Arsenic and Old Cake (22 page)

Aunt Yolanda had dragged me to the cemetery exactly once after my parents’ funeral. I’m ashamed to admit that I’d been surly and uncooperative, and those were the positive qualities I exhibited that day. Realizing the futility in such visits, Aunt Yolanda had pretty much left me alone after that. I guess the fact that I was even considering going with Miss Frankie was a sign that I’m not twelve anymore.

“I’ll do my best,” I assured Bernice yet again. And this time I actually meant it.

Bernice patted my arm and toddled back to her garden. I resumed the journey up the driveway.

I spotted Miss Frankie in the kitchen window, so I went around to the back door and knocked softly. I thought she’d seen me walking along the driveway, but she looked up, startled, one hand on her breast as she hurried to let me in. “Goodness, sugar, you just about scared me to death. I didn’t know you were coming by. Did I miss your call?”

I kissed her cheek and stepped inside where I found evidence that she’d been in the garden cutting flowers. Mounds of pink magnolia, iris, and camellia lay on the counter, and she’d filled several Mason jars with water.

“I didn’t call,” I confessed. “I know it’s rude to stop by unannounced, but I was out this way, so I took the chance that I’d find you home.”

I nodded toward the flowers. “Are those for tomorrow?”

Miss Frankie snipped the stems from a couple of bearded iris and slipped them into one of the jars. “They are.”

“Do you want me to go with you to the cemetery?”

Her eyes flashed to mine. “Oh, sugar, would you?”

“Of course.” The words came out easily. See? All grown up.

Miss Frankie blinked rapidly and turned away, waving a hand over the garden on the counter. “Are these okay? Is there some other kind of flower you’d like better?”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her it didn’t matter to me, so I simply said, “Those are lovely.”

She lifted her chin and cleared her throat. “If you’re sure. I’ll have everything ready tomorrow. You won’t have to do a thing. We’ll go right after the barbecue, if that’s all right.”

“It’s fine,” I said.

Miss Frankie finished snipping stems, dusted her hands together, and leaned against the counter. “I don’t suppose I need to ask what you’re here to talk about, do I?”

“I don’t suppose you do,” I said. “I just came from Zydeco. Edie tried to quit on me.”

That earned a look of surprise. “Did she? Well, I didn’t see that coming.” Miss Frankie dumped cold coffee from the pot that was sitting on the counter and set about making a fresh one. “You said she
tried
to quit. I guess you didn’t let her.”

“No I didn’t. At least, she agreed to wait for a few days so I could attempt to figure out a better solution.”

Miss Frankie didn’t say anything until she had the coffee brewing. Somehow I managed not to jump out of my skin while she thought about what I’d said. “You’ve come to ask me to change my mind about Ox’s idea.”

“Not exactly.” I linked my hands together on the table and tried to marshal my thoughts so I could explain how I felt and sound rational while I did it. “We’re at a crossroads, Miss Frankie. You don’t want to change Zydeco, and I don’t want to lose staff, but clearly we have to do something. I’m hoping we can put our heads together and find a solution we can both live with.”

She sat across the table from me. “Well, all right. You probably think I’m being hardheaded.”

“I think you’re being sentimental, but maybe you’re also being smart. What Ox is suggesting would change Zydeco dramatically. I realized as I was driving through your neighborhood this afternoon that you’re right about one thing. I’m not sure the change would be a good thing for us. We could lose our client base.”

Her lips curved. She seemed pleased that I understood. “And I appreciate how you feel about the staff, Rita. Really I do. That’s one of the reasons I chose you to step in when Philippe died. I wanted someone in charge who would value not only the dream but also the
people
the way Philippe did.”

We sat there for a moment with only the sound of brewing coffee breaking the silence. Finally, I said, “Edie thinks she’s the most expendable person at Zydeco. I disagree. It’s true she’s not as accomplished in the kitchen and her decorating skills aren’t that great, but she’s indispensible at keeping things running smoothly. She understands how things work in the industry, she coordinates the schedule and keeps track of the contracts, and she does a thousand other things I don’t have time to do.”

Miss Frankie nodded as I spoke and got up to gather sugar, cream, and mugs. “I know she does, sugar. And she’s a friend. She’s been at Zydeco from the beginning. I understand that.”

“So what do we do?”

Miss Frankie pulled a couple of spoons from a drawer and turned back to face me. “I’ve been thinking about it since I left the bakery yesterday, and I’ve decided that I’ll just have to sell something.”

She sounded so matter-of-fact, I rocked back on my chair a little. “You’ll what?”

“I’ll sell something.” She waved a hand to encompass the house, the yard, the car in the driveway. “I might be temporarily cash poor, but I’m not completely without resources.”

I didn’t know which emotion was stronger, relief or concern. “But what would you sell? Surely not the house.”

She laughed and filled our mugs, then carried them to the table. “This house? Never. It would have to be one of my other pieces of property, I’m afraid.”

I’d inherited Philippe’s personal bank account when he died, but it was just a drop in the bucket compared to the assets Miss Frankie controlled. I’d never asked about the family money, and neither he nor Miss Frankie had ever really talked to me about where their wealth had come from. But there’s a time and a place for everything. “What property?”

“Oh, sugar, I have acreage all over this area. Most of the lots have been developed, but a few are still more or less vacant. Unfortunately, most of those aren’t worth much. It will have to be one of the others. I’ll have to talk to Thaddeus, of course. He has a list of where everything is, and he can get details from the property manager who looks out for it all.”

Thaddeus Montgomery was the family attorney. Back when I was pursuing the divorce, he’d been my adversary. But since Philippe died, Thaddeus had become a friend who looked after my affairs as well.

Miss Frankie sounded calm and casual, as if selling off her land was nothing more complicated than returning an unwanted purchase to the local Walmart. I was having trouble wrapping my mind around the concept. “You have so much property, you can’t keep track of it?”

Miss Frankie laughed at my confusion. “Honestly, sugar, it’s not that big a deal. To me it’s just pieces of paper my daddy passed down from his daddy, and his daddy before that.”

Bubbling up beneath the confusion I felt another emotion, one I was much more familiar with—guilt. “You want to sell property that’s been in your family for generations because the bakery is in trouble? I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You didn’t ask,” she said. “I offered. Don’t try to talk me out of it. And don’t you forget, Zydeco’s half mine. It’s important to me to keep it the way it was. Philippe had ideas for that place, and when he died I vowed to keep his plans moving forward.”

“But you’re talking about selling your family property. Land you inherited—”

“I’m talking about the future, not the past. Roots are important, but I’m not going to cling to some old ratty piece of land while you and Zydeco suffer. What kind of family would that make me?”

Tears pooled in my eyes and Miss Frankie’s silhouette blurred. I swiped at my eyes and looked around for a tissue. It wasn’t just her generosity that had me sniffling; it was the affirmation that she really considered me family. Of course, that was all stirred up with another dash of guilt that I hadn’t spared a thought for what she was feeling as we approached Memorial Day, and the certainty that I didn’t deserve the bailout she was offering.

And that’s exactly what I told her.

She bent down and kissed the top of my head. “Now, now, that’s just plain foolish talk. I’ll call Thaddeus and get the list, and together you and I can go over the lots he thinks would be best to put on the market. Is that all right with you?”

“You want me to help you decide?” My voice cracked, and I lunged for the paper towels on the counter.

“Well, of course! You’re the only family I have. I value your opinion.”

I had trouble croaking out the next few words around the massive lump in my throat. “Just tell me where and when.”

At that moment I would have promised her anything. You’d think by now I’d know better.

Twenty-three

I hadn’t spent more than a few minutes in my own house since Friday morning, so after leaving Miss Frankie’s, I stopped home. I planned to do little more than take in the mail and switch which lights I’d left burning to discourage intruders, but when I glanced inside the fridge and realized that I’d left a package of fresh chicken breasts sitting there for two days, I changed my mind.

The chicken wouldn’t last another day, and I was in the mood for some alone time, so I bagged the idea of eating out and instead threw together a cilantro almond chicken salad that had recently become one of my favorites.

I coated the chicken (with skin, bone in) in kosher salt and let it sit while I put in a load of laundry. When I finished that, I rinsed the salt from the chicken and poached the breasts with carrot, onion, parsley, and celery.

Leaving the chicken to cool, I switched the laundry to the dryer, then went back and shredded the meat, making sure to carry the skin and bones to the trash outside. There aren’t many odors worse than chicken garbage left sitting around.

With the chicken ready, I toasted then slivered the almonds for the dressing, adding garlic, jalapeño, mayo, and sour cream, and folding in cilantro and lime juice to deepen the layers of flavor. I stirred the dressing into the chicken, poured sweet tea over ice, then grabbed a book from the second-floor library and carried the whole thing to the terrace garden on the roof of the house.

Large planters holding a variety of trees and flowering shrubs rim the wrought-iron railing that forms the perimeter of the garden, and stone chairs with colorful cushions ring a round table in the terrace’s center. At night, twinkling white lights strung everywhere give the place a fairy-tale look. It’s a beautiful space Philippe put together, and I don’t spend nearly enough time up there, but after my meeting with Miss Frankie, it seemed like the perfect place to gather my thoughts.

Part of me—the part I’d inherited from my uncle Nestor—was convinced my new life was all too good to be true. But I was slowly learning that my internal worrywart isn’t always right. Good things do happen . . . sometimes. I tamped down the hollow, empty feeling of impending doom and settled into my favorite chair with lunch and my book.

I ate slowly, killing time until I could meet Gabriel at the Dizzy Duke. The book was good, an old James Lee Burke I hadn’t read. It should have held my attention, but my mind kept wandering from Zydeco to Miss Frankie to the Love Nest and Monroe Magee. I kept thinking about how Grey had alluded to some kind of tragedy in the past, and wondering if he was really crazy or just eccentric.

But just how crazy (or eccentric) was he? Enough to commit murder? What about Cleveland, who had made a lot of noise about how much he hated Monroe? Had he tried to kill Monroe and poisoned Dontae instead? And while I’d ruled out Antwon and Tamarra as possible suspects, because their connection to the others seemed indirect and I’d seen them stumble out of their room the night Dontae died, had I been too quick to cross them off my list?

After a while I gave up pretending to read. I went back inside, folded the laundry, stacked my dishes in the dishwasher, and drove to the Dizzy Duke. I was a few minutes early, but Gabriel’s shift was scheduled to end soon and I hoped he might even be able to slip away early. It had been a rough couple of days and I was already exhausted, but if we left now, we might have time to talk with a couple of the Love Nest’s residents before they went to bed.

In contrast to my last visit, tonight the bar was full of noisy patrons, most of whom were engrossed in the game on the big-screen TVs at either end of the room. I looked around for Old Dog Leg, but the band hadn’t arrived, and I knew he’d probably avoid the crowded bar during the game. It was just as well. I didn’t have any news to share with him, and he’d already told me what he knew.

I squeezed between tables, earning jeers from inebriated sports fans who objected to my shadow on the screen, and waited for one of the only empty spots at the bar while a couple of overworked cocktail waitresses shouted orders at the bartenders and complained to each other about rude customers.

It seemed like everyone in the place was shouting, and between the noise and heat generated by so many bodies packed together, my skin began to crawl. I was more than eager to get out of there.

After what felt like forever, Gabriel paused in front of me on his way to deliver a handful of longneck beer bottles to the other end of the bar. “You’re early!” he shouted.

“A little!” I shouted back. “How long before you’ll be able to leave?”

He glanced at his watch and shook his head. “At the rate it’s been going? Never. The game just went into overtime, and the crowd doesn’t show any sign of letting up.”

My smile faded. “You mean you might not be able to leave at five?”

“I mean I probably won’t be able to leave until nine or ten,” Gabriel said with a scowl. He hustled away to deliver the drinks and gather money, then came back on his way to the cash register. “I’m sorry about this. Just make yourself comfortable. I’ll get away as soon as humanly possible.”

Comfortable. Right.

The bar was crowded with basketball fans stacked two deep, and the only empty stools were smack in the middle of the fray. I searched for an available table, but that proved to be a futile effort. I hitched myself onto an empty stool and reluctantly waved away Gabriel’s offer to bring me a margarita. He’s a true artist at making them, so the offer was more than tempting, but I still had to drive the Mercedes home and besides I had way too much to think about. I needed a clear head, and I’d learned from experience that Gabriel’s margaritas and a clear head cannot coexist.