Bananas Foster and a Dead Mobster (9 page)

"I told you I had a personal matter to take care of," Chef Otto insists.

"Which was?" Georgina gives him the evil eye. She glares at him up and down with a look of disapproval and severe distaste. It's exciting to witness when I'm not on the receiving end. It's actually pretty impressive. Chef Otto squirms in his seat, fidgeting until he nods.

"I was…" He fidgets some more. "If you must know, I ate a bad batch of shellfish the night before. I was in the bathroom…letting nature take its course."

"And that smell you kept blaming on the old man at the peanut stand?" Georgina adds.

"It was
me
, okay. Passing gas isn't a crime."

"Oh. My. Gosh." Georgina wrinkles her nose like she's picturing it in her head. "Well, in your case, Chef, it should be. Disgusting."

I cover my mouth to hide my vengeful grin.

"You have your answers." Chef Otto jumps to his feet, leaning across the table and snatching Susu's leash from me. "It's time for me to go." He marches away from our table, and Bree follows him, spouting more reasons why he should go to the police and not have us all expelled.

Georgina takes a deep breath. She sips a little more of her coffee and looks at me.

"Go ahead," she says. "Otto is a liar and the smelliest man I've ever met. Say
I told you so
."

"Why? You said it yourself. I have no right to be handing out relationship advice."

"He lied about everything." Georgina looks down at her white wedge sandals. "He's a horrible businessman. He's addicted to gambling. And you're right. His new TV show is a load of crap." She takes another soothing breath, dabbing the corner of her eye. "I feel so…"

"Stupid?" I guess. "Foolish? Naive?"

"I guess you would know better than anyone." She dabs the corner of her eye again and quickly regains her usual snooty aura. The only difference is that she doesn't smirk when she looks at me. Her half-smile isn't forced.

It's genuine.

"I guess I do," I agree.

Bree comes trudging into the living room with her cell phone at her ear. She stops to tap her fluffy pink slippers as she pulls at a strand of her strawberry blonde locks. I smile, watching her nod repeatedly. By the annoyed look on her face, I know whose voice is on the other end.

"Yes, I will," Bree says. She pauses for a minute and rolls her eyes. "For heaven's sake, Karl, I told you I'll meet you there." More nodding and eye rolling. "I can't just magically blink and appear there. I'm not a genie. I have to get dressed first." Bree sighs and glances at the time. "Yes, I know it's the afternoon, and
no
I do not have seasonal affective disorder because I'm still in my pajamas at five o'clock on a Sunday."

I laugh.

"Good-bye, Karl." She scowls at her phone as she hangs up. "He's brilliant, but he drives me up the wall."

"What's the problem this time?" I ask. Karl is even more of a perfectionist than Bree. In his case though, it seems to be more obsessive compulsive.

"He wants to show me something over at the Musca Madness bottling factory," she answers.

"Do they want to sponsor your buffet or something?" I guess. "Have you serve dishes made with their muscadine and hot pepper jelly in exchange for a lifetime supply?" I chuckle to myself.

"Who knows?" Bree looks down at her nightgown—her choice of clothing after running herself a hot afternoon bath. "I'd never even heard of the place until I came here."

"Me neither," I add. "I didn't even know that a muscadine is a type of grape."

"Yeah, well there were a lot of things you didn't know."

There's a loud knock on the door, and the two of us lock eyes.

"I'll get it," I volunteer. "You go and get changed." I rush to answer the door, expecting to hear the sound of Susu's soft barking behind me. I'm starting to imagine that she's around even when she's not. I open the door and find Cole standing on the other side holding a stack of plastic containers.

"We've really got to start doing this at my place," he says, stepping past me and setting the food down on the table.

"Oh, right," I blurt out. "Dinner."

"You forgot?" He looks toward Bree, who is still lingering in the hallway. "Nice jammies."

"Nice…" Bree attempts to throw the snide remark back at him, but she comes up short. "Oh, I can't think of anything."

"It is five, right?" Cole pretends to look at his watch by glancing at his bare wrist. "Not 1:00 AM?"

"Hilarious," Bree replies. "Actually, I was just about to change and run an errand. Looks like you two are on your own for dinner."

I glance at Cole, and my heart races. He looks at me at the same time, and our eyes connect. Our kiss flashes in my mind like it does whenever I see him now. I can't forget that moment. I'm not sure I ever will. It's starting to haunt me.

"We'll go with you," I say. "Right, Cole?"

"Yeah," he agrees. "Wouldn't want you to miss out on my barbecue ribs."

Bree narrows her eyes, studying the two of us with an odd look on her face. Even in our attempts to make things normal between us—to stay friends—any alone time is still awkward. The fact that Cole agrees with my idea means that he feels it too. Maybe we've crossed a line we can never come back from. Like when you see a distant relative in the nude or accidentally walk in on a coworker in the restroom. You
can't
go back from it. Those memories stay with you whenever you see the person.

"Are you sure?" she asks. "We'll have to reheat the food and everything."

"No harm done," Cole says a little too loudly.

"Okay." Bree turns slowly and heads toward her room.

"Nice one," I mutter at Cole.

"What?" He throws his hands up in the air. "You were thinking it too."

"Thinking what?" I test him. He doesn't like it.

"Don't play that game, Poppy." He shakes his head. "You're afraid to have dinner with me alone because you think it'll feel too much like a date."

"Won't it?"

"Well, yeah, but…" Cole busies himself with making space in the fridge for his delayed dinner containers, "…we have to start somewhere. The sooner we get over that the sooner we can go back to being friends…with—"

"Don't say
benefits
," I cut in. "I never agreed to that."

He chuckles, putting his food in the fridge. I retreat to the sofa. When he finishes putting the food away, Cole walks toward me. I clasp my hands together, holding them tight. A lump forms in my throat. The longer I wait to swallow, the louder and more embarrassing it will sound.

"We're alone now," he points out. "This isn't weird, right?"

"Right," I agree—my chest drumming.
Lie. Total lie
.

He sits next to me.

"So if I do this," he says, scooting a little closer, "you won't freak out?"

"I'm fine," I assure him.

"Good." He leans back, stretching his arms across the top of the couch. I tap my foot, waiting anxiously for Bree to finish getting ready.

"How long does it take to slip on a pair of jeans?" I mumble.

"Huh?"

"Nothing." I take a deep breath.

"You're being weird," Cole says. "Just act normal."

I turn to look at him, and immediately my eyes dart to his lips.

No, Poppy.

"I'm trying but…"

"But what?" he urges me on.

"Well," my thoughts race and I can't control them, "when you look at me do you ever think about…you know?"

"The closet?" He grins.

"Yes," I admit.

"Now I am," he replies. I stand up, crossing my arms and rubbing the tips of my elbows.

"You're impossible." I don't mean to raise my voice at him, but my comment comes out as more of an accusation than a playful observation. Really, I'm just frustrated with myself for not being able to get over a simple kiss.

"Calm down, Poppy. I have an idea."

"You do?"

"Yeah," he responds. "When we…you know…"
He can't say it either
. "I think you're making that moment at Gino's apartment out to be something it's not."

"What are you saying exactly?" I ask, glancing down the hallway at Bree's bedroom door. I start to adjust the fabric of my T-shirt, but I stop myself. I shouldn't care what Cole thinks of my outfit. My hair. If my perfume is too strong.

"I'm saying a kiss is a kiss." He stands up too and walks toward me—his eyes sparkling like two tiny gems. His biceps bulge underneath his shirt when he crosses his sturdy arms across his torso. The bright colors on his shirt make his skin look tanner than usual. "Whatever you thought you felt between us was probably just the excitement of possibly being caught."

"So, what's your solution?" I know what he's getting at, and it's a horrible idea. "You want to kiss me again?"

"Are you offering?" he jokes.

I take a step back.

"That's a stupid idea," I answer. "Why would
that
make things better?"

Cole takes a step forward.

"You'd forget about the closet."

I take another step back.

"And I'd be thinking about today for the rest of the semester," I add. "It won't work."

Cole takes another step forward.

"What if you hate it?" Cole asks. "Won't that solve all your problems?"

"
Our
problems," I correct him. "Don't act like I'm some kind of freak here. You're having a hard time with this too. I can see it in your eyes."

Cole takes another step. He's close enough for me to smell the subtle scent of smoked meat on his shirt, and his eyes reel me in against my will. His wide hand cups my cheeks, and he doesn't wait for me to react before he brings his lips to mine. Just like last time, Cole kisses me, and I kiss him back.

"Ah-hem." Bree clears her throat. Her hair is tied up in a bun, and she's wearing a lose pair of khaki shorts.

"Bree," I blurt out, pushing Cole away from me. It only draws more attention to the situation. "Um…"
It's not what it looks like
is understatement because it's exactly what it looks like.

Cole and I kissed, and I was right.

It made things worse.

"Cole, if that's part of the dinner package, I think I'll skip dessert," Bree responds.

The bottling factory is dark, and the parking lot looks abandoned. Once a bustling business known across the region for their muscadine and hot pepper jelly, Musca Madness, the plant looks run down and almost ghostly. The cement is rocky, the walls of the building look faded, and there are weeds growing in random places.

"There's Karl's car," Bree points out. I park next to it, rolling up my windows. The three of us get out and survey the sight before us.

"Is this place even still in business?" I ask.

"I assumed it was." Bree walks toward the front doors of a small shed-like building connected to the factory. I peer through the glass and see the remnants of a reception counter. A notice is posted on the glass. "Looks like they closed a month ago."

"There's something strange about this place," Cole says. He walks toward the factory where the tiny glass window on the door is cracked. "Looks like the perfect crib for a meth lab."

"Cole," Bree gasps. "I'm sure Karl has a good reason for being here."

"What? He's discovered a new strand of cannabis that pairs well with peaches?" Cole chuckles.

Bree looks nervously around the parking lot, dialing Karl's number. The factory is on a plot of land far from the highway. There's nothing around us but overgrown weeds and random patches of trees—an unkempt spot for a once-reputable business.

"He's not answering," she says.

"His car is here," I reply. "He's around here somewhere." I try the front door.

Locked.

I wipe beads of sweat from my forehead and try another door around the side.

Locked too.

"Over here," Cole calls from the other side of the factory. "This door is open."

The three of us step through the entrance into an open room that looks like it has been collecting dust for years. The concrete floors are just as chipped as the pavement outside and there are pipes sticking out from multiple places. There are marks on the floor where equipment used to be, and some of the older machines were even left to die and rust away.

A chill runs down my spine, and I shudder. I have an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach—the kind that screams I shouldn't be here. I watch Bree nervously look at her phone again. She scans the room for any sign of Karl.

"Call him again." I gulp. There are too many nooks and crannies left unseen. Too many shadows. If ghosts and demons are indeed real, they probably live here.

"On it." Bree is already in the process of hitting redial. She waits, tapping her foot. "He's not answering again."

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Bree turns and looks at me—her face chalk white.

"Karl." Cole's voice echoes through the building. He moves closer to the ringing with his fists clenched. "Come on, man, this isn't funny."

Ring. Ring. Ring.

The three of us look at each other. Bree is so frozen in place she doesn't even blink. Her arm looks like it is permanently sealed in place, holding her phone to her ear. I walk with Cole toward the noise, looking from side to side.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

I jog to the edge of the factory because it helps me clear my head. I push back the stampede of horrible thoughts swirling through my mind. Visions of the worst possible endings to this moment.
Something is wrong. Something has to be wrong.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

The noise chimes from inside a broken piece of ventilation pipe. The steel structure looks big enough to fit a few children, or a large family of cats. I carefully walk toward it.
He must have dropped his cell phone. That's it. He lost his cell phone.

My thoughts betray me.

A surge of adrenaline rushes through my veins. My blood feels like it's being whisked around in a saucepan. My eyes sting from the shock—opening as wide as they're able. Inside the giant steel pipe is a body. A lifeless body next to a chiming cell phone.

It is Karl, and judging by the crimson stain on the front of his T-shirt, he's dead.

*   *   *

Detective Reid is mad at me. He hardly looks at me. Instead, he pretends to jot things down in his notebook. He shakes his head as a team of medics make Karl's fate official.

He's gone.

"How many times will I have to warn you to stay away before
you're
the one in the body bag?" he mutters, scribbling nonsense in his notepad.

"I wasn't on a sleuthing binge," I answer. "We were meeting a friend, Bree's kitchen partner."

"You're sure that's all?" He finally glances at me. He's wearing a suit and tie that are both neatly pressed. It's like he was pulled away from church to come here.

"Yes, I'm sure." I wait for him to look at his notepad again. "So, what happened to him? Gun shot?"

"Most likely courtesy of the capo, a Mr. Leo Bianco according to sources." He clears his throat to stop himself from rambling on with more details.

"What makes you think that?"

"I'm surprised you even have to ask," Detective Reid replies.

"I wasn't lying when I said I wasn't sniffing around for clues."

"See that bundle of blankets?" He points across the warehouse at a roll of fabric I hadn't noticed earlier. "Someone's been sleeping here, and your buddy Karl must have caught him at a bad time."

"So, Karl's death was an accident?" I think of him whisking away in the classroom and pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Accidents like this shouldn't happen to innocent people like him.

"Most likely," he answers, avoiding eye contact.

I glance outside where Bree is sobbing on Cole's shoulder as a police officer attempts to get a statement from her. I've been playing with fire trying to get ahead of Detective Reid only to prove to him that I'm not some serving wench who spends her free time baking loaves of bread. I've been through too much to leave my fate in the hands of others, but that body sitting in the ventilation pipe could've been mine this time.

"Derek," I begin. He stops writing to listen but won't look at me. "I mean, Detective Reid. I know you and I have had our differences."

"If that's what you call directly disobeying the advice of an experienced officer." Now I have his full attention.

"I'm only trying to figure this out before I'm the only suspect on your list," I answer. "I have a possible lead for you." I bite the side of my cheek.
Chef Otto is going to fail me after this
. "You're right, it could've been me today. Or Bree. Or Cole."

"I'm listening."

"One of the instructors at the academy, Chef Otto Chimenti—"

"I've heard of him," Detective Reid mentions.

"He told me something yesterday that I think you should know." I use the sight of Bree wilting in Cole's arms to keep me going. At first this was a race. A race to prove myself and keep my ego intact in the process. If this is how the game is played, I shouldn't be playing it.

"What did he tell you, Poppy?"

"I really hope the school doesn't take a hit for this one," I say. "Chef Otto owes a debt…to the Bianco family."

Detective Reid raises his eyebrows, rubbing his scruffy chin in disbelief.

"You're sure about this?"

"Very," I answer. "Bree was there too and Georgina Levens. We told him to tell the police, but he refused. Any mobsters in town are probably here because of him."

"Did he say how much he owes them?"

"No." I shake my head. "But it's got to be a lot if the mafia is sending in their finest."

"Thank you for telling me," Detective Reid responds.

I nod, heading toward Bree as she rests her hand on the side of Karl's car. She glances through the window and watches as the police unlock Karl's car doors to search for anything suspicious. Bree watches as they open the trunk only to find an emergency car kit and an ice scraper. The rest of the car is empty, with the exception of a schoolbook on the passenger's seat. Bree reaches for it.

"His cake book," she says quietly. "He would scribble notes and things along the pages. It was rather annoying when he stopped mid-recipe a few times to do it."

"I'm sorry, Bree." I put a hand on her shoulder, and she wipes away another tear.

"Life's too short, isn't it?" Bree touches the pages as if they're a worn antique. Her fingers graze the edge of a note card marking the lesson on stringwork techniques. Bree opens to the page and wrinkles her forehead.

"What is it?"

"That's an odd thing to use as a book mark," she comments, pulling the note card out of place. She examines both sides. "He's written something on it. An address."

"Maybe it's for a restaurant he wants to try or something?" I suggest.

"No." Bree stares at his writing. "Maybe…no."

"He said he wanted to show you something, right?" I play back my memory of Bree's phone call—her half of the conversation. "Maybe that's what it was."

"No," she says again, sounding confused.

"We could be at that location right now," Cole joins in, glancing at the note card. "Is that the factory address? Let me see."

"No." Bree sighs. "It's not an address in Georgia."

"Then where's it from?" I ask, attempting to snag the card and see for myself.

Bree spares me the trouble and hands it to me. I read over each word carefully, concentrating as if I'm piping frosting onto a batch of cupcakes. The queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach returns.

New Orleans.