by A. Gardner
"I'm sorry. I can't—"
"He won't tell you anything," Georgina interrupts. She walks toward Otto, her former crush, with her arms crossed. "Not now that the police know his dirty little secret." She knows just what to say to make him squirm.
"Quiet," he scolds her. "The three of you…just mind your own business from now on."
"Mind our own business?" Georgina argues. "When you accepted the job here you should've left all your baggage at home."
"All right," Otto mutters, turning his back to Cole and Jeff so they can't hear what he's saying. "If you must know, the police are planning something. They're all over the house, watching the neighborhood, and annoying Susu to bits."
"What exactly are they planning?" I ask.
"They're going to try to lure Leo Bianco to the house by using me as bait." He nervously wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead.
"What are y'all whispering about over there," Cole shouts, startling Otto.
"See you ladies tomorrow." Chef Otto ignores Cole. He hurriedly gathers his things and leaves the classroom.
"Well, he doesn't scare easy," Jeff comments.
"Nice one," I say to Cole. A part of me is satisfied when I point a finger at him. "He was giving us more info about the case."
"Yeah, yeah." Cole chuckles. The sound of his voice rouses a storm of emotions in my chest, and I don't like it. "We heard him. That guy is loud even when he thinks he's being quiet."
"Really? What did you hear?" I egg him on, and he grins as if he's enjoying it.
"That the police are setting up some fancy trap to try to catch a mafia pro," he responds.
"Amateur," Jeff adds. Bree glances at him and places her hands on her hips.
"What makes you the expert?" Bree says to Jeff. Her cheeks turn rosy. The two of them have yet to address what happened between them, and the tension in the air is obvious. Jeff is blushing too but not because he's embarrassed. I think he's pleased that Bree has finally decided to look him in the eyes again.
"What qualifies you to decide that?" Jeff replies. Bree bites the corner of her mouth.
"Get a room, you two," Georgina says, rolling her eyes. "Can we focus on the task at hand, or am I the only one capable of staying on subject?"
"What?" Bree stamps her foot. "You think…" She points to Jeff and then to herself. "You think we…?"
"Spare me the sob story," Georgina responds. "I've seen a billion couples start out arguing exactly the way you two are. It's the sexual tension. Do something about it, or get over it."
"Thanks for the assessment," Bree says through her teeth. She's moved beyond embarrassment and straight on to anger. Normally she leaves the sarcasm to me but not today. "How much do I owe you?"
"You're welcome." Georgina accepts her fake compliment. "And you should be grateful. There are people out there who pay big money to figure that sort of stuff out."
"What if the police's plan works?" I chime in, trying to veer the conversation back in the right direction. "This whole case might be solved by the weekend."
"It won't," Cole insists. "A Bianco so high up on the totem pole probably already knows what the police are planning. Plus, he won't show this week. He has something more pressing to attend to." Cole raises his eyebrows when he looks at me as if I should know exactly what he's referring to.
"Care to share with the rest of the group?" Georgina shakes her head.
"Remember?" Cole continues, studying my expression. "Gino Milani's date book?"
I can't dwell on Gino's apartment too much because then I'll think some more about the kiss. I've already over-analyzed the crap out of that moment. I pause and let my thoughts bring me back to Gino's possessions. His little black day planner full of scribbles, a pair of new binoculars, and the folded-up article that was stashed in the back. An old newspaper clipping from the 1980's about a woman dying in a house fire.
"What about it?"
"The quarterly family meeting in New Orleans?" Cole tilts his head. "It's this weekend. Any mobster in town is probably halfway to Louisiana by now."
* * *
Cole was right.
The rest of our week at CPA was quiet and casual. Chef Otto didn't exhibit his usual pizzazz, and every morning when he showed up for class I knew nothing happened the previous night. Now it's Friday night, and I'm staring out of the car window at Bourbon Street for the very first time.
The mob won't come to us, so we're going to them. Very sound logic. Not.
"You guys will have to fight about rooms amongst yourselves," Georgina says. Bree and I rode the whole way in her silver Mercedes. Only because it's air-conditioned, and Ingrid suggested that Georgina do the neighborly thing and offer to drive. Cole insisted on coming because he's a Louisiana boy. That, and he claims that we're in over our heads without him. Cole drove separately, and naturally Jeff found a way to tag along with him. I think it's mainly to annoy Bree.
"As long as Jeff stays far away from me," Bree mutters.
"I'll be taking the master suite," Georgina informs us. "And Ingrid has dibs on the guest house if she wants it."
"Yes, you've said that," I respond. "More than once."
Letting Georgina bring us to her Uncle's vacation rental in the French Quarter sounded more appealing than a dumpy motel a couple of days ago. I have the feeling she's going to hold it over our heads for as long as she can.
Bourbon Street is already buzzing with foot traffic. Lights are glowing from every club, restaurant, and bar, and the tall colonial-style architecture reminds me a little of Paris. I place a hand on the window, and the glass is warm. The heat has followed us here.
Georgina winds through town and into a neighborhood of creole cottages and townhomes. In the distance there's a view of the Mississippi river, and the cast-iron balconies I see look identical to the buildings on Bourbon Street. Georgina pulls up to a tall gate and punches in a key code. The gate opens, revealing a center courtyard with a pool. Surrounding the clear blue water is a red townhouse with second story balconies all with white trim. Across from the main house is a pool shed and matching guest cottage. Both painted in the same shade of cherry-tomato red. It's one of the nicest properties on the block.
"Welcome to Marigny," Georgina says, parking her Mercedes.
Cole pulls up behind us, and Jeff hops out of the passenger's seat. He grins when he sees the pool—the light blue tiles at the bottom almost matching his ice blue eyes. Bree tries not to look at him and instead retrieves a very large and very orange sun hat from her bag. She uses it to hide the look on her face.
"Forget the mafia," Jeff comments. "Let's just enjoy ourselves."
"None of us brought swimsuits," Bree responds, rolling her eyes.
"You don't need a swimsuit to have a good time." Jeff slowly lifts his shirt, revealing a tight torso to match the rest of his frame.
"You taint the pool, and you're dead," Georgina shouts. "I'm having second thoughts about letting you all stay here. Clearly, you don't know how to behave yourselves."
"We're all adults here, Georgina." Jeff dips his toe in the water, scoping out the courtyard while shirtless. Georgina sighs and watches Ingrid carry her suitcase to the front door.
"Come on, man." Cole shakes his head in disapproval. "The sun's not even out."
The front door opens to a living area and wide staircase leading straight up to the second floor. The décor is similar to Georgina's apartment with white walls, cream furniture, and floral rugs. The main difference is that the room is accented with the same cherry tomato red. Even the mantelpiece surrounding the fireplace is painted red.
"Share a room?" I say to Bree.
"I thought you'd never ask." She takes another quick look at Jeff as he brings his bag inside—still showing off the farmer's tan on his biceps. The two of us walk upstairs to check out the available rooms. "I'm not sharing a bathroom with wonder boy."
Bree strolls right into what I assume is the master bedroom. It has a king-size bed and French doors that o
pen toward the pool. I sneak a peek at the private balcony and the small sitting room that pairs nicely with the cream-colored bedspread.
"Holy bathroom," Bree exclaims. I stop just behind her, taking in the sight of the accompanying tub and vanity. The entire room is tiled black, white, and red. And the tiles aren't just on the floor. They run up the side of the oval-shaped tub and most of the walls. The only portion of the space that remains unscathed by the bold tile design is the window.
"Honestly, my eyes hurt." I can't help but squint.
"I see you've found Georgina's room," Cole says behind us. He adjusts the strap of his backpack—much less luggage than any of us. Though I do have the tendency to travel with far too much. "I better keep looking."
"Hey, we call a room with its own bathroom," Bree informs him. "It's better that way. Trust me."
"Sure," Cole politely agrees. I hold my hand to stomach. "Hungry?"
"Always," I automatically reply.
"Have either of you ladies had a griddled doughnut sandwich?" he asks.
"Say that again?" Bree's expression changes. Her eyes grow to the size of mini pies as she yanks off her orange sun hat. Franken-sweets. "A sandwich made from a doughnut?"
"That's right," Cole says.
"When do we leave?" Bree chuckles, rushing out of Georgina's room to look for another space to claim.
"Wow." Cole watches her poke her head in and out of every room on the second floor as quickly as can. "She's really into doughnuts, isn't she?"
"Food meshing," I respond. "She's convinced that the ultimate mega-dessert is yet to be discovered."
"She might be right," he admits. My heart races when I realize that Bree is farther down the hall, and the two of us are sort of alone. What does he have planned this time?
"So…" I clear my throat. "Long day tomorrow. I, uh, checked online and Sweet T Soaps will be at the French Market in the morning."
"Yeah." Cole puts his hands in his pockets. "I remember you mentioning that."
"Oh right, of course."
"Along with our plan to visit Karl's mystery address," he adds.
My cheeks start to feel warm.
Why am I so flustered?
"Right," I say. "Do you think we'll find anything?"
"Yes," he answers in a softer tone of voice. "That's what worries me."
I gulp.
If we find the killer there's a good chance we'll also find the mafia.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
After a beignet breakfast at the iconic Café Du Monde, Bree and I walk through rows and rows of display tables with everything from gators made out of driftwood to paintings of rap superstars. The sun is blaring down on the pavement, and even though we're underneath a covered walkway, my forehead is still simmering. I wish I could whip my shirt off like Jeff without being stared at.
We lost Cole and Jeff at the boiled crawfish stand, and Georgina stayed behind to catch up on some much-needed sunbathing. I look ahead of us for the familiar sight of elaborate cakes and stacks of colorful bars all made out of soap. I keep getting distracted.
"Look at this," I gasp, holding a sparkly Mardi Gras mask up to my face. "It's so glittery."
"Put that away," Bree says, nudging my arm. She points off in the distance to a bright and cheery soap stand with a line of customers waiting to ring up their purchases.
"Here we go again." I head toward the soap booth.
The first person I see is Bonnie. She smiles, wearing a sleeveless cotton dress that falls to her sandals. She's ditched the homemade vest made out of yarn and instead is wearing two strands of beads as earrings. Another handmade project. They dangle as she restacks their latest featured item—berry-scented rainbow bars.
"I see one sister," I whisper. The friendlier sister. "Any sign of Mary Frances?"
"Maybe she's on a quick break?" Bree suggests.
"Then now is our best chance." I stroll right up to the Sweet T Soaps stand just like any other customer. I start by marveling at today's specials—triple chocolate soap cake and pineapple sugar body scrubs. Bonnie greets every customer in order, and the lines on her face crease with excitement when she gets to me.
"Oh, Poppy," Bonnie says. "I didn't expect to see you again. How are you?"
"I'm good, Bonnie." I pick out a piece of chocolate soap cake. "You're pretty good with names."
Compliments are a nice segue into deeper conversation.
"Yours is easy to remember," she responds. "In fact, we make a poppy flower soap sometimes."
"So you experiment with your soaps?" Bree chimes in, staring at today's soap cake like it's edible.
"All the time." Bonnie clasps her hands in front of her proudly.
"So you'd be open to, say, mixing together two of your most popular flavors to see if you can make something more unique?" Bree goes on.
Franken-soaps?
"You don't have to answer that," I joke. Bonnie lets out a quiet laugh.
"I'm open to suggestions, child." Bonnie brushes back a strand of silvery hair and keeps a friendly smile on her face.
"If soaping is like baking, have you tried making a variety of soap pastries?" Bree asks.
"Well—"
"Like a chocolate éclair?" Bree interrupts—her voice louder and more upbeat. "What about a French macaron, or how about a cinnamon Bundt cake with a vanilla glaze?"
"Those are all good ideas." Bonnie raises her eyebrows at Bree's last suggestion. "We could acquire a Bundt mold and add cinnamon to our vanilla soap cake recipe. It would slice up real nice too. Less complicated than trying to mimic the look of cinnamon rolls." She scratches the tip of her chin. "Just a second."
Bonnie ignores all customers for a brief second and instead searches for a scrap of paper and something to write with. She jots a few things down on the back of one of her business cards. I never knew how much soaping and baking go hand-in-hand. Doughnuts. Soapnuts?
"Let me know if I can help you two with anything." Bonnie resumes her duties. "If you're on a tight budget might I suggest you try a few of our latest bath bombes? They're sure to make your skin feel nice and soft."
Bree picks up a circular product from a basket labeled bath bombes. It's slightly bigger than their regular bath fizzes, and they come in a variety of shapes and colors. My main reason for drawing myself baths was to soak my sore muscles after ballet rehearsals. But in that case, I had to use cold water. Not hot. Baths aren't a luxury in my mind. Of course, I haven't gotten used to the normal way yet.
"Um…" I focus on the farmers' market a couple of weeks ago and the peach tea soap bar in Gino Milani's bathroom. Bonnie may appear sweet and sensible at first, but she's hiding something. "I was surprised to hear that you'd decided not to return to Georgia this summer."
"Oh." Bonnie sighs. "Not my idea, unfortunately. Mary Frances handles all our travel arrangements. You know, we used to have a store. Things were much less complicated when we had a store."
"What happened to it?" I ask.
"Oh nothing," Bonnie replies. "We sold it. I think it's a clothing boutique now."
"Money problems?" Bree whispers.
"Not to my knowledge," Bonnie answers. "Mary Frances handles the finances. I'm the creative one, but I did go through a rather dark period. Mary Frances suggested we start traveling to gather new inspiration. She was right, as usual."
"Where is Mary Frances?" I bite the inside of my cheek as I wait for her reply. I know once she shows her face, she'll put a stop to the questions. We'll have to buy the whole stand in order to get her to talk.
"Oh. She'll be along in a minute."
Bree and I glance at each other. A timer is ticking in my head and reminding me that my opportune moment is dwindling away. I wipe the moisture from my forehead and casually tuck my hands in the pocket of my jean shorts—the best I can do in this heat other than strutting through the French Quarter in my underwear.
"Bonnie, can I ask you something?" I step closer to the counter, leaning in so she can hear me bette
r.
"Of course you can, Poppy." The smile on her face doesn't fade.
"It's a little personal," I add.
"The bonds of womanhood are stronger than secrets," Bonnie states. A subtle breeze blows the bottom half of her dress, making her look like a whimsical soap fairy.
"Remember that morning back in Georgia?" I begin. "The man who was found with a sample of my Bananas Foster?"
"How can I forget?" Bonnie responds. "We left early that day. Lost a lot of sales. Very unlike Mary Frances."
"Did you ever meet the man who died that day? His name was Gino Milani."
"This question sounds vaguely familiar," Bonnie answers. She takes a step back, losing some of the sparkle on her face. "No. I've never met him."
"But…" I look at Bree and take a deep breath. "One of your peach tea bars was found where he was staying. Are you sure you never spoke to him?"
Bonnie takes another step away from us, twiddling her fingers. She glances down the row of surrounding tables and displays, eyeing each person who passes. My chest thuds as I imagine Bonnie doing a runner to avoid answering. I clench my fists, and my quads tighten in preparation to chase after her if she does. She can't be that fast.
"Bonnie?" Bree says.
"Excuse me, ma'am," a customer says near the register. Another line of soap enthusiasts is waiting for her attention.
"Oh, thank the cosmos." Bonnie exhales as her sister Mary Frances approaches. Mary Frances's attire is more business appropriate—a collared shirt and clunky black wedges.
"What's going on here?" Mary Frances asks, taking her usual spot near the cash box. "I can help whoever's next." She steps in front of Bonnie, who is still frozen in place. "What's the matter with you, Bonnie?"
Mary Frances wrinkles her forehead as she studies their booth. Her eyes wander down the line of waiting customers until they reach me. She frowns, forcing herself to continue collecting payments. Now that Mary Frances is back, it's not going to be easy to figure out what the two of them aren't saying. I don't know what to do next, and the frustration is welling up inside of me. I don't know how Detective Reid keeps it together when it's obvious that a suspect is lying to him.
