Aunt Yolanda gasped and put her hand over her heart. Uncle Nestor got in my face. “Seems to me, somebody’s forgotten the way she was raised. And who raised her. Don’t you ever speak to your aunt that way again.”
“Then talk to me! Give me something I can tell Liam when we get to the station so he can cross you off the list of suspects!”
Something unpleasant flashed through Nestor’s dark eyes. “Is this Liam a special friend of yours? Is he why you turned your back on your family?”
My uncle can be intimidating, and he was working up a heavy head of steam, but we have the same blood flowing through our veins. I felt my temper snap like a toothpick. “Don’t you dare try to change the subject.”
“Don’t you dare try to evade my question. Is that what this is about, Rita? Some man?”
For half a heartbeat I felt about fifteen again. Young. Defenseless. And yes, even a little frightened. But I wasn’t a kid anymore. I owned this house. Nobody could send me away because I’d made them unhappy.
I straightened my spine and looked him in the eye. “You’re so busy trying to pin the blame for my decision on someone or something,” I shouted. “Why can’t you just accept the fact that I left New Mexico because I wanted to?”
“Why? Didn’t we give you enough? Didn’t we do enough for you? You needed this fancy house and that Mercedes?”
I was dimly aware of Aunt Yolanda saying something and trying to wedge herself between us, but I was too angry to stop now. “You gave me plenty,” I shouted at the man who’d been like a father to me. “You did everything I could have asked for, and I love you for it. So don’t you dare try to make me out to be some ungrateful stray you took in so you can feel better about yourself!”
“That’s what you think I’m doing?”
“Isn’t it?”
He tossed his wadded sweatshirt onto the stairs and used both hands to punctuate his conversation. “That’s the trouble with you, Rita. You’ve got tunnel vision. All you can see is one thing. You’re just like your mother.”
I wasn’t sure what “one thing” he was talking about, but the last part scored a direct hit. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me in years,” I snarled.
“Always chasing the dream,” he said. “Always looking for something better.” His flying hands came close to my face. I knew he wasn’t trying to hit me, but I moved up a step to make sure he didn’t accidentally connect.
“So? What’s wrong with that? What’s wrong with trying to improve my life? And maybe I do have tunnel vision, but that’s not a bad thing either. Right now, I seem to be the only one in the family who can see what’s going on here.”
Aunt Yolanda managed to squeeze in between us. “Stop it, you two! Stop right now.”
Uncle Nestor stopped waving his hands and clenched them at his sides instead. “What’s wrong with that,” he ground out between teeth clenched as tightly as my own, “is that you only see what you want to see. If you had some problem working with me, you should have talked to me.”
“I tried, but you wouldn’t listen. You were smothering me. You put me in the kitchen and gave me entry-level jobs that were far below my skill level, and you expected me to keep my mouth shut and be happy about it. I’m a trained pastry chef, not a short-order cook.”
He shook a finger in my face, but he had to reach over Aunt Yolanda’s shoulder to do it. “You’re forgetting yourself, little girl.”
“I’m not a little girl,” I snapped. “That’s what you don’t seem to remember. If you want to know why I decided to move here, take a look in the mirror.”
I wanted to take the words back the instant they left my mouth. Uncle Nestor’s expression, filled with a mixture of fury and hurt feelings, made me want to crawl into a hole and hide. He pushed past me again, grabbing his sweatshirt as he pounded up the stairs.
This time I didn’t even try to stop him.
Aunt Yolanda started after him, angrier than I’d ever seen her. She stopped halfway up the stairs and turned back to me. “That was a thoughtless thing to say, Rita.”
“I know. I’m sorry. He just makes me so mad sometimes.”
“Well, obviously, the feeling is mutual. But I won’t let you upset him like that again. He’s not a well man, so don’t say anything you can’t take back. He needs rest and quiet, not arguing and accusations.”
I heard myself gasp. “What do you mean? What’s wrong with him?”
“We’ll talk about it later,” she said, and headed upstairs to check on Uncle Nestor.
Later. That’s all I’d heard since they got here. I had so many questions that needed answers, I could only hope that “later” didn’t come too late.
Seventeen
To my relief, the NLTV news truck had disappeared by the time we stepped outside again, but even that didn’t ease the tension between the three of us. We made the drive to the police station in stony silence, but not because I wanted it that way. In fact, nothing had really gone my way since yesterday. Big Daddy’s murder had thrown my whole life off-kilter, and I wanted it back on track. I wanted to clear Uncle Nestor and find out that he wasn’t really sick after all. Not necessarily in that order.
The bright sunlight and clear blue skies overhead mocked the shadows Aunt Yolanda had planted in my heart while we were standing on the staircase. My imagination was working overtime, considering and cataloging every horrible disease it was possible for Uncle Nestor to have contracted. Searching his face in the rearview mirror for clues. Wondering how many possibilities I’d missed.
My mood fluctuated as I drove, alternating between irritation, guilt, and sheer terror at the thought of losing Uncle Nestor. He’d been my rock since my parents died, when I was twelve. I couldn’t imagine a world without him in it. What’s more, I didn’t want to imagine it.
As we drew closer to the French Quarter, traffic slowed to a crawl and people lined the sidewalks, claiming spots for that night’s parade. Some were in costume, some in street clothes, but they all seemed in the mood to do what the people in New Orleans do best—they were ready to party.
Under other circumstances, I might have pointed out places of interest on our way, but I wasn’t in the mood to play travel guide, and I was pretty sure neither of the grim-faced people riding with me had any interest in the scenery.
We managed to avoid any reporters on our way to the front doors of the station, where Detective Sullivan met us. In spite of my protests, Aunt Yolanda and I were shuffled off with Officer Crump to read and sign our printed statements while Sullivan led Uncle Nestor down a long corridor for more questioning.
I didn’t want to leave Uncle Nestor’s side. Logically, I knew it was unlikely that Uncle Nestor would keel over while he was with Sullivan, but I wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders. I’d learned at an early age that bad things happened when I let loved ones out of my sight.
But Uncle Nestor strode away as if nothing unusual were happening, and I took my cues from Aunt Yolanda. She appeared calm, so I tried to look the same.
When we were finished, Officer Crump escorted us to a long row of plastic chairs in a hallway lined with doors, and told us to wait there.
It was the first time we’d been alone since Aunt Yolanda had delivered her bombshell. The first chance we’d had to talk about Uncle Nestor. I waited for her to say something first for as long as I could stand it, which ended up being about five and a half seconds.
“You can’t just leave me hanging like that,” I said, shifting in my seat so I could look at her. “What’s wrong with him?”
Aunt Yolanda slid a glance in my direction. “I’m sorry, mija. I should have told you sooner, I know.”
“So tell me now.”
She sighed softly, but it carried a heavy load of worry and heartache. “It’s his heart.”
My own heart dropped out of my chest in dismay at the same time it filled with relief that the word cancer hadn’t come out of her mouth. “What’s wrong with it?”
&n
bsp; “He had a minor heart attack a few weeks ago, mija. He was at work when the pains started. Santos called the paramedics, thank God. Nestor insisted it was just heartburn.”
I swear the ground shifted beneath my feet, but I managed to calm myself with the realization that he’d obviously made it to the hospital in time. I made a mental note to thank my cousin for making that call. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to worry you. You’re so far away. How would it have helped for you to know? It would only have made you upset. You’d have worked yourself up over things you couldn’t help with or change.”
Usually I find her unruffled calm soothing. At the moment, it made me want to hit something.
I got to my feet, too agitated to sit still. “I assume the boys all knew about this.”
Aunt Yolanda scowled. “Don’t go there, Rita.”
“I think we’re already there, don’t you? You told the boys, but you didn’t tell me.” Whether that was because I wasn’t actually one of their children or because of the miles between us, I’d probably never know. It hurt me to think about that, so I tried to focus on the future. “How is he now?”
“Doing better. Well enough to travel, which is a big thing. But his doctor wants him to avoid stress. And you know how he is at the restaurant.”
I barked a laugh. So much for avoiding stress on their vacation. Besides, Uncle Nestor thrives on stress. He isn’t truly happy unless he’s worried about something. “So you came here and left Santos in charge at the restaurant?” Santos has been working at Agave since the day Uncle Nestor opened the restaurant’s doors. He’s talented and competent, organized and well respected among the staff. He’s also one of the big reasons I’d never have risen too far up the ranks if I’d stayed at Agave. He was the oldest son. The heir apparent. “How’s Uncle Nestor dealing with that?”
“He’s fine with it.” Aunt Yolanda slid another glance at me and her lips curved ever so slightly. “For the most part.”
I smiled and shook my head. “He hates it, doesn’t he?”
“He’s struggling,” she agreed.
I sobered and thought back over the things I’d seen and heard since they came to town. “So the jogging? That’s for real?”
“He’s under doctor’s orders to get some exercise, to change his diet. To change his life, really.”
I sat beside her again, leaning forward so that my arms rested on my thighs. “No wonder he’s been in such a foul mood.”
She nodded sadly. “It’s hard on him, but he’s trying. He hates what the doctor has told him to do, but he wants to stay alive for the boys and the grandkids.” She touched my arm briefly, “And for you. He loves you like a daughter, Rita. We both do.”
Tears welled in my eyes. I brushed them away with the back of my hand, refusing to dwell on the negative and desperate to find something positive to cling to. “So what’s the prognosis?”
“If he makes the changes he’s supposed to make? It’s good. He could live another forty years, get old and crotchety, and make us all miserable.”
I laughed and felt a knot of tension loosen between my shoulder blades. “That’s the best news I’ve had in two days. So you didn’t come here just so I could see him one last time?”
Aunt Yolanda looked stricken. “No! We came so he could get some peace and quiet.”
With a sour grin, I glanced around us. A couple of uniformed officers led a handcuffed young man with dreadlocks into an interrogation room. I could see another cop talking with a businessman in a rumpled suit and two others chatting outside an open doorway over coffee in paper cups. Voices rose and fell. Phones rang and computer keyboards click-clacked, all creating an odd sort of music. “Good choice.”
Aunt Yolanda followed my gaze. “Well, of course, neither of us expected to land in the middle of a murder inves-tigation.”
I was still worried, but not frantic anymore. Knowing about Uncle Nestor’s health problems just made me more determined to clear him of suspicion so he could go home on Monday and get the rest and quiet he needed. Obviously, he wasn’t going to get it here.
While I tried to figure out what to do next, a door just down the hall opened and Mellie Boudreaux emerged, followed by one of the officers who’d been at the country club last night. I guessed from the way Aunt Yolanda watched Mellie that she recognized her, too.
Mellie paused just outside the door to shake the officer’s hand. “You’ll let me know if there’s anything else you need from me?”
“Absolutely.” He handed over a business card, which she promptly tucked into the Coach bag on her shoulder. “And if you remember anything else, give me a call. Thanks again for coming in, Ms. Boudreaux. You’ve been a big help.”
I caught Aunt Yolanda’s gaze and saw curiosity flickering in her eyes. “Is that the ex-wife?” she whispered.
I nodded, pretty sure we were both thinking the same thing. Her being here was no coincidence. She’d obviously just given the police her statement. With Susannah busy pointing the finger at Uncle Nestor, I was desperate to know what Mellie had told the police.
She walked a few feet down the hall and disappeared into the ladies’ room. I waited, biding my time, until the police officer went back into the room, then whispered to Aunt Yolanda, “I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?”
“Where else? The ladies’ room.”
“You’re going to talk to her? Do you think that’s wise?”
I stood and tried to look shocked by the question. “I’m going to freshen up. There’s no law against that, is there?” And then I hurried away before she could give me an answer.
Eighteen
Mellie was already standing at the bank of sinks when I came through the door of the ladies’ room. Up close, I could see that she was a beautiful woman, with eyes the deep, rich color of fudge brownies. She gave me a quick noncommittal smile and started to look away, but then her eyes shot back to the mirror. This time she studied me a little closer. “You’re Philippe Renier’s widow, right? You hosted the party last night?”
I nodded in answer to her first question and gave a little shrug for the second. “It’s Rita, please,” I said, bypassing the party thing entirely. “I don’t think we got a chance to meet last night, but you’re Mellie Boudreaux, aren’t you?”
She turned away from the mirror, tweaking the collar of a white linen shirt that was unbuttoned far enough to reveal an impressive amount of cleavage. “That’s right. I have the dubious honor of being Big Daddy Boudreaux’s first ex-wife.” She turned on a smile so open and friendly it was hard not to like her. “I just hope that crazy-ass Boudreaux blood is diluted enough to let our children have normal lives, God bless’em.”
I smiled and moved farther into the tile-covered room. Remembering how hard Philippe’s death had hit me despite our separation, I said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Mellie’s expression sobered and she reached for a towel from the dispenser at her side. “Thanks, but I lost Bradley a long time ago. I did my mourning then.”
Maybe so, but I was pretty sure I detected some regret in those dark eyes. I didn’t want her to know that I’d chased her into the ladies’ room, so I moved to the bank of sinks and waved my hands around to get the water started, then pumped soap from the dispenser. “So you’re here to give the police your statement?”
She nodded and dug in her bag for lipstick. “Not that it’s much of one. I only saw Bradley last night for a few minutes. I guess you’re here for the same reason?”
I nodded. “It’s such a senseless tragedy. Why would anyone want to kill him?”
Mellie slanted a glance at me. “Oh, honey, if you knew Bradley like I knew Bradley, you wouldn’t be asking that. You’d be asking who didn’t want him dead.”
She certainly knew how to get a person’s attention. I didn’t want to look too eager for information, so I rinsed the soap from my hands and tried for a casual expression. “What makes you say that
?”
“Let’s just say that it looks like the hens have come home to roost. Bradley hurt a lot of people in his lifetime. Somebody obviously decided to hurt him back.”
“Any idea who?”
Mellie shook her head and applied her lipstick—a fuchsia/wine infusion mix that looked great on her but that I could never pull off. “Like I said, honey, it’s a mighty long list. Bradley looked out for himself his whole life. If someone got in his way…” She broke off with a shrug, leaving me to fill in the blanks.
“Is that what you told the police?” I asked.
She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her little finger and leaned back to inspect her reflection. “I have no reason to lie, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“That’s not it at all,” I assured her. “I’m just trying to figure out what the police are thinking.”
Mellie dropped her lipstick back into her purse and zipped it closed. “That’s kind of hard to tell, isn’t it? They’re not sharing much with the rest of us.”
“You were there when his body was found, weren’t you? I thought I saw you talking to Susannah just a few minutes before that.”
She sighed heavily. “You probably did. She’s a silly little thing, but I have a soft spot for her. Being married to Bradley Boudreaux isn’t easy.”
“So you’re friendly?”
She laughed again. “Does that surprise you?”
“A little, maybe,” I said with a shrug. “You never know how two women who’ve been married to the same man will get along.”
“Well, we get along fine, mostly because I’m so damn happy she’s the one married to him now.” She grinned, but the smile slid from her face after a moment and she turned a sober look on me. “Why do you want to know?”
“She tried to get my uncle arrested last night, and she talked to a television reporter about him this morning. I’m trying to figure out why.”
Cake on a Hot Tin Roof Page 12
