing, made me wonder if I’d uncovered a conspiracy.

The conversation rose and fell around me as the staff tried to decide what to do and argued mildly over who was in charge. I heard a couple of people blaming Philippe and Ox for the ruined cake, but I wasn’t sure they were right. Even if those two had been locked in combat, both would have protected the cake. That’s just how they were.

As the minutes ticked past, people stopped speculating about the cake and started asking other questions. Had anyone seen Ox? Where was Philippe?

That’s what I wanted to know. The Philippe I knew should have been right in the middle of this mess, taking charge and barking orders. The Philippe I knew should have been there to meet me after asking me to come by that morning.

Beneath the confusion, I felt an undercurrent that made me uneasy. Something was wrong here. I could feel it in the air. And the longer I stood on that loading dock, the more convinced I became that a ruined cake was the least of Zydeco’s worries.

Two

I stayed in the background as long as my conscience would allow, but as Dwight and Burt carefully carried the cake into the bakery, followed by the others, I took the short flight of stairs to the parking lot and moved closer to Edie’s command-post near the driver’s door so I could share my concerns with her. Keeping my voice low, I said, “I heard a couple of people mention Ox. He’s working here, too?”

Edie nodded and a flicker of guilt darted through her eyes. “From the beginning. He’s been Philippe’s right hand for the past couple of years.”

That shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did. The proof of my naïveté stung. But again, I pushed my hurt feelings away—this wasn’t the time to deal with them. I nodded toward the now-empty van. “Some of your crew seems to think Ox did this.”

“Yeah, I know.” Edie sighed heavily. “But they’re wrong. You know Ox. He wouldn’t do this.”

I would’ve agreed, but I hadn’t been around for a couple of years. People can change. “Any idea where he is?”

“Ox?” Edie shook her head. “There’s no sign of him, no sign of Philippe.” She frowned and chewed her bottom lip. “It’s not like them to just disappear like this, especially when there’s trouble with a cake.” She glanced over her shoulder at the van, and her scowl deepened.

I met her gaze with a frown. “So both of them are missing.”

“It looks that way.” Edie shifted slightly, making it possible for me to see a set of keys dangling from the ignition and a pair of sunglasses abandoned on the dash. Expensive sunglasses. The brand Philippe had worn while we were married. He never went outside without them.

“I think we should try to find them,” I said.

“Agreed, but I don’t want everyone wandering around. We have no idea what happened here yet.” Edie shaded her eyes with one hand and scanned the area slowly. From the dock, I’d been able to catch glimpses of the rose garden behind the trees, a gazebo off to one side, and a driveway curving around the house toward Prytania Street. Now that I was on ground level, the trees and undergrowth were so thick I felt a little claustrophobic. Anybody could be lurking out there. Anything could happen, and nobody would notice.

“Did you see anyone else?” she asked. “Anyone who doesn’t belong here?”

I shrugged. “How would I know who belongs and who doesn’t? But I only saw the people who were on the loading dock, and they’ve all gone back inside.”

I walked to the end of the parking area to get a better look. I could see cars whooshing past on the street at the end of the long driveway, reminding me that I wasn’t as isolated as I felt. I called out for each of the missing men as I walked toward the gate, but only the sounds of traffic and the breeze stirring in the trees broke the silence.

About halfway down the drive, I passed a cluster of flowering bushes that had been blocking my view. I saw an opening in the trees a few feet farther on, and just past that, a lump on the ground near the open gate. It took only a second for me to identify the lump as a person. A man, lying facedown on the ground.

My heart jumped straight into my throat. “Edie! Over here!”

Edie looked where I was pointing, let out a cry of alarm, and took off, running past me. I set off right behind her. Sweat poured down my back from the exertion, and I could feel my carefully straightened hair frizzing a little more with every step I took. My lungs burned from the unnatural exertion, and all that extra oxygen squeezed my chest like a fist. Or maybe it was fear at the thought that Philippe had been hurt. Whatever.

My legs are longer than Edie’s, so even though I’m seriously out of shape, I caught up with her halfway down the long drive and passed her a few feet later. As I drew closer to the man on the ground, I realized that he couldn’t possibly be Philippe. His skin was the color of mocha cake, and dark stubble covered his head, not Philippe’s shaggy blond hair.

Ox. I heard him groan, and relief sucked the breath out of my lungs. Dizzy and light-headed, I hunkered down beside him and dashed sweat from my eyes before giving one shoulder a gentle nudge. “Hey. Are you okay?”

He responded with another groan just as Edie caught up with me. She yelped like a wounded puppy and dropped to the ground beside me. “Ox! Are you all right? What happened ?”

He tried to sit up, but his elbows buckled and he sagged against Edie. On the ground where he’d been lying, a ball cap bearing the New Orleans Saints logo lay crushed and stained with something dark. I tried telling myself it was dirt, but the blood matted on his temple and trickling down one cheek made it hard to delude myself.

Edie put an arm around him and asked again, “What happened? Where is Philippe?”

Ox seemed confused by the questions. He shook his head gingerly, but even that small amount of movement seemed to be more than he could bear. Holding his head with both hands, he croaked, “I don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” Edie said gently. “Don’t try to talk.”

I stared at her in disbelief. “With all due respect, Edie, we need him to tell us what he knows. Philippe might be hurt, too.” I offered him a reassuring smile. “When you’re ready, Ox. Take a minute to think.”

He nodded and took a deep breath. “I came down to open the gate. I think somebody hit me from behind.” His voice was thin and reedy at first but gained strength after a few words.

“You didn’t see who it was?”

He gave his head another careful shake.

“What about Philippe?” I asked. “Did you see where he went?”

“No.” Ox rubbed the back of his neck and very carefully tilted his head in my direction. He blinked a couple of times and slowly focused on my face. “Rita? What are you doing here?”

“Hoping to see Philippe,” I said shortly. No need to elaborate now. I stood and swiped at the sweat beading on my forehead. “If you were attacked, I think we ought to call the police and probably the paramedics, as well.”

Ox shook his head and struggled to his feet with Edie’s help. “Don’t worry ’bout me. I’m okay.” He took a step but his knees gave way, and he sagged toward the ground again. Since I’m taller and stronger than Edie, I slipped in to offer him a shoulder. “I think we should get you inside. Any idea where we should start looking for Philippe?”

Ox took a couple of limping steps toward the bakery. “He took off that way, and I came this way. If he’s not in the van, maybe he’s in the garden.”

“You think he went for a walk?” With a cake to deliver and employees under attack? That didn’t sound likely.

Ox scowled at me. “No. He said . . . I think he . . .” He broke off with a growl of frustration. “I don’t know.”

We had to start looking somewhere, and I supposed it made sense to eliminate the fenced-in grounds before branching out into the rest of the world, so I nodded. “The garden it is.”

Ox touched his temple gingerly, wincing a little. “We should split up. We can search faster that way.”

“There is no ‘we,’ ” Edie said firmly. “You’re in no condition to do anything but sit inside, where it’s cool.”

“Not a chance,” he argued. His voice was growing a little stronger, but I was still worried about him.

“Edie and I can look for Philippe. You need to lie down and rest.”

I trailed the two of them back to the bakery, where we elicited firm promises from Sparkle—the young goth woman—and Burt that they wouldn’t let Ox out of their sight. Isabeau, the perky blonde, gently wiped the blood from Ox’s face while Dwight and the plump redhead—Estelle—wrestled with the paddle-wheel cake. With everything in the bakery under control, Edie and I decided to divide and conquer the garden.

I wanted to call the paramedics, but since there was still no sign of Philippe, I gave up trying to talk sense into Ox and resumed the search.

Edie set off toward the gazebo, and I strolled down the rose-garden path past blooms so big they seemed almost unreal. The extensive garden added to the illusion of days long gone, as did the muted sounds of Dixieland jazz playing on a nearby radio. Only the noise of nearby traffic kept me grounded in the here and now.

I breathed in the scents of gardenia, jasmine, and roses, and another ribbon of envy curled through me. I would have given my right arm for a shop like Zydeco. Philippe knew that. Was this why he wanted to talk to me? Was he feeling guilty?

Another thought occurred to me, and my step slowed. Was it possible that he’d done this on purpose? Was he trying to win me back? Is that why he’d refused to sign the papers for so long? Had he created my dream so he could show me how sorry he was? If so, it was a wonderful gift. Elaborate. Over the top, just like Philippe himself.

My heart softened, and I wondered again what I’d say if Philippe did ask me to take him back. Would it really be possible to put the past behind us?

By the time I’d followed several twists and turns in the path, I’d moved from “what if” he asked to “when.” Uncle Nestor would have a fit, but Aunt Yolanda would understand. I knew she would.

I spotted a gate in the distance and paused to get my bearings. It looked like the gate let out onto an alley rather than a street, and from where I stood, I could see a heavy padlock on the latch. Obviously, Philippe hadn’t left the grounds this way. Neither had Ox’s attacker.

I was just about to turn back to explore another branch of the path, when I spied the toe of a running shoe poking out from beneath a low hedge. I froze in my tracks, and the breath caught in my throat. Somehow I knew I’d found Philippe, and I prayed he was in no worse shape than Ox.

Hurrying toward the end of the path, I called out, “Philippe? Are you all right?”

He didn’t answer.

Dread churned through my veins, but I told myself not to overreact. “Philippe? It’s Rita. Are you okay?”

I prayed silently that he’d respond, but the only voice I heard belonged to an announcer on the radio talking about an upcoming jazz festival. The scent of roses was strong and heady. The heat oppressive. Nervous perspiration trickled down my back as I reached the end of the path and peeked over the hedge.

The man I’d married lay on the grass, his handsome face twisted in pain. A chef’s knife protruded from his chest, and blood slowly pooled beneath his body. I retched and backed a step away, but I couldn’t tear my gaze away from his eyes. Once, they’d looked lovingly at me. Now they stared sightlessly at the pale-blue sky. I knew instinctively that it was too late for him.

I gagged again and covered my mouth with both hands. The smell of blood filled my nostrils, and I backed up again, almost stumbling over my own feet as I tried to get away from that horrible odor.

Tears burned my eyes, and my heart felt as if it had been shattered into a million pieces. Philippe had been my friend, my lover, my husband, and, for a while, my worst enemy. I’d come to New Orleans, determined to finally detach my life from his, yet for a few hours this morning I’d contemplated reattaching. Had he been planning to ask for a second chance? I’d never know. Philippe was dead and I was finally free to move on . . . but I’ve never wanted anything less.