A Sheetcake Named Desire (21 page)

Edie pushed to her feet and tucked what was left of the ragged bag of M&M’s in her pocket. I waited until I heard her fingers tapping on the computer’s keyboard, and then I checked the time on my cell phone. I had just two hours until I needed to head back to Miss Frankie’s, so I decided to spend some more time working on the new design for the bid. With the deadline in just a few days, I couldn’t afford to waste time. Besides, working on that design kept me from dwelling on the prospect of going to Philippe’s house with Miss Frankie. It was going to be tough enough for me. I just hoped that I could stay in control enough to help her get through it.

Twenty-four

That afternoon, Miss Frankie and I spent a couple of hours putting together an obituary she was willing to release to the public. Neither of us brought up last night’s disagreement, and after the first few minutes, the awkwardness between us began to melt. Afterward, we ate a quick dinner in the kitchen and I caught her up on the day’s events before I finally made myself suggest that we drive to Philippe’s house together.

Now that we’d moved past last night’s anger, I found myself grateful for her company as I drove through the gathering twilight. It would be nice to have someone there when I walked into the house and saw Philippe’s stuff and the antiques we’d bought together.

Miss Frankie directed me from her old, affluent subdivision to an eclectic neighborhood filled with ethnic restaurants and boutiques. Philippe’s house number was painted on an old brick building nestled between a Thai restaurant and a knitting shop, but I had to circle the block three times before I finally found a parking space.

This neighborhood looked like Philippe, I decided as I drove. He must have loved it here. At last, I found an empty space beneath a massive oak tree. Miss Frankie and I took our time getting out of the car and gathering our things before setting off down the sidewalk. With my heart in my throat, I walked with Miss Frankie to the place Philippe had apparently called home after he left the one we’d shared.

The evening air was so muggy it felt like warm, damp satin on my skin. I fingered the key in my pocket and argued with myself about climbing the front steps. Writing the obituary had drained my energy, and I wondered if I had enough oomph left to paw through the clothing and other possessions of a man who’d stopped loving me.

Wishing I had a couple of margaritas from the Dizzy Duke to wipe away my apprehensions, I stood beside Philippe’s mother outside the front door and took a deep breath for courage before slipping the key into the lock. Over the sounds of traffic, I heard claws scrambling across hardwood floors and a series of high-pitched yips protesting our presence. I jerked backward and checked the house number again, unnecessary, really, because the key fit and Miss Frankie had brought me here. But hearing someone—some
thing
—moving around inside a house I’d assumed was empty made rational thought fly right out of my head.

The door flew open and I found myself face-to-face with Quinn and a hideously ugly dog the size of a large rat. Quinn wore a flowery sundress made from some gauzy material and a pair of beaded flip-flops on her slim, tanned feet. Her pale hair was wound in a lazy knot on the back of her head. All very genteel and southern and sleepily sexy, like something out of a movie.

Her dog had a wild tuft of hair on the top of its head, a serious underbite, and a garish rhinestone collar around its scrawny neck—at least I
think
they were rhinestones.

Both sets of eyes flashed at me, but then Quinn gasped and threw her arms around Miss Frankie’s very stiff neck. “Miss Frankie? What are
you
doing here?”

The dog probably asked the same thing of me, but it came out sounding more like “
Grrrrr
.” Tough sounding on the surface, but since he also lapped at me with his tongue the whole time he was growling, it took some of the heat out of the threat.

I ignored the dog and focused on the real bitch. I had a dozen questions to ask her, but not outside on the front porch, where she had me at a disadvantage. While Miss Frankie disentangled herself from Quinn’s melodramatic hug, I asked the question uppermost in my mind. “Do you want to tell me how you got in, or should I just wait and let the police ask you that?”

Quinn’s blue eyes grew round and her lips pursed, giving us her Anna Nicole look that had probably made Philippe stand at attention. “You’d do it, wouldn’t you?” she whimpered. “You’d call the police on a grieving woman?”

“A grieving woman who’s guilty of breaking and entering? You bet.”

“I didn’t break in,” she said, with a sniff. “I have a key.”

I made a mental note to change the locks and moved toward the door. This was
my
house, not hers. Philippe was
my
husband . . . you know . . . technically.

For the first time since I met her, Quinn showed a modicum of common sense, stepping aside to let us in. “I suppose you’ve come to stake your claim.”

“Something like that.” I brushed past her into the house, but I stopped just inside the door, lost in the clean, sparse lines of the glass and chrome that seemed to be everywhere. The interior was at such odds with the turn-of-the-century exterior and Philippe’s usual tastes, I couldn’t find my voice.

“
Grrrrr
.” Lick, lick, lick.

The encounter with Quinn had put some starch in Miss Frankie. She touched my arm gently. “Is something wrong?”

I moved so Quinn could shut the door behind us. “No. It’s just not what I expected.”

Both women followed my gaze. Miss Frankie seemed to be taking a mental inventory, while Quinn took in our surroundings as if she were seeing them for the first time, too. “It took me a while to get used to,” she admitted. “I’m still not sure I actually like it, but Philippe loved it.”

When
we
were together, Philippe had been all about his history. He’d spent weekends trolling antique stores and browsing online, filling our Chicago apartment with an incongruous mix of historic French and American pieces. I’d expected to find our furniture when I walked through the door, but nothing I could see looked familiar. I was having trouble picturing him in this sparsely decorated house.

When I realized that Quinn was watching me, pride kicked in. I wasn’t going to get all maudlin in front of her. Later, I told myself. There’d be plenty of time to figure out what I was feeling after she’d gone.

Miss Frankie wandered away, and I decided to let her have some privacy. Determined to stay cool, calm, and collected, I nodded toward a corridor that stretched from the front door to the back of the house. “The house is larger than it looks from the outside,” I said to Quinn. “Do you know how many square feet it is?”

She gave me an odd look and shook her head. “I have no idea. It has three bedrooms: two on the second floor and the master suite on the third. It has three full bathrooms and a utility room behind the kitchen.” She walked as she talked, falling into tour-guide mode and leading me first through the large living room and then into a kitchen that looked out over a small well-tended garden. Too soon, she climbed to the second floor.

At the top of the stairs, she put the rat-dog on the floor. It aimed one last lick-infused “
Grrrrr
,” in my direction and trotted off, probably in search of some hideously expensive piece of furniture to lift his leg on. He was Quinn’s dog, after all. Not an ounce of class.

As we moved from room to room, I tried to keep my eye open for the missing cake design, but instead I kept noticing paintings and pieces of sculpture that were obviously expensive. I didn’t spot any gaping holes in the decorating scheme or faded spots on the walls where pictures used to be, but how would I know if something was missing? I’d have to count on Miss Frankie to know that. Still, I realized, she was right. I should have come here right away instead of waiting.

After my initial shock faded, I began to see telltale signs of Philippe everywhere—the stack of books at his bedside, hunting magazines in the study, a shirt and tie tossed carelessly over the back of a chair in the bedroom. The realization that I’d have to sort through all of his possessions landed on me like a weight. My thin veneer of calm threatened to shatter, and even breathing became a chore.

All of which might explain why it took me so long to notice the other little things, like the earrings and necklace casually abandoned on the desk beside the computer, the exfoliating facial scrub in the master bath, the body spray in the guest bath next to a small bowl of cotton balls—not things I expected Philippe used.

My stomach gave a little bump as their meaning hit me. “You and Philippe were living together?”

Quinn had been about to start down the staircase to the first floor, but she paused with one hand on the banister and lifted her chin as she turned back to face me. “Not officially. I still have an apartment on the other side of town.”

Because Philippe hadn’t been ready for the commitment, or because she and Dmitri needed a place to conduct their affair? “But you were here often.”

“Very often.” She stared me in the eye, defying me to make something of it.

I considered saying something snarky, but honestly, I didn’t have the energy. “Good to know. Then maybe you can tell me if you’ve noticed a cake design lying around somewhere.”

“I don’t know anything about that missing design, and I don’t know why you think it would be here.”

So she did know about it. Big surprise.
“I think it
might
be here because Philippe lived here. It’s not at Zydeco, so I wondered if he left it here.”

She shook her head hard enough to make the knot on the back of her head slip. “Philippe never brought work home.”

“Really? He used to work at home all the time, especially when he was working on the early stages of a design.”

“Well, not anymore. But I’m sure you don’t believe me, so why don’t you look and see for yourself?”

“I’ll do that. Later.” Demon Dog reappeared and sniffed my shoes and ankles as I moved past Quinn and descended the stairs. I could see Miss Frankie in the kitchen, looking a little lost, and I decided it was time to send Quinn on her way. At the bottom of the stairs, I blocked her path and held out my hand. “I’m going to need your key back. I’m sure you understand.”

Her eyes flashed, and she tried to shove past me. “I’ll give it to you if and when a judge orders me to.” I refused to move, which only made her madder. She tried again to get past me, but I refused to budge. “Get the hell out of my way.”

“This is my house, Quinn, not yours. Hand over the key. If you actually win in court, I’ll give it back.”

She opened her mouth to refuse again, but Miss Frankie stepped into the hall and came to my defense. “Give her the key, Quinn. You and Philippe weren’t married, thank the good Lord, and you were seeing someone else on the side. You have no right to be here. Either hand over the key or
I’ll
call the police.”

Quinn’s nostrils flared and her eyes snapped with fury, but her mouth puckered up like she’d just sucked on a lemon. “That’s not true, Miss Frankie. I would never have cheated on Philippe! I loved him.”

“You were seen with the other man more than once,” I snarled.

She recoiled and made an awful noise that had me worried she might swallow her tongue. “That’s a lie.”

“Save it,” Miss Frankie snapped. “Not only do I know about your affair, but I know who you were seeing. Bad enough that you’d cheat on Philippe, but with his biggest competitor? The man who wanted to put him out of business? Please. Leave now.”

“You think I was sleeping with Dmitri?” Quinn’s face registered both shock and outrage.

It almost looked genuine. “Like I said, you were seen with him more than once.” I wiggled my fingers in a silent demand for her key. “Did he tell you about the missing design, or did you tell him?”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer.”

“You can tell me now or you can tell the police,” I said. I was pretty sure which one she’d choose, and she didn’t surprise me.

Her mouth trembled, but she gave a curt nod. “I have nothing to say to you. You want the key so bad, I’ll give it to you. But you’re going to have to let me get by. It’s in my bag.”

I moved aside, and the dog came barreling down the stairs, teeth flashing, his sights clearly set on my leg. I sidestepped his snarling little mouth. “If he bites me—”

“She.” Quinn scooped up her little bundle of fur and cooed at her for a few minutes. “Her name is Snickerdoodle, and she was a gift. From Philippe.”

“He bought
that
?” I asked. Philippe, who’d loved hunting dogs with massive heads and thick, waterproof fur, had shelled out money for . . . Snickerdoodle? Had I stepped into an alternate universe?

“Yes. Surprised?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

Quinn tossed her head and sashayed into the kitchen. When she came back, she shoved a key into my hand. “I guess you didn’t know him all that well, did you?”

I wasn’t about to get into a pissing match over which of us had known him better, so I ignored the question. “You never did tell me what you’re doing here.”

Quinn nuzzled Snickerdoodle’s head and blinked a couple of times. As if on cue, tears filled her eyes. “I just needed to be around him. I feel close to him here. And besides, some of my things are still here.”

“I noticed. Do you want to take them with you now?”

Her eyes flew open wide, and her mouth formed a little O of surprise. “Now?” She looked around as if the idea frightened her. Considering the expression on Miss Frankie’s face, maybe it did. “No, I—I—Can I get them later? I don’t think I can handle it today.”