A Sheetcake Named Desire (24 page)

Twenty-seven

I drove to the Dizzy Duke with the windows down, enjoying the breeze coming in off Lake Pontchartrain and the rare low humidity. I hadn’t been back to the Duke since the night of Philippe’s memorial. Maybe I shouldn’t go back tonight, but with Ox off my short list, Dmitri cleared by an ironclad alibi, and Quinn off the hook, the only person left I could imagine who might have wanted to hurt Philippe was Guy LeBeau—the alligator wrestler.

Guy, who believed that Philippe had gotten what he deserved. Guy, who’d opened the Pandora’s box of Quinn’s past in the first place.

Sure, I was curious about his possible role in Philippe’s death, but I wasn’t stupid. I wasn’t going to put myself in danger. I just wanted all the pieces in one place before I took my suspicions to Detective Sullivan. After my brief conversation with Old Dog Leg outside the Dizzy Duke on the night of Philippe’s memorial, I’d had every intention of following through with the musician’s suggestion that I talk with Rikki, the harried cocktail waitress who supposedly knew about everything at the Duke. Since then, too many other things had claimed my attention. I’d all but forgotten about watching Guy LeBeau hit her up for money. Now I wondered if the rose-scented waitress held the keys to the puzzle after all.

My visit with Ox had left me exhausted, both physically and emotionally. I didn’t want to think about the murder. Didn’t want to think about Philippe’s relationship with Quinn. I cast about for Gabriel, the cute bartender, but he was deep in conversation with a customer at the far end of the bar, so I placed my order with a young man whose dreadlocks fell below his shoulders. He gave the polished wood a swipe with a towel, and smiled. “You won’t be sorry. We make the best margaritas in town.”

“Potent, too,” I said. “Go easy on the tequila tonight okay?”

He grinned. “You’ve been here before, then?”

“Yeah, but tonight I want to walk out of here on my own steam.” He slid a bowl of roasted peanuts onto the bar in front of me, and the aroma reminded me that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I pulled the bowl closer and helped myself to a few handfuls. Crunchy. Salty. And so peanutty I almost swooned. Until I caught Gabriel watching me from the other end of the bar, which convinced me to hold it together. I was not going to embarrass myself in front of him again.

My bartender returned with my drink and eyed the half-empty bowl in front of me. “Do you want me to start a tab for you?”

The offer surprised me. “You’d do that?”

“Why not? Gabriel says you’re from the cake shop. We run tabs for y’all all the time.”

After the day I’d had, the offer was tempting—which is why I turned him down. “Maybe next time. Before you go, can you tell me if Rikki’s working tonight?”

“Rikki? Sure. She’ll be here around eight.”

I checked my watch. Not quite seven. It wasn’t a long wait, but considering how tired I was, it felt like forever. “Do you have any jambalaya today? I’m starving.”

“Sure. Full bowl or half?”

“Full, please.”

He nodded. “Cornbread?”

“Perfect.” Shifting on my stool so I could watch the door, I wolfed down a couple more handfuls of peanuts. A few customers were scattered around the Duke, but the atmosphere was much more laid-back than it had been the other night. Laughter and muted conversations rose up from the tables, and soft jazz floated out of the jukebox. Philippe would have loved the memorial party, but tonight’s mood suited me better.

After a few minutes, I noticed people moving around near the bandstand. Two men and a woman fiddled with amplifiers and microphones, setting up equipment before their first set of the night. After a few minutes, I realized Old Dog Leg was sitting in the corner near the stage, so I picked up my drink and carried it toward him.

Maybe he’d cough up a few more answers and save me the wait.

He held a long-neck beer bottle in his hand and as I approached, a broad smile creased his face. “There you are, Rita. I wondered if we gone meet again.”

“You can tell who I am?”

“It’s not that hard.” He patted the seat beside him. “Sit. Relax. Take a load off and make an ol’ man happy.”

I sat, turning my chair slightly so I could keep one eye on the door.

He tilted his head to one side and pursed his mouth. “You waitin’ for somebody?”

“The cocktail waitress you mentioned the other day. Rikki. But how can you tell that?”

“Ain’ no thing, my dear. Ain’ no t’ing.” He took a long pull on his beer and let out a satisfied sigh. “Something’s on your mind tonight. Wanna tell me what it is?”

I shook my head in amazement. “As a matter of fact, something
is
on my mind. The other night you told me to talk to Rikki about Philippe. Why?”

“I tol’ you dat. She knows ’bout everything goes on around here. What she tell you?”

“I haven’t talked to her yet.”

“No?” The smile on his face faded. “You goin’ to though, right?”

“I’m hoping to talk with her tonight. Was she a girlfriend of Philippe’s? Is that why I’m supposed to talk to her?”

“It bother you if she was?”

After what I’d learned earlier? I shook my head, then caught myself and answered aloud. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Dat’s good. Jealousy is a bad t’ing, y’ hear? Nothin’ good comes of it. Ever.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” I sipped my drink, still determined to be a one-margarita kind of gal.

Old Dog Leg wrapped both hands around his bottle and regarded me with his sightless old eyes. Before he could say anything else, Rikki came in through the front door. The bartender motioned her over, spoke a few words, and pointed at me.

She stowed her bag behind the bar and crossed the room toward our table. Wariness clouded her eyes, but she brushed a kiss on Dog Leg’s cheek and sat across from me. “Brandon said you wanted to talk to me?”

“That’s right. Can I buy you a drink first?”

She shook her head and folded her arms defensively. “Just make it quick. I have to work, and I can’t afford to miss out on any tips.”

Right. “I’m Rita Lucero,” I began.

“Philippe’s wife,” Dog Leg interrupted.

“Philippe’s
ex
,” I corrected. “At least, I would have been. Soon.”

Old Dog Leg unfolded his white cane and stood. “On that note, I’m gone give you ladies some alone time. But you be careful, hear? Don’t go diggin’ places dat should be left alone.”

We both watched him tap his way toward the stage; then Rikki tucked a lock of hair behind one ear and gave me a once-over. “I’m sorry about what happened. Philippe was a good guy. A really good guy.”

“Yeah,” I said on a sigh. “He was.”

“You’re the one who dumped the drink on me, right?”

My cheeks burned. “Yeah. Sorry. My foot caught on the stool.”

“I’ll send you my dry-cleaning bill.” She darted a glance over her shoulder. “Is that it? You want to apologize for making such a fuss?”

“I fell,” I clarified. “Philippe’s girlfriend made the fuss.”

“Quinn made the fuss. You fell on your face. I’m not sure I see a big difference.”

“Maybe there isn’t one,” I said, then took a breath and tried a new tack. “You were a friend of Philippe’s?”

Rikki darted another look over her shoulder, then gave a reluctant nod. “You could say that.”

“Were you more than friends?”

She let out a sharp laugh. “No, and I don’t need you saying shit like that around here. My old man wouldn’t like it. Philippe did me a favor once, that’s all.”

“Is that why Guy hated him?”

She seemed surprised that I knew her boyfriend’s name, but she nodded. “That’s right.”

“What was the favor?”

“None of your business.”

“Listen, my ex was brutally murdered, and your boyfriend seems happy about it. I think that makes it my business.”

Rikki’s irritation turned to nervousness in a heartbeat. “He’s not happy,” she snapped. “Okay, so he didn’t like Philippe. That doesn’t mean that he wanted him dead.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Of course I’m sure.” Rikki sat, checked behind her once more, and leaned in close. “Guy can be a jerk, okay? I’ll admit it. And sometimes, when he has too much to drink, he loses control of his temper. But he doesn’t mean anything by it.”

I blinked. “He hits you?”

“A little. Sometimes. It’s nothing major, okay? And he’s always real sorry afterward.”

My stomach rolled over. Twice. “I’ll bet he is. What does this have to do with Philippe?”

Rikki sighed and plowed her fingers into her hair. “He walked in on us during an argument. He got in the middle of it. Guy was pissed about it, but that’s all. He was mad. End of story. He likes shooting his mouth off, but he’s harmless.”

“Except for the part where he smacks you around. And the part where he tried to blackmail Philippe over Quinn’s past.”

Rikki’s eyes flashed on me, and her expression grew grim. “That was nothing, okay? I told you he can be a jerk. He’s always looking for a way to make a quick buck. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”

I stared at her in disbelief, wondering how any woman could let herself be so blinded by a man. “He threatened to expose a potentially harmful secret in exchange for money. How is that okay?”

Rikki’s eyes grew cold. “She was lying to Philippe. Pretending to be something she wasn’t. Philippe deserved to know.”

“Maybe,” I said, “but it was her story to tell, not your boyfriend’s. And not in exchange for money. How did Guy take it when he found out Philippe didn’t care?”

She shrugged. “He’d already lost interest in trying to get money from Philippe. Said he had a better deal worked out.”

That sent a chill through me. “What kind of deal?”

“How should I know? Guy’s always got something in the works. Maybe he found someone else who thought the information was valuable.”

“Who?”

Rikki lifted her shoulder again. “Ask Guy if you want to know.”

“I’m asking you.”

She glanced around the room, her movements furtive. When she spoke again, her voice was hushed. “Look, I didn’t want any trouble for Philippe. I told Guy to just let it go, but he was still pretty pissed about Philippe getting in his face. He set up a meeting with some other cake dude. Fox or something like that.”

My breath caught. “Dmitri Wolff?”

She nodded slowly. “Yeah, that’s it.”

“Guy sold the information about Quinn’s past to Dmitri Wolff?”

“I don’t know. He went to talk to him, that’s all I know.” Rikki stood abruptly. “I’m sorry Philippe is dead,” she said. “He didn’t deserve what he got. But it has nothing to do with me.”

She walked away, and the story she’d told me echoed in my head. Was that why Quinn met with Dmitri secretly? Was he blackmailing her? I could believe it of him, but if Ox was right, she had no money to pay him off with. I suppose that meant she was telling the truth about not having an affair with Dmitri. But I wasn’t ready to let her off the hook completely. She must have given Dmitri
something
, and I was almost certain that I knew what it was. Quinn must have stolen the design we’d been looking for, and maybe she’d been behind the sabotage, as well.

Something else bothered me about the conversation I’d just had with Rikki but my cell phone rang before I could decide what it was.

“Oh, sugar, I’m so glad you picked up,” Miss Frankie said when I answered. “I just realized that we left in such a hurry, we forgot Philippe’s things at the house yesterday. Can you swing by and pick them up on your way back here?”

Everything else moved onto the back burner at the mention of Philippe’s funeral. I took a deep breath and tried not to sound distracted when I answered her. “Of course, Miss Frankie. Remind me what you need?”

The bartender delivered my jambalaya and cornbread as I jotted down the list, and after I disconnected, I dug into the meal with gusto. Huge chunks of chicken and sweet andouille mingled with shrimp, vegetables, and long-grain rice in a surprisingly well-made Creole version of the dish. The blend of garlic and cayenne pepper gave it a slow burn that crept across my tongue and made the roof of my mouth tingle. The amazing thing about a dish like jambalaya is that the combination of ingredients makes every bite taste just a little different from the one before. Paired with the slightly sweet cornbread—crusty on the outside, perfectly cooked on the inside—it was a meal to remember.

Half an hour later, I slid behind the wheel of Philippe’s—
m
y—Mercedes, and turned the wheel toward
my
house. I still felt a little bruised inside after my conversation with Ox and numb from my conversation with Rikki. Maybe a few minutes alone in the house would help me come to terms with the truth about my failed marriage and Philippe’s relationship with Quinn. If I could wrap my mind around both those things, maybe I could finally decide what to do about my future.

Twenty-eight

I called Detective Sullivan from my cell phone as I drove. I wanted to tell him what I knew about Ox, about Quinn, and about Guy LeBeau. He didn’t answer, so I left a message telling him I had some information for him and asking him to call me when he had a chance. I wasn’t sure that I had all the pieces in the right places, but I was pretty sure that Guy LeBeau’s attempt to extort money from Philippe was important, and so was the fact that Dmitri Wolff had been involved.

I found a parking spot in front of a closed pet store and walked back along the sidewalk, thinking about Miss Frankie’s offer of a partnership and the life waiting for me back in Albuquerque. I wondered what it would be like to live here, and for the first time, I gave it some serious thought. I could do it if I wanted to. The only things standing between me and my dream were a sense of duty and fear of the unknown.

A stiff wind tossed the branches of trees overhead and sent leaves and bits of twigs and dirt skittering across the sidewalk in front of me. The scents of Thai food and pizza mingled on the breeze, and I could hear the muted sounds of accordion, guitar, bass, and drums from somewhere nearby, underscoring the laughter of a young couple as they passed me.

I let myself into the house and locked the door behind me. Leaving my bag and keys on a table in the entryway, I moved slowly from room to room, mentally rearranging furniture and deciding on the pieces I’d want to keep and those I’d want to get rid of. I’d change a lot, I decided. You know . . . if I decided to take the plunge.

After a while I moved to the second floor, where the glass of wine I’d left on the desk still waited for me. There was something oddly comforting in that. I’d never lived alone before. My whole life, there’d always been someone around to pick up what I put down. I liked knowing that here, in this house, what I put down stayed where I’d left it.

I carried the glass into the bathroom, dumped the wine, and rinsed the glass. After spreading a hand towel on the counter, I left the glass to dry and turned to leave. I ran my hand along the empty counter . . . and then froze.

Except for my glass and my towel, the counter was empty. But it hadn’t been empty the last time I was here. There’d been something here. Body spray or exfoliating cream. I couldn’t remember which. I only knew that it wasn’t here now. Which meant that Quinn had come back. Without telling me.

My breath caught in my throat, but I told myself not to panic. Maybe I’d remembered wrong. Maybe she’d grabbed whatever it was without me noticing.

I hurried into the study and checked for the earrings and the necklace I’d noticed earlier. Gone. Upstairs to the master bath. Clean as a whistle. Anger boiled up inside me as I thought about her sneaking back into the house to get her things. Hadn’t I told her to call me when she wanted to come back?

Contemplating filing a complaint with the police, I went back to the second floor. This time, I glanced into the library as I passed it. The books that had been shelved so carefully last time I was here were now scattered across the floor in careless heaps. I froze with one hand on the door and stared at the mess in disbelief. Quinn really was nuts. Why trash the library to get back at me? Or was she looking for something she’d hidden here? Like, say, the missing design?

A floorboard above my head creaked, and my heart stopped beating for a moment. Oh. My. God. She was still here.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t hear anything over the frantic beating of my heart. Quinn was here. Waiting for me. Had she killed Philippe after all?

The floor creaked again, and everything that had been frozen thawed. I looked around for a weapon. Something I could use to defend myself. I’d found a letter opener in the study, but that wouldn’t be effective unless I let her get close to me, and I didn’t intend to do that. Books? A paperweight? I spotted a sculpture on one of the bookshelves and lunged for it as the creaking overhead turned into measured footsteps.

Clutching the sculpture, I looked around for a place to hide. I could crawl under the desk in the study, but if she found me there I’d have no way to escape. Ditto for the closet. My only hope was to get downstairs before she came after me.

I turned toward the stairs, but movement from the corner of my eye stopped me cold. I saw a figure standing on the third-floor landing.

But it wasn’t Quinn.

It was Burt McGuire. And instead of flashing his dimpled and flirtatious grin, he was holding a gun and looking at me through eyes so flat and filled with hatred, I heard myself gasp.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

I tried to swallow, but my throat was too tight and dry. “I own the place,” I croaked. I didn’t want to antagonize him, but neither did I want him to realize how terrified I was. “How did you get in?”

A brittle smile curved his lips. “Does it really matter?”

Probably not. “What are you doing here?”

“What do you think? Looking for that stupid design.”

It took me a few seconds to process that. His words had a hard time making it through the panic shrieking through my head. “You’re here for the design?”

“Sure. Why not? It’s going to make me a pretty penny if I can just deliver. What in the hell have you done with it?”

Burt. With a gun. Aimed at me. I’d been so wrong. I somehow managed to shake my head slowly. “I haven’t seen it. It’s not here.”

“Sure it is. Where else would that dimwit stash it?”

I stole a glance over my shoulder at the books on the floor. “You think Quinn took the design and hid it here?”

“I know that’s what she did. She had one job to do.
One!
And she couldn’t even manage that.”

“Quinn was helping you sabotage Zydeco?”

Burt laughed. “Using her wasn’t my idea, although I will say that she did have her uses. She managed to deflect Philippe’s suspicions pretty well.”

The fog in my head began to clear a bit. “You’re working for Dmitri?”

“I like to think of myself as an independent contractor. Now stop yapping and tell me where the design is.”

He looked so angry I almost wished I could tell him. “I have no idea,” I said. “I haven’t seen it.”

He studied me for what felt like forever, then nodded. “Fine. Then shut up and come up the stairs. Slowly.”

I briefly considered my chances of making a dash down the stairs instead, but I’d never be able to outrun a bullet.

“
Now!
” he roared.

With his voice still echoing through the house, I clutched the sculpture tightly and did as I was told.

“What’s that in your hand?” he demanded, then without waiting for an answer, “Drop it. Right there.”

I released my grip and the statue hit the floor by my foot. Time seemed to slow, and my legs wobbled as I climbed the stairs. The pounding of my heart made it hard to breathe. I might as well have been climbing Mount Everest. “You killed Philippe.”

Burt recoiled slightly, but not enough to give me an advantage. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t
want
to.”

“But you did.”

“Shut up. You have no idea what happened that day. You have no right to judge me.”

I moved slowly, sizing up the situation and trying to figure out a way to overpower him once I got to the top of the stairs. Nothing brilliant came to mind, but I knew I had to keep him talking. “You’re right. I have no idea what happened. Why don’t you tell me?”

Burt tightened his grip on the pistol, using both hands to hold it steady. The flirtatious smile that was his trademark flashed across his face, and the dimples sliced into his cheeks for an instant. “Seems to me, you should be more concerned with what’s going to happen tonight.”

“Okay. Tell me about that.”

He used the pistol to gesture toward a door at the end of the hall. “Open it.”

I walked past him, watching for a chance to throw him off balance. But he was ready for me, his eyes narrowed, his stance solid. He was bigger than me and in better shape. I wouldn’t stand a chance unless I could catch him off guard.

Praying that he wouldn’t shoot me in the back, I opened the door and found another set of stairs, this one apparently leading to the roof.

He nudged me in the back. “Up.”

“What’s up there?”

“You’ll see. Now go.”

My legs were aching, and fear filled my throat, but I didn’t want to make him angry. I couldn’t afford for him to lose control yet. At the top of the stairs, he directed me to open another door, and I stepped out onto a rooftop patio that would have taken my breath away if I’d seen it under other circumstances. Large planters holding various trees and flowering bushes had been positioned along a wrought-iron railing around the rim of the patio. Stone chairs circled a round table in the center, and twinkling white lights gave the terrace a fairy-tale look.

“Nice, isn’t it?”

I glanced over my shoulder at the crazy man behind me. “Seriously? We’re going to talk about the garden?”

“Why not? It’s going to be the last thing you ever see.”

My throat tightened, and fear made me numb. “Why are you doing this?”

His lips curled into a bitter smile. “Because you won’t leave well enough alone. What happened with Philippe was an accident. I only wanted to get his attention. But you . . .” He jerked his arms upward until I found myself staring down the barrel of his gun. I had no idea what caliber it was, and I didn’t care. From my perspective, it looked like a cannon. “You just kept digging.”

A strange calm settled over me. “So you’re going to kill me.”

“Nope. You’re going to kill yourself. Throw yourself off the roof in despair. So sad.”

“Nobody will believe it,” I warned him. “They’ll know something is wrong with that story, and they’ll figure it out eventually.”

“I wouldn’t count on that,” he said with a mock frown. “Everybody knows how upset you’ve been since Philippe died.”

“But why does Dmitri want Zydeco out of the way so badly? Why would he pay you to sabotage Zydeco?”

“There’s big money on the line. People will do strange things for fame and fortune. What can I say about Dmitri? He’s a twisted guy.”

Unlike the loony tune standing in front of me? “But why? What did Philippe ever do to you?”

“It’s what he didn’t do, sweetheart. He didn’t recognize what he had. He didn’t understand the contribution I could have made to Zydeco. He passed me over time and time again because he was too stupid to see the value of what I had to offer.”

“So you betrayed him because you wanted a promotion?”

He smiled again—a feral smile that chilled me from the inside out. “It’s all about looking out for number one in this world. If you don’t take care of yourself, who will?” His smile faded slowly. “Too bad you won’t get a chance to figure that out for yourself.”

The gun wavered in front of my face, and my life flashed in front of my eyes, only it wasn’t the life I’d had. It was the life I wasn’t going to get. Ever. Unless I did something to stop this crazy person from killing me.

“What happened that day?” I kept my voice low and soothing, hoping that giving him the chance to talk would calm him down again. “You said you didn’t mean to kill him, so what happened?”

He motioned for me to move toward the railing. “It was the fight. That stupid, stupid fight. He wasn’t supposed to come into the rose garden. He wasn’t supposed to find me.”

My mind worked like sludge, but slowly the pieces began to fall into place. “After you destroyed the cake.”

“It was going to be the last thing. It was going to be over,” Burt said with a shrug. “Ox was ruined. Philippe was so head over heels in love with that bimbo, he wasn’t paying attention to anything. I could have had it all.”

“Until he found you in the rose garden and realized that it was you who’d been sabotaging Zydeco and framing Ox.”

He wagged the gun toward the railing again, and the coldness in his eyes crept onto his face. “Move. By the railing.”

“I’m not going to jump,” I told him, “and if you shoot me, you’ll be caught. There are too many people on the street for you to get away.”

“Of course you’re going to jump. Like I said, everyone knows how upset you are over Philippe’s murder. Poor thing. I guess you just couldn’t take it anymore.”

His finger tightened on the trigger, and I knew it was now or never. Bending to get below the barrel of the gun, I rammed him with every bit of strength I could muster, using my shoulder to deflect his aim.

He staggered under the force of my weight but didn’t lose his footing. “Bitch!” he shouted, and tried to get a bead on me again.

I had about half a second before I’d lose whatever chance I might have. I had landed on my knees, so I aimed for his legs next, throwing my weight into the move and praying this time I could make him lose his balance.

My shoulder hit the front of his knees, and I heard him grunt loudly, which gave me some hope. An instant later, I felt him falling toward me. I rolled out from beneath him and tried to find his hands and the gun in the dim light. It seemed to take forever to spot his hands and get my own around his wrist. I couldn’t hope to overpower him for long, but I planted myself on his stomach and held on, using all my force to slam his gun hand against the closest planter.