The Cakes of Monte Cristo

by Jacklyn Brady

  “No, thanks.” I glanced around the shop to make sure we really were alone and drew the wooden box from my bag. “Simone O’Neil suggested that I talk to you. I came across a necklace recently, and she thought you might be able to tell me if the stones are genuine.” I didn’t mention the curse or give her the Toussaint name. I didn’t want to put ideas in her head.

  Even so, I saw a jolt of recognition in Orra’s expression when she saw the wooden inlay on the box, and heard the sharp intake of her breath when I lifted the lid. Her gaze shot to my face as she demanded, “Where did you get that?”

  Weird reaction number three. My heart began to beat a little faster. “Do you know what it is?”

  Orra put one hand on her chest and met my gaze. “It looks a great deal like a necklace that’s been missing for a century and a half. Where did you find it?”

  “Hidden inside a staircase,” I said without elaborating. I asked the same question I’d asked Miss Frankie. “If it’s been missing for so long, how do you recognize it?”

  “The portrait, of course.” Orra’s answer came out a bit sharp. She blushed and smiled apologetically. “You couldn’t know, of course, but I’ve seen the portrait of Beatriz Toussaint, the original owner of the necklace, wearing it. And you say you found it inside a staircase?” At my nod, she let out a breath and returned her attention to the necklace. “I suppose it would have had to be something like that,” she mused. “It disappeared so completely, you know.”

  “That’s the trouble,” I said. “I don’t know. Obviously you’re familiar with it. Is this genuine?”

  Orra lifted the necklace from the box for a better look. The gems caught the light and glowed deep red. “I can’t tell just by looking at it, but I’d be happy to examine it for you. It would take some time, though.”

  A noise from the back of the shop caught Orra’s attention and a young woman came into the showroom carrying an armful of clothing. She was tall and thin with a head of unruly dark hair and so much jewelry on her neck and wrists she jingled when she walked. “I finished sorting the clothes from the Yarborough estate sale,” she said as she burst into the room. “There are some valuable pieces, I think, but we’ll have to have everything cleaned. The whole collection reeks of moth—” She broke off when she noticed me and gave an embarrassed laugh. “Sorry. I didn’t realize we had a customer.”

  “That’s quite all right,” Orra told her. “Although perhaps next time you could be sure I’m alone first. My assistant, Dominique Kincaid,” she explained with an apologetic smile, and immediately returned to the necklace. “I would say that if this is a reproduction, it’s quite a good one.” She touched a couple of the stones almost reverently. “But I’ll need you to leave it with me for a few days. You’re prepared to do that, I assume?”

  A frisson of something unpleasant raced up my spine. “Leave it? I don’t know if I can do that, but I’d be glad to bring it back when you have more time.”

  Orra’s pale eyes clouded. “Well, of course, if that’s what you want. It’s just that it’s very hard to know when I’ll actually have time to look at the piece. It would be much better if you could leave it with me. I’ll get to it when I can and let you know when I’m finished.”

  I wondered if she knew how much the necklace would be worth if it was genuine, and decided she must. “I understand, but I really don’t feel comfortable leaving it.” From the corner of my eye I noticed Dominique inching closer to where we stood. “The necklace is not actually mine. I’m just making inquiries for the owner.” The facts that the actual owner wanted nothing to do with the necklace and hadn’t asked me to pursue anything were mere technicalities.

  A deep frown furrowed Orra’s forehead. “The ownership of that necklace—if it’s genuine—has been in dispute for some time. I don’t know that anyone can rightfully claim ownership without some legal wrangling.”

  I couldn’t hide my confusion. “Are you saying it was stolen?”

  Orra shook her head. “Not stolen exactly. You know the story of the piece?”

  “A bit of it,” I admitted. “I’ve been told that it might be the Toussaint necklace, but that’s about all I know.”

  At the mention of the Toussaint name, Dominique looked quickly from Orra to me. “Is it?”

  “It could be,” Orra said. “If so, you have to know that there will be a great deal of interest in it once word gets out—and not only because it’s worth serious money. The stones alone are extremely valuable. Rare value, exquisitely cut. But it’s the story behind the necklace that really adds to the value.”

  “I’ve only heard a little about the family,” I said. I’d heard Gabriel’s version of the story, but I wanted Orra’s. “Can you tell me what the story is?”

  Orra smiled and looked pleased at my request. “The piece was commissioned by a man named Armand Toussaint near the end of the Civil War. Even then it was worth a small fortune.”

  “Who was Armand Toussaint?” I asked. “Someone famous?”

  “I wouldn’t use that word, but he was wealthy and powerful. The Toussaint family settled here in the middle of the seventeenth century and at one time owned land all along the Mississippi River. Armand married Beatriz de la Hera, whose father was from Spain and probably the only man in the area with more money than Henri Toussaint.”

  “Henri was Armand’s father?”

  Orra nodded. “They were fabulously wealthy before the war, but like so many people, the conflict wiped out a great deal of their fortune. Armand still had some money, though—obviously.”

  “Enough to buy a necklace like this for his wife,” I said disingenuously.

  “Oh, it wasn’t for his wife, dear.” Orra’s mouth pinched in disapproval. “You must understand the way things were back then. It wasn’t unusual for a wealthy white man to . . . dally with a woman of mixed race.”

  That was a twist Gabriel hadn’t previously mentioned. “Are you saying that his mistress was a slave?”

  Orra shook her head. “Not a slave. Society had various systems in place back then. Plaçage existed to connect white men and free women of color. The men provided generously for the women and they . . . well, I’m sure you can figure out the rest.”

  “Without any trouble at all,” I assured her.

  Dominique had stopped near a crowded display of shoes and began tidying as if she was concentrating on work. I suspected she was listening to our conversation very carefully.

  “Most wives knew what was going on,” Orra said. “They weren’t stupid, and the men made no particular effort to hide what they were doing. But well-bred women were expected not to acknowledge their husbands’ activities.”

  I thanked my lucky stars that I hadn’t been born back then. I’m not sure I could have conformed to the expectations. “So Armand had a mistress and Beatriz turned a blind eye to his philandering?”

  “So the story goes.” Orra leaned against the counter, warming to her subject. “Armand commissioned the necklace in question for his mistress, Delphine Mercier, and rumor has it that when Beatriz found out, she raised holy hell. She had plenty of jewels in her own collection, of course, but nothing as fine as that necklace. I guess she didn’t mind Armand sleeping with Delphine, but she drew the line at her getting better gifts than those he gave his wife.”

  “Especially if they’d taken a financial hit during the war,” I mused.

  “I would say that had a bearing,” Orra agreed. “Anyway, the story is that Armand relented and gave the necklace to Beatriz instead. Some people say the necklace is cursed—”

  I leaned forward, eager to hear more, but the front door opened and a large round man rolled inside. He looked to be about forty, with an abundance of facial hair and thick brown hair on his head that curled down to brush his collar.

  Orra cut a meaningful look at me and whispered, “Try not to let Sol see the necklace, dear. But if
he does see it and offers you money, tell him no. Sol Lehmann is notoriously greedy—and cheap. And Miriam, his wife, is even worse. She’s a barracuda. Just be warned, Sol won’t give you anywhere near what the piece is worth.”

  With that warning, Orra surged away, arms open wide as if she were greeting her BFF. “Well, Sol Lehmann, I haven’t seen you in this neighborhood for months! What brings you our way this evening?”

  Sol returned her hug, but I was pretty sure his heart wasn’t in it. He extricated himself as soon as he could and started strolling along one of the aisles. “Don’t worry about me, Orra. I can see you have a customer. I’m fine to look around on my own.”

  Orra gave him a playful slap on the arm. “Don’t be silly, Sol. I’ll be right here in case you have any questions. Dominique is finishing up with Ms. Lucero so you have my full attention.”

  Dominique stopped sorting shoes and started toward me.

  Sol acknowledged Orra’s offer with a dip of his head. “Very well. I heard a rumor that you picked up the Yarborough estate sale. I thought I’d stop in to see what you’ve found. Naturally, I want the first option on anything of value.”

  He seemed to be paying attention to Orra, but I could see him eyeing my box on the counter curiously. If the necklace really was valuable, maybe letting Sol Lehmann see it wasn’t such a bad thing. Orra had been recommended to me, but that didn’t mean I had to trust whatever offer she made me. A little competition might drive up the price. Still, with her warning ringing in my ears, I started to wrap the necklace back in the velvet. But as I went to place the necklace into the box, I had second thoughts.

  I’d warmed to Orra, and the truth was, I didn’t have time to schlep the necklace all over town looking for someone who could appraise it while I waited. It made sense to take Orra up on her offer.

  “Was there something else?” Dominique asked as she slid behind the counter.

  “Yes, I’m going to leave this with Orra after all. Do you think she’ll have time to do the appraisal this week?”

  Dominique held out her hand for the box. “I’m sure she will. We’re busy getting ready for the Belle Lune Ball, but I’m sure she’ll work in an appraisal soon.” She pulled out an order pad and pushed it across the counter toward me along with a pen. “If you’ll just fill in your contact information—”

  I wrote down my name and cell number and gave the pad back to her. Dominique filled in the rest of the form with a flourish and handed me a copy. “Give us a few days. We’ll get back with you as soon as Orra has had a chance to look the necklace over.”

  I tucked the receipt into my bag and waved to Orra as I left the Vintage Vault. I suspected that she knew more about the Toussaints, but clearly she hadn’t wanted Sol to overhear our conversation. I’d just have to be patient and wait for my next chance to talk with her alone.

  Eight

  Dusk was settling over the city as I left the Vintage Vault, and the temperature had dropped at least ten degrees while I was inside. With nothing to do that evening, I strolled back toward the Range Rover, checking out the shops on the street and letting my imagination run wild with guesstimates about how much I thought the necklace might be worth.

  We’d had a rough go at Zydeco after Philippe died, and Miss Frankie had sacrificed to keep the company afloat. I’d love the chance to contribute to the bakery’s financial well-being. Surely she wouldn’t object to my selling the rubies and using the money to fund our operation.

  I’d gone about a block when a tall black man in a suit stepped out of a recessed doorway right in front of me. I swerved to step around him but he moved in the same direction. We did an awkward little dance on the sidewalk, each of us trying to avoid impact. I was paying more attention to the uneven concrete than to my dance partner, so when he let out a whoop, I jerked backward and nearly fell.

  He grabbed my arms to steady me. “Rita, right? It’s Calvin.” He put a hand on his chest and tried again. “Ox’s cousin, remember? We met the other day.”

  “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize you.” I was a little embarrassed, but in my defense, Calvin looked completely different than he had the first time I saw him. When we’d met at Zydeco, he’d been wearing worn jeans, a T-shirt and a ball cap. He’d also been sporting two days’ growth of whiskers. Today, he was clean shaven and wearing a silk suit that looked as if it had been tailored to fit.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “Did I hurt you?”

  I shook my head quickly and smiled to prove that I was hale and hearty. “I’m fine. No harm done.” And then, because I felt awkward just standing there smiling, I asked, “Is this your day off? You’re not helping Mambo Odessa today?”

  He looked confused by my first question, but his expression cleared in response to my second. “No. Yeah. I’m not working today. Just taking care of a little personal business and about to have dinner.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets and glanced down the sidewalk. “I don’t suppose you’re free? You wouldn’t want to join me, would you?”

  The offer caught me by surprise. “For dinner?”

  He shrugged. “Unless you have other plans. Nothing fancy. I was just gonna grab a bite at Mama June’s around the corner. It’s kind of a dive, but it’s got great food and I’d much rather have someone to talk to than eat alone.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to refuse, but I caught myself before I could. I wasn’t in the habit of accepting dinner invitations from strange men, but Calvin wasn’t exactly a stranger and it wasn’t as if he was asking me for a date or as if I had other plans. In fact, my social calendar—if I’d had such a thing—would have been glaringly empty.

  “Sounds great,” I told him. “Lead the way.”

  We made small talk until we reached Mama June’s, a small white brick building sporting a chalkboard menu on the sidewalk. Today’s special: crawfish po’boys. Once inside, we were shown to a small table in the middle of a large nearly empty dining room featuring Formica-topped tables and mismatched chairs. Paper napkin dispensers and bottles of hot sauce served as centerpieces, and posters for jazz festivals from years past completed the décor.

  Calvin held my chair while I sat, then made himself comfortable on a plastic chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “Welcome to Mama June’s,” he said. “I haven’t been here in years. I hope the food’s still as good as it was.”

  I took an appreciative whiff of the odors filling the room. “If it tastes anything like it smells, it should be wonderful. It’s pretty well hidden, though. How did you find this place?”

  Calvin handed me a plastic-covered menu. “Auntie Odessa used to bring us kids here when we were little. She lives just a couple of blocks away so it was close enough to walk.” He gave me an assessing look and added, “I’m surprised Ox hasn’t told you about it. It was his favorite back in the day.”

  “He’s a private person,” I said. “He doesn’t talk much about the past. Which of you is older?”

  “I am, by about three years. And believe me, I never let Ox forget it.”

  I mentally adjusted his age upward by a decade. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” I said, “but you look younger. Not a day over thirty.”

  He flashed a grin. “That’s because I’m so much better looking.”

  I laughed and glanced quickly over the menu. Mama June’s offered simple fare, but everything on the menu sounded delicious. “Are there a lot of cousins in your family?” I asked to keep conversation flowing while I pondered my choices.

  “It’s a big family,” Calvin said, setting his menu aside. “There are around twenty of us on Mama’s side. I’ve lost count on Daddy’s.” He tapped a picture on the menu with his finger. “If you like po’boys, try the special. It oughta knock your socks off. And get a side of the fries. They’re the best in town.”

  I decided to take his advice and added a Diet Coke to my wish list. H
e left me long enough to place our orders at the counter, where a bearded man strummed a guitar between customers, and came back carrying a beer for himself and my soda in a plastic cup exactly like the ones my abuela’d had when I was a girl. My grandmother had died just a couple of years after my parents’ accident, and most of my memories of her had faded with time. I hugged that one close as we settled in to wait for our food.

  “Ox tells me you’re new to the city,” Calvin said, turning the conversation on me. “How do you like it so far?”

  “I guess I’m still considered a newcomer,” I said, “even though I’ve been here for over two years. It’s different from what I was used to, but so far I like it a lot.”

  “And what were you used to?”

  “I grew up in Albuquerque, and I lived in Chicago while I was in pastry school. That’s where Ox and I met.”

  “New Mexico and Illinois,” Calvin said thoughtfully. “What brought you to New Orleans?”

  I told him about Philippe dying and Miss Frankie offering me the partnership at Zydeco, skipping the gory details about our separation and the divorce that never happened. I almost left it at that, but decided that Calvin might have some insight into his cousin that could help our relationship. “I think Ox was disappointed,” I said. “He was here for Philippe from the beginning, and I know he wanted to step up when Philippe died. Sometimes I wonder if he . . .” I let the words trail off as I realized that there was no good way to end that sentence.

  “If he resents you for having the job that should have been his?”

  Apparently Calvin was fully capable of filling in the blank. Heat crept into my cheeks. I nodded and reached for my comforting plastic cup. “Something like that. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. I’d just like to find a way to undo whatever damage has been done. Assuming there’s been damage, that is.” I sighed in frustration and eked out a rueful grin. “Has he ever said anything to you?”