Cake on a Hot Tin Roof

by Jacklyn Brady

  I put Sparkle and Isabeau to work on a butter cake with blueberries and a Bavarian cream filling for a baby shower coming up next week: two tiers, stacked, covered in baby blue fondant and a myriad of white fondant stars. On the top tier they’d attach a molded gum-paste cow jumping over a sculpted cake moon. An adorable design, if I do say so myself. Getting the faces cute enough for a baby shower would have been challenging for most of us, but Sparkle should be able to knock them out easily.

  Ox and Estelle would be tackling a tart orange divorce cake with orange custard filling scheduled for delivery on Wednesday. Two tiers again, but this cake wouldn’t be stacked. The design called for a flat bottom tier sporting a gum-paste groom with one foot on the top tier, as if he was kicking the bride and her half of the cake to the curb. The little gum-paste bride would be clinging to the side of her tilting tier.

  The design was Ox’s suggestion, given that the fellow throwing the party was a jilted husband, and I’d approved it wholeheartedly last week. Today, with Aunt Yolanda barely speaking to Uncle Nestor, I didn’t find it nearly so amusing.

  Dwight and I would work on a four-tier tropical cream cake in a Mardi Gras design. We’d start with sponge cake, lightly dab each layer with coconut syrup, and then spread Bavarian cream, fresh mangoes, and pineapple between the cakes to create each tier. We’d stack the tiers and cover the whole thing with white fondant, then finish the design by applying stripes and harlequin shapes on alternate layers and topping the cake with a gum-paste Mardi Gras mask.

  With those details settled, I dismissed the staff so they could get to work and gathered up my notebook and coffee cup, intending to do the same. As I stood, I realized that Ox was still sitting at the end of the table, watching me.

  “Have you had a chance to look at the web page?” he asked.

  I groaned aloud and shook my head. “Don’t start. Please. You have no idea how crazy things have been since my uncle and aunt showed up.”

  “I’m asking you for fifteen minutes. Thirty tops. Why is that so difficult?”

  “Because it is.” I shoved a stray lock of hair out of my face and sighed. “Why don’t you just approve it yourself? It will save us all time.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay with that?”

  “I wouldn’t have suggested it if I wasn’t.” I shoved my chair in the general direction of the table and started toward the door.

  “And the blog?”

  “Is going to have to wait,” I said. He made a noise and I whipped back around to face him. “Seriously, Ox, I can’t do it right now. You’re just going to have to be patient.”

  He held up both hands in surrender. “Fine. Whatever. Do I dare ask about the photos from the party?”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to say no, but the sudden thought that Estelle might have captured something useful made me cut myself off before I got the word out. Admittedly, it was a long shot, but it was worth a look. “I’ll get to them tonight. Will that be soon enough?”

  Ox’s eyes narrowed as if I’d confused him. “Really? You don’t want me to take them? I probably have more time than you do.”

  “I’ll do it,” I said as I sailed out the door.

  He came after me. “Why so cooperative all of a sudden?”

  I grinned at him as I started down the stairs. “You’ve been complaining because I don’t want to help. Now you’re complaining because I do?”

  He clattered down the stairs behind me, his big feet in their heavy boots making enough noise to raise the dead. “Call me cynical, but I’m highly suspicious of this sudden turnaround.”

  We reached the bottom of the stairs, so I turned to face him. Edie was away from her desk, leaving us alone in the foyer. “Okay, so it’s not entirely about the website. It just occurred to me that Estelle might have gotten some shots of Big Daddy and his killer. I figured I might as well kill two birds with one stone—so to speak.”

  He frowned so hard wrinkles ran from his eyebrows to what used to be his hairline. “I knew it.”

  “What’s the big deal?” I asked. “I’ll look at the pictures. Pick out a few for the website and check for evidence at the same time. You’ll get what you want, and hopefully I’ll get what I want. We both win.”

  “Right.”

  I turned to walk away and another idea hit me squarely in the face. “Hey, Ox?”

  He was halfway to the door already, but he wheeled around when I called him. “Yeah?”

  “You did such a great job with the design for the divorce cake. How’d you like to throw together something that says, ‘Sorry for your loss’?”

  The worry wrinkles reappeared on his forehead. “You want a bereavement cake?”

  “Yeah. Just something simple. Something appropriate for a recent widow who may or may not have murdered her husband.”

  “You’re going to take Big Daddy’s wife a cake?”

  “Why not? Where I come from, taking food to the family after a funeral is the socially accepted way to deal with death. Don’t they do that around here?”

  Ox gave a grudging nod. “But it’s still a bad idea, Rita.”

  “Maybe. But it’s the only one I’ve got. I need to get a foot in her door somehow.”

  “No. You don’t.”

  “Yeah. I do. I can’t explain why, but I really need to talk to her. Can you have it ready for me by this afternoon?”

  Ox took a step toward me, his eyes clouded with concern. “Let the police handle it.”

  “They can’t handle this,” I told him. I held up my right hand, as if I were taking an oath. “I swear, it’s not about the murder. I need to talk to her about something else.”

  And it was true. Mostly. I really did want to ask what happened between her and Uncle Nestor. Maybe I could help smooth things over for my miserable tío. And if the subject of Big Daddy’s murder came up? Well…I’d have to talk to her about it, wouldn’t I? I wouldn’t want to be rude.

  Thirty

  After work that evening I found Big Daddy’s address on the guest list and followed my GPS instructions to a house set back from the road behind a grove of trees. Now that I was here, I started second-guessing my plan.

  The cake Ox had pulled together for me in between his regular duties sat on the seat beside me in a box bearing Zydeco’s cartoon alligator logo. The cake itself was nothing fancy. He’d found a spare hummingbird sheetcake—a local favorite—in the kitchen and he’d decorated it tastefully with a few pastel peach flowers in one corner. No cheesy hand-piped sentiment. Just cake. It was perfect for what I had in mind.

  I turned onto the driveway and wound through forest until the house came into view. A handful of cars were scattered around—two parked in front of the house on a circular drive, two more in front of a garage at the side of the house, and a huge white SUV nosed up next to a serene-looking garden with a lighted fountain surrounded by some exotic-looking broad-leaved shrubbery.

  I gathered up the cake and put on a sympathetic expression as I approached the door. A tall, thin man with horn-rimmed glasses and an impatient expression answered my ring and glared down at me from a step above.

  Tyson. Well, well, well.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m here to see Mrs. Boudreaux. Is she in?”

  “She’s in, but she’s not available. Is there something I can help you with?” The look on his face said he’d rather do anything but.

  I shook my head, but I didn’t back down. Now that I’d run into him, my curiosity was in overdrive. “I really need to see her,” I said. “It’s important.” And when that didn’t impress him, I added, “I only need five minutes of her time.”

  He glanced over his shoulder—the first sign that maybe he didn’t actually rule the world and had to take orders from someone else. “I’ll see if she’s up to seeing you. Your name?”

  “Rita Lucero.”

  Nothing.

  “From Zydeco Cakes.” I held up the cake box as if that might make a difference.

 
He still didn’t move away from the door.

  Desperate times call for desperate measures, so I tried a different strategy. “Her husband passed away at my party,” I explained. “I feel so horrible I just won’t be able to rest until I offer my condolences.”

  “The funeral was yesterday,” he said.

  “That’s why I waited until today,” I said back.

  He still looked hesitant, but he motioned me inside and shut the door behind me. But that’s where he drew the line on hospitality. He held up a hand to indicate that I wasn’t to come any farther inside and said, “I’ll see if she’s feeling up to visitors.”

  I wondered if he’d be so bristly if I told him I’d been in the church garden yesterday. Even if Susannah didn’t actually hate Violet, she still might not like learning that her cabana boy was on friendly terms with her husband’s mistress.

  He kept me cooling my heels for a good fifteen minutes before he came back. His expression was so sour, I expected him to show me out the door again. I could feel aggression pouring off him in waves. Instead, he growled, “Come this way.”

  I kept my own face expressionless, but inside I did a little skippy dance of joy and followed him through the house and onto a screened porch filled with potted ferns and wicker furniture. Susannah Boudreaux sat on a swinging daybed suspended on chains from the ceiling.

  She wore black clam diggers and an open sweater of soft, draped material over a pastel pink tank top. Her legs were tucked under her, and she looked pale and wan, as if sitting was almost too much for her. But her burgundy-colored hair had been carefully teased and sprayed, and her makeup appeared flawless. Which made me think she was stronger than she was letting on.

  She offered me a limp hand when I approached, and waved me toward a chair.

  I put the cake box on the coffee table and sat. “Thank you for seeing me. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.” Her voice was soft. Barely above a whisper. A far cry from the fishwife shriek she’d used when she told the world about Uncle Nestor attacking Big Daddy. “You brought me a cake?”

  “Just a little something,” I said. “It’s what I do.”

  She smiled sadly. “Well. Thanks.” She blew her nose and tucked the tissue into her pocket. “Tyson said you wanted to see me about something important?”

  I nodded and glanced toward Tyson, who stood in the doorway, arms crossed and glaring at me from behind his glasses. I took a page out of Miss Frankie’s book and dusted my next comment with sugar.

  “It must be so comforting to have your family around at a time like this.”

  Her gaze shot to Tyson and they shared a look. “Tyson’s a friend,” she said when she looked away. “A family friend.”

  I wondered whether Big Daddy had been aware of his wife’s friendship with Tyson. I’d have bet half of everything I owned that he hadn’t. “Friends are good, too,” I said, smiling as if I believed her. “The important thing is that you’re not alone.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Well. What is it you wanted to see me about?”

  I decided it might be best to ease into the subject of that kiss, so I said, “Please understand that I don’t mean any disrespect. And I don’t want to bring up painful issues, but I’d like to ask you about your brother-in-law. I understand he had a disagreement with your husband the night Big Daddy died.”

  “He may have,” she said. “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “Your husband didn’t mention it to you?”

  She smoothed one hand down the leg of her pants and I spotted a slight tremor in her hand. Nerves or grief? I couldn’t be sure. “No,” she said. “And neither did Judd.”

  “So you don’t know anything about the trouble Judd was in?”

  She pulled her hand away from her leg and clasped both hands in her lap. “What makes you think he was in trouble?”

  “Someone overhead him promising to pay Big Daddy back. In that same conversation, Big Daddy told Judd he was going to put him in rehab. You don’t know anything about that?”

  She shook her head slowly. “No, but I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s no secret that Judd has issues with alcohol. He makes a habit of getting himself into scrapes and my husband was constantly bailing him out.” Her voice was hard and flat, and so were her eyes.

  “I take it you didn’t approve?”

  “Approve? Hardly. Judd’s behavior is destructive and selfish. But he’s family, and my husband was very protective of him.”

  “And that’s why you gave your husband an ultimatum?”

  She shot flaming daggers at me with her eyes. “I did no such thing.”

  “You didn’t tell him he had to make things right with Percy—and I quote—or else?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. My husband was a softhearted and generous man. His brother sometimes took advantage of that.”

  “His alcoholism?”

  “Everyone knows it’s a disease,” she said. She looked at me through a set of snake eyes. “Big Daddy and I were both very sympathetic toward his brother’s illness.”

  “Until the night he died,” I pointed out. “How do you think Judd would have reacted to the threat of being sent to rehab?”

  “He would have been angry and upset, but he would have gone. He always did anything Big Daddy asked him to do.” She narrowed her eyes and looked to Tyson for direction. He gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, resuming his position as king of her world.

  “I don’t understand why you’re asking all these questions about my brother-in-law,” she said, shifting position slightly. “What’s it to you?”

  “I’m just trying to figure out what happened.”

  “Isn’t that a job for the police?” Tyson said from his post at the door.

  “Yes, of course. But Mrs. Boudreaux practically accused my uncle of killing her husband.” I turned away from Tyson and addressed Susannah again. “I’d like to know what led you to believe that.”

  She looked stunned and angry. “That man is your uncle?”

  “Visiting from out of town,” I said with a nod. “He arrived just a few hours before the party. He didn’t even know Big Daddy.”

  “Apparently he knew him well enough,” Tyson put in.

  Yeah. Thanks, buddy. I stayed focused on Susannah. “Why do you believe my uncle killed your husband?”

  “I believe that,” she said, “because it’s true.”

  Liar. “You saw him do it?”

  She shot another look at Tyson and said, “No. But I’m sure it was him.”

  “With all due respect, Mrs. Boudreaux, that wasn’t my question. I asked why you think that.”

  Her spine stiffened and the softness around her mouth disappeared. “I think that because he attacked my husband. Twice. And he did it in front of everyone.”

  “He confronted him because your husband made inappropriate suggestions.” At least that’s why they’d fought the first time. I still wasn’t sure what had caused the second fight, but I assumed it had something to do with the kiss.

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. Big Daddy made a little joke. What’s the harm in that? That’s just the kind of man he was.”

  I’m not a violent person, but I wanted to get up out of my chair and show her the harm with the flat of my hand. What can I say? I am related to my uncle. I gripped the arms of the chair to keep myself where I was. “It was no joke,” I said. “And not everyone found your late husband amusing.”

  She waved away my comment as if it were a pesky fly. “Clearly, your uncle has anger issues that he’s incapable of controlling. I can’t help but feel sorry for his wife. To live with that kind of a monster must be horrible.”

  She really was too much. “If you felt that way,” I said, getting to the crux of the issue, “why did you kiss him?”

  Tyson’s head jerked up as if someone had a string attached to it, but he didn’t say a word. Family friend, my ass.

  Susannah’
s eyes glinted, but her hard edges disappeared under a coating of Southern sweet ganache. “Oh, sweetie,” she purred. “Someone’s been lying to you. I didn’t kiss him, he kissed me.”

  Thirty-one

  Tyson showed me to the door, and I held my head high as I walked back to the Mercedes. I drove half a block before anger and frustration forced me to the side of the road. I put the car into park and leaned my forehead against the steering wheel while emotions churned around inside.

  Somebody was lying to me. That much was obvious. I just didn’t know whether that somebody was Uncle Nestor or Susannah Boudreaux. Gut instinct told me to believe Uncle Nestor, but the way he’d been acting, so secretive, made me begin to wonder.

  I don’t know how long I sat there before I began to calm down and think rationally again. My family was waiting for me at home. But I wasn’t ready to talk to Uncle Nestor just yet. I still needed to process what Susannah had told me.

  There was another reason I didn’t put the car in gear and head for home. In all the conversations I’d had over the past week, nobody had told me anything that would clear Uncle Nestor for good. But I couldn’t just give up. Especially now, with things so rocky between Uncle Nestor and Aunt Yolanda. My uncle might be a lot of things, but he’s not a murderer. Somebody out there knew something that would prove that. I just had to keep digging until I found it.

  I pulled the guest list out of my bag and flipped through the pages until I found the address I was looking for. I programmed it into the GSP, made a U-turn, and drove to Judd Boudreaux’s apartment. He lived in a picturesque complex on Lake Pontchartrain, which consisted of half a dozen three-story buildings scattered across a well-trimmed lawn, all posed in front of the lake and harbor like something that belonged on a postcard.