Bananas Foster and a Dead Mobster (13 page)

"He questioned the legitimacy of our vegan certification, and then he showed up again the next day," she shouts. "What was I supposed to do, Bonnie? Let him run his mouth and tank the business? I got nervous."

"What's does it matter?" Bonnie argues, shouting even louder. The bustle of the market around us comes to a halt. I feel like a target has been hung on my back, and a dozen sharpshooters are scoping me out. All eyes are on us.

"Oh, Bonnie." Mary Frances seems more concerned with the attention she's gathered, but Bonnie fails to notice. Maybe she just doesn't care?

"Don't
oh Bonnie
me," she yells. "I've let you push me around long enough! Need I remind you that if it weren't for me, we'd have no soap? Our bars are the best dang vegan products in the entire southern United States. I don't care about the opinion of a blob of a man who sweats like Niagara Falls and smells of cheese!"

"Okay," Mary Frances says through her teeth. "That's enough."

"Typical!" Bonnie goes on, waving her arms in the air like a ravenous baboon. "Here I am pouring my heart out, and you're still treating me like a toddler. Come on then. What did this guy say to you? Did he call you a liar? An old bat? A raisin in heels?"

"
Bonnie
." Mary Frances's entire face looks like it's ready for lift off—steam and all.

"Or worse, did he ask for your number, and you turned him down?" Bonnie pauses for a minute and then gasps. "Did you ask for
his
number?"

"Bonnie!" her sister finally responds. "There was no exchange of numbers."

"Then what? Surely a little comment about the ingredients in our products isn't worth the trouble we've been through." Bonnie pauses again, but this time she looks at her sister with glossy eyes. "Mary Frances…you
didn't
."

Her sister stays silent.

"You know how I feel about animal cruelty," Bonnie says, tears spilling down her cheeks. "I don't care about the extra cost!"

"Bonnie," she says softly, trying to console her sister.

"No!" Bonnie recoils her arm like a fallen snake. "You've been lying to me this whole time. What was it then? Huh?"

Mary Frances gulps, a look of hard-stricken guilt spreading across her face.

"The coconut milk," she quietly admits. "But I swear Bonnie, it was an accident! Marty delivered goat's milk instead, and I didn't notice until it was too late."

"How many batches?" Bonnie asks, her fists clenched.

"All of our oatmeal sunshine bars," Mary Frances replies. She tries again to place a hand on her sister's shoulder, but Bonnie doesn't accept her apology. Instead, she takes a few steps back. "But Bonnie, we would've lost
so
much money by throwing them all out. So when that gentleman from the farmers' market kept asking me questions, I
had
to shoo him off before he grew suspicious about our vegan certification."

"And now we're frauds," Bonnie responds.

"It's only goat's milk." Mary Frances chuckles nervously as she glances around at her audience.

"It's so much more than that, dear sister," Bonnie says. "You've betrayed me."

"Really?" Cole laughs. "She called goat's milk a betrayal?"

"Hey, she was really hurt by what her sister did," Bree responds. "I would be too if I were a hard-core vegan."

"Yeah," I agree. "Mary Frances doesn't seem like the easiest person to get along with."

Bree stays close to Cole and me, leaving Jeff to trail behind us. Georgina booked herself a last minute nail appointment she said she desperately needed. We explore more of the French Quarter—the sun beating down on our faces and streetcars rumbling in the distance. Karl's address is somewhat difficult to find with the internet pointing us toward a completely different street to reach our destination. Cole holds up his map, having resorted to the traditional form of address hunting.

"Uh-huh." Cole chuckles. "I see the problem. This street name must have changed. That's why we couldn't quite find what we were looking for online."

"That happens?" Bree chimes in.

"My grandparents lived in the same house their whole lives, but their address changed a couple times," Jeff comments. Bree refuses to look at him. Cole folds his city map and jogs around the corner. The rest of us speed walk to keep up with him.

"Here it is," Cole mutters, standing in front of a glass door with bars on the outside—a business entrance.

"It's a pharmacy?" I exclaim. I take a deep breath as I look at the sign in front of us advertising their new longer hours. The chipped paint and weeds growing along the sidewalk send a shiver up my spine. We're not exactly in the nicest part of town. "No, this can't be right."

"What were you expecting?" Jeff replies. "The mob's hideout?" He shrugs, kicking the side of his hiking boot against the brick building.

"It still could be," Bree argues, holding her chin high. Cole and I glance at each other. Though we haven't specifically discussed it, I have the sneaking feeling he knows about Bree and Jeff too. I'm sure Jeff blabbed about it at some point. The tension between them is getting worse. "Secret mafia hangouts aren't exactly labeled, you know."

"You're an expert on that too?" Jeff smirks.

"Okay," Cole intervenes. "Poppy, you and Bree go check it out. Jeff and I will wait here and make sure nothing fishy goes down around here." I nod at him gratefully.

"Come on, Bree," I say. I grab her arm and pull her inside before her cheeks get any redder.

"I hate that guy," she mumbles.

"Have you two—?"

"No," Bree answers before I can finish. "No, we haven't talked about…what happened. Ugh. I hate thinking about it." She glances at me, forcing herself to smile. "Besides, talking it out didn't work so well for you, did it?"

"That's different." I snap. I don't mean to sound defensive, but it's the way my comment flies out. "You and Jeff barely know each other."

"Well, we're not as chummy as you and Cole." She crosses her arms and pauses when we come to an aisle of drugstore makeup. Bree lingers near a shelf of pink lipsticks.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Don't play that game, Poppy. I saw you two at it, remember?" She picks a summery pink lipstick and swatches it against her skin. "You think I could pull this off?"

"It wasn't what you think," I correct her. "It was an experiment."

"Poppy, I can tell the difference between a kiss and a
kiss
." She raises her eyebrows, placing the lipstick back where she found it. "There's something between you two, and you're running out of time. Graduation is closer than you think, and before you know it he'll be back in Atlanta, and you'll be who knows where."

"And you'll be back at the cupcake shop in Connecticut?" It seems they all have their lives in order but me. No surprise.

"If I'm lucky, Marjorie will sell it to me," Bree responds. "She's been planning on retiring, and I practically run the place. It's a perfect fit." She smiles as she tilts her head to get a closer look at the selection of reds.

"I'm glad one of us knows what she's doing." I glance up and down the aisle. "My only experience with the food industry is my shifts at the student bakery. I'd love a shop of my own, but I'd probably bake myself into bankruptcy."

"Maybe you could find a job on a cruise ship or something?" she suggests. "You know, see the world?"

"Why don't you?" I fire the question back at her.

"Seasickness," Bree answers. "I'd never be able to keep anything down. Actually, maybe that's what I should do. I could shave off some of my cake weight." Despite her own opinions about herself, Bree is only a couple of sizes larger than me, and her figure is much more womanly. If only she knew how many women lay awake at night dreaming of having a bust like hers.

"No diet talk," I remind her. "I'm trying to embrace my inner foodie, and I can't do that if I get caught up thinking about calories."

"Sorry," Bree replies. "It's a habit I've never been able to break."

The two of us move along, looking for clues. Something out of the ordinary.
Someone
out of the ordinary. Anything that might tell us why Karl thought a dumpy pharmacy on the edge of downtown New Orleans was worth visiting. We're coming up short.

"It's pretty ordinary," Bree whispers. "Aside from their sparse cosmetics section. How hard is it to restock bronzer?"

"We could try the bathrooms?" I suggest.

"Are you hoping for a hidden message on the wall?" She sighs, searching for a sign that says restrooms.

"We came all this way," I reply. "It's worth having a look."

I follow her toward the back corner of the store to a tiny hall with two single restrooms.
Men
and
Women
. The small nook of space matches the rest of the store. It's old with scratched walls, dirty baseboards, and scuffed floors. Ironically, it's not a very clean-looking place for a pharmacy, and it's definitely not one I would choose to fill a prescription.

I hesitate to open the door to either bathroom. First, because who knows what type of bacteria are growing on the doorknobs. And second, single bathrooms and I don't mix well. I either get stuck, walked in on, the sink doesn't work, or I somehow break the toilet.

"You realize if Karl did leave some kind of hidden message here it's probably in the men's." Bree eyes the door to the men's room.

"Yeah, but it's Karl." I smile and walk toward the women's room. "If this address really is a clue and it's really meant for us, Karl would've assumed that we'd check the ladies first. Which means he might've put our next clue in the women's bathroom."

To prove my point, I try the door. It squeaks as it opens, revealing a single toilet, sink, and trash can. I step inside, and Bree follows, shutting the door behind us. The mirror is streaked, and there's scum building up around the faucet. The toilet seat is crooked, and there's an unhealthy amount of dirt, hair, and shreds of toilet paper in the corners. Bree covers her nose.

"I doubt this has ever been cleaned," she says. I check behind the door, along the walls, and any place that Karl could've hidden something.

"See anything?" I ask, thumbing through a stack of hand towels.

"I'm afraid to look." Bree keeps her nose covered and hardly moves.

I have no choice in the matter. One of us needs to brave the germs and search high and low. I guess it's kind of like when you pull over at the nearest truck stop during a long road trip. When there's no other bathroom for miles you just have to deal with it or wet your pants.

I use my foot to tip the trash can. Nothing. I even force myself to check inside the trash bag. Still nothing. I sigh, glancing in the mirror. At least, one good thing came out of this trip. I now know that the soap sisters are innocent…of murder.

"There's nothing here," I say. "Let's check the men's and then get out of here."

"I may have to buy some hand sanitizer." Bree tries to open the door with two fingers. "I think it's stuck."

"Here, let me." I step in front of her and grip the doorknob. "Soap and water exist for a reason." I push and pull the door, but it won't budge. I squeeze the knob tighter and use all the muscles in my arms to force it open. My chest starts to pound.

"We're stuck," Bree gasps. She takes a deep breath and begins fanning her face.

"Calm down," I respond, but inside I'm not calm either.

"Do you think someone locked us in here to rot away like the grime on the taps?" Bree closes her eyes and focuses on breathing. "Okay, is it just me, or is this bathroom getting smaller?"

I yank at the knob again, using all my weight to try to force it open. It still won't budge, so I pound on the door, beating on the wood like a drum. Sadly, this isn't the first time I've been trapped in a confined space. Being stuck in here brings back terrible memories of when I was locked in a storage closet at the Palais Garnier in Paris. I was lucky I made it out alive. At least I have light in here. The storage closet was pitch black.

"Hello?" I shout. "Can anyone out there hear me?"

"Oh, we're in trouble," Bree mumbles. "We're in deep trouble."

"Relax," I blurt out, mostly because if she keeps panicking I just might join her. "Cole and Jeff are outside. They won't leave without us."

"Oh, right." Bree nods, calming herself down. "Of course."

"Hello?" I pound on the door some more and listen for footsteps. My heart rate soars when the sound of heavy boots clang on the other side. "Hello? Is someone there?"

The door shakes, and I push Bree away.

The knob jiggles a few times before it twists hard, and the bathroom door finally opens.

"Well what do we have here?" A man with matted hair and a long, frizzy beard smirks and stares at the two of us.

I can't tell if the man in front of me is a friend or an enemy.

Bree and I stay frozen near the back wall of the women's bathroom as the bearded man waits for us to make the next move. I take a deep breath, and Bree nudges me forward. The man has a pointy nose and dark menacing eyes, but the rest of his face is hidden beneath handfuls of bushy hair.

"You ladies need another minute?" The man chuckles, rubbing a strand of his facial hair.

"Huh?" Bree wrinkles her nose.

"It's not like that." I roll my eyes. "We were looking for something, and we got stuck."

"Yeah," the man responds, "the lock likes to stick sometimes. What are you looking for?"

My eyes dart to a crooked nametag on his shirt that says
Felix
.

"Nothing," Bree nervously blurts out. "Sir."

"Wait," I whisper to Bree. "Maybe he can help us." I walk toward him, and he steps aside, letting the two of us back into the cramped hallway. "Have you seen a small guy with glasses in here recently?"

Felix laughs. It sounds more like a throaty cackle than actual laughter.

"You're gonna have to be more specific than that," he answers. "We get a lot of fellas by that description passing through here."

My shoulders sink.

This place is a dead end.

"Well, have you seen anything suspicious around here in the last couple of weeks?" I try again, hoping to trigger a memory that might point us in the right direction.

"Suspicious," the man repeats. "As a matter of fact, ma'am, it's been a good while since the place has been robbed. That's a bit suspicious to me."

"Okay," Bree gulps. "We'll be going now." She races back into the store, but I stand my ground, desperately trying to piece together everything I've learned since the morning of the farmers' market murder. Karl has to have had a reason for seeking this place out. He was a very methodical and logical sort of man. Not one to waste time on anything that wasn't educational. He had a love affair with facts, so that's exactly what this place has to be—a physical piece of the puzzle.

"Maybe we have the address wrong," I mutter to myself. "Sir, is there any other street around here that people tend to mix up with this one?"

"Eh…" Felix curls his lip as he thinks. "No."

"Well, did this street used to go by another name?"

"Um…" Felix curls his lip again. "I don't know, ma'am. But you can ask my boss. He's in the back."

"Will you run and get him, please?"

"Poppy," Bree calls me. "Come on. Let's just go." I ignore her plea and keep my attention focused on Felix. My fists remain clenched as he nods.

"Okay, but just so you know, ma'am, he's not much of a people person. Here at the shop we call him Crazy Al on account that he's a bit fried in the head."

"Fried?" Bree repeats, placing her hands on her hips.

"He still thinks it's the 1970's," Felix explains. "Don't stare at his lazy eye, don't agree to check out his shed out back, and don't say the word
creole
. It's one of his trigger words."

"Why?" I'm starting to wonder if talking to Felix's boss, even if it's just to ask him a simple question, is a bad idea.

"Because he's Cajun," Felix replies. "He's gets real mad when people don't know that there's a distinct difference between the two." Felix heads toward a scratched door marked with the words
Employees Only
. "Hey, Al. Al!"

"What?" a voice shouts back.

"Some ladies out front here want to ask you something," Felix yells.

My chest pounds as we wait in silence for Al to emerge from his cave. The door opens slowly, revealing a stick-thin man with a beard similar to Felix's and an eye that stares off into the space behind me. I have to remind myself not to look at it for too long. Crazy Al smirks when he sees me. I take a step back when he reaches out his arms as if a warm embrace is the most appropriate greeting for the occasion.

"Welcome to the neighborhood," Crazy Al announces, eyeing the two of us.

"Hi," I respond. "I'm Poppy, and this is Bree, and—"

"I love poppies." Al butts in. He can't seem to control the volume of his voice. At first it's loud, but as he talks it dies down to a faint whisper. Add in the heavy Cajun accent and Crazy Al is difficult to understand. "I must show you my shed out back, Poppy. You would love it, Poppy."

Felix shakes his head.

"Actually, Al, I wondered if I could ask you a question?"

"Fire away, my little flower. My little Poppy." His gaze wanders away from us and toward the store. I pause, waiting for him to regain his thoughts.

"Um, do you happen to know if this street used to go by another name?" I ask. "You see, we're looking for something, but I think we've got the address mixed up."

"The street, Al." Felix attempts to help me keep his boss on task. "What was it called back in your day?"

"My day?" Al responds in almost a scream. But the expression on his face doesn't change to match it. "I'm not as old as you think. Poppy, come have a look at my shed out back."

"No one is going out back today, Al," Felix reminds him. "Just answer the question."

"Oh." Al looks at me with a vacant stare.

"How long have you worked here?" I ask him, channeling my inner sleuth. A basic interrogation will have to do. I have no idea if I'll be able to get any information out of him at this rate.

"Oh, I've been here since 1991," Al answers. "That's when this hole in the wall was converted into a drugstore."

"And the street address?" I follow up. "Has that changed too over the years?"

"Only the once." He chuckles. "I'd be happy to tell you more in—"

"Al," Felix cuts in. "If you light up out back again, those nosy neighbors of ours will be calling the cops. Is that what you want?"

"Smoking isn't illegal," Bree adds, confused.

"These ain't cigarettes, sweetheart," Felix clarifies.

"Oh." Bree's eyes widen.

"Yeah, yeah," Al shouts. "Okay, forget about my shed."

"The street address," I say, frustrated. I hate having to repeat myself so many times just to get a standard reply. "When did it change?"

"Oh, it changed right after the business changed, but the old address still leads folks our way." Al rubs his beard—his lazy eye aimed at Bree. I don't know if it's on purpose or if he can't control where it looks. "Remember all those couples we used to get walking through the door?" Al laughs.

"I wouldn't know, Al," Felix responds. "I've only been here a few years, remember?"

"Nah." Crazy Al waves a hand, looking at his employee like smoke is blasting from his ears.

"What did this place used to be?" I ask.

"Oh…hang on, little Poppy." Al bites his bottom lip. "I know this. Um…" He exhales loudly, trying to come up with the answer.

"It's okay." I nod, turning to leave. "We'll figure it out." The smell of dust and body odor being thrust throughout the store by box fans is starting to get to me. "Thank you for your time, Craz…I mean,
Al
."

"Whoa! I got it." Crazy Al goes through the motions of reeling in a large fish on a fishing pole. "I remember. I remember, little Poppy."

"Great," I patiently respond. "What was it?"

"This place here…it used to be one of them fancy
adoption
agencies."

"An adoption agency?" Bree questions him. "Are you sure?"

Crazy Al raises his eyebrows as if Bree just muttered that there is no difference between a Creole and a Cajun. I grab her arm and pull her toward the exit. Crazy Al fits his label to a T. He's crazy. And, just like the varying volume of his voice and his jumbled train of thoughts, he's unpredictable.

"Thank you," I yell from the front entrance. I take a deep breath when we step back out onto the street where Cole and Jeff our waiting for us. I'm suddenly very glad that they're normal. Well, mostly.

"Remind me never to trip on acid," Bree mumbles. "That was like pulling teeth."

"You don't think Karl was researching his own adoption, do you?" I ask her. "Did he ever mention anything to you about his family or being adopted or anything like that?"

"No." Bree shakes her head. "And trust me—he talked about a lot of things."

I take another breath, glancing down the street at a man strolling the avenue with an instrument case in his hand. Karl knew something. A secret that got him killed. What sort of secret is worth murdering for?

"He had to have a reason," I point out. "If he wasn't adopted then maybe…"

I gasp.

"What is it?" Bree looks behind her as if she's expecting Crazy Al to be standing there with open arms.

"I think Karl worked it out," I go on. "The murder. The mob. And an old adoption agency?"

"You think the mafia is stalking CPA because of some old adoption records?"

"Not just any old adoption, Bree," I add. "What if all of this has to do with a long lost child of the Bianco clan? I mean, the big boss is on his deathbed. It's all over the news. What if meeting his forgotten kin is one of his dying wishes?"

"That seems a bit far-fetched," Bree responds. "But…" She sighs. "I guess it could be possible. But who on earth would hide a baby at a pastry school?"

"I'm not talking about a baby," I insist. "Think about it."

She pauses to piece it together like I have, but my stomach is bursting with butterflies. I only know of one person who's new in town, who's being followed, and who's Italian. It has to be him. I don't know how exactly, but it
has
to be.

"Who then?" Bree blurts out.

"Mr. Gamblers' Anonymous himself." I can't hold it in any longer. "It's Chef Otto."

*   *   *

Keeping the secret in is like holding an entire batch of Bree's homemade brookies in my mouth. It's not possible. We leave for Georgia in the morning, and I can't stop pacing back and forth in the courtyard. Jeff splashes in the pool with nothing on but a pair of shorts, and Georgina is lying back and working on her tan. Bree is sitting next to her trying not to look at Jeff's abs, and Cole is inside helping Ingrid with the crawfish—his weekly dinner, as promised.

"I still can't believe he never said anything," I say out loud. "And it all makes sense, too. The black Caddy outside his house. The black Caddy hanging around campus. It still doesn't explain who murdered Gino Milani though."

"I think we've established he's a liar," Georgina mentions from her comfy poolside haven. She admires her new manicure, exposing her legs to as much sunlight as possible. Her expression turns sour the more I talk about him.

"Otto wouldn't have killed Gino then." I try to reason my way through it. "Gino would've been family."

"Unless he doesn't know he's a Bianco," Jeff chimes in from the pool.

"I'm sure he knows," Bree argues. "And if he didn't know then, he certainly does now."

"Maybe not." Jeff grins, swimming closer to Bree. "We have secrets in our past that tend to stay buried, right girls?"

Bree rolls her eyes, and Georgina hardly pays him any attention.

"I wonder if Detective Reid knows?" I blurt out.

"I mean, how do you even know Otto is the child in question?" Jeff continues, lifting himself out of the pool. Bree turns her head. "The adoptive parents could've brought the kid up anywhere in a number of different cultures. Who says it has to be Chef Otto?"

"He's Italian, you half-wit," Bree barks at him.

"So?" The more of a rise he gets from her, the happier he appears. "
I
could be Italian for all you know."

"Are you saying
you're
the long lost son of 'More Dough' Bianco?" I ask him.

"I wouldn't be here if I was," he jokes. "I'd be up north collecting my inheritance."

"A dirty inheritance," Bree points out with a scowl on her face.

"I can't take this anymore," Georgina butts in. "You two are driving me nuts." She gets up—her head held high as she strolls back inside to check on dinner. Bree's cheeks turn rosy. I want to leave also to give them some privacy, but I'm afraid Bree will never forgive me for it.

"Well, she's clearly an only child," Jeff comments. "She has zero patience for anything."

"I…uh…" I look at Bree. "I think I'm going to head upstairs and call Detective Reid. Maybe he's already figured this whole thing out?"

"Now?" Bree mutters. Jeff runs his fingers through his wet hair and avoids looking at me. The two of them have things to discuss. Whether or not they will is entirely up to them, but it's time for me to go.

"Yes," I reply. "I think that might be best."

I head back inside to the smell of boiling crawfish. I walk up the stairs to my room, avoiding the urge to spy on Jeff and Bree through the windows overlooking the pool. My stomach churns as I grab my phone and dial Detective Reid's number. I know what he's going to say. He'll start off by asking me what the hazelnuts I'm doing in New Orleans when he asked me to stay put.