Cake on a Hot Tin Roof

by Jacklyn Brady

  Sullivan made a note. “Any idea why?”

  I shook my head. “Big Daddy told him to make an appointment for next week, that’s all I know. Big Daddy’s assistant might know, though. She was there. Her name is Violet.” I dug around in my memory and came up with the rest. “Shepherd.”

  Sullivan wrote that down, too. “Anything else?”

  I ignored my nagging conscience and shook my head again. “No, that’s it.” I’d tell Sullivan about the fight once we found Uncle Nestor and I heard his side of the story. Surely he’d be more forthcoming now.

  “When you went outside after the party, did you notice anything out of place in the backyard? Anything unusual? Anything that didn’t belong?”

  The quick change of subject caught me off guard, and exhaustion, worry, and fear made it hard to catch up. Disjointed images flashed through my head. Aunt Yolanda hurrying toward the pool. Me following. The twinkling white lights on the shrubbery and trees. A few tiki torches still burning. A few burned out. Chairs askew. That statue on the cement and glasses scattered about. Most of it telltale signs of a big party, but not especially unusual. Certainly nothing sinister.

  “There was a statue,” I said after I’d sifted through the details. “On the cement by the pool. Other than that, nothing. I wish I could be more help. It’s all too hazy.”

  One corner of Sullivan’s mouth lifted in what passes for a smile when he’s working. “It’s all right,” he said. “I know it’s tough. If you remember anything later, give me a holler.”

  I nodded to show how agreeable I could be.

  He seemed satisfied and moved on again. “Tell me again about finding Mr. Boudreaux in the pool.”

  “Like I said, Aunt Yolanda saw him first. She called for me.”

  “Did either of you actually see Mr. Boudreaux fall in?”

  “No. If we had, we would have helped him.”

  I got another eyeball, this one directed at my damp clothing. “Looks like maybe you tried to help him anyway.”

  “I thought maybe he was still alive. He wasn’t.” I glanced at the clock on the wall, realized how long we’d been sitting here, and felt my empty stomach turn over. “Could you check with your guys to see if anyone has heard from Uncle Nestor? He’s been gone a long time.”

  Sullivan shook his head. “If anyone had heard from him, I’d know it. Let’s just get through the rest of the questions and then I’ll see what I can find myself.” Tough cop faded for a moment and my friend made a brief appearance. “It’ll be okay, Rita.”

  I appreciated the gesture, but we both knew he couldn’t make that kind of promise. “And what if it’s not? What if something happened to him? What if—” The words got stuck in my throat and tears burned my eyes. I’d been holding it together so far, but the fear of losing Uncle Nestor made it hard to breathe. I tried to remember the last time I’d actually seen him at the party, but those details were lost, too. “He and Aunt Yolanda are all I have, Liam. He has to be all right.”

  Sullivan got up from his seat and came around the table. I wish I could tell you that he gathered me in his arms and comforted all my fears, but he’s not that kind of guy. He put a hand on my shoulder and murmured something I couldn’t quite make out. Not nearly enough, but I guess better than nothing.

  While I sobbed into my hands, Sullivan crossed the room and plucked a couple of Zydeco napkins from the table. He shoved them at me, and I spent a minute or two mopping up so we could move on again.

  When I’d dried the tears and blown my nose, I took a couple of deep breaths, trying to get the air all the way to my core, where the panic had taken up residence. It was making images of Uncle Nestor going after Big Daddy flash through my head, and they were images I did not want to remember.

  Not that I thought Uncle Nestor was responsible for Big Daddy’s untimely demise. But the realization that others might speculate about my uncle made everything inside me hurt.

  I wadded the soggy napkins in my hand and glanced at the sequined saxophone archway. “Is it really necessary to drag my aunt off and interrogate her like a common criminal? She doesn’t know anything either. And Miss Frankie shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.”

  Sullivan linked his hands together on the table and locked his eyes on mine. “They’re fine, Rita. Your aunt is being treated with respect, and Miss Frankie is a lot tougher than you give her credit for. The sooner you answer my questions, the sooner you can check on both of them. I assure you my people aren’t roughing them up or shoving bamboo shoots under their fingernails. Now, if you’re ready…”

  I sat back in my chair and made an effort to look calm and collected. “Fine. What else do you want to know?”

  “How about telling me when you last saw Mr. Boudreaux alive?”

  “Maybe an hour before we found him in the pool,” I said.

  “Where was he? And what was he doing?”

  “He was here, in the ballroom. Near the bandstand, I think. Talking to people.”

  “Any idea who he was talking to?”

  I shook my head. “Like I said before, I didn’t pay that much attention to him.” At least, I hadn’t after the fight. That had been a couple of hours earlier. He’d had time to annoy a dozen other people since then. “He talked to just about everyone in the room and he seemed to know them all, and of course, everyone knew who he was.” I rubbed my forehead and looked at him from the corner of my eye. “There’s going to be press, isn’t there?”

  “I’d count on it. Mr. Boudreaux was well known in these parts. And that’s going to create pressure from the top to solve this quickly. Why? Are you worried about Zydeco?”

  That was as good an explanation as any. I nodded and said, “We don’t need any more negative publicity. We’re barely climbing out of the ditch we fell into after Philippe died.” But the truth was that Zydeco was nowhere near the top of the list of things I worried about. Uncle Nestor, Aunt Yolanda, and Miss Frankie took the top spots.

  “We’ll try to solve this quickly,” Sullivan assured me. “If we can do that, you and Zydeco may not even hit the radar this time around.”

  I could only hope.

  “It’s too bad you don’t remember who he was talking to,” Sullivan said. “In addition to the wound that probably killed him, there’s some bruising on Boudreaux’s chin and cheek. Looks like maybe he was in a fight recently—like within the last few hours. I don’t suppose any of you can shed any light on that?”

  I argued with myself for another few seconds, vacillating between telling the truth and protecting Uncle Nestor. But again, I reasoned that somebody would mention the fight to the police, if not tonight, then soon. So I opted for the truth, even though just the thought of bringing Uncle Nestor into this made my stomach hurt.

  Folding my arms across my chest, I said, “It was nothing.”

  Sullivan’s eyes lingered on my defensive posture a moment too long. “What was nothing?”

  “The fight. It didn’t mean anything. Just a couple of guys who had too much to drink, that’s all.”

  “So you do know.”

  “It was over in a minute or two. And it happened hours before Big Daddy died.”

  “Details, Rita. Who are you talking about, and what happened?”

  “You have to keep in mind how obnoxious Big Daddy was,” I said, trying to smooth out the pavement before I shoved Uncle Nestor under the bus. He already thought I’d betrayed him by staying in New Orleans. He’d never forgive me for ratting him out to the police. “He was loud and abrasive and—”

  “I got that part,” Sullivan interrupted. “Who are you talking about?”

  Hating that I had to choose between truth and loyalty, I ran my tongue across my lips again. I opened my mouth to speak, but the sound of angry shouting cut me off before I could get a word out. Sullivan and I scrambled to our feet and bolted across the ballroom. I had to struggle out of the blanket first, which put him a few steps ahead of me. He paused briefly on the threshold to growl, “
Stay here,” before pushing the door open and charging out onto the balcony.

  Naturally, I ignored him.

  I made it outside in time to see him start down the steps toward the pool, where Susannah Boudreaux was leaning heavily on a uniformed officer. She lifted one trembling hand and pointed at something—or someone—hidden from my view by a large flowering shrub. “That’s him!” she shouted. “Right there.”

  Sullivan reached the bottom of the stairs and I craned to see who she was pointing at. I caught a glimpse of Aunt Yolanda and Miss Frankie emerging from separate doors onto the patio and a handful of crime scene techs milling about, all of whom stopped working to see who she was talking about.

  “That’s him,” the woman shrieked again. “That’s the man who attacked my husband!”

  Everyone in the yard turned to stare—at Uncle Nestor.

  Twelve

  Silence rang in the night air for roughly two seconds before all hell broke loose. Susannah Boudreaux screeched and pointed and demanded that my uncle be arrested, tried, and executed on the spot. Half a dozen officers drew their weapons and trained them on Uncle Nestor, all shouting at him to get down on the ground and put his hands behind his head.

  Uncle Nestor was a child of the 1960s, and his distrust of “the man” was legendary in our family. I didn’t know whether to be more frightened that he’d do something stupid, or angry with the police for putting him in a position that might bring out the worst in him.

  And I didn’t have time to figure it out. With a cry of distress, Aunt Yolanda started down the steps on the other side of the yard, heading straight for her husband. I understood why she wanted to get to him, but running into the middle of all those armed and angry cops seemed like a really bad idea.

  I started down the other set of stairs, struggling to keep my balance on the slick stone. “Aunt Yolanda,” I shouted. “Wait! Stop!”

  She kept going. I wasn’t sure if it was because she couldn’t hear me over the rest of the shouting, or because she was ignoring me. Panicked, I gathered my still-damp skirt above my knees so I could make better time. “Aunt Yolanda! No!”

  She reached the lower terrace and sprinted toward the pool, where Uncle Nestor was, thank God, obeying instructions. Red-faced and angry, he was down on his knees, hands linked behind his head. There’d be hell to pay when we finally got out of here, but at least he was alive to rant about it.

  While one scrawny officer patted Uncle Nestor down, two others kept their weapons trained on him. I guess I understood why. He looked capable of almost anything. Relieved that, at least for the moment, he was cooperating, I whipped around to find Aunt Yolanda and spotted her at the far edge of the pool, corralled by a burly officer with a bulldog face.

  She didn’t look much happier than Uncle Nestor, but I didn’t care. They were both safe. That’s all that mattered.

  I stopped running and paused for a moment to catch my breath. The cool, damp lawn on my bare feet made me wish I’d brought the blanket with me. I shivered and started walking toward Aunt Yolanda, but a uniformed officer with a grim expression and a name tag that read Kilpatrick blocked my path.

  “Stop right there,” he barked. He was tall and thickly muscled, and it was obvious to me that he took his job seriously.

  “That’s my aunt,” I panted. “I just want to make sure she’s okay.”

  “She’s fine. I need you to stop right where you are.” I might have argued, but Kilpatrick’s hand was resting on the butt of his gun and his expression said he had no qualms about shooting me where I stood.

  I didn’t think he would, but I decided not to take unnecessary chances. Nervous energy and impatience made it hard to just stand there, and the sound of Uncle Nestor’s voice, gruff and raised in anger, made it even harder. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but the fact that he was saying anything at all made me nervous.

  “You’re making a mistake,” I said to Kilpatrick. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Kilpatrick gave me a heavy-lidded look, but he didn’t say a word. He just left me standing there, waiting, watching, and wondering, until Sullivan strode across the lawn toward me.

  His eyes had turned ice cold. “You want to tell me about it?”

  I wasn’t completely sure what he was asking about, so I went with an innocent, “About what?”

  “The fight. And don’t pretend like you don’t know which fight I’m talking about.”

  I swallowed. Shifted from foot to foot, and then came clean. “Big Daddy and Uncle Nestor?”

  “Bingo.”

  Sullivan wasn’t happy. But then, I wasn’t either. I could hear someone coming up behind me, but I didn’t look to see who it was. “They had a disagreement earlier. I was just about to tell you about it when Uncle Nestor showed up.”

  The person behind me gasped, and I knew without looking that it was Aunt Yolanda. I couldn’t let myself look at her, though. Sullivan was giving me the death glare.

  “And you didn’t mention it before because…”

  “Because it had nothing to do with Big Daddy’s accident.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this, mija?” Aunt Yolanda demanded.

  I slid a guilty glance over my shoulder. “Because it was over in a few minutes, Aunt Yolanda. It was nothing.” I tried a reassuring smile, but my lips felt frozen and lifeless. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

  Sullivan gave me a look. “So again, you didn’t mention any of this to the police because—”

  “Because they’re not connected,” I said again.

  “You mean, you don’t want them to be connected.”

  “I mean that I’m sure they aren’t connected,” I said. “Big Daddy said something inappropriate. Uncle Nestor lost his cool. They exchanged a couple of punches and then they went their separate ways.”

  “It had to have been a minor scuffle,” Miss Frankie said helpfully. “I didn’t know a thing about it.”

  “Nestor would never hurt someone else on purpose,” Aunt Yolanda agreed. “That woman is blowing the whole thing out of proportion.”

  “You may be right,” Sullivan said gently. “But since neither you nor Miss Frankie actually witnessed the argument, you’ll forgive me for keeping an open mind.” He turned his attention back to me. “You know for a fact that they went their separate ways?”

  Everything inside me wanted to say yes, but I couldn’t make myself tell an outright lie. “No. But Uncle Nestor sort of disappeared and I thought maybe he was lying down somewhere. Parties really aren’t his thing.”

  Sullivan let out a heavy sigh. “Okay, tell me now. And tell me everything. No holding back. What did they fight about?”

  “I have no idea. I couldn’t hear them.”

  “You didn’t ask?”

  “Of course I asked. Uncle Nestor wouldn’t tell me.”

  “And you didn’t think that was odd?”

  I shook my head. “Uncle Nestor keeps to himself when something’s wrong. It can be frustrating, but it didn’t raise any red flags for me tonight.”

  “Big Daddy didn’t say anything either?”

  “He ducked the question,” I said. “Frankly, I was glad to steer clear.”

  “Which was the best thing you could have done,” Miss Frankie said. “You know how men are, Detective.”

  He smiled a little. “I believe I do, ma’am. Anything else you’re not telling me, Rita?”

  I shook my head. “Not that I can think of.”

  Sullivan stuffed his notebook into his breast pocket, and then he put a hand on my shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Which is one of the things I like best about him. “Why don’t you take your aunt home? We’ll bring your uncle over when we’re finished talking to him.”

  I found the idea that he didn’t plan to lock Uncle Nestor up overnight reassuring, but Aunt Yolanda didn’t seem to appreciate that subtle distinction. She crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin the way I’d seen her do a thousand times when
I was growing up. “I’m not going anywhere without my husband.”

  “It’s nearly four in the morning—” Sullivan started to say.

  Aunt Yolanda skewered him with a look before he could finish. “I’m not going anywhere without my husband,” she repeated.

  Sullivan slid a glance at me, but I wasn’t about to step in. Aunt Yolanda was already upset with me for not telling her about the argument. I wasn’t going to take his side against her and make things worse.

  I took Aunt Yolanda’s arm and turned toward the clubhouse. “We’ll wait inside.”

  I had no idea how I’d get through another hard day at work tomorrow. Even if we went home right now, I’d barely get any sleep, which probably wouldn’t help at all. But those worries fell way below convincing Sullivan that Uncle Nestor wasn’t responsible for whacking Big Daddy over the head and then pushing him into the pool to drown.

  Thirteen

  The seven o’clock alarm jolted me out of a deep sleep long before I was ready. With a groan, I reached for the clock and punched the snooze button. It was barely two hours since I’d closed my eyes. Even though sunlight was already streaming in through my bedroom windows and we had a busy Saturday scheduled at Zydeco, I might have let myself slip back to sleep if reality hadn’t punched me in the face with memories of last night’s tragedy.

  Big Daddy Boudreaux. My devastated aunt. My stubborn uncle, who had flatly refused to answer any of Sullivan’s questions. Miss Frankie, who’d been showing definite signs of wear when I drove away. In the end, Sullivan had let us go home around four-thirty in the morning, but only because he had no direct evidence against Uncle Nestor and because I’d crossed my heart and hoped to die if I failed to deliver Uncle Nestor to the police station this morning.