A Sheetcake Named Desire (3 page)

Three

“Now, then, Mrs. Renier, why don’t you tell me what happened this morning?”

I glanced up from the table in the conference room above Zydeco’s kitchen and looked toward the door, fully expecting Miss Frankie, Philippe’s mother, to be standing there.

“Mrs. Renier?”

I looked back at the owner of the voice, realizing slowly that the scowling police detective was talking to me. He was a large man. Fit, not fat. His light brown hair was buzzed short, making him look like someone who meant business. He leaned forward, a pair of muscular forearms resting on the polished tabletop, watching me intently as he waited for my answer.

“It’s Ms. Lucero,” I said, trying to shake off the mental fog that had settled in as soon as I had finished repairing the paddle-wheel cake. I’d had to cut out the whole midsection of the cake, stack and carve a replacement section. While the staff worked on creating new detail work out of fondant and gum paste, I’d given the new stack a quick crumb coat, then iced it with buttercream and covered it all with fondant. A few well-placed gum-paste windows and pillars had hidden the patch job, but the work had taken a toll.

“Rita,” I clarified as I blinked away exhaustion. “I kept my name when we got married for professional reasons. And don’t try to make anything out of that. Women do it every day.”

“Duly noted,” the detective acknowledged with a thin smile. “So Rita, what happened this morning?”

The question irritated me, mostly because he already knew the answer. I played along anyway. “My ex-husband was murdered, and one of his employees was injured in the attack.”

The detective—Sullivan, if I remembered right—looked at me through a pair of eyes so brilliantly blue they were a little disconcerting. “I’m tryin’ to piece together the details,” he drawled. “Start from the moment you arrived.” He sat back in his chair, and I realized that he’d been blocking one of the windows. With his shoulders out of the way, afternoon sunlight poured into the room, hitting me squarely in the face.

I squinted, holding a hand over my eyes to cut the glare. “Do we have to do this now? I’m so tired I can barely think.”

Those blue eyes turned to ice in a heartbeat. “If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’d like to catch the person who did this.”

Heat crept into my cheeks, and a flash of resentment found its way through the sadness. “Me, too. But I don’t know anything.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

“Fine.” I shifted in my chair to escape the sun. Exhaustion made every muscle in my body ache, and a yawn snuck up on me without warning. I tried to stifle it, but Detective Sullivan kept his eyes locked on me, so I was sure he’d noticed. I rubbed my face with both hands, trying to wake up.
Keep it simple
, I told myself.
Answer his questions so you can get out of here
.

“I told that other officer everything I know already,” I said, hoping Sullivan would trot off to get my statement from the other cop.

He didn’t move.

“I don’t remember his name,” I said helpfully, “but he was one of the guys who responded to my 911 call.”

“I’m real glad to hear the firsts did their job. Now how about answerin’ my question?”

I’d had a rough day. I could have used a friendly smile and a little compassion. Apparently, I wasn’t going to get either from this guy. “Fine. I’ll try.”

Reluctantly, I walked the detective through my arrival at Zydeco that morning and my discovery of Philippe’s body.

“And then after calling 911, you decided to spend the time . . . decorating a cake?” He sounded incredulous.

“If we hadn’t fixed that cake and gotten it out the door, there was a real chance that this whole business would collapse,” I replied defensively. “I couldn’t do that to Philippe.” I didn’t mention that I hadn’t even wanted to get involved, but Edie, of all people, had insisted I take the lead on salvaging the damaged cake.

It had been a while since I’d taken the lead on a decorating job, and I don’t mind admitting that it felt good. Creative muscles I hadn’t used since moving back to Albuquerque two years earlier had stretched as I worked, and I’d remembered why I’d gone to pastry school in the first place.

“But now I’m exhausted,” I told the grim-faced cop. “I’d really like to go back to my hotel.”

“I’ll let you do exactly that . . . in a few minutes.” Detective Sullivan flipped a couple of pages in his pocket-sized notebook and looked up at me with eyebrows raised. “You came here all the way from New Mexico?”

I nodded and tried not to squirm under the weight of his gaze. “To talk to Philippe.”

“You couldn’t have called?”

The pain in my head began to throb. “I needed to get his signature on some legal documents. I couldn’t do that over the phone.”

Sullivan’s left eyebrow rose a little higher. “What kind of legal documents?”

I assumed the detective already knew the answer to that question too, which meant he was trying to trip me up. Did he consider me a suspect? Suppressing a shudder, I moved my chair a little farther from the sunlight so I could think. “I needed him to sign our divorce agreement, okay? Would you mind lowering the blind? The glare is giving me a headache.”

Sullivan glanced toward the window as if my request surprised him, but he stood and did as I asked. “Better?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“Good. Now, the divorce agreement. You sayin’ you had to bring it to New Orleans personally?”

“I’d already tried dealing with it from a distance. Philippe kept ignoring me. I wanted to get his attention.”

Sullivan’s eyes iced over again. “So you wanted the divorce, but he didn’t?”

“Philippe wanted the divorce as much as I did. He just had a habit of putting things off. If it had to do with his business, he was all over it. Anything else got shoved to the side and forgotten.” I didn’t mention the message he had left me that morning or admit that I wasn’t sure how Philippe felt about me. No sense confusing the issue.

Sullivan wrote something in a notebook. “The decision to end your marriage made you angry?”

“No, it made me sad.”

“So you left here and went back to Albuquerque.”

I shook my head. “We were living in Chicago at the time. New Orleans was home to him and he wanted to do something to help with the recovery after Katrina. He came here. I went home to New Mexico.”

“This was how long ago?”

“Two years.”

“And why did you decide to get the divorce agreement signed today?”

“Because it’s time. I grieved for a while, but I’m ready to move on with my life. I couldn’t do that with our marriage in limbo.”

Sullivan made another brief note. “How long you been in town?”

“I arrived Thursday afternoon. I came here yesterday, but Philippe wasn’t available. I left a message with Edie and went back to the hotel last night. I came back today to try again.”

“You didn’t try calling his cell or pay him a visit at home?”

“I didn’t have his current address or cell number,” I said. “Since he came back to New Orleans, I’ve only been able to reach him at the shop.”

“You couldn’t have reached him through a relative?”

“I didn’t want to involve his mother.”

The detective cut another one of those intense glances at me. “That’s unusual, isn’t it? Not knowing how to stay in touch?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said, trying not to look nervous. “This is my first divorce. We didn’t have children, so there was really no need to stay in touch.”

Sullivan jerked his head toward the duffel bag the uniformed officers had gathered from the front office. “So you came back this morning. What were you fixin’ to do? Move in?”

Was he trying to be funny? The complete lack of expression on his face made it hard to tell. “I came prepared to stay until Philippe signed the divorce agreement.”

“You were serious about getting rid of him.”

Nervous perspiration beaded on my nose and upper lip. “Look, Detective, I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong.”

“You have to admit, it’s quite a coincidence. You come to town, and two days later, your estranged husband is dead.”

My stomach lurched, and the hair on my neck grew damp. “But it
is
a coincidence. I didn’t have anything against Philippe. I just wanted him to sign the agreement so we could make the divorce official.”

“And did he sign?”

I shook my head. “The first time I saw him was when I found him in the garden . . . so no.”

He pulled back and looked me over. “So now you’re technically his widow?”

“No! I mean, maybe. Technically. But not really. We were separated.”

“So you said.”

“We were in the middle of a divorce,” I reminded him.

“And your husband died before it became final. Now that he’s gone, what do you suppose will happen to his property?”

I
really
didn’t like the direction he was going. “I don’t know. I suppose his mother will get everything as his next of kin.” My stomach gave a nervous flip. Was it possible that
I
would inherit? One glance at Sullivan told me that’s exactly what he was thinking. “Whoa! Wait just a minute! If the business is successful, I think that’s great. I’m happy for Philippe.” I flushed and wagged a hand in front of me as if I could erase what I’d just said. “He was an incredibly gifted cake artist, and he deserved success. He worked hard to be the best.” My voice caught and tears blurred my vision. “I never would have hurt him. Not to get Zydeco. Not for any reason.”

Detective Sullivan shrugged. “Seems to me you had the most to gain.”

“But I didn’t know that was even a possibility until you just told me. Maybe the killer wasn’t someone Philippe knew. Maybe the killer saw an opportunity and just took it.”

“An opportunity to mess up a cake?” Sullivan shook his head. “That’s doubtful.”

“Maybe the killer was after money.”

Sullivan shook his head. “Both men had their wallets on them. They weren’t touched.”

I took a calming breath. In. Out. It didn’t help. “Maybe the guy wanted the van. Or maybe he thought he could steal something valuable from Zydeco.”

Sullivan leaned forward slightly, caught my gaze, and held it. “The perp didn’t take the van or make any attempt to gain access to the bakery.”

“That you know of,” I pointed out.

Sullivan rolled his eyes in exasperation. “We’re looking at homicide, Mrs. Renier. Probably premeditated.”

“Rita,” I said automatically. Premeditated? That made it worse. A crime of passion was one thing, but premeditated meant that someone had watched and waited. Someone coldhearted and calculating.

“It wasn’t me,” I said again. “And what if you’re wrong about Philippe’s property? What if he made a will and somebody else gets everything? Maybe somebody else had something to gain from his death. Have you even considered that?”

Sullivan dipped his head, just once, without taking his eyes from my face. “I have. You’re not the only person of interest in the case.”

I was a “person of interest”? Frightened tears filled my eyes and a wave of grief and self-pity washed over me. Philippe was dead. I hadn’t even had a chance to absorb that before the police started accusing me of murder. Maybe Philippe and I hadn’t been able to make our marriage work, but I’d still wished him the best. I’d spent two years convincing myself that I no longer felt anything for him, but that wasn’t true. My chest felt as if someone had reached inside and torn out my heart, leaving a huge, painful hollowness in its place. I’d thought losing him to divorce was painful, but this was a thousand times worse. Who could possibly have hated him enough to want him dead?

Sullivan produced a couple of bottles of water from somewhere and put one on the table in front of me. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

Now
he wanted to play nice? “No, I’m not,” I snapped. “My ex-husband has been brutally murdered and you think I did it. I’m most definitely
not
all right.”

Sullivan sat there, watching me, until I’d composed myself.

“Assuming for the sake of argument that you didn’t kill your husband—”

“Ex,” I interrupted. “And I didn’t kill him. No assuming necessary.”

“Husband according to the law,” Sullivan insisted. “Now, ma’am, if you didn’t kill him, do you have any ideas about who did?”

“None.” I twisted the cap off the water bottle and took a long, cold drink. It wasn’t a miracle cure, but I did feel a little better. “Like I said, I haven’t even spoken to him in a year. I have no idea what his life is like now or who his friends are.”

“Or his enemies?”

“Or his enemies.”

“What about Mr. Oxford?”

It took a second or two for me to realize he meant Ox, whose full name was Wyndham Oxford III. “No way. He and Philippe were like brothers. There’s no way he could have done . . . that. Besides, he was attacked, too.”

Detective Sullivan opened his own bottle of water but stopped short of drinking. “You said that you came to New Orleans to get Philippe’s signature on the divorce papers. Maybe you changed your mind once you saw his operation. Maybe you decided you didn’t want the divorce after all.”

“That’s
not
what happened.”