Bananas Foster and a Dead Mobster

by A. Gardner

  Susu's collar jingles as she jumps to her feet, glaring at the door. I grin, scratching her behind the ears. Having Susu around is like having my own private bodyguard. There's a loud knock on the door. My chest pounds with every heavy thud.

  "Oh, she knew Cole was at the door before we did," I coo. "Isn't that cute?"

  "Just answer the door," Bree replies.

  I have yet to see her sneeze.

  I open the door, taking a deep breath when I see Cole waiting with an armful of plastic containers. He grins, taking me in with his blue-green eyes. Today they look more like seafoam. His baby blue collared shirt makes his tan skin appear even darker. I think about Bree's comment suggesting that the two of us were more than friends, and I bite the corner of my lip.

  "I brought—" He raises his eyebrows. "Uh, do y'all know you've got a dog in your living room?"

  "Ask Poppy about it," Bree chimes in from the kitchen.

  "I was guilted into it." I put my hands in the air as if the decision to dog-sit Susu is out of my control. "But she's a good girl." I stand beside Susu as she looks up at Cole, wagging her tail. "See, she likes you."

  "She likes the smell of fried catfish and Southern caviar," Cole responds.

  Bree pokes her head into the living room.

  "Southern caviar?" Her new Franken-sweet kick is slowly turning into an obsession. Next she'll be trying to figure out how she can blend Cole's fish dish into a sweet dessert.

  "Black-eyed peas," he informs her. Bree slumps her shoulders and returns to her post. She carefully frosts her carrot and Alabama Lane cake creations and places them on a cake platter. "And there's something else…" Cole looks at me until our eyes lock. For a moment, my tongue feels like it's glued to the roof of my mouth. I clear my throat and turn my head.

  Susu lunges for the door as a second knock bursts through the apartment. A friendly face joins us for lunch—one that I'm all too familiar with. Jeff, the man who would put his feet up on the counter during class if it was allowed, is beaming as he walks right inside and toward the kitchen. He's wearing chunky hiking boots with his wrinkled shorts and a T-shirt with the skyline of his hometown of Seattle. I almost kissed that.

  It's hard to fathom that Jeff and I actually went out on a date my first semester. He was the prize of Georgina's eyes back then, so naturally I said yes when he asked me out.

  "Jeff?" I say out loud. "What are you doing here?"

  "I was invited," he responds, hovering over Bree's desserts.

  "That's not what I said," Cole points out. He shakes his head. Jeff doesn't seem to be listening anyway. "Sorry, Poppy, but we're partners this semester, and he wouldn't stop following me."

  "Oh, come on." Jeff snags one of Bree's cupcakes without asking. Despite the events of last year, including him almost being expelled for aiding in Mr. Harris's smuggling operation, he seems back to his usual self. I guess his whole laying low period has passed. "Poppy and I are old friends."

  "We went out once if that's what you mean." I throw it out there so he knows I'm not interested in a repeat.

  "I'll have to set another place at the table," Bree informs him, her hands on her hips. Jeff shrugs.

  "I'll wait." He smirks, taking another bite of Bree's cupcakes. "You all will be glad I stopped by in a few minutes."

  "Why is that?" I ask. I watch Cole unpack our homemade meal.

  "For once, all eyes are off me." He folds his arms, grinning from ear to ear. His blond locks shine in the light like he just stepped out of the shower. Or maybe it's the heat? "The whole school knows, you know. You're the talk of the town, Poppy."

  "Excuse me?" I say. My stomach churns as Cole slowly turns in my direction. I haven't told him all the details about yesterday yet.

  "Everyone knows about the dead guy at the farmers' market," he says.

  "It was on the news." My heart beats faster. Don't say it. Don't say it.

  "And everyone knows that the stabbing happened with your chef's knife," he finishes.

  He said it.

  "Poppy," Cole says quietly. "Is that true?"

  My thoughts spin so fast that I start to feel dizzy. If Jeff knows then the whole town knows. And if the whole town knows, Gino Milani's buddies also know. My hands shake, and I feel like a hundred-pound bag of flour has been thrown at my chest. Susu brushes her nose up against my leg, urging me to sit down.

  "Nice job," Bree mutters, smacking Jeff's shoulder. "You're going to give her a heart attack."

  "I know she's not a killer," Jeff mentions. "But I thought that she should know."

  "Poppy, are you okay?" Cole bypasses Bree and Jeff in the kitchen and focuses on me instead. He sits next to me on the sofa, doing his best to keep a calm expression on his face.

  "No," I mutter.

  I've got the mob on my back.

  "Anyway." Jeff clears his throat. "That's why I'm here. I've come to help."

  "You've helped quite enough, thank you," Bree responds. Jeff takes a step closer to her, and it's enough for Bree to stop tapping her foot.

  "I know how to find the real killer." Jeff pauses like Chef Otto sometimes does in the middle of his demonstrations. Cue the applause.

  "We've already come across some shady suspects." Bree holds her head high. She must be referring to Bonnie and Mary Frances Tanner, the soap sisters. They don't seem like trained killers, but it was obvious that they were hiding something.

  "Really." Jeff attempts to one-up her. "Well, do you know where the dead guy was staying? Have you searched his place?"

  "Uh…" Bree looks down at the kitchen floor—tan linoleum made to look like tiles.

  "I know someone who can give us a play-by-play of everything that guy did while he was in town, including where he stayed. You know who I'm talking about, Poppy. Beer battered fries. Horrible music."

  "Us?" I repeat. "Why are you so interested all of a sudden?"

  Jeff smirks, eyeing another one of Bree's experimental cakes.

  "The killer was right under your nose last time, remember? Besides, I figure I owe you one."

  CHAPTER SIX

  "I don't like it," Bree mutters, stabbing a pile of black-eyed peas on her plate. "He's a liar."

  "Oh come on," Jeff butts in. Bree's cheeks turn ruby red. "You know I had no choice but to help Mr. Harris smuggle those black truffles last year. I was being blackmailed."

  "Yes, why don't you tell us more about that," Bree says through her teeth. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, but Jeff keeps a grin on his face. He downs the food on his plate like it's the first thing he's eaten in weeks. I glance across the table at Cole. He mouths the word sorry.

  "Um, Jeff," I attempt to change the subject. "Why don't you tell us all about your plans to open that offbeat bagel shop you talked about our first semester?"

  "Oh that." He chuckles, looking over his shoulder at Bree's cupcakes again. I don't know if it's the sugar he's after or the bourbon in the frosting. "I've moved on to something bigger and better."

  "Really?" I reply.

  "Uh-huh." Jeff pushes his plate aside, having finished his meal first. I'm still savoring the fried bits of Cole's catfish. Another new food I'd never eaten until I met him. "Picture this, okay." He glances up at the ceiling, his face glowing as if he's seeing his name in lights on the kitchen wall. "A sweet and savory taco shop."

  My eyes stay focused on Cole. The two of us choke back laughter. I lean back in my seat, pretending to watch Susu lounging near the front door. She only begged for scraps once and then promptly left the kitchen after I said no.

  Bree pauses, tilting her head and placing her fork lightly on her plate.

  "Sweet tacos, you say?" She clasps her hands together with her elbows on the table. "Tell me more about that."

  Jeff looks to me.

  "Translation, please?" he mutters. "Is she being serious?"

  "What?" Bree responds. "I can't be interested in sweet tacos?"

  "You hated me two seconds ago," Jeff points out.

  F
ranken-sweets.

  "Have you ever tried baking cake batter in a taco?" Bree suggests. Jeff jerks his head back.

  "Not yet," Jeff answers, leaning toward her.

  I quietly stand up, retreating back to the living room as Bree and Jeff go on having a discussion about the taste of buttercream paired with hard tacos versus soft. Cole slowly pushes his chair back too, handing Jeff another cupcake before he becomes suspicious.

  "Those two are an explosive combo," I whisper. Cole and I stand next to each other in the living room with Susu at our feet.

  "Poppy, why didn't you tell me about the knife?"

  The answer is simple. I don't want Cole to worry or worse. I don't want him to see me as a ditzy ballerina who is careless enough to let a killer steal her personal property.

  The answer is simple, but saying it isn't simple at all.

  "I was going to," I admit.

  "You know this means we're back to walking on eggshells around here," he responds.

  "I'll figure it out." I cross my arms, staring down at my sandals. I already have tan lines across my toes. "I've done it before."

  "Barely," he adds. "Need I remind you what happened in Paris?"

  I gulp. Bree and Cole are the only ones who know all the details of my time spent in France. Cole hated Lord Dovington the moment I told him about the diamond pendant he sent me. The story of my travels got easier after I came to the part where Lord Dovington was murdered.

  "I don't need any reminding about that," I mutter.

  Bree and Jeff are still debating the menu of Jeff's imaginary taco shop. Bree throws her hands in the air when Jeff bluntly states that corn tortillas taste better than flour ones. Her miniature temper tantrum—consisting of her yanking back her plate of cupcakes so Jeff can't have thirds—lightens the mood.

  "Let's go," Cole says quietly. "We won't get anything done with those two bickering back and forth."

  "It just so happens that I know exactly who Jeff wants to go see." I quickly retrieve my purse and grab Susu's leash.

  "I'm game." Cole looks toward the kitchen. Bree and Jeff are so deep into their sweet taco debate that they've barely noticed they're alone at the table.

  "Come on. It's time you met Nicky."

  * * *

  We pass a small town square close to campus, and I keep driving toward a gas station and convenience store. Nicky's Bar is right next to it. It's lit up with neon beer signs, and the tiny parking lot is filled with motorcycles. Cole hesitates to step out of the car.

  "It's cool," I say. "Jeff brought me here that one time we went out." Emphasis on the one. I hold on to Susu's leash.

  "How nice." Cole chuckles, watching me pet Chef Otto's Italian pointer. "I don't think you can bring her in here."

  "Show me the sign that says no dogs allowed," I challenge him.

  The outside of the bar matches the inside. We open the door to laughter near the pool tables and clinking beer glasses. Music drowns out the rest of my thoughts. I let out a sigh of relief that it's classic rock instead of country western. Country music is still growing on me.

  Behind the bar serving drinks is the man we came here to see. He looks as if he's wearing the same exact outfit as before—an orangey flannel shirt that is tucked in to show his bloated beer belly. Nicky's facial hair hasn't changed either. A thin strip of stubble outlines his jaw like a chinstrap. I approach the bar with a smile on my face, wondering just how good Nicky's memory is. I guess this'll be the test.

  "Hi," I say. Susu studies the men around us, firmly picking her stance in between me and the rest of the customers.

  "So, you decided to come back." Nicky smirks, peering over the counter at Susu's amber coat. "I was beginning to wonder if we'd scared you away. Two cold ones?" Cole spots the end of a baseball game on the tiny TV near the bathroom. His eyes are glued to it. I nod at Nicky, waiting for him to place a cool, frothy mug in front of me.

  "Is it okay that Susu's here?" I ask. "The inside of my car is like sitting in a skillet."

  "Hey," Nicky shouts, demanding everyone's attention. "Any of y'all have a problem with this furry fella being here?"

  The bar falls silent for a few seconds before conversations and games of pool resume without any objections.

  "There you go." Nicky chuckles, his belly jiggling slightly.

  "Thanks." I tell Susu to sit at my feet, and she obeys. "Uh, Nicky?"

  "Darlin'?" His Southern accent is thicker than most. Sometimes it just sounds like mumbling.

  "You watch the news," I begin. "Did you hear about that incident yesterday—"

  "Oh, the farmers' market," he finishes. "Yeah, I saw that. Poor Tallulah. Her ma says she's still shaken up about it." He grabs a damp rag and wipes a few droplets of spilled spirits. He leans in a little closer, his gut up against the counter. "I hear the guy was some kind of gang banger. He worked for a mob boss up north."

  "Really?" I let out a fake gasp, pretending I'm hearing the information for the first time. It seems that Nicky hasn't heard yet whose knife the killer used. "A guy like that was staying in town all this time?"

  "Just goes to show that some people aren't what they seem." Nicky shrugs, organizing a row of empty beer mugs. Cole glances at us for a few brief seconds and focuses back on the baseball game.

  "Do you know where he was staying?" I ask. "One of the motels in town maybe?"

  "No," he replies. "He rented the apartment above Ward's Hardware Store. He's been around for a few weeks."

  "Did he ever come here?"

  "Nah." Nicky chuckles. "He's the sort of man who takes his liquor home."

  A tempting smell wafts through the room as Nicky retrieves a basket of crisp beer-battered fries from the kitchen window. He promptly delivers the order to a nearby table, leaving me to watch the steam rising from the fried potatoes slowly slip away. My first taste of those fries was last year, and they look like they're still just as good. Salty. Crunchy. And greasy.

  "Want a basket?" Nicky asks. The talk of food pulls Cole away from his baseball game. "It's Pop's old recipe."

  "I remember."

  "We'll take some," Cole chimes in.

  "We just ate," I mumble. Cole shrugs, and Nicky lets out a hoarse chuckle.

  "Folks can never say no," Nicky comments, putting in another fry request.

  Cole glances back at the TV.

  "Cole." I touch his shoulder. "Have you been listening to anything we've been saying?" He turns to look at me but only for a brief second. "Honestly, is baseball really that important?"

  "Poppy, look." He clears his throat and casually tilts his head toward the small screen at the edge of the pool hall. No baseball. Instead a newscaster is reporting the latest in national news including a very important breaking development. Notorious crime boss Vito Bianco, better known as "More Dough" Bianco, is officially on his deathbed having been diagnosed with an aggressive cancer only two years ago.

  "I don't get it," I say quietly. "If he's on his deathbed why would he be sending men here of all places?"

  "Business as usual?" Cole guesses.

  "With who?" I glance around the bar. "Guys like that don't bother with tiny little towns like this one."

  "Maybe he has a score to settle?" Cole guesses again.

  "You mean like…murder?" I lower my voice as Nicky pours refills for another group. I quickly touch my mug of beer. "Do you think Gino Milani was in town to kill someone?" I glance around, making sure no one is eavesdropping. "Who?"

  "You know where he was staying, right?" Cole asks quietly.

  "Above the hardware store down the street." I take a swig of my drink.

  "Well then," he follows suit, chugging the foamy contents of his glass, "let's go find out, Lil' Mama."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Ward's Hardware Store looks empty, and that's what worries me. The store sits at the end of the tiny town square that includes a pharmacy, a grocery store, and a few offices. It's one of those pass-through streets you only stop at if you really, reall
y need the toilet on your drive toward the city.

  The hardware store is the last unit of a row of tall brick buildings that take up most of the block. We park around back where there is a wooden staircase leading up to a door on the second floor. I hang on tight to Susu's leash as dirt is blown into the scorching air by a gust of warm wind. I cover my mouth but start coughing anyway.

  "Maybe this is a bad idea," I say.

  "Wandering around campus at night," Cole responds, referring to our late-night debacles last year, "now that was a bad idea." He heads for the second floor apartment, and the wooden steps creak as we walk up them. There's a window next to the front door, but the deck stops just before it. Cole tries the doorknob first. Locked.

  "How are we supposed to get in?"

  "Maybe now is a good time to show off those lock-picking skills you bragged about last year," he jokes. I glare at him. "Or not."

  Cole leans over the railing and tries the window. He grins when he's able to slide the glass high enough to stick his fingers underneath. I nod, impressed as he pulls the window up and pushes in the screen.

  "How are you going to get in?"

  As soon as I say it, he's standing on the railing. His eyes dart from his feet to the window and back again. Susu takes a few steps forward like she knows what Cole's about to do. I cringe.

  "Don't jump!" I blurt out.

  Cole narrows his eyes, leaning down and placing his feet on the other side of the railing. He hangs onto a bar with one hand and extends his other to the open window. His arm span barely reaches the windowsill. Cole leans back in order to get a good grip. I bite the inside of my cheeks, watching him make the transition from the railing. He pulls himself through the opening with ease, like a monkey hopping from tree to tree.

  The inside of the front door clicks open, and Cole stands smiling on the other side. His blue-green irises sparkle in the sun. I step inside, forcing myself to concentrate on something other than his impressive physique.

  But my heart won't stop fluttering.

  The apartment is small, though not as small as the studio apartment I stayed in back in Paris. There's an unmade bed in the corner, a bathroom, a kitchen counter with a sink and a microwave, and an armchair next to a desk with a television on top of it. I wrinkle my nose. The whole place smells musty, like it hasn't been dusted in years, and there's a strange-looking water stain imprinted on the wall.