A Sheetcake Named Desire (23 page)

Everything inside me turned to ice. “You really think someone might hurt Miss Frankie?”

“It’s possible. And since you’re next in line—” He broke off and let me fill in the blanks for myself.

“But I’m not next in line,” I protested.

He looked from me to Miss Frankie. “Do you want to tell her, or should I?”

Miss Frankie’s shoulders stiffened. “I told you that in confidence, Detective. I’d prefer not to discuss this with Rita until later.”

The exchange between them made my fingers tingle. “Discuss what with me? What are you two talking about?”

Sullivan gave Miss Frankie another look, and she let out an exasperated sigh. “All right. Fine. I’ve made a few changes to my will since Philippe died, sugar. That’s all.”

“What kinds of changes?”

“Nothing big,” Sullivan said. “Just that everything goes to you if she dies.”

I jerked to my feet and stared down at both of them. “But that’s ridiculous!”

“I don’t happen to agree with you,” Miss Frankie said. “You’re the logical person to take over at Zydeco if something happens to me. And at my age—”

“You’re not old,” I snapped. “And how could you do something like this without discussing it with me?”

“If I’d discussed it with you, you’d have said no.”

As if that made her actions acceptable. I could only stare at the two of them while my overloaded brain tried to process what he’d said. Oh, sure, I’d entertained a few errant thoughts about Quinn coming after me, but I hadn’t
really
believed she would. But now . . . Well, now the possibility was a lot more real. “You think somebody might try to . . . to hurt the two of us?”

“It’s possible.” Sullivan stood to face me. “Look, I don’t have any proof, and I don’t want to alarm you. I’m running on gut instinct here.”

“I feel so much better knowing that.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Ya think?”

“It’s just that I believe forewarned is forearmed. I don’t want you taking any unnecessary chances. Don’t go to the shop alone. Don’t stay after hours.”

The acidic smell of the coffee made my throat tighten, and the butter in the cookies seemed to grow stale in my stomach. “I can’t just hole up and hide,” I told him. “I have to get Zydeco back on track. We have a bid coming up for a project that could really put us on the map, especially if I can find Philippe’s design. We have two weddings this week and cakes due for an anniversary party and a grand opening. Curling up in a ball isn’t an option.”

“If the person we’re after is someone at Zydeco—”

“Figure out who it is,” I interrupted. “Lock him—or her—up and let the rest of us get back to normal.”

“I’m working on it. Believe me.”

A heavy silence fell between us and we stood there, ignoring the coffee and the cookies for a while. “What about Quinn?” I asked eventually. “Does she have an alibi?”

“No, but that’s not unusual. She doesn’t have a motive either. Philippe was her meal ticket.”

My knees were a little wobbly, so I sat again and he followed suit. “Yeah, but what if he decided not to continue paying her way? Miss Frankie had dinner with them the night before the murder. She says they were both behaving strangely. Tell him, Miss Frankie.” When she didn’t speak, I filled in what I knew. “She told me she’s convinced Philippe broke it off with Quinn after they left her.”

“Because of you?”

I shook my head. “Philippe didn’t even know I was coming to town.”

“But he left a message the next morning saying he wanted to get back together with you? He must have known you were here by the time they had dinner.”

The cookies rolled over in my stomach again. “It’s possible, I guess. But he didn’t say he wanted to get back together exactly. He said he’d made a mistake, and he wanted to talk.”

“So he might have been talking about something else?”

I nodded slowly, uncomfortable with the thought that Philippe had broken up with Quinn because of me. “I guess he might have, but I don’t know what else it could have been. Unless he wanted to talk to me about Quinn. Because, let’s face it, she was a mistake. I just don’t see him wanting to share that with me.”

Sullivan had leaned forward as I spoke, his arms resting on his thighs, his gaze locked on the floor. But now he lifted his gaze to mine, and I could see that something was troubling him.

He didn’t say anything, so I prodded him. “What?”

“There’s nothing else you can think of that he might have wanted to discuss with you?”

“Nothing! We’d been separated for so long I wasn’t involved in his life.”

Sullivan’s expression clouded. He shifted position on the chair but didn’t say a word.

“
What?
”

“It’s just that the idea of him wanting to get back together with you doesn’t fit into the picture I’m getting.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I’ve talked with Philippe’s friends and with the people at Zydeco. The two of you are the only ones who had the feeling that he and Quinn were having trouble in their relationship.”

“What do you mean?” I asked again.

“I mean that everyone else seemed to think that they were getting along well.
Very
well, in fact.”

“Define
very
,” Miss Frankie demanded.

“I mean that, according to the people I’ve talked to, their relationship was getting serious. Word is, Philippe was going to propose.”

I stared at him for a moment, convinced I’d heard wrong. “Propose what?”

“Marriage, Rita. Philippe was going to ask Quinn to marry him.”

The air rushed out of my lungs, so it took me a few seconds to respond. “That doesn’t make sense. If he wanted to marry her, why was he ignoring our divorce agreement?”

“I don’t believe it,” Miss Frankie said. “She was all wrong for him.”

“I appreciate your take on it,” Sullivan told her, “but apparently he didn’t agree with you.”

The room suddenly felt too small. I stood quickly, wanting to put some distance between us. “Well, it doesn’t really matter now, does it? I have no idea what he wanted to talk with me about. No clue what his big mistake was, or why he said that everything was better when we were together. But even if you’re right, doesn’t that make Quinn’s motive a little stronger? Doesn’t it make the scenario I suggested a little more likely? She thought she had Philippe and his fortune in the bag, and then he found out about Dmitri and
poof!
it all went away.”

Sullivan inclined his head. “If that’s what happened. There’s no real indication that it did.”

“Nothing except his mother’s gut instinct,” I admitted. “But that’s a powerful thing. I trust Miss Frankie’s instincts. She says there was some kind of strain between Philippe and Quinn, and I believe her.”

Sullivan met Miss Frankie’s gaze. “If that’s true, why am I just hearing about it now?”

“Because it has nothing to do with Philippe’s death,” Miss Frankie said firmly. “Quinn is difficult, bless her heart, and I know that she filled a need for Philippe, but I don’t believe that he wanted to marry her.”

Sullivan rolled his eyes. “Misplaced loyalty. The bane of my existence.”

“Maybe,” I agreed, “but I trust her instincts. I don’t care what everyone else says.”

Sullivan reached for yet another cookie, and I made a decision. I was convinced that Quinn had murdered Philippe, but I had no way to prove it. Without proof, nobody would ever believe me. So one way or another, I needed to find evidence against Quinn. Just enough to convince Detective Sullivan.

I just hoped that I’d live to regret it.

Twenty-six

Detective Sullivan walked Miss Frankie and me to the car after I locked up Philippe’s house. I kept one eye on my rearview mirror as I drove home, half expecting to find Quinn following me. We scurried inside when we got back to Miss Frankie’s, and for the second night in a row, Miss Frankie went to bed the minute we stepped into the house.

When I came downstairs the next morning, I found coffee, bagels, cream cheese, fresh melon, pineapple, and grapes along with a note explaining that she’d gone to breakfast with Bernice. I hated thinking of her running around town, ignoring the potential danger, but she didn’t carry a cell phone and I had no idea where to start looking for her.

Promising myself that I’d touch base with her later, I drove to work and tried to immerse myself in the exacting job of creating the ears, nose, mane, and tail for an eight-layer sculpted unicorn cake. My heart wasn’t in my work, though. No matter how hard I tried to focus, my mind kept drifting to my conversation with Sullivan; Dmitri’s cocky smile when he talked about making an offer for Zydeco; the possibility that Philippe really had been serious about Quinn; and wondering whether Ox really was considering working for Dmitri.

The first ear I sculpted was thick and bulky, too round and short. It looked like it belonged on a tiger, not a horse. The second came out too thin and cracked before I could finish its mate. Embarrassed by my failures, I tuned out the chatter around me and the music on the stereo. On my third try, I got both ears right and set them aside while I worked on carving eye sockets into the cake—the first step to creating the unicorn’s nose.

I finished a little after four and programmed Ox’s home address into the Mercedes GPS unit. I’d been patient long enough. It was time for Ox to talk to me.

Late afternoon shadows stretched across the street as I parked in front of the crumbling brick apartment building. Maybe I should have called first, but I was afraid Ox would refuse to see me. I was counting on the element of surprise to get me inside his apartment.

He lived on the top floor of the three-story building in an apartment facing the pool. He actually opened the door in response to my knock, which I took as a good sign, in spite of the fact that he looked annoyed by my visit and growled, “What in the hell do you want?”

“You know what I want,” I growled back. “Let me in. We need to talk.”

Those dark eyebrows beetled over the bridge of his nose. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“Well I have a few things to say to you. Something very strange was going on with you and Philippe before he died. I need to hear about it from you.”

Ox snorted a laugh and leaned against the door frame. “You
need
to?”

“Yeah. I do. Are you going to let me in or not?”

He stared me down for a minute, but I refused to back down and he finally moved aside. “I don’t know what you think this is going to accomplish, but have it your way.”

I made my way into a tiny living room and settled on a couch with cushions so soft I wondered if I’d be able to get up again. Ox dropped heavily into a recliner next to a TV tray that held a couple of empty beer cans and three remote controls.

“I know you’re upset about Miss Frankie putting me in charge at Zydeco,” I said, “but you know it’s only temporary.”

“Yeah? Well, it doesn’t really matter anymore, does it? My chances of taking over are kaput.”

“Not necessarily. She expects me to have things sorted out before I hand it back to her. I’d love to recommend you to run the place when I leave, but I can’t do that unless I know the truth. What happened between you and Philippe? Were you really thinking about going to work for Dmitri Wolff? Is that why Philippe thought you were sabotaging the business?”

Ox leveled a look at me. “I didn’t sabotage anything. And yeah, I talked to Dmitri a few times, but I didn’t seriously consider accepting his offer until I realized how far gone Philippe was.”

Hearing him deny the rumors filled me with relief. “Well, for what it’s worth, I believe you. But it looks bad for you, buddy. That Hightower wedding cake fiasco has your fingerprints all over it.”

He reached for one of the cans at his side, realized it was empty, and returned it to the tray with a scowl. “You think I don’t know that? I just don’t see how talking to you is going to change anything.”

“Maybe it won’t, but clamming up isn’t doing you much good, is it?”

He snorted another laugh and worked the lever on the side of the chair to put his feet up. Which meant he was relaxing.

“If you won’t tell me what happened between the two of you, at least tell me your side of things. Why did Philippe believe Quinn over you? And what happened with the Hightower wedding cake? How did that order get so messed up?”

Ox shook his head. “Your guess is as good as mine. I met with the couple, took the order. Put it into the computer myself. I didn’t screw it up. I didn’t change it. Next thing I know, Philippe’s accusing me of trying to ruin the business, trying to destroy his reputation. He was already looking at me for the other stuff that happened, but this just sealed the deal in his head.” He put the footrest down and stood, turning toward what I assumed was the kitchen. “I need a beer. Want one?”

I shook my head. “No thanks, but I’d take a soda.” He disappeared for a moment and came back carrying a beer and a Coke. “I don’t get it,” I said as I accepted the soda from him. “How did the cake get past you? You knew what the order was. Why didn’t you catch the mistakes before it left Zydeco?”

“I wasn’t in town. Philippe had sent me to a cake show in Philadelphia.”

I paused with the Coke halfway to my mouth. “He sent you?”

“Yeah. Weird huh? He always did the trade shows, but for some reason he decided to send me to that one. I thought it was a good thing. Proof that he was ready to start handing over more of the management responsibilities.”

“But it wasn’t?”

“What do you think? I came back to a disaster, and everything pointed at me as the one responsible for it.”

“So you were set up.”

He shrugged. “Sure looked that way, but I was the only one who thought so.”

“I believe you,” I said again. “Do you have any idea who would have done this?”

Ox cracked open his beer and took a long sip. “There’s only one person at Zydeco who hated me enough to do something like this, but she’s the last person with a reason to hurt Philippe.”

“Quinn.”

“You got it.”

I wasn’t surprised by his answer. Nobody else at Zydeco had done anything to arouse my suspicions. “Why does she hate you?”

“Some guy at the Duke told me she wasn’t what she seemed. I didn’t know whether to take him seriously or not. He’s kind of a jerk. You met him the night of the memorial. He was sitting next to me at the bar.”

“Guy LeBeau?” I’d almost forgotten about him, but hearing him mentioned again made me sit up a little straighter.

Ox nodded, taking another long sip. “He’s a shady character, if you ask me. Gambles. Drinks. Sleeps around.”

“How does he know Quinn?”

“I don’t know,” Ox admitted. “He wanted to talk to Philippe, but I picked up enough to know that he thought he had something on her. Guess he thought Philippe would be an easy mark.”

“Why Philippe? Why not Quinn?”

“Philippe was the one with the money.”

“And you told Philippe . . .”

Ox nodded. “Thought I was doing him a favor. He didn’t see it that way.”

“He got angry with you? That doesn’t make any sense. You were just the messenger.”

“I think I was supposed to challenge Guy to a duel or something. The fact that I even considered the possibility that Quinn might have a few secrets in her closet was enough to make Philippe go nuts. But I made it worse. I wanted to make sure he knew what he was getting into, so I did a little digging. I didn’t uncover anything at first, but then I got lucky, if you can call it that. Found out some pretty unsavory stuff. Turns out Quinn worked as a call girl for a few years and she was pretty desperate to keep Philippe from finding out. LeBeau wanted money for the information, but I gave it to Philippe for free. Turns out, he didn’t care what she’d done; he just wanted to take
me
apart.”

I took in what Ox was saying slowly, in tiny pieces, word by word, until I could process the whole thing. LeBeau was right. Quinn
wasn’t
what she seemed at all. “Philippe loved her,” I said after a few minutes. “I mean really. He actually loved her.”

Ox nodded slowly, watching me the whole time for my reaction. “He did.”

“More than he ever loved me.”

“It was different,” my friend said. “Not more, not less, just different.”

I managed a weak smile, grateful for the kindness of his lie. “Okay.” I took a couple of deep breaths and finished absorbing that idea. Giving myself a mental shake, I lifted my chin and plowed on. “Okay. Then why did Philippe call me the morning he died? Why did he ask me to meet with him? Why did he say that he’d made a terrible mistake?”

Ox actually looked sheepish. “He wanted to bring you in as a partner in the bakery.”

The can of Coke slipped from my fingers. I caught it before it hit the floor, but a few drops spilled onto the carpet. With a cry of alarm, I got down on the floor. “Do you have a paper towel or a rag? I’m sure I can get it out—” Tears streamed down my face, and a strange mixture of anger and pain twisted through me. I looked around frantically for a piece of scrap cloth or a tissue.

Ox leaned forward and grabbed my wrist. “It’s okay, Rita. I’ll get it.”

I jerked away and scrambled to my feet. “It’s not okay. Just tell me where to find a towel.”

Ox lumbered out of his easy chair and grabbed my shoulders gently. “Rita—”

Before I knew what was happening, I hit him. Hard. My fist landed on his chest with a thump that actually hurt my hand a little. But not enough. I hit him again. And again. And again.

I don’t know how long he stood there and let me whale on him, but finally my anger, frustration, and hurt began to wind down, and the blows I landed on his chest and arms gradually lost steam. I was panting from the exertion, and my breath caught on a hiccup as I stared up at him in horror.

“Oh, Ox, I’m sorry.” I swiped angrily at the tears on my cheeks. “I don’t know what got into me.”

“It’s all right.” He took hold of both my hands in a loose grip. “You want to hit me again? Go ahead. I can take it.”

I laughed and shook my head. “I already feel foolish enough, but thanks. Why didn’t you tell me all of this sooner?”

“What good would it have done? I knew Quinn didn’t kill him. She couldn’t have. I didn’t want Miss Frankie to find out about Quinn. Losing Philippe was hard enough. And you—”

I didn’t want to get all emotional again, so I asked, “How do you know Quinn didn’t kill him?”

“I saw her that morning. She was sitting on a bench outside the bakery reading a magazine.”

My blood ran cold. “She was
there
? Are you sure?”

“Positive. I snuck out for a smoke and saw her there.”

“When? Before or after the murder?”

“Before.”

“You knew she was there and you didn’t say anything to anyone? Not even the police?”

“Why should I say anything? She had no reason to kill Philippe. He knew about her past, and he was okay with it. He didn’t love it, don’t get me wrong, but he loved
her
. He was going to live with what she did.”

I’d get used to that one of these days. Right now, I wanted to stay focused on the important things, like the fact that Quinn was at the scene of the murder. And that’s what I pointed out to Ox. “But she was
there
.”

“So were a lot of other people, Rita. Including you. And anyway, she was gone before the murder.”

“You saw her go?”

He nodded. “Philippe must have told her that I’d found out about her past. The minute she saw me, she was outta there.”

The hope I’d been holding on to deflated, and I had to face an unwelcome truth. Maybe I didn’t like the woman Philippe had chosen to replace me, but that didn’t make her a murderer. Maybe it was time for me to stop trying to make her one.