Sullivan’s warning echoed in my head as I lay there trying to squash the sick feeling in my stomach. “I need your uncle to tell me what happened between the two of them,” he’d said. “Convince him to start talking by morning or my hands will be tied. I’ll have to detain him for questioning.”
I’d tried all the way home to get Uncle Nestor to confide in me, but all I’d gotten for my trouble was stony silence and a reminder from Aunt Yolanda that the good Lord expects us to honor the people who raised us. Neither of them was speaking to me by the time they climbed the stairs to the guest room.
I didn’t for one minute believe that Uncle Nestor had killed Big Daddy Boudreaux, but the circumstantial evidence against him was mounting. Surely Uncle Nestor could understand that, so why wasn’t he doing everything he could to clear away suspicion?
Wide awake now, I pulled on my robe and hurried downstairs to the kitchen. Usually Aunt Yolanda got up with the sun, but this morning the house was still quiet. So quiet that if the patent leather pumps she’d worn last night hadn’t been lying just inside the front door, I might have wondered if I’d only dreamed their visit.
Determined to start off on the right foot this morning, I pulled a canister of French roast from the pantry and put on a pot. First things first. Aunt Yolanda and Uncle Nestor would need a good breakfast when they got up. Besides, working in the kitchen always helped me think. After breakfast we’d give our statements to the police and then I’d head to Zydeco, where I could at least pretend that it was just another day.
I’d just started the coffee brewing when my cell phone rang, sounding unnaturally cheerful and far too loud in that quiet house. I fumbled with the phone, trying to silence it before it woke up my aunt and uncle.
“Rita? Thank God I caught you,” Edie said when I answered. “Where are you?”
“Still at home,” I said around a yawn. “I was just about to call you. What’s going on? Is something wrong?”
“Wrong?” Edie snorted a laugh. “Besides Big Daddy Boudreaux dying at The Shores, you mean? Isn’t that enough?”
My spirits drooped. “You’ve heard?”
“Um…yeah. It’s all over the news. I heard it on the radio when I was coming to work this morning, and Good Day New Orleans is all over it. We have the TV on in the back so we can watch the reports. I take it you haven’t been watching?”
“I just got up,” I admitted. “Didn’t get to bed until almost five.” I was going to pay for that later. “So what are they saying?”
“Just that Big Daddy Boudreaux is dead under suspicious circumstances. No real details yet except that it happened at the Musterion party.”
I was realistic enough to know the news wouldn’t stay buried, especially since Big Daddy had been a bigwig in the business community and all, but I’d been hoping for a little more time. “So what else are they saying?”
“They’re talking a lot about his work, his contributions to the community, and his connections within Musterion. Of course, they’re all over the fact that he was elected as captain for next year, and practically naming him a saint for some big-deal charity fund-raiser he was in charge of last fall.”
“I’m pretty sure he was no saint,” I mumbled. I wondered how Judd was taking the news that his brother had been killed, and what Mellie was feeling.
“So…suspicious circumstances. That’s code for murder, right?” Edie asked, cutting into my thoughts. “Do the police have any idea who did it?”
“Not that they’re sharing with me. I don’t think they have any solid leads yet. It’s still too early in the investigation. But I have to take my aunt and uncle down to the station this morning so we can give our official statements. I don’t know how long that will take, but I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
“Of course. Sure. We’ll be okay for a while.”
“I hope it doesn’t take long,” I said. “Big Daddy’s wife practically accused Uncle Nestor of murder last night. I’m pretty sure it was just the booze talking, but it may take a little while to get that all straightened out.”
“The police don’t think he did it, do they?”
“Of course not,” I said sharply. “My uncle didn’t have anything to do with Big Daddy’s death.”
“I never said he did,” Edie said quickly. “But if the police want statements from all of you, you’re already connected to the murder in their minds.”
“Only because Aunt Yolanda and I found the body. That makes us material witnesses or something.”
“That’s kind of the point, Rita,” she said. After a slight hesitation, she continued, “Don’t worry about us. If you need to take a day or two with your aunt and uncle, that’s okay.”
I blurted a disbelieving laugh. “Considering how much work we have to do? Absolutely not. I’ll be in as soon as we’re finished at the police station. I’m hoping it won’t be later than noon.”
Again a beat or two passed before Edie responded. “At least take the day off,” she said. “Your aunt and uncle are probably pretty upset. They’ll need you around.”
Yeah. Maybe. But I was getting a strange vibe from her. “What’s going on, Edie? Why do I get the feeling this isn’t really about me and my family?”
She sighed heavily, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer, as if she didn’t want to be overheard. “It’s nothing personal, Rita. It’s just that there are already reporters outside. Thanks to the staff at the country club, they’ve made the connection between last night’s party and Zydeco.”
The country club staff? My money was on that unpleasant kitchen manager.
“You were the hostess,” Edie went on. “So they’re going to be looking for a statement from you. Ox and I both think it might be a good idea for you to lay low for a few days—you know, until the police have a real suspect.”
She didn’t have to say the rest, but I didn’t like hearing that she and Ox had been making decisions for the bakery behind my back. I was already tired and cranky, so her argument rubbed me the wrong way. “Listen, Edie, I refuse to cower and hide just because Big Daddy Boudreaux had the misfortune to die at that stupid party. And maybe you should remember that I’m the one in charge at Zydeco, not Ox. He needs to quit trying to take over.”
“He’s not trying to take over,” she snapped back. “He’s concerned about the bakery, that’s all. If Zydeco goes under, we all lose.”
“Zydeco is not going under,” I insisted. “Instead of anticipating the worst, why don’t we do something constructive?”
“Such as?”
I floundered for a moment, trying to come up with something. “Put something on the website maybe. A statement about how sorry we all are over the unfortunate passing of such a beloved public figure.”
“We could do that,” she said slowly. “Are you going to write it?”
“Ask Ox to do it. If he works fast, he can text it to me for approval and have it uploaded before I even leave the police station. Just please work with me and not against me. My aunt and uncle aren’t speaking to me, and I don’t need you and Ox throwing up roadblocks and making things worse.”
“We’re not trying to make things worse,” she said. “We’re just trying to look out for Zydeco while your attention is splintered.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, as if I was trying her patience. “Look, Rita, you can’t take care of everything all the time, and right now you have your hands full. Nobody’s trying to take your job or push you out. Let us help you.”
I hesitated, but only for a heartbeat. Accepting help doesn’t come easily to me, but she had a point and I’d be foolish not to acknowledge it. Besides, tired as I was, I needed help remembering my own name. I rubbed my temples with my fingertips, as if that might relieve the stress headache I could feel starting. I sat down at the kitchen table. “I wish I knew what Uncle Nestor’s argument with Big Daddy was about last night. If I knew that, maybe I could convince him to talk to me about it.”
She laughed at that. “T
heir argument? Is that what you’re calling it?”
I stopped rubbing and leaned my head against the back of the chair. “Fine. Their fight.” A memory of last night wormed its way through the fog of exhaustion and I sat up again quickly. “Hey! You were there. Did you hear what they were talking about before the fight?”
Edie didn’t say anything for a few seconds, but I could hear her breathing so I knew we hadn’t been disconnected. “I was there,” she said after a while, “but I didn’t actually hear much. And most of what your uncle said was in Spanish.”
“So nothing?”
Another pause. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to get involved, Rita. Just let the police do their job.”
“I’m not trying to get involved,” I said impatiently. “Sullivan asked me to get Uncle Nestor to talk. I’m just trying to cooperate with the police. If you know anything about that fight, please tell me.”
Edie sighed heavily. “All right. But I’m only doing this under protest. I hope you know that.”
“Duly noted. What did you hear?”
“Not much, like I said before, but I’m pretty sure your uncle said something about his family’s honor. That’s it, though. I swear.”
Everything inside me turned icy cold. Nothing means more to Uncle Nestor than family. He’s not a cold-blooded killer, but if anything was going to push him over the edge, insulting or hurting someone in his family would be what did it. “That must mean Big Daddy said something about Aunt Yolanda,” I said, feeling miserable.
“Or you.”
“Or me,” I agreed reluctantly. Considering what a creep Big Daddy was and the fact that Uncle Nestor doesn’t go around punching people indiscriminately, it must have been something completely inappropriate. No wonder he was closed up tighter than a clam. He must know that if he told the police what they fought over, the police would be convinced he had a motive for murder.
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.”
Cake on a Hot Tin Roof Page 10
