The Cakes of Wrath

PRAISE FOR THE PIECE OF CAKE MYSTERIES

Cake on a Hot Tin Roof

“A fast-paced delightful amateur-sleuth tale starring a feisty independent pastry chef . . .
Cake on a Hot Tin Roof
is an interesting whodunit.”

—
The Mystery Gazette

“The setting and atmosphere in
Cake on a Hot Tin Roof
are very appealing . . . Rita is a very appealing character with loads of energy and a lot to deal with . . . All done with aplomb.”

—
The Mystery Reader

“The New Orleans setting keeps the book lively, and I loved the rich details and ambiance the author conveys. With the perfect recipe for an intriguing murder mystery, Jacklyn Brady has mixed up the perfect concoction of suspects, motives, means, and opportunity. True to real-life characters and situations which could be ripped from the headlines of any major city news outlet make
Cake on a Hot Tin Roof
a sequel that fans of this series will not want to miss!”

—MyShelf.com

“A truly excellent read. While one doesn't regularly connect the fun and frivolity of Mardi Gras with the darkness of murder, this is something the author balanced well.”

—
Fresh Fiction

A Sheetcake Named Desire

“A tasty treat for mystery lovers, combining all the right ingredients in a perfectly prepared story that's sure to satisfy.”

—B. B. Haywood, national bestselling author of
Town in a Pumpkin Bash

“A decadent new series with a Big Easy attitude.”

—Paige Shelton, national bestselling author of
If Bread Could Rise to the Occasion

“A mouthwatering new series! Brady's writing is smooth as fondant, rich as buttercream—the pastry shop's delectable confections are just icing on the cake for the appealing characters and intriguing mystery.”

—Sheila Connolly,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Monument to the Dead

“Jacklyn Brady whips up a delectable mystery layered with great characters and sprinkled with clever plot twists.”

—Hannah Reed, author of the Queen Bee Mysteries

“[An] enticing debut.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“A light-as-angel-food debut mystery.”

—
The Times-Picayune

“Delicious from start to finish. . . . A yummy series.”

—
Suspense Magazine

“A combination amateur-sleuth tale inside of a family drama . . . Readers will relish Jacklyn Brady, who bakes an engaging first entry starring a heroine who takes the cake.”

—
Genre Go Round Reviews

“An amusing, inviting, and quick-witted tale that is well written and navigates from beginning to end splendidly. Brady writes the first volume in the Piece of Cake Mysteries like an accomplished mystery maven penning her umpteenth installment instead of a debut outing.
A Sheetcake Named Desire
is rich with a plot that does not lose momentum, is brimming with fun, and earns Brady an A+ for knowing her stuff when it comes to the intricate and artistic mastery of cake design. Brady's got a natural flair for writing humor with a gentle stroke and not a rushed bold blot that leaves an acrid taste on one's palete. Kudos to you, Ms. Brady.”

—Examiner.com

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Jacklyn Brady

A SHEETCAKE NAMED DESIRE

CAKE ON A HOT TIN ROOF

ARSENIC AND OLD CAKE

THE CAKES OF WRATH

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA)

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For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com.

THE CAKES OF WRATH

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2013 by Penguin Group (USA).

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

BERKLEY
^®
PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA).

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA).

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-62508-8

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / September 2013

Cover illustration by Chris Lyons.

Cover design by Diana Kolsky.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

PUBLISHER'S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

To the women of Navarre First Assembly of God. Y'all have prayed me through some mighty tough stuff. I am constantly blessed by your friendships.
Love you all!

One of these days I am going to learn how to say no. And mean it. And stick to my guns once I've said it. Especially when it comes to my former mother-in-law and current business partner, Miss Frankie Renier. I made a solemn vow to myself, right then and there, in the middle of a stuffy upstairs room in a renovated house on the edge of New Orleans's Garden District. One of these days.

My name is Rita Lucero. I'm a trained pastry chef, and for the past year, I've handled the daily operations at Zydeco Cakes, a high-end bakery known for its one-of-a-kind cake creations. I took over at the shop after Philippe Renier, my almost-ex-husband, died and his mother inherited the business. She had offered me a partnership, and since being my own boss (almost) was a dream come true for me, I'd jumped at the chance.

Miss Frankie is not a trained chef, but she is determined to carry on her only son's legacy. She's a mostly silent partner. . . except when she's not. Like when she decides to volunteer my services without asking me.

Which was how I ended up sitting in that overcrowded room on a hot August evening, listening to a bunch of people shouting at each other when I would much rather have been at home watching the latest episode of
Castle
and spending quality time with Ben & Jerry.

The circus going on in front of me was actually a meeting of the Magnolia Square Business Alliance, a fancy name for a collection of small business owners who had decided it was time to improve the neighborhood. The square, which covers eight square blocks and borders the Garden District, is made up of an eclectic mix of shops, restaurants and other businesses. I was here because while Miss Frankie felt strongly that Zydeco should have a seat at the table, she had no interest in occupying that seat herself. She thought getting involved would help me connect with the neighboring business owners and help me become part of the community. As she so often did, she'd committed me to the venture without bothering to discuss it with me.

The venue for tonight's meeting was Second Chances, a thrift store two blocks north of Zydeco. Aquanettia Fisher, owner of Second Chances, was also the acting chair of our group—a position that would likely become official if the elections scheduled for next month went as anticipated.

Aquanettia, a fifty-something black woman with short hair, a sturdy frame, and a no-nonsense face, banged her gavel on the table. “People! People!” she shouted, and glared around the room. Not that it did any good. Only a handful of us had stayed out of the argument. The others weren't paying attention to anything except what they wanted to say next.

I drained the last drop from the water bottle in front of me and wondered if anyone would notice if I slipped out. Earlier, a wave of hot moist air had moved in from the Gulf of Mexico, leaving everyone in its path cranky. I was no exception. Even though the sun had slipped low on the western horizon, there was no relief from the heat and humidity, and that gleaming ball of brilliant orange turned everything it touched the color of rust. Two small fans at one end of the room whirred softly in an effort to stir the heavy air. I couldn't tell if they succeeded. I was too far away to reap the benefit.

Aquanettia had passed out a two-page agenda full of important issues to discuss, such as whether to require all member businesses to install identical Dumpster-disguising fencing and whether to start a neighborhood watch program. I was still on the fence (no pun intended) on both votes. While she tried to regain control of the meeting, I folded my agenda in half and waved it back and forth in front of my face. It didn't do much to lower the temperature, but at least the air in my personal space was moving.

In the seat beside mine, Edie Bryce, Zydeco's office manager and second alliance member, watched the fracas with a mixture of irritation and concern. Edie is mid-thirties, around five-four, and a definite force to be reckoned with. She sat with one hand resting on the baby bump that had only recently become noticeable. Her dark chin-length hair seemed shinier since she'd become pregnant, and despite her unsettled expression, her almond-shaped eyes and her porcelain complexion were luminous. I don't think her Chinese-American heritage had ever been more evident in the years I'd known her.

“Do something,” she said, leaning over to me. At least that's what I think she said. I couldn't actually hear her over Felix Blackwater's bellowing.

Felix owns the neighborhood market down the block from Zydeco. They advertise the best muffaletta sandwiches in town, and I'm inclined to agree. Normally, Felix is an easygoing guy. Mind-mannered and almost shy. In his mid-fifties and paunchy, he has a ring of graying hair circling his freckled head, a bulbous nose, and small nubby teeth that were currently bared in an uncharacteristic snarl.

I knew what Edie wanted me to do. She wanted me to speak up and side with Felix on the question at hand, but I was still undecided. Under the circumstances, I figured there was no time like the present to begin my “Just Say No” campaign.

I shook my head firmly and mouthed back, “I'm not getting involved.”

“But you
have
to,” Edie insisted. “Aquanettia is clearly in over her head.”

Luckily, Aquanettia chose that moment to assert her authority again.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
“If you can't settle down and be quiet right now, I'll have every last one of you removed from this meeting.”

I wondered how she planned to manage that, but decided she'd probably call on her two sons to carry out the protesters. Both Isaiah and Keon were in their early twenties and strong enough to manage most of us if it became necessary.

On my left, Gabriel Broussard, six feet of Cajun sexy, watched the ruckus with a secretive smile. I couldn't tell if he was annoyed or amused, but knowing Gabriel and his appreciation of the absurd, I'd put my money on the latter. That meant he would probably vote against Felix, and knowing that put me in an uncomfortable position.

Gabriel and I have gone on a few dates since I moved to New Orleans last year, but we're nowhere near an item. That's exactly how I want it, for several reasons. None of which had any bearing on this disastrous meeting.

Gabriel was here because he tends bar at a local watering hole known as the Dizzy Duke. In the “That's News to Me” department, I'd recently learned that he was also one of the bar's owners. Which probably shouldn't have surprised me, but it did. Finding out he was more than just a bartender had changed something between us, and I was still trying to sort out how I felt. I liked knowing he was more ambitious—and more stable—than I'd first thought, but I was still a little miffed at him for withholding what I considered vital information.

Gabriel caught the exchange between Edie and me, and his smile grew a little wider. “Edie's right. It looks like Aquanettia could use some backup.”

They were ganging up on me? That was
so
not fair. But two could play that game. I grinned at him and shrugged casually. “In that case, maybe
you
should do something.”

He gave me a heavy-lidded look. “I would,
chérie
, but I'm not a board member.”

“Technically, I'm not one either,” I reminded him. “My position is only temporary.”

“But you're going to be elected,” Edie predicted.

That was no doubt true, since nobody was running against me. The entire slate of candidates was running unopposed, mostly on a candidate-by-default basis. If Edie hadn't been due to give birth in another three months, I would have nominated her for the board seat. Policy, procedure, and rules were the kinds of things she loved.

Clearly growing more aggravated by the moment, Aquanettia gave up on the gavel and began shouting along with the rest of the group. The more frustrated she became, the more I felt my resistance weakening. I held back for two reasons. One, I didn't want to be here in the first place; and two, if I stepped in without an invitation, I risked either alienating Aquanettia or (infinitely worse, in my opinion) giving the others the idea that I was leadership material. I wanted to avoid that at any cost.

I waved my makeshift fan a little faster and did my best not to make further eye contact with either Edie or Gabriel. After a moment, I realized that there was at least one person other than me in the room who wasn't trying to shout louder than the rest.

I didn't know Moose Hazen well, but I wasn't sure I wanted to. He was probably in his forties, a big man dressed in black biker leather, which by itself didn't intimidate me, but his shaved head and the tattoos covering almost every visible inch of skin gave him a menacing look. The deep scowl on his big square face didn't help either. I gave him points for maintaining his cool in the middle of the craziness, but the fact that this shouting match had all started because of his wife pretty much canceled them out.

I knew even less about Destiny Hazen than I did about her husband, which wasn't saying much. They own the Chopper Shop (quality motorcycle repairs and refurbishing), a three-person operation consisting of Moose, Destiny, and Destiny's father, Scotty Justus. To be honest, I wouldn't want to meet any one of them in a dark alley. Moose could snap me in half with his bare hands, Destiny would probably shank me before I could get a word out, and Scotty would hide my body.

This was the alliance's fourth monthly meeting, and the fourth meeting in a row that Destiny had missed. And that was why Felix had made a motion to remove her as one of the Chopper Shop's two allowed representatives under the alliance's temporary rules. The fact that Felix had made the motion at all had caused an uproar. That he'd made it without first being recognized by Aquanettia had only stirred up more emotion.

Edgar Zappa, owner of EZ Shipping, got right in Felix's face and shouted, “Why don't you sit down and shut up?” He's thirtyish, tallish, a Nordic blond with an “I pay a lot for this spray” tan.

“Why don't
you
back off?” Felix shouted back. “Destiny doesn't even care about this organization. It's hard enough to start a new group like this one. How are we supposed to accomplish anything if half the members don't care?”

Edgar rolled his pale blue eyes. “We're talking about one person, Felix.
One
. And it just so happens that the woman has been sick. Now you want to kick her out. What kind of way is that to repay her?”

Felix's mouth fell open in shock. “Repay her for
what
? She hasn't done a damn thing. She hasn't even been to a single meeting.”

I wondered why Edgar was rallying to Destiny's defense while her husband looked on in silence, but I told myself that was none of my business. Both Edgar and Felix had valid points, assuming that Destiny really had been ill for the past three months. Which might have been true. Although she'd looked robustly healthy when I saw her last week.

I waffled, one minute thinking we should remove Destiny from her seat, and the next agreeing that we shouldn't be too hasty. The decision in front of me wasn't as easy as it might seem. If we voted Destiny out, Scotty would be the only possible replacement. Frankly, I wasn't sure he'd be much of an improvement. With his long salt-and-pepper hair tied back in a ponytail and his trademark Hawaiian shirts and khaki shorts, Scotty had a laid-back Caribbean island look going on that seemed to appeal to women his own age. But he was also a retired commercial shrimper who spent most of his time sitting outside in a lawn chair, nursing a beer, and collecting cans for the recycling bin.

One of those women who seemed to find Scotty charming was Zora Rappaport. She's sixty and plump with mousy brown hair cut chin-length, an unflattering look on a face so round. She owns the Feathered Peacock Yoga Salon, though she hasn't actually practiced yoga since injuring her neck in an accident several years ago.

She shook a finger in Edgar's face. “That's the trouble with your generation,” she said in a voice surprisingly husky and deep. “You think that keeping a promise is optional. Destiny accepted the position in this group. She ought to be here.” She tossed an apologetic smile at the big man in leather. “I'm sorry, Moose. You know I think the world of you, but everyone knows you let that wife of yours get away with murder.”

Moose's lips twitched, but he didn't look amused. “With all due respect, Miss Zora, that's not something you need to worry about.”

“It's not just you she takes advantage of,” Zora said. “You know better than anyone how she treats poor Scotty. All he wants is to get to know her. Make up for lost time.”

“Which is neither here nor there,” Aquanettia interjected before Moose could speak. “We're not here to discuss anyone's family issues.”

Moose leaned forward, resting his massive and colorful forearms on the table. “Destiny said she'd be here tonight. That's all I know. Can't we wait a few minutes? She probably got caught on the phone or something.”