A Sheetcake Named Desire (9 page)

I’ll call later
, I promised him silently. When I had time to explain that I wasn’t coming back to Albuquerque right away. But even with eleven hundred miles between us, that was yet another conversation I wasn’t looking forward to.

Eleven

I finished my getting-to-know-you tour of Zydeco in the front office, where I found Edie sitting at her desk, scowling at a manila file folder. She glanced up as I came into the room, closed the folder, and turned toward her computer. There was nothing unusual about that, but the way her face closed down and the furtive way she slid the folder into a stack of paperwork sparked my curiosity.

What was she trying to hide? I didn’t want her to be the saboteur, but Edie did have access to every part of the business. Nobody had a better chance to take the bakery down. But what possible motive could she have? She’d always been intensely loyal to Philippe. I couldn’t imagine her doing anything to purposely hurt him.

I crossed to her desk and reached for the folder, mostly to see how she would react. If she did nothing, I’d tell myself that I’d only imagined all that furtive file stashing. My fingers brushed the folder and Edie whipped around in her chair so fast, I jerked backward instinctively.

She snatched the folder away from my hand and stuffed it into a drawer. “Do you mind?”

Okay, so not my imagination. “What’s in the folder?”

“Nothing.” Edie stared at me without blinking, but the sudden flush of color in her cheeks told another story.

Aunt Yolanda’s voice whispered in my head,
Begin as you mean to go on
. It was just one of a hundred pieces of advice she’d given me over the years. I’d rebelled against most of them when I was a deeply unhappy teenager, but today it seemed like a good idea. Be assertive, I told myself, not aggressive. “I’d like to see it.”

Her eyes darkened and her lips thinned. “It’s nothing important.”

“Apparently, it’s important enough for you to try hiding it from me. What is it, Edie?”

“Just a client file. No big deal.” She started to turn back to her computer, trying to dismiss me and end the conversation.

I hesitated for a heartbeat. I wasn’t planning to stay here permanently, so I wondered just how important it was for me to establish my authority. But I
was
here on Miss Frankie’s behalf. If Edie was keeping secrets about the business, I needed to know. “I’d like to see it,” I said again.

She scowled up at me. “Why?”

I wasn’t going to let her put me on the defensive, so I countered with an offensive move of my own. “Maybe you should tell me why you’re trying so hard to hide it.”

“I’m not trying to hide anything. I’m just doing my job.”

“By making it impossible for me to do mine?” I held out a hand and wiggled my fingers. “Just hand it over, Edie. Save us both time.”

With a heavy sigh, she tugged open the desk drawer and shoved the folder at me. “Fine. Have it your way. It’s no big deal. Just a client who’s refusing to pay his bill.”

I chalked the moment up as a minor victory. “So why didn’t you want me to see it?”

“He’s a very wealthy client with an even more wealthy and powerful father.”

“Aren’t all your clients wealthy?” They had to be, considering the price tags I’d seen on the cakes in the design area.

“Not
this
wealthy,” Edie said. “The Hightowers are old money and high society. Julian—the father—has taken the family money and invested it in real estate, businesses, sports teams, entertainment. You name it; they probably own it. Anyway, they’re a very big deal, and Philippe was really stoked about getting the contract for J. J.—the son’s—wedding.”

I sat across from Edie and flipped open the folder. “So what’s the issue?”

“It’s totally bizarre. The cake was amazing. Exactly what the couple asked for. But the groom,” Edie nodded toward the folder, “threw an absolute fit when Philippe delivered it. In front of three hundred guests. So what could have been the greatest boost to Zydeco’s reputation yet turned into a complete disaster. Three hundred rich potential clients now think that Zydeco is a half-baked operation. And J. J. Hightower is refusing to pay the balance due, which is a ton of money. It was an incredible cake.”

I flipped through the file to acquaint myself with the order. Edie was right. The photos inside showed a stunning cake. Four tiers of milk-chocolate cinnamon cake covered in buttercream of the palest yellow. Sunflowers, also made of buttercream, cascaded from top to bottom, so beautifully sculpted that they appeared real. All for a measly seven thousand dollars. Geez, I could have lived on that for months. “It looks great. What’s his problem?”

Edie raked her fingers through her hair. “J. J. claims we made a mistake on the cake. And before you ask, I don’t know what he thinks we did wrong. I tried calling him a few minutes ago, but he refuses to discuss it with anyone but Philippe.”

My head shot up from the file. “Did you tell him that’s not going to be possible?”

“They’ve been on their honeymoon. Just got back last night and apparently haven’t heard the news yet. I tried to explain, but J. J. hung up before I could tell him about Philippe.” Edie propped her chin in her hand. “The whole thing is a huge mess. I didn’t want Miss Frankie to hear about it until I could fix it. Our reputation has taken a huge hit. We can’t afford to take a hit financially, too. I mean, we
could
swallow the loss,” she said, “but first of all, I’m not sure that would make J. J. happy. And secondly, if word got out that we let the Hightowers walk without paying, everybody will try to get away with it. That we really can’t afford.”

I wasn’t as worried about the money as I was about the damage to Zydeco’s reputation. Delivering a flawed cake, or even one the client just didn’t like, to a once-in-a-lifetime event wasn’t something we could make better. It wasn’t as if we could offer them a replacement wedding cake and undo the damage.

“Do you want me to talk to him?”

Edie squinted up at me, considering my offer. “You’re the boss.”

Right. “Okay, then. Would you mind setting up an appointment? Maybe Tuesday morning?” At Edie’s nod, I held up the folder. “Do you mind if I hang on to this for a couple of days?”

“Go for it.” But Edie still looked troubled, and when she spoke again, I realized why. “Listen, Rita, there’s something else you should know.”

Uh-oh. “Okay. Hit me. What is it?”

“We’re supposed to be bidding on a job next week—a grand opening for a high-tech company. Philippe was working on the design right before . . . you know.”

“He didn’t have time to finish it?”

Edie shook her head. “I don’t know. I looked for the design all over Zydeco this morning, but I can’t find it. I don’t know where it is.”

My spirits dived even further. Was this a coincidence or another act of sabotage? “Maybe it’s been misplaced,” I suggested optimistically. “The police were all over the building yesterday.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

I told myself not to assume the worst. Stay calm. Don’t panic. There could be a logical explanation. “We’ll find it,” I said, trying hard to sound as if I believed that. “What’s the cutoff date for submitting the bid?”

“The fifteenth.”

I glanced at the calendar on the wall. “Next week, right? We should be okay, then. Any idea where he had it last?”

Edie shook her head slowly. “He had it with him the morning he was killed, and now it’s gone. That’s all I know.”

It was ridiculous to wonder if the missing design had something to do with Philippe’s murder. Wasn’t it? But maybe he’d walked in on the saboteur and caught him stealing the design?

“I thought Ox was in charge of graphic design for Zydeco. Does he have a copy?”

“Not this time. Philippe had decided to work on this cake himself.”

Philippe created all of his sketches by hand, and he’d rarely bothered to photocopy or scan his work, at least until he was finished. Ox, on the other hand, was more careful. “So there’s no backup.”

Shaking her head, Edie reached for a humongous softdrink cup hidden behind her computer screen. “I’m afraid not. It’s not just the sketch, either. I know that Philippe had worked out the time line for building the cake and creating all the pieces for it. He spent hours and hours doing that. Plus, he made a list of all the supplies we’d need.”

“That’s a lot of work to lose,” I agreed. “But it has to be here somewhere. We’ll find it.”

Edie smiled uncertainly. “I hope so. He worked on that design for days. I feel like it’s his legacy or something.”

I got to my feet, finally feeling ready to tackle Philippe’s office. I’d look for the missing design, too, while I was in there. “I’d like to go over all the outstanding contracts on the books and get a feel for what’s coming up in the next few weeks. Can you get me a schedule when you have a few minutes?”

“I post a calendar in the design center at the beginning of every week,” Edie said. “I’ll make you a copy if you’d like.”

“Thanks. That will help, but a week at a time isn’t quite enough lead time for me. Can you get me the schedule for the next couple of months? Or tell me where to look, and I’ll find it myself.”

Edie slowly returned her cup to its position behind the monitor, and I witnessed her inner control freak spark to life. “The next couple of months? I thought you were only going to be here for a few days.”

“Probably a week at most. I just want to make sure I have everything lined up for Miss Frankie when I leave.”

“Everything is already lined up,” Edie said. “I know how to do my job, Rita.”

I held up both hands to show that I meant no harm. “I know you do. Philippe wouldn’t have hired you if you didn’t.”

Clearly unimpressed by my backpedaling, Edie rolled her eyes and reached for her computer keyboard. “Whatever.”

I hadn’t meant to offend her, but I decided to leave well enough alone. Everyone was moody thanks to the murder and the attack on Ox. I had to make allowances. “Thanks Edie,” I said to her stiff back. “Let me know when you have the schedule.”

She muttered, “I’ll have it for you by four.”

Pleased with the way I’d handled that, I headed toward Philippe’s office. But I had the feeling that dealing with these people was going to be the death of me.

Twelve

Time alone. That’s what I needed. Space to clear my head without somebody wanting or needing anything from me. I reached for the knob on Philippe’s office door, but before I could let myself inside, Edie called after me. “Are you going to the memorial tonight?”

I turned back uncertainly. “Memorial?”

“For Philippe. Didn’t anybody tell you about it?”

“No. Was someone supposed to?”

Edie looked a little guilty, probably because that someone should’ve been her. “It’s nothing official. Just a thing some of the people at the Duke want to do in Philippe’s memory.”

“The Dizzy Duke?”

“Yeah. You know it?”

I shook my head. “Burt mentioned it. They’re putting on a memorial? It’s kind of quick, isn’t it?”

Edie nodded. “It’s just an informal thing,” she said again. “The house band is putting it together. They’ll play a few sets, and people can stand up and talk about Philippe if they want. You should come. It’s on the corner a couple of blocks down. You can’t miss it.”

“You can’t miss it” is code for “You’ll never find it.” It’s the Murphy’s Law of directions. I was already exhausted, and spending the evening in a bar wasn’t my idea of a good time, but it would give me a chance to see the staff in a more relaxed atmosphere, and maybe I could find out whether someone at the bar had a beef with Philippe. It was worth a shot, anyway.

“I’d like to be there,” I said, “but I can’t promise until I see how Miss Frankie’s feeling. If she needs me with her, I’ll have to skip it.”

“Oh. Yeah. Well, sure.” Edie’s face took on a pinched look. “But it might look weird if you’re
not
there, y’ know?”

“I’ll let you know later,” I promised, and let myself into a long, narrow room overlooking the street. The room was pure Philippe, from the cherrywood desk to the flat-screen TV on the wall across from it. The familiar scent of his aftershave rose up from something nearby, causing a giant hand to reach into my chest and squeeze my heart. I could almost feel him watching me, and I wondered if he’d approve of me stepping in for him.

Philippe’s desk was nestled in front of a bay created by five tall windows that stretched from floor to ceiling. A couple of built-in shelves held the collection of books that Philippe had relied on when he worked. A file cabinet, paneled in cherry to match the desk, stood in the corner, no doubt holding designs and paperwork from past projects. I made a mental note to check there for the missing cake design, just in case.

But that could wait until later.

I don’t know how long I stood there before I realized that I hadn’t moved.
Uncertainty never accomplishes anything
, Aunt Yolanda whispered, so I forced my legs to carry me to the desk, where I sat in the heavy leather chair and tucked my purse at my feet.

I’d always loved this chair. In fact, Philippe and I had battled over it more than once. In the early days of our relationship, he’d let me steal it from him. Two years into the marriage, he began showing signs of resentment when he found me in it. And, of course, he got custody when we split up. If I kept just one thing I’d inherited from Philippe now, it would probably be this chair.

A couple of framed photographs sat on one corner of the desk. They were pictures I knew well: Philippe and his father on their last hunting trip together, Philippe and Miss Frankie dancing at our wedding. A set of three cheap plastic trays took up the other corner, all overflowing with paperwork. The rest of the desk was no better, covered with mounds of invoices and unopened mail, a few advertising circulars, and a dozen or so colored file folders that didn’t fit into the stacking trays.

I looked at the clutter, surprised to find myself getting misty over the mess Philippe had always made when he worked. He’d been more concerned with making sure the people around him were having a good time than he’d ever been with documenting his work or organizing his records. That had always been my job, and I fell naturally to the task now. I couldn’t turn this office over to someone else in this condition.

Besides, there might be a clue to his murder buried in here somewhere. The police had searched the room already, but they didn’t know Philippe. They didn’t know how he worked, what he kept, what he routinely threw away. They wouldn’t know what belonged in this room and what didn’t. Would I? Maybe. It was worth a try, anyway.

As I reached for a stack of junk mail, I felt something jab my thigh through my pocket. I pulled out my cell phone and noted three missed calls from Uncle Nestor along with two voice mails. I still wasn’t ready to talk to him, but I might never, technically, be ready. Avoiding him would only make things worse.

I crossed the room and closed the door so Edie wouldn’t be able to overhear, then sat in Philippe’s big power chair and punched the number on my keypad. My nerves tingled as I waited for my uncle to answer. I didn’t know whether to hope that he’d pick up, so I could get the conversation over with, or that he wouldn’t, so I could leave a message.

Just as I was about to give up, I heard a familiar voice on the other end of the call. “
Sí?
”

“Uncle Nestor?”

“
Sí
.
Sí
. Are you home,
mija
? Do you need someone to pick you up at the airport?” I could hear the kitchen staff working around him, the clang of metal on metal, the sizzle of something on the grill. I could almost smell the cilantro and frijoles, and my stomach growled at the thought of Uncle Nestor’s chiles rellenos covered with bubbling hot
queso blanco
.

“
Mija?
Are you there?” He segued into a string of Spanish, and my fingers grew numb where I gripped the phone. Uncle Nestor’s use of profanity and his native Spanish rose and fell with his frustration level. Judging from the diatribe in my ear, I’d called at a very bad time.

“I’m here,” I said, resisting the urge to disconnect and claim a bad signal later. “I’m not in Albuquerque. I’m still in New Orleans.”

“New Orleans? What are you doing there? You’re supposed to be back for the evening shift tonight.”

“I know, but . . . There’s been some trouble here. I can’t leave for a few days.”

A loud clang sounded close to the phone, and I guessed that Uncle Nestor had put down a pot with a bit more force than necessary. “What trouble?”

“It’s a long story, and I can tell you’re busy. Is Aunt Yolanda around? Maybe I could tell her—”

“What happened?” he demanded, cutting me off. “Did that son of a bitch refuse to sign again?
Pendejo
. Stupid, stupid man. He didn’t know a good thing when he had it.”

I appreciated my uncle’s loyalty, but with Philippe lying on a slab in the morgue, it felt wrong. “It’s not like that,
Tío
. Actually, if I could talk with
Tía
Yolanda . . .”

“You don’t want to talk to me?”

“It’s not that,” I lied. “It’s just . . .” I took a deep breath and plunged in before he worked himself up any more. “Philippe’s dead,
Tío
. He was murdered.”

“
Madre de Dios!
How? When? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. But I’m calling to let you know that I need to stay here for a few more days.”

“Why? Are the police keeping you there?” He turned away from the phone and shouted for my cousin Santos. “Bring me some paper! And a pencil! Who’s in charge of that investigation? I’ll talk to him.”

“It’s not the police,” I said when I could get a word in. “I’m staying to help Miss Frankie with the funeral arrangements.” I winced, waiting for the explosion I knew was coming.

Uncle Nestor didn’t disappoint. I understood only a few of the words he shouted into the phone until his temper and his vocabulary began to wind down into English again. “You don’t need to stay there and help her,
mija
. Those people are not your family anymore.”

“I know, but she’s all alone now. This has devastated her. I can’t turn my back on her.” I took a breath and lobbed in my secret weapon. “You didn’t raise me to treat anyone that way,
Tío
. I can’t walk away from someone who used to be family.”

My success rate with that kind of warfare was only about sixty-forty, so I held my breath and prayed for Uncle Nestor’s blessing, then quickly continued, “I know you don’t approve, but this is something I have to do—for myself. I don’t expect you to agree with me, but I do need you to understand. I love you,
Tío
. I’ll let you know what’s going on when I know more.” Before he could let fly with another string of Spanish, I pressed the disconnect button. My heart was hammering against my rib cage as if I’d been running, and my hands trembled as I tossed my cell phone onto the desk. I knew that my uncle Nestor loved me in his own gruff way, but there’d be hell to pay later.

I glanced around the room and allowed myself to fantasize, just for a moment, that this office was really mine. But that only made me feel disloyal, both to Uncle Nestor and Philippe. Not that Philippe deserved my loyalty. Did he?

I shoved the confusion back where it belonged and pushed up my sleeves so I could get to work. The sooner I finished up here, the better it would be for everyone.