Arsenic and Old Cake

by Jacklyn Brady

  His soldier-boy mask cracked a bit more. “Hyacinth? Nothing. She’s a wonderful woman.”

  “She didn’t like the fact that you were talking to me this morning,” I said. “That was painfully obvious. What is she trying to hide, and why are you trying to protect her?”

  Grey stopped walking abruptly. “It’s not what you think. She’s been through enough.”

  His admission surprised me. I’d gone out on a limb with my question. It wasn’t easy to imagine Hyacinth as someone who needed protection. But apparently I’d struck a nerve, so I kept going. “If that’s the case, then surely you’ll want to protect her and her business from a long, drawn-out murder investigation.”

  Grey’s gaze flickered to mine uncertainly. “She didn’t do anything.”

  “You know that for a fact?”

  “I know Hyacinth,” he said firmly.

  “Well, somebody killed Dontae, and whoever it was did it on Love Nest property. Hyacinth and Primrose are going to pay a price for that, even if they’re innocent.” Which I doubted.

  At least, I doubted Hyacinth’s innocence. I had a little more trouble casting Primrose in the role of calculated cold-blooded killer. I pegged her as more of a hot-blooded sort, the type to shove someone off the roof in a fit of anger.

  Grey shifted his weight from foot to foot and let out a sigh that vanquished the soldier persona and left him deflated. “I fail to understand how talking about the past will prevent an onerous investigation.”

  “If someone murdered Dontae because of the past, talking about it is the only way to find the killer and bring him—or her—to justice.”

  “We don’t know that Dontae was killed because of the past,” Grey argued. “His death could have been an accident.”

  “You didn’t seem to think so this morning. Have you changed your mind, or do you still think Monroe had something to do with Dontae’s death?”

  Grey glanced up and down the street, as if he wanted to make sure he wouldn’t be overheard. But then he clamped his mouth shut and didn’t say a word.

  “Cleveland seems to think Monroe is the killer,” I pushed. “And you said some pretty harsh things about Monroe at breakfast. What happened between the rest of you guys and Monroe in the past?”

  Grey started walking again. “I know what you’re trying to do, but it’s not going to work.”

  With a little growl of frustration, I jogged after him. “What am I trying to do?”

  “You’re trying to confuse me. But it’s not going to work.”

  “I’m trying to find out why you and Cleveland are so convinced that Monroe killed Dontae. What did he do? Steal your girl? Get a promotion that you thought should have been yours?”

  Grey just shook his head.

  “He was a brownnoser,” I said, ticking off possibilities as we walked. “He lied to the boss about you. He sat around reading magazines while you did all the work. He pilfered office supplies and blamed you.”

  “He didn’t do a damn thing to me,” Grey finally snapped. “Okay? I’m fine. I get up every morning, and I go to bed every night. I can come and go as I please and even walk around town dressed up like a goddamn soldier in the goddamn Union Army if I want to. It’s not about me, okay?”

  I took an involuntary step backward and blinked in surprise. “Then who is it about?”

  “Not me,” Grey said again and turned on his heel. He walked back the way we’d come as if he couldn’t get away from me fast enough. Half a block away, I saw Gabriel’s car peel off into a parking lot, but I wasn’t really paying attention to that. I was trying to read through the lines and figure out what had just set Grey off.

  I ran after him before he could shake me. “Are you saying that someone else can’t do the things you mentioned?”

  Grey whipped around once more and pointed his index finger at me. “Stop! Stop right there. I’m through talking to you.”

  “You can’t leave it like that,” I argued, but he’d already started walking again.

  I considered chasing after him again, but I had the feeling that if I pushed any harder right now I’d lose him for good. In fact, as I watched his rigid back moving away from me, I thought it might already be too late.

  Twenty-one

  I held back until Grey marched past the parking lot where Gabriel was waiting, then I hurried to the car and slid inside. “Well,” I said as I closed the door. “That was interesting.”

  “He talked?”

  “Not as much as I’d have liked, but I think I have an idea about what happened in the past.” I buckled my seat belt and told him about Grey’s cryptic comments. “I think someone else got hurt or maybe even died back then, and he holds Monroe responsible.”

  Gabriel actually looked impressed. “That’s good, but it still doesn’t explain why Monroe would’ve killed Dontae.”

  “No, but it might explain why someone might’ve tried to kill him.”

  “You think Dontae’s death was a mistake?”

  “Maybe. That would make sense. Nobody seems to have a motive for killing him, but Monroe’s a different story, isn’t he?”

  “So you think it was revenge gone wrong?” Gabriel gave that some thought as he merged into traffic. “If that’s the case, why did Monroe come back at all? Surely he knew how the others felt. Why would he take the risk of coming back to see them?”

  “Good question. Unfortunately, it’s one of about a hundred equally good questions, none of which I have answers to.”

  “Well, somebody does, and somebody has to be willing to talk. It’s just a matter of finding the right person in the right circumstances.”

  “Yeah, but who?” I watched a well-dressed young woman sail past a handful of scraggly young men in oversized sweatshirts and pants hanging so low they exposed way more Fruit of the Loom than anyone should have to see in public, and I wondered how the seniors at the Love Nest stayed safe in this neighborhood. “Hyacinth certainly isn’t going to spill her guts just because I ask her to,” I said as Gabriel turned into the inn’s parking lot.

  “Hyacinth won’t,” he said. “But Primrose might.”

  “She might,” I agreed. Primrose was way more chatty than her sister. “If she’s not too intimidated by Hyacinth. Or maybe I can get Lula Belle to open up. She’s not exactly a functioning member of the Grand Sisterhood of Women. I bet she’d throw any of these other women under the bus if they got between her and a man.”

  Gabriel grinned. “You’re probably right. Maybe we can use one of the others as a wedge to get her to open up. The trick will be getting her alone without Hyacinth realizing what you’re doing.”

  That made me nervous. I’ll admit it. The woman intimidated me. Of everyone at the inn she was the one I’d vote Most Likely to Casually Poison a Friend. She was also the one with the best opportunity to do it. I wasn’t going to make the mistake of underestimating her.

  “I guess this means we’ll be watching some reality TV in the parlor this evening,” I said. “We can’t very well look for opportunities to question the others from the privacy of the honeymoon suite.”

  Gabriel gave a little fist pump. “Yes! I can finally catch up on Bachelorette Brides from Bogata, the Lost Episodes!”

  I nudged him with an elbow and thanked my lucky stars there was no such show—at least I hoped there wasn’t. “You’ll tone it down a notch on the whole honeymoon thing, won’t you? I need to be able to concentrate on questioning potential murderers. Your stories are a real distraction.”

  Gabriel pretended to be disappointed. “Way to take all the fun out of it.”

  “We’re not here to have fun,” I reminded him. “We’re here to figure out how Monroe Magee managed to disappear without a trace while somebody was killing poor Dontae right under our noses.” And, hopefully, we could do that before Bernice’s barbecue on Monday. I wasn’t in the mood to explain to Miss Frankie why I needed to stay at the Love Nest a few days longer.

  Gabriel sobered slightly. “You really
don’t think Monroe did it?”

  “I sure don’t want to think that he did,” I said. “It would break Dog Leg’s heart. I suppose that anything’s possible, but my gut tells me that Dontae’s death was an accident. I think someone meant to rid the world of Monroe and got Dontae instead.”

  “Don’t they say that poison is traditionally a woman’s weapon?”

  I nodded. “That’s the rumor. But we’re talking about a bunch of seventy- and eighty-year-olds. If they were thirty or forty years younger, I might be more inclined to rule out the male suspects. But you’ve seen them. I don’t think any of them is strong enough to whack somebody over the head with enough force to do real damage.

  “Grey managed to knock down the door to Monroe’s room,” Gabriel reminded me.

  “Point taken. So Grey might have been able to take Dontae out, but I doubt any of the others could and none of them are the gun-toting type. But anyone can use poison.”

  “Maybe,” Gabriel said. “Although if one of them wanted a gun, they wouldn’t have any trouble getting one in this neighborhood.”

  “Yeah, but it’s far more likely that one of them grabbed ant poison from the garage and sprinkled it in the sweet tea.”

  Gabriel conceded the argument with a shrug. “So we keep trying to figure out who hated Monroe the most?”

  I nodded and glanced at the inn. “And we pray that we find Monroe before the killer does.”

  * * *

  The inn was quiet as a morgue when we went inside. Not a creature was stirring, but the TV was blaring a rerun of Grey’s Anatomy in the parlor. Gabriel and I settled in to wait. He dozed off a couple of times while I caught up on the antics of Doctors Bailey and McSteamy, the only two characters I’ve ever been able to work up an interest in. I drifted off during Private Practice. At ten, we gave up and climbed the stairs to our room.

  Gabriel slept like a baby, but I lay awake for a while, listening for footsteps or voices, or any other sign that we weren’t the only two people at the Love Nest. I gave some thought to the cake Miss Frankie had volunteered me to make for the barbecue and jotted a few notes about ingredients and decorations. I’d have to make the cake tomorrow while Gabriel was at work.

  When I still couldn’t fall asleep, I dug out a paperback I’d slipped into my bag and read until around 2 a.m., at which point I finally drifted off.

  I awoke a little before nine on Sunday morning to a gunmetal gray sky and a marshy scent hanging in the heavy air. After staying up so late, I had a hard time jump-starting myself. I resisted Gabriel’s repeated urging to get up until the very last minute, then dressed and hurried downstairs to breakfast, but either we’d missed the others or they were still avoiding us.

  Just like the previous morning, however, a scrumptious breakfast was laid out on the sideboard: breakfast burritos filled with eggs, cheese, and ham; cheesy grits; flaky biscuits with rich sausage gravy; yam bran muffins; peaches and cream French toast; and a mouthwatering array of fresh fruit. The only difference was that today nobody but us was around to eat it.

  Out of curiosity, I poked my head into the kitchen, but other than a few dirty pans waiting for someone’s attention, that room was empty, too. I was ravenous and the food looked tempting and smelled even better, but my growing uncertainty over Hyacinth’s part in Dontae’s death made it easy to pass up.

  Gabriel had to work another day shift at the Dizzy Duke, and I wasn’t about to stay at the Love Nest alone, so we headed out to the parking lot just before noon. On our way, we glanced into the parlor and saw that it, too, was empty. This morning’s selection: an episode of Rachael Ray that was playing to nobody. In fact, the entire house seemed silent and deserted. If it hadn’t been for the hot breakfast in the dining room, I might have wondered if we’d slept through the apocalypse.

  Traffic was light that morning, so we made it across town quickly. Gabriel would be tied up for most of the day thanks to a Hornets playoff game, and I didn’t want to be stuck waiting for him, so I had him drop me at home, then drove my Mercedes back to Zydeco while he went on to the Duke alone.

  For the first time in months, the parking lot was empty when I pulled in. Seeing that made my stomach knot. Even though Zydeco is technically closed on Sundays, everyone on staff has a key and it’s a rare Sunday that no one comes in to catch up on something.

  I could have made the cake for Bernice’s barbecue at home, but I hardly ever get to work in Zydeco’s kitchen and almost never on my own. I planned to take advantage of the quiet to exercise a little creative freedom in the best kitchen I’ve ever seen.

  State-of-the-art ovens line one wall and massive refrigerators take up another. A bank of sinks deep enough to submerge even the largest pot stretch beneath a row of windows, and a massive granite-topped island combined with matching countertops provide more square feet of workspace than I can count. Half a dozen chefs could have worked in there easily.

  The design area is brightly colored and cheerful, but the kitchen is all gleaming white and stainless steel. I feel brilliant and creative every time I walk through its doors—and today it was all mine.

  It had been awhile since I’d decorated a cake purely for fun and even longer since I’d started from scratch and baked the cake myself. Feeling like a kid in a candy shop, I rummaged through Abe’s recipe files until I found Zydeco’s recipe for white chocolate raspberry cake: perfect for a Memorial Day barbecue.

  I creamed together butter and sugar, added eggs one at a time, taking care to blend each one into the mixture separately. I melted white chocolate in a double boiler and set it aside to cool slightly, and opened the cupboards to look for the remaining ingredients I’d need.

  “Rita? What are you doing?”

  I squeaked in surprise at the sound of another voice and nearly dropped the vanilla extract I’d just pulled from the shelf. I turned to find Edie in the doorway, watching me with a curious expression.

  “Miss Frankie volunteered me to take a cake to Bernice’s barbecue tomorrow. I decided to make it here.”

  “I’m sure there’s an extra cake in the cooler,” Edie said. “Abe usually keeps a few on hand for emergencies.”

  I grinned, shrugged, and pulled a set of measuring spoons from a drawer. When I cook, I eyeball measurements, but baking is a more exact science. A careless splash of liquid can change consistency and texture, or alter flavor and ruin a cake.

  “I can hardly qualify this as an emergency,” I told her. “Besides, I’m having fun. What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you have work to do.”

  Edie moved a couple of steps into the room. “Not really. I just didn’t have anything else to do at home.”

  “Do you want to help?”

  She shook her head quickly and a shudder passed through her. “Thanks but . . . sometimes I like to just come and sit. Play around on the computer. Tinker with the calendar. Straighten office supplies. It relaxes me.”

  I understood in theory. That’s what working in the kitchen does for me. But her reaction to helping me bake seemed odd, frankly. Edie hadn’t been the most talented pastry chef in our class, but she had attended pastry school, after all.

  I traded measuring spoons for a dry cup measure, pulled flour, baking powder, and baking soda from the cupboard, then turned to the fridge for the buttermilk. “How did work go after I left yesterday? Did we get any new orders?”

  Edie shook her head and dragged a stool up to the island. “I sent out some e-mails to bridal shops like we talked about, and I did some more research on bridal shows in the area. I widened my search area and checked for anything within a four-hour drive. There’s not much going on until fall, though.”

  I measured the dry ingredients into a mixing bowl. “Things will turn around,” I predicted. I sounded like a broken record, but maybe if I said it often enough we’d all start to believe it.

  “Yeah. I’m sure it will.” She made no move to leave, and just like the other day, I had the feeling something was bothering her.

/>   “Is something on your mind, Edie? You seem worried.”

  She tucked a lock of straight brown hair behind one ear and smiled a little. “You mean something besides the fact that we’re losing money every day?”

  I looked away from the measuring cup and connected with her eye to eye. “I don’t know. You tell me. What’s up?”

  She shifted on the stool and then propped her chin in her hand. “I think maybe I should go.”

  “Go? Go where?” Had I missed her talking about something important to her? Some sort of family occasion? Maybe a wedding or a birthday? I didn’t like thinking I’d been too distracted to remember. “If you need some time off, just say so.”

  She shook her head. “No, I mean go. The bakery is in trouble, Rita. Something has to give, and I wonder if maybe it should be me.”

  I put down the measuring cup and pushed the canister of flour away from the edge of the counter. “You’re talking about quitting?”

  She nodded, but she looked miserable.

  “Are you crazy? Zydeco would fall apart without you.”

  Her lips curved slightly. “That’s nice of you to say, but we both know I’m the fifth wheel here. I’m not good in the kitchen. My decorating skills aren’t even mediocre. Philippe was wonderful to offer me a job here, especially after I dropped out of pastry school. But baking really isn’t my passion. It never was. My mother thought I could make a go of it, and for her sake I tried, but . . .” She broke off, leaving me to fill in the blanks for myself.

  I was a little embarrassed to realize how little I knew of Edie’s story. “So pastry school was your mother’s idea?”

  “She wanted me to be good at something. But I wasn’t.” Edie served up a shaky smile. “You and I both know that of everyone here, I’m the most expendable.”

  My heart was pounding, and my mind was racing. A dozen responses flew through my head, most of them angry and irrational. I took a deep breath and counted to ten, the way Aunt Yolanda had taught me when I was an angry teenager with impulse-control issues. Surprisingly, my voice sounded almost normal when I spoke again. “How long have you been thinking about this?”