Cake on a Hot Tin Roof (12 page)

Fourteen

Standing in the middle of the kitchen and sipping French roast as if it would save my life, I spent the next few minutes hashing out the day’s work schedule with Edie. She tried again to convince me to steer clear, but I still thought she underestimated me. I was perfectly capable of giving the press a brief statement without embarrassing Zydeco. And once the police cleared things up with Uncle Nestor, there would be nothing to worry about on that score.

I made a batch of biscuit dough using ice-cold water and butter straight out of the fridge. When the biscuits were cut out and ready for baking, I pulled an onion, eggs, shredded white cheddar, and bacon from the refrigerator and took out my frustrations and confusion at the cutting board.

Cooking has always been soothing to me, and as I chopped and sautéed, the scents and repetitive motions helped clear my mind and lift my spirits. After a few minutes, I felt good enough to begin my mental to-do list. In addition to the work at the bakery, I needed to call Miss Frankie to make sure she was holding up all right. Even if she and Big Daddy weren’t close, they’d clearly known each other for a long time. Finding an old friend dead was bound to have a negative impact on anyone’s day. I also wanted to pay a condolence call on Judd Boudreaux. It seemed like the right thing to do, and it would give me a chance to return his suit jacket.

And, of course, I needed to take care of my houseguests.

I crisped bacon and crumbled it, then spread it and the sautéed onions over the biscuits. After whisking together heavy cream and sour cream, I mixed in the cheese and eggs, then poured the whole thing over the onion-and-bacon-covered biscuits. By the time I slid the baking dish into the oven, my mouth was watering in anticipation.

I turned on the TV so I could hear the news for myself. After a few minutes, the sports report gave way to a series of commercials, one of which featured Big Daddy Boudreaux skeet shooting and blasting clay pigeons to smithereens. Each one was painted with a number to represent the price of a used car on his lot, and each one exploded after a blast of his shotgun, showing his adoring public how Big Daddy was slashing prices just for them.

“This van has got to go!” he announced with a cheerful grin. “It’s so spotless and the mileage is so low, we could get away with selling it to you for sticker price, but we aren’t like that here at Big Daddy’s. Come in today and I’ll sell it to you. Not for twenty thousand.”
Kablam!
“Not for eighteen.”
Kaboom!
“Not even for seventeen-five.”
Kapowie!
“No siree. Come to Big Daddy’s today and you’ll walk out the door for seventeen three thirty-nine. That price is so low I ought to check myself in for a psych evaluation.”

He brayed a laugh that made my skin crawl. It was eerie watching him preen for the cameras.

While the morning team covered the world news, I sat down with my coffee mug just as Aunt Yolanda shuffled into the kitchen wearing a pink silk nightgown and matching robe. Her dark hair was tousled and her eyes were puffy. From sleep? Or had she been crying?

I watched closely as she poured herself coffee and carried it to the table. I was searching for signs that would help me gauge her mood. She wasn’t one to hold grudges, but we were all walking in uncharted territory and I wasn’t sure what to expect from her this morning.

Cradling the cup in both hands, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “This coffee smells like heaven,” she said when she opened her eyes again. “I really need it this morning.”

She sounded normal enough. I smiled with relief. “You and me both. I’m sorry your first night in town was so—”

“Eventful?” She finished the sentence for me and smiled softly. “It certainly wasn’t your fault. We’ll go see the police first thing and then we can put this whole nightmare behind us.”

“It shouldn’t take long,” I agreed. “What do you and Uncle Nestor have on the agenda after we visit the police station? I wish I could show you around the city, but I have to get to work. Still, that shouldn’t keep the two of you from doing some sightseeing.”

Aunt Yolanda put her cup on the table and stood. “We haven’t talked about that yet. I guess we’ll figure it out when we get there. Now, what shall I fix for breakfast?”

“You’re not fixing anything,” I said. “I’ve already got a breakfast casserole in the oven, and I was planning to make a tropical fruit salad to go along with it.” The salad was a recipe I’d picked up in Chicago. One of my favorites.

Aunt Yolanda sat back down and her shoulders sagged. From this angle I could see shadows under her eyes and lines around her mouth I’d never noticed before. I knew with a certainty I couldn’t explain that none of them had appeared overnight. The realization that she was aging made me unspeakably sad. I said the only thing I could force out of my mouth: “If you don’t want the fruit salad, I can throw together something else.”

“I’m sure it will be delicious.” She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. As if she willed it, the light shifted and the shadows under her eyes faded. “You don’t need to take care of us,
mija
. We’ll be fine.”

“Are you kidding? You’re guests in my home. If I let you fend for yourselves, my aunt would skin me alive. Sit. Enjoy your coffee.”

She sank back, looking a little lost. That was another thing I’d never seen before.

I carried my cup back into the kitchen and gathered mango, papaya, pineapple, kiwi, and mandarin oranges. “We’ll be down near the French Quarter,” I said, trying to keep the tone light. “Maybe you could spend some time there. There’s a parade scheduled for later, so it’ll be crowded, but you could take one of the walking tours of the Quarter and Jackson Square. Maybe even wander down to the river.”

Aunt Yolanda held up a hand to stop me before I could finish. “You’re wearing me out already. We didn’t come to see the city, Rita. We came to see you. Nestor has been worried about you.”

I pulled a fresh mango onto the cutting board. “He doesn’t have to be. I just wish we could have a little fun before you leave. Last night’s party was work for me, but between now and Mardi Gras there’s something going on almost all the time. Is there any chance you could stick around for a few more days?”

She shook her head. “We have tickets on a ten-fifteen flight on Monday morning. We just wanted to see where you’ve chosen to call home.”

I wasn’t sure whether I was more disappointed or relieved, but I held out my arms like a game-show model. “Well, here it is. What do you think?”

“It’s a lovely home, Rita. Truly beautiful. But that’s not what I meant. You know how protective Nestor is of our family, and you have a special place in his heart. You’re his only sister’s only child. The only girl in our family. He’s been worried sick about you here, alone—”

“I was alone in Chicago,” I reminded her.

“You were at pastry school, and then you were married. You weren’t alone for long.”

“So you’re here to check up on me.” A pebble of bitterness found its way into my heart. I had four strapping cousins, each of whom had disappointed his parents in some creative way—Santos by marrying the wrong woman, Aaron by dropping out of college, Manny by dodging the family business to become a musician, and Julio by fathering a baby out of wedlock. He’d married the mother eventually, but for a while it had filled Aunt Yolanda with a deep and abiding shame. But
I
was the one they’d come to check up on?

Was it just because I was “the girl”? Or because I was my mother’s daughter? I knew that my mother had disappointed her older brother with some of her choices. Sometimes it seemed as if he was biding his time, just waiting for me to follow in her footsteps.

I sliced off one side of the mango and made angry gashes in the pale orange flesh, scoring it with a little too much gusto and slicing through the skin. “I’m doing fine,” I said again. “But he doesn’t believe that, does he?”

Aunt Yolanda scowled at me over the rim of her coffee mug. “He’s concerned. He loves you. Is that so bad?”

I stopped slicing and put the knife aside. “He thinks I made a mistake by staying here.”

“He wants to be sure you didn’t,” Aunt Yolanda said. Her smile was gentle, and I thought about all the times she’d interceded between Uncle Nestor and me when I was younger.

I held out my arms again to encompass the magnificent kitchen in the heart of my magnificent home. “I’ve managed not to go wild with all of this for months. You’d think he’d realize that I’m not going to lose my head now. And yeah, I’m happy. How could I not be?”

“It takes more than things to make a person happy,” Aunt Yolanda chided me.

The grin slid from my face. “I’m talking about more than things,
Tía
. I’m doing what I always wanted to do. The bakery is amazing. The staff is great. And New Orleans is—”

“A long way from home,” my aunt said before I could finish. “Your uncle and I miss you.”

The look on her face made me uncomfortable. There are few things I hate more than making Aunt Yolanda sad. “I miss you, too,” I said. “But don’t you want me to make my own way in the world?”

“Yes, of course.”

“So here I am. Making my way. I’m not gone, you know. I’m just not underfoot all the time.”

Aunt Yolanda scowled at me. “You were never underfoot, Rita. You must know that.”

“I do,” I assured her, although there was that lingering doubt. “You and Uncle Nestor saved my life when you took me in. I love you both more than I can say.”

“And yet you’re happy to live so far away.”

I expected guilt trips from Uncle Nestor, but Aunt Yolanda was usually more understanding. Coming from her, this conversation left me tilting on my axis like an off-center cake. “I lived further away than this when Philippe and I were married,” I reminded her. “It didn’t seem to bother you then.”

Aunt Yolanda touched my cheek with her fingertips. “That was different.”

“Because I had a husband?” I stared at her in disbelief. “I could almost expect something that archaic to come out of Uncle Nestor’s mouth, but not yours.”

Aunt Yolanda gave me a look, reached for her mug, and sipped. “That’s not what I meant, Rita. Please don’t put words in my mouth. Your uncle will talk to you when the time is right.”

“When the time is right?” I stared at her, unable to speak for a long moment. “I hope you won’t take that attitude when it comes to the police.”

“Your uncle knows what’s best.”

“I’m not so sure,” I said. “Look, he’s not the king of the castle here. He’s one guy on a list of suspects in a murder investigation. He doesn’t get to call the shots.”

The shadows in her eyes appeared again and her lips formed a thin, disapproving line. “He is not a murder suspect.”

“The dead man’s wife seems to think he is,” I said. “And the police can’t clear him if he doesn’t tell them what they want to know. I love the fact that you’re so supportive of him,
Tía,
” I said, putting my hands over hers, “but throwing up roadblocks to protect him isn’t doing him any favors. If you really want to help him, convince him to talk to the police when we get to the station.”

Her gaze flashed to my face. “He’s not ready.”

“He
has
to be ready,” I insisted. “It’s not up to him.”

She shook her head again. “He has a hard head, your uncle. You know that.”

I did, but frustration made the headache I’d been fighting all morning spike sharply. “Did he at least tell
you
what happened between him and Big Daddy?”

“Me? No.”

“Did you meet Big Daddy last night? Did you hear anything that went on between the two of them?”

Aunt Yolanda nodded. “I met him for a moment. We barely spoke.” She turned her hands over and laced her fingers through mine. “Don’t worry,
mija
. Your uncle did not kill that man.”

“I know he didn’t,” I said. “Now we just have to make sure the police believe it, too.”

Aunt Yolanda smiled softly. “Your uncle will do the right thing,” she said firmly. She glanced around, her expression curious. “Where is he anyway?”

I was halfway to my feet, but her question stopped me cold. “What do you mean, where is he? I thought he was in the guest room with you.”

“With me? No.” A frown furrowed Aunt Yolanda’s brow. “He was gone when I woke up. Are you saying you haven’t seen him this morning?”

My heart slammed in my chest and all sorts of diabolical possibilities raced through my head as I punched his number into my cell phone. When I heard the phone ringing upstairs, I disconnected and hurried to the front door, cursing myself for not checking earlier. I never should have trusted Uncle Nestor to behave for a couple of hours. Sure enough, the deadbolt had been unlocked and so had the regular door lock.

Sullivan had warned me to keep an eye on Uncle Nestor, but I’d let him stroll right out the front door while I slept.

Epic fail.

Fifteen

Heart thudding, I raced up the stairs to my bedroom. My head shuffled through questions the whole way. Where had Uncle Nestor gone? And why hadn’t I heard him leave? Not that I expected answers. I still didn’t know where he’d disappeared to last night. Why was he being so secretive? Was he trying to protect Aunt Yolanda or me? If so, what had Big Daddy said that made him think we needed protecting?

I tugged on a pair of jeans and a Phoenix Suns T-shirt so faded I could barely see the logo anymore. Back on the first floor, I stepped into flip-flops just as Aunt Yolanda appeared at the top of the stairs, also fully dressed, and looking worried in spite of her assurances that everything would turn out okay.

“Finding that man’s body in the pool has made me jittery, I guess,” she said. “Nestor’s probably gone for a walk to clear his head. I’m sure he is just fine.”

There were two big problems with that theory. First, Uncle Nestor doesn’t
take
walks. The idea of him willingly going anywhere on foot was as foreign to me as the idea of putting powdered sugar in an omelet. And second, Uncle Nestor hates mornings. Even if he woke up with a brand-new personality and decided to take a stroll, he wouldn’t have done it with the sunrise.

“You’re probably right,” I said, “but he’s not familiar with the area and he doesn’t have his phone with him. He can’t even call if he gets disoriented.” I smiled, trying to hide my own worry and keep hers under control. Somehow, I kept my voice sounding normal when I said, “I’ll feel better knowing that he’s all right, that’s all.”

“You don’t think something’s happened to him, do you?” Her bottom lip trembled slightly. She looked away, trying to hide it from me, but she was too late. It was a little thing, but completely out of character for my aunt. She’s a warm and loving person, but she’s not a crier. My worry level ramped up another notch.

“Are you sure he didn’t say anything to you about going out?”

Aunt Yolanda shook her head and sank into a chair near the window. “No. I didn’t even hear him get up.”

“That’s not surprising,” I said, still trying to sound reassuring. “I’m sure you were exhausted after traveling all day and then staying up until almost sunrise. Not to mention all the adrenaline of last night. The surprising thing is that he dragged himself out of bed so early.” He must have had a compelling reason.

She glanced out the window, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes as she exhaled. When she opened them again, she treated me to a shaky smile. “You don’t have to pretend with me, Rita. It’s not becoming.”

“I didn’t mean to sound condescending,” I said. “I just don’t want you to worry. But I’m having a hard time imagining Uncle Nestor getting up with the dawn and heading out into a strange city for his morning constitutional. That’s just not something he does.”

“It is now.”

I could only stare at her.

“Times change,” she said, but her voice sounded strangely quiet. “People change.”

I paused with my hand on the doorknob and looked at her more closely. “I’ve only been living here for six months.”

“Seven.”

“Okay. Seven. And in that time Uncle Nestor has started going for walks? On purpose? What’s going on? What aren’t you telling me?”

“He’s not getting any younger,
mija
. Neither of us is. He’s been burning the candle at both ends for most of his life. It’s time to slow down a little, that’s all.”

I didn’t have time to figure out whether or not I believed that explanation because just then I heard footsteps coming up the front walk and everything else evaporated out of my head. Almost weak with relief, I opened the door.

Lights flashed in my face and a middle-aged man with a hawk nose and graying hair stuck a microphone in my face. I covered my eyes so I could see and registered Uncle Nestor standing beside the reporter, his leathery face creased with irritation.

“Miss Lucero,” the reporter said, “could I ask you a few questions about last night’s event at The Shores?”

I’d assured Edie that I could handle this, but not here, on my front step, without my hair and makeup done. And not before I’d had a chance to get Uncle Nestor’s side of the story. “I’ll be happy to talk with you later—” I began.

The reporter cut me off. “You were the hostess for last night’s Musterion party, is that right? Were you a friend of Big Daddy’s?”

“I met him for the first time last night,” I said. “Now if you’ll excuse me…”

The reporter turned away from me and focused on Uncle Nestor. Not exactly what I had in mind.

“Is it true that you attacked Mr. Boudreaux last night?”

“Where did you hear that?” I demanded before Uncle Nestor could answer.

The reporter gave a little shrug. “I have my sources.”

“
What
sources?”

He ignored my question and lobbed another one of his own. “My contacts tell me that the police were very interested in what Susannah Boudreaux had to say when they questioned her. What’s your connection to her?”

“There isn’t one,” I snapped, wondering which big-mouthed police officer had given her my uncle’s name. I grabbed Uncle Nestor’s arm and jerked him toward the open door. “Get inside,” I ordered. “Don’t say a word.”

He went as stiff as a board and dug in his heels. Which made my anger spike. I needed a little cooperation, not for him to be even more difficult. Putting myself between the camera and Uncle Nestor, I tried hard not to look flustered and nervous. “If you have questions about Mr. Boudreaux’s unfortunate death,” I said, “please take them to the police.”

“I’m told the police haven’t ruled out foul play.” The reporter made it sound like an accusation. I finally placed him as a reporter with NLTV, a small local station that ranked fairly low in the market share. Behind him, a youthful cameraman in jeans and a T-shirt captured every expression. Viewers of the station would judge our guilt or innocence by what they thought they saw on our faces. I knew they would, because that’s what I’d do. It’s human nature.

“You’ll have to ask the police about that,” I suggested sweetly as I gave Uncle Nestor a push toward the door, muttering, “I’m serious, Uncle Nestor. In the house.
Now!
”

He finally started moving, and I trailed behind him. Five feet and one door, and we’d be safe—at least until the next time we opened the door. Four feet. Three…

“NLTV has received other tips from concerned citizens about the altercation between the two of you,” the reporter said. “I’ve been told that it happened just a few hours before Big Daddy was found dead. What do you have to say about that?”

“Nothing,” I tossed over my shoulder. “No comment.” I gave Uncle Nestor one last shove and he was finally inside. I grabbed the door and started to shut it just as Mr. NLTV asked, “What are you trying to hide, Miss Lucero?”

I slammed the door in his face and leaned against it heavily. My heart was thundering like a timpani drum and my breath came in short, raspy gasps. We’d escaped—at least for now—but I had a bone to pick with Sullivan when I saw him.

As my breathing began to even out again, I realized that maybe it wasn’t the police who’d connected the dots between the fight and Uncle Nestor for the reporter. Uncle Nestor was a stranger in town, but he’d probably been introduced to more than a hundred people last night. I had no idea how many of them were aware of the fight. I could have sworn that only a few people had known about it. Apparently someone had told Susannah Boudreaux about it, and she’d probably picked up Uncle Nestor’s name from the police. If she liked to complain like Judd claimed, she could be venting to anyone who’d listen.

And if Susannah Boudreaux was throwing Uncle Nestor to the wolves, we could be in big trouble.

Not good. Not good at all.