“Susannah’s an emotional little thing,” Mellie said. “She thinks with her heart, not with her head. But your uncle did attack Bradley, did he not?”
Everything inside urged me to sugarcoat their argument, but what good would that do? “How did you know about that?”
“I was looking for Bradley and happened to overhear some of what went on.”
Apparently, more people had been aware of the fight than I’d first thought. “It wasn’t a big deal,” I said. “My uncle didn’t kill Big Daddy.”
Mellie plucked at a lock of hair and sent me a pitying smile. “Well, good luck convincing the police of that, honey. I wish I could help, but I may have made things worse for him.”
My breath caught. “How?”
“Well, darlin’, I have nothin’ against your uncle, but I had to tell the police what I saw.”
“Are you talking about the fight they had? Because that only lasted for a couple of minutes and it was over hours before the murder.”
“Well, yes, I told them about the fight. Bradley really shouldn’t have said what he said, but your uncle shouldn’t have reacted the way he did. But I also had to tell them about what happened later.”
I almost didn’t hear the last part of what she said because my attention was riveted on the first part. “You heard what Big Daddy said to Uncle Nestor? What was it?”
Mellie studied me thoughtfully for a moment, probably trying to decide whether to tell me or not. Finally, she let out a resigned sigh and glanced toward the door to make sure we were alone. “I probably shouldn’t say anything. The police wouldn’t like us talking about the murder.”
“We’re not talking about the murder,” I said. “We’re talking about the fight my uncle had with your ex-husband. All I want to know is what Big Daddy said to Uncle Nestor that set him off like that.”
“Why don’t you just ask your uncle?”
“I have,” I assured her. “More than once. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t want to talk about anything, really. I don’t know what’s gotten into him.” When she still didn’t say anything, I tried a different tack. “Please? I’m desperate.”
“All right,” Mellie said, her voice low, “I guess I really don’t think your uncle killed Bradley—though God knows I’d understand it if he did.” Her lips quirked slightly. “You see, Bradley had a thing for women and cars. Always did. He traded in his cars every year so he could have the latest model. I found out a little too late that he did the same thing with women.”
I mumbled something about being sorry, but I wasn’t one bit surprised.
Mellie waved off my apology. “He cheated on me our whole marriage, but it took me a long time to realize what was happening and even longer to put my foot down and tell him it had to stop. Of course, he couldn’t stop and that’s when he left me for his second wife. She only lasted a couple of years, poor thing. Moved up north to Chicago and remarried, I heard. Anyway, it was like a sickness with him. He was like a moth, and beautiful women were the flame.”
“It must have been hard to be married to a man like that.”
Mellie nodded. “You don’t know the half of it.”
I let that settle between us for a few seconds, then followed up. “So what did he say?”
She glanced at the door again and dropped her voice a little more. “He made a couple of comments about what a beautiful woman your aunt is and then told your uncle to let him know if he ever got tired of her.”
No wonder Uncle Nestor went ballistic. “And that’s why Uncle Nestor hit him?”
“Not exactly.” Mellie returned the lipstick to her purse and tucked the bag under her arm. “Your uncle hit him after Bradley said what a treat it would be to get you and your aunt together.”
Knowing that Big Daddy had said something so rude, let alone had thought it, made me sick. Imagining Uncle Nestor’s reaction made me nervous. I leaned against the cool tile and tried to focus my thoughts again. “Are you sure that’s what he said?”
Mellie shrugged. “What can I say? He was a disgusting pig.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer to the next question, but I had to ask, “So what happened later?”
“Are you sure you want to know?”
“I have to know.” I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin, steeling myself. “It’s okay. I need the truth.”
In spite of my reassurance, Mellie seemed reluctant to go on. “They got into it again an hour or so later,” she said after a pause. “I didn’t hear what they were saying that time, but I assumed it had something to do with their first brawl.”
It seemed like a reasonable assumption, so I nodded for her to go on.
“I was looking for Judd—that’s Bradley’s younger brother. I don’t know if you met him…”
I nodded. “We met for a minute.”
“I wanted to make sure he was doing all right. Alcohol and Judd do not mix.” She flicked a glance at me and said, “Or maybe I should say that alcohol and Judd mix too well. Anyway, I wanted to make sure he was holding up okay. Somebody told me he was out by the pool, so I went down there. Your uncle and Bradley were there, and they were literally at each other’s throats.”
I thought I’d prepared myself for whatever she had to say, but I hadn’t. My knees felt rubbery and my spirits tanked. “They fought again?”
“They sure did.”
“What time was that?”
“Around one maybe? I’m not sure. I really wasn’t paying attention to the details…until I realized what was going on.”
“And you didn’t hear anything they said?”
“A few words. Not many I could understand. And I think we’re about to cross the line here. I probably shouldn’t say too much more.”
“But you did hear something,” I said, nudging her again.
She flicked a lock of hair off her forehead and backed a step toward the door. “I only heard one thing, really,” she said, clearly eager to finish the conversation. “I heard your uncle threaten to kill Bradley.”
Nineteen
With Mellie Boudreaux’s claim echoing through my head, I rejoined Aunt Yolanda on the chairs and made small talk. Maybe I should have told her what Mellie said, but I didn’t want to worry her. She had enough on her mind, what with Uncle Nestor’s bad heart and all.
Besides, no matter what Mellie might have overheard, I knew my uncle. He might have a short fuse and an explosive temper, but he’s not a murderer.
After a while, Sullivan reappeared with a still-sullen and silent Uncle Nestor and told us we were free to go—for now. I wondered if the police were taking Mellie Boudreaux’s story seriously, but I didn’t want to ask in front of Aunt Yolanda, so I swallowed my questions and promised myself I’d ask Sullivan later.
We dodged reporters on the way back to the car and settled in for the drive home, Uncle Nestor in the front seat with me, Aunt Yolanda in the back. I tried asking Uncle Nestor about his interview with Sullivan, but he still wasn’t talking, so we drove back to the house in silence broken only by an occasional observation from Aunt Yolanda about things we passed.
She seemed fascinated by the Mardi Gras decorations and crowds gathering at such an early hour everywhere, but I suspected she was just trying to distract me so I wouldn’t upset Uncle Nestor. To a casual observer, I’m sure she looked cool, calm, and collected, but I picked up on subtle clues that revealed how agitated she was. This was tough on everybody.
The minute we got to the house, Uncle Nestor climbed the stairs to the guest room and Aunt Yolanda followed a minute later, saying that she needed to lie down for a while.
Alone for the first time in several hours, I checked my cell phone and noticed that a message had come in since the last time I looked. It was from Miss Frankie, letting me know she was having lunch at The Shores with her neighbor, Bernice, and the police were still gathering evidence from the crime scene. I wondered what she had up her sleeve, but my call to her house phone went through to voice
mail and Miss Frankie doesn’t carry a cell phone.
I puttered around the house for a few minutes, listening for footsteps coming from upstairs. I needed to get to work. Yeah, I know. Edie had advised me to stay away. But I’m no good at taking advice. Besides, working always helps me think—and I desperately needed to sort through the jumble of questions rolling around in my head.
I waited until I was convinced that Uncle Nestor and Aunt Yolanda were settled in for a while, then changed into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and scribbled a hasty note explaining that I’d gone to the shop. The bright noon sunlight filtered through the trees as I drove the back streets to the Garden District, and the city began to work its magic on me. Stately antebellum homes surrounded by well-trimmed lawns and ornate gardens filled with flowers stand side-by-side with boutiques and restaurants. It’s a trendy, upscale neighborhood with lots of old-world charm. Technically, it was still winter, but it felt like the springs I’d known in New Mexico.
I parked in Zydeco’s employee lot and walked inside, where I breathed in the delicious scents of yeast and cinnamon and felt my nerves begin to settle.
“What are you doing here?” Edie snapped when she saw me. “I thought I told you to stay away.”
My mood curdled like sour milk. I didn’t need attitude on top of everything else.
“I know what you told me,” I growled back. “I came anyway.”
“So I see.” Edie was wearing striped leggings under a lime green tunic and a pair of soft-soled shoes, the toes of which sported intricately embroidered lotus flowers. With her porcelain doll face, the whole outfit made her look young and sweet. Very misleading.
I tried to look calm and in control, completely at ease with my decision to come to work, but I was second-guessing myself like mad. We were standing in the room that had originally served as the home’s front parlor and now did duty as the bakery’s reception area. It’s Edie’s domain, and she runs it from behind a wide U-shaped desk lined with stacking trays that are labeled and color-coded. In direct contrast to the organization she prefers, her desk was cluttered with the buildup of paperwork from orders we’d filled since carnival season began. Receipts and invoices teetered in stacks, waiting for her to update Zydeco’s books on the computer.
A half-eaten shrimp po’boy sandwich from the corner grocery sat between her computer keyboard and a massive insulated cup, no doubt filled with her favorite, Diet Coke, making me realize that I should have stopped for lunch on my way. I’d never have time to get away for something to eat now.
“How are things going?” I asked, still trying to give the appearance of control. “Are we on schedule?”
Edie slipped behind her desk and dropped into her chair. “Everything is fine. I told you that already. There’s no reason for you to be here.”
“And yet I am, so it’s a moot point,” I said and turned toward my office. I unlocked the door and tossed my bag onto the floor beside my desk—also heaped with paperwork and piles of mail. “Where’s Ox?”
“Filling in for you in the design room,” Edie called back. Her voice was muffled, as if she’d gone back to work on the sandwich. “And he’s none too happy about it either. Just so you know.”
I ran a quick glance over the heap of work waiting for me, decided that none of it was urgent, and headed for the employee lunchroom. “Is there coffee?” I tossed the question at Edie as I passed her desk.
“I made some an hour ago.”
Not fresh, but hopefully not bitter yet. I followed the aroma toward the sunny room that overlooked the street. “Anything to eat in there?”
“Estelle brought bagels and lox from Surrey’s this morning. There might be some left.” Edie took another bite of her po’boy and got up to follow me. “How did it go at the police station?”
I shrugged. “Aunt Yolanda and I signed our statements. Uncle Nestor spent a while with Sullivan, but don’t ask me what happened. He’s still refusing to answer my questions.” I made a beeline for the coffeepot and poured a cup. “I wish I could figure out what’s going on with him. Aunt Yolanda said he had a mild heart attack a couple of weeks ago. I’m sure it freaked him out big-time. I don’t remember him ever getting sick when I was a kid, not even a cold. But even a shock like that doesn’t explain why he’s refusing to talk.”
Edie shrugged as if to say she had no answer for that and checked the box from Surrey’s on the counter. “You’re in luck. There’s one bagel left. The fixings are in the fridge.”
Such as they were. A few smears of cream cheese clung to the edges of the plastic container and two wispy pieces of lox lay limply on a folded sheet of waxed paper. I scraped and spread and arranged until the food looked almost appetizing and then tore into it as if I hadn’t eaten in days.
Is there a better bite anywhere in the world? A perfectly boiled bagel, crusty on the outside and chewy on the inside. The sweetly sour burst of cream cheese mixed with the smoky taste of the lox almost made me swoon. I wolfed down half the bagel, pausing only to wag my fingers in farewell as Edie went back to work, and again in hello as Estelle came through the door a few seconds later.
She saw me eating the last bagel and frowned in disappointment. “Oh. You’re…” She waved a hand as if losing that bagel had flustered her. “That’s okay. I had one earlier.”
“It’s delicious,” I said around the last mouthful. “Thanks for bringing them this morning.”
She gave her spongy red curls a little flip and crossed to the fridge. “No problem. I thought I should do something. You know. Because of…you know. What happened last night.”
You betcha. A good bagel is the best cure for a murder hangover.
I sipped coffee, added a dash more sugar, and started toward the door as Estelle pulled a Coke from the fridge. “How are you doing, Rita? Are you holding up okay?” she asked.
I nodded, a little surprised by her question. “I’m fine. I’m sorry for Big Daddy’s friends and family, but I didn’t really know him.”
“Yeah, but—” Estelle reached into the cupboard for a glass and filled it with crushed ice from the refrigerator door. “It’s just…” Her voice trailed away and she chewed her bottom lip for a moment.
I gave her a verbal nudge. “Just what?”
“Well, you know. Edie told us how your uncle is under suspicion.” She twisted the cap off her bottle and concentrated on pouring the soda over ice.
“My uncle is innocent,” I said firmly.
“Oh, I know! I’m not saying he’s not.” She glanced at me and away from her task. It only took a second but the Coke foamed over the side. She grabbed a handful of paper towels and started mopping. “I didn’t mean to insinuate anything…you know…bad.” She looked so horrified, I almost felt sorry for her, and I reminded myself that I wasn’t the only one at Zydeco feeling the effects of Big Daddy’s murder. “How’s Miss Frankie taking all of this? Poor woman. This must be horrible for her.”
“I’m sure it’s not easy,” I agreed.
She tossed the soggy paper towels and checked her soda to ice ratio, then picked up the glass and sipped. “When you’re ready, I have some more pictures for the blog.”
“More than what you gave me last night?”
“Ox wanted me to get a variety. I tried.”
I nodded and tried to look as if I cared, but if the website and blog had been low on my priority list yesterday, they’d slipped off the list completely today. “Just give the memory card to Edie,” I said. “I’ll get it from her.”
“Oh. Sure.” Estelle looked at me over the rim of her glass, her eyes expectant and uncertain, as if she wanted to say more but didn’t know if she should.
“Is there something else?”
She put the glass down and moved a couple of steps closer. When she spoke again, her voice was almost a whisper. “For what it’s worth, I really don’t think your uncle did it.”
“He didn’t,” I said again. “And I appreciate the vote of confidence. I just wish I knew h
ow to convince the police that he’s innocent.”
Estelle’s round face creased in a sympathetic smile. “Seems weird to me that they’d be looking at him anyway. Don’t they say that it’s usually someone close to the victim?”
After I’d finished the other half of my bagel, I threw the empty box and the cream cheese container into the trash. “That’s what they say,” I agreed. “I wish I knew more about the Boudreauxes. What did Big Daddy have, a couple of ex-wives? A girlfriend?” I liked Mellie when I met her earlier, but what if she wasn’t telling the truth? What if she had a grudge against Big Daddy and resolved it by coshing him over the head?
Estelle shook her head. “Bless his heart. Always searching for love and never finding it.”
“Is that your way of saying he slept around a lot?”
Estelle didn’t give me a direct answer. “It’s my way of saying that the poor man never learned he couldn’t run his women the way he ran his business.” She slanted a sly glance at me and lowered her voice a little more. “I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but I heard him talking to his wife last night and it was downright shameful. No respectable Southern gentleman would say the things he did.”
My ears perked up at that. “What kinds of things?”
Estelle put a hand on her chest and glanced at the door. “I probably shouldn’t say.”
“You’d better say,” I warned her. “And right now. If you know something that could help clear Uncle Nestor, you have to tell me.”
Estelle sank into a chair and propped her chin in one hand. She looked miserable, but I didn’t let it get to me. I sat across from her and made eye contact—which wasn’t easy since she seemed determined not to look at me. “What did he say?”
She sighed heavily. “I’m not sure I can help much. The music was so loud.”
I was in familiar territory now. If Miss Frankie had taught me anything since I came to New Orleans, it was the dance of Southern gossip. “Yes, it was,” I commiserated. One, two, cha-cha-cha.
“And of course I wouldn’t think of eavesdropping.”
Cake on a Hot Tin Roof Page 13
