Fairbanks, Nancy

by Crime Brulee (lit)

  "You're wrong, Philippe," I cried, hoping to head off the rage into which he was working himself. "She was very kind to me, but you were her son. She loved you."

  "Shut up!" He was shouting in my face. Then his voice dropped abruptly back into the normal range. "But let's talk about Julienne. Your dear friend. How much did you ever know about the estimable Julienne? Nothing! Did you know that she couldn't be bothered to have a child of her own? And why should she bother when she could appropriate mine? And keep her."

  "Diane?" I whispered.

  "Diane. My daughter. Julienne wouldn't even let me tell her that I was her father."

  I wouldn't have, either.

  "Wouldn't let me have any say in her upbringing. When I wanted her back, Julienne shipped her off to that girls' school. So I gave my sister a choice—about the money, about Diane—and she refused."

  "When was this?" I asked with dread.

  "When she wanted something from me, I always agreed. Even the last time I saw her."

  "What did you agree to, Philippe?"

  'To take her out in the boat, of course. You knew that. You were driving hither and yon asking about boat rentals, weren't you?"

  "She agreed to go out in a boat with you?" Why would Julienne have done that? He was obviously dangerous.

  "Of course she agreed. I was on my best behavior; she thought I was taking my medication. She thought boating would be good for my nerves, remind me of those happy times when we were children, sailing around the swamp with crazy old Dad, fishing poles in our hot little hands and all that crap. So I took her there."

  I didn't want to hear what happened next, but I couldn't get away from him, and I couldn't—

  "Don't you have other questions, Carolyn? I'm sure you do." He was leaning forward again. Crowding me.

  "What happened that... that night? In the swamp?"

  "Why, she fell off the boat. Always taking chances in order to get the perfect picture. Don't you think that's just like your friend Julienne?"

  That malicious smile spread across his lips, and I felt as if a permanent chill had entered my bones. "She fell out of the boat?" I repeated.

  "Do you doubt me? You think I gave her a push when she flatly refused to do the right thing? I did her a favor. I gave her the chance to reconsider."

  "You mean you'd have helped her back into the boat if she—"

  "No, little sister's friend, I mean if she made it to shore, she'd have time to think over my offer while she was slog­ging her way back. All she had to do was come here and tell me. I've been waiting. But she hasn't come back, has she? Always resisting me. That's my sister."

  "Philippe, you know that those waters are full of... of..." I saw in my mind that poor savaged body on the morgue slab. An alligator's dinner. And I knew it must have been Julienne. Tears began to trickle down my cheeks because I finally had to admit that she was dead. That Philippe had killed her.

  “Tears, Carolyn? What for? Julienne was always a strong swimmer. Better than you. Better than me. Girls' champion all those summers at that wretched lake with our parents fawning over her. She could very well be alive. Probably is."

  "Philippe, she's dead! I saw her body at the morgue," I cried.

  His eyes narrowed. Had he really thought she was wait­ing in the swamp, planning to come back and expose him? Or agree to his terms? Or perhaps he was afraid that I had been able to identify her. I hadn't.

  "Well, that's all right. If she's dead, I can claim my daughter and my daughter's inheritance, which should have been mine, anyway." He looked quite pleased with the out­come but then frowned. "Did you identify her?" he asked sharply.

  "No, but—"

  "Well!" Philippe stood up. "I know about your trip to the morgue. Claude told me. And if she's dead and you think you know it, that's the end of our conversation, isn't it?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Claude's obviously not coming back, so I guess it's up to me to end this." Before I could panic or try to push him away, just a second after I lurched to my feet, Philippe swept me up in his arms. As if I were Scarlett O'Hara and he Rhett Butler about to carry the heroine up the broad staircase.

  "What are you doing?" I tried to struggle free, but he was surprisingly strong for such a thin person. Surely, he didn't mean to rape me, I thought in a panic. But no. He swung around my chair and brushed right through the drapes. They were dusty and, in sweeping over my face, filled my nose and throat with fine, dry grit. Once past the drapes, he lifted me high and tossed me away, as if he were launching a kite into the air.

  Then I was falling, terrified, with the sun in my face.

  32

  Mardi Gras King Cake

  I was spread-eagled in the sky while my clothing fanned out in a vain attempt to buoy me up in the unresisting air. Turning my eyes desperately to the balcony, I saw Philippe's back as he disappeared without a backward glance through the door and the drapes, whose dust mixed in my throat with the acid of terror. I thought of Jason and the children. I didn't want to die! And I was so afraid of the terrible pain I'd feel, even if only momentarily, when my body slammed into the courtyard below.

  And then I did hit, but I bounced. It was like playing on the trampoline in the backyard when the children were little. I could almost hear their screams of delight and my own laughter as we bounded on our feet and our bottoms. How­ever, the second time I bounced, I heard the harsh sound of tearing canvas. Then I was falling again, my second of relief and remembrance gone as I plummeted once more and jarred into stillness.

  Oh, I hurt! But worse than the pain and fear, I couldn't breathe. There was no air in my lungs, nor could I draw more in. This must be death, even though I had fallen into something that offered little initial resistance. I opened my eyes to look one last time at the sun. Instead, I saw men sur­rounding me, grotesque faces peering down from odd angles while some drew back and turned to one another in an uproar of unintelligible babble. Glasses and goblets in hand, laughing, talking, frowning, the men began to look less sur­real as I blinked my eyes; then the babble separated into un­derstandable speech, understandable in its separate words, if not in its meaning.

  "Hell, Alistair, how come she didn't pop out of the cake?"

  "Couldn't you a found us someone younger?"

  "Better yet, someone nekked."

  "She squashed da hell out of da cake, her."

  "Ole Alistair always did have a flair for the dramatic."

  'That li'l lady put out the Tooth Fairy Candle with her butt." Uproarious laughter followed most of the remarks from these men. I now saw that they were wearing sport coats, tieless shirts, and casual trousers. Then I was able to drag in my first breath and knew that I wasn't dead and that this wasn't some all-male hell peopled by a swarm of aliens with abominable taste in clothes—checked jackets, yellow pants, even a pink sport coat—all drinking and obviously the worse for liquor.

  One staggered forward to peer at me and spilled beer on my face. When I tried to push myself away from him, my hands sank into the surface upon which I had landed. When I tried to wipe the beer from my face, I saw that my fingers were covered with green, gold, and purple grit. I was dazed, still unable to breathe deeply enough to satisfy oxygen-starved lungs, and evidently very messy.

  "Did you fall from heaven pretty, overaged, lady?" asked a leering fellow in a lime green sport jacket and dreadful green-striped pants. All he needed was a straw boater and cane to be dressed for vaudeville.

  "I was thrown ... off a balcony ... by a madman," I croaked.

  Some of the men laughed. I saw one pounding an­other's back and shouting, "That's a good one, Alistair." Alistair, for all he was wearing a frightful golf shirt with an emblem of an alligator eating a golfer, looked sober and confused. Again I reassured myself that I wasn't dead, just surrounded by ill-dressed, drunken ghouls. But Juli­enne was dead. Tears of grief and shock began to roll down my cheeks, and the men stopped laughing. One even tried to comfort me on the failure of my appearance i
n their conference cake.

  "I need to call nine-one-one," I replied, reluctantly em­ploying what little breath I had to speak.

  Alistair offered me a cell phone. Others, realizing with surprise that my abrupt descent through the canvas of the tent and into their cake wasn't a bizarre convention act, fished out their phones as well. Within seconds, I had my choice of at least twelve cell phones. I took the nearest. Men on either side of me seized my elbows and sat me up, causing clouds of Mardi Gras-colored powder to swirl around me. Cake and icing squished out from beneath me and oozed onto the tablecloth which, much to my horror, was decorated with teeth of many colors. The act of sitting elicited a groan.

  "Don't move her, Mort," cried Alistair. "You want to get sued?"

  "She's covered with frosting and sugar," Mort protested. "That's not gonna be good for mah cell phone."

  Alistair tried to push me back into the cake. "The police wanna see the body jus' wheah it landed."

  "Yo' not supposed to disturb a crime scene, fella," said another person.

  “I’m not dead, " I protested. "Not moving the body is for dead people." My breathing had evened out. Obviously the breath, not the life, had been knocked out of me.

  "How about a nice margarita, lady?" The man in the pink jacket tried to thrust a salt-edged cocktail glass into my hand, but I resisted both the margarita and the attempt to lay me out once more on top of the cake.

  "You got real nice teeth, ma'am," said the man in the lime green outfit. "Musta had a good orthodontist." He bent over to study my teeth at closer range. "Real good bite there."

  Of course, I thought. I had landed in the midst of the Southern Orthodontist Society conventioneers. Which re­minded me vividly of Philippe, although he was not one of them. Still, he'd be getting away while I was being ogled and cosseted by dentists. I ignored Mort's fears for his cell phone, which I still clutched in one sticky, multicolored hand, and dialed 911.

  Then, taking a deep breath and steeling myself to make a brief, cogent statement of the facts, I said, "My name is Car­olyn Blue. I am at the orthodontists' convention at the Su­perior Inn, and I have just been thrown out a second-story window by the man who killed Dr. Julienne Magnussen. Her body, I believe, is in your morgue. The killer's name is Dr. Philippe Delacroix."

  "Damn conventioneers!" said the 911 operator, which I thought very unprofessional of her. The orthodontists were all protesting loudly that no orthodontist would throw a lady out of a window. They were making the same mistake made by the desk clerk who had assumed that any doctor at the Superior Inn was an orthodontist.

  "Could you please send the police?" I requested. "You need an ambulance?" asked the operator, her voice sounding doubtful and suspicious.

  "I don't know," I replied. My arms and legs moved, al­though I had a number of aches and pains. "I haven't tried Co stand up."

  "Well, don't move. Help is on the way. This isn't some kind of drunken joke, is it?"

  "I assure you that I am neither drunk nor amused by being thrown off a balcony. And the ... the perpetrator is dangerous.”

  “He armed?"

  "I don't know, but he is certainly unbalanced." And probably already gone during the time wasted with ques­tions from the orthodontists and the operator. "Couldn't you just send the police before he gets to the airport and flies away?'

  "They're already comin', ma'am. How far did you say you fell?"

  "Two stories."

  "What did you light on?"

  I eyed the remains of the cake, a huge artifact made of twisted brioche dough, formed in a circle, frosted, and cov­ered with the aforementioned purple, green, and gold sug­ars. "My research would lead me to believe that I landed on a traditional, if giant-sized, king cake." Absently, I stuck a frosting-and-sugar-covered finger in my mouth. Interesting. The frosting contained a touch of anise flavoring and bits of candied orange peel. A very nice combination. Was that tra­ditional? I thought not. But how ridiculous that I should be assessing the flavor of frosting when I had nearly lost my life and my dearest friend had suffered a terrible death. Tears began to seep out of my eyes while the operator said, "Well, honey, if you got the baby Jesus, you have to give the next party."

  "I think not," I replied severely. I had no intention of giv­ing a party for the Southern orthodontists, no matter what New Orleans king cake traditions might apply.

  A man in a sensible, dark business suit was standing beside me saying to Alistair, "We do want our guests to enjoy their stay with us, but we deplore damage to our fa­cilities. Not only do I fail to see why the Superior Inn should pay for the destruction of your cake, but somehow or other, your members have ripped a hole in the tent we provided, and we will expect to be reimbursed for the re­pairs."

  "Damn Yankee," said Mort to the manager, who sounded like a fellow Midwesterner. Then to me, Mort said, "You think this fella will be comin' after you? The one threw you off the balcony?"

  "I doubt it. Sir, do I take it that you are a representative of the hotel?"

  The dark-suited man turned to me, and his face lighted with a smile. "Let me guess," he exclaimed. "You're from Wisconsin."

  "Michigan."

  "I'm from northern Illinois."

  "Carolyn Blue," I said, extending my hand. The two of us looked at it, he obviously reluctant to make contact with the multicolored icing, even for the sake of a fellow Midwest-erner. I withdrew the hand and fought off the temptation to sample the interesting anise and orange flavor again. "If you have a security person or persons, could you send them to room two fourteen to detain Dr. Philippe Delacroix? He's the man who threw me off the balcony."

  "Close personal friend?" asked the manager. "Significant other?"

  "Madman," I replied, aggrieved that he would think my predicament the result of a lover's quarrel. "And if he's not there, my raincoat and handbag are. I'd appreciate their re­turn." Then the siren wailed in the distance, moving ever closer. I hated to greet my rescuers while sprawled in a cake, but I was really afraid to move in case I did myself some fur­ther injury than to my pride.

  The king cake is a Mardi Gras tradition, a sweet brioche-like confection, iced and dusted with sugars in Mardi Gras colors: purple, green, and gold. It is first served on Twelfth Night in honor of the Three Kings and continues to be served at parties and even at coffee breaks during the Carnival weeks that lead up to Mardi Gras or Fat Tuesday, the day preceding Lent. A prize, either a plas­tic baby figure representing the Christ child, a ring, or a gold bean, is baked into each cake.

  In Europe, the person who is served a slice of king cake containing the prize must play one of the three kings. In South America, the partygoer who gets the Christ child figure also wins a year of good luck. But in New Orleans, the receiver is considered "king for a day" and may be expected to give the next party. One wonders how many New Orleans prizewinners conceal their good fortune in order to avoid the expense of host­ing a Mardi Gras party.

  Entering the words king cake into a search window on the Internet will provide you with a recipe. Even bet­ter you can put your order in to Mam Papaul's for cake mix, plastic baby, filling, glaze, and colored sugar in one handy package.

  Carolyn Blue, Eating Out in the Big Easy

  33

  She Jumped?

  The paramedics arrived, tested me, and helped me off the cake table after declaring me free of broken bones and spinal cord injuries. When I was upright, frosting and festive sugar from my shoulders to the back of my knees, the or­thodontists gave me a standing ovation, and Mort again of­fered me a margarita. I took it, but a paramedic snatched it away from me. "You might have a concussion, ma'am," he pointed out.

  "I didn't hit my head," I replied and retrieved my drink. However, it was an inferior version of the margarita I had first tasted at Martino's in Juarez during a lull in the drug wars. Jason and I took a German scientist to dinner there, at his insistence, and ordered a pitcher. The New Orleans mar­garita was too sweet and was undoubtedly made with those large
, pulpy, flavorless limes instead of the tiny, flavorful, nut-hard Mexican variety. Or perhaps—I sipped again—this one had been made with—horror of horrors—a mix.

  While I was assessing the margarita on a scale of one to ten—I gave it a five because at least it had alcohol in it, and I was in need of calming—Mort discovered the good luck plastic baby Jesus stuck to my posterior and presented it to me. I assured him that I did not intend to host the Southern Orthodontists at their next party.

  Alistair assured me that they wouldn't expect it and ordered a table knife from a passing waitperson in order to scrape frosting from the back of my clothes. Ordinarily, I wouldn't have welcomed such familiarity from a male stranger, but being plastered with frosting tends to skew one's perceptions of propriety. Also, if the hotel security people returned with my raincoat, I didn't want to ruin the lining with king cake remains. When the scraping of my back wasn't particularly successful, Alistair—I never did learn his last name—prevailed upon the hotel manager to provide me with replacement clothes. I changed in the pool house, since the orthodontic festivities were being held in the patio that contained the swimming pool.

  You'd think the manager would want to placate a woman who had been tossed off one of his balconies, if not for hu­manitarian considerations, then to avert a lawsuit. Not so. Either he had no suitable female clothing available, or he was being deliberately offensive, for he provided me with a dun-colored skirt and jacket sized for a woman who weighed several hundred pounds. I emerged from the pool house looking like a bag lady.

  Fortunately, the security people arrived with my raincoat, umbrella, and handbag shortly thereafter, and I put on the raincoat. "What about Philippe Delacroix?" I asked anx­iously. "Did he escape?"

  "Who's that?" asked the house detective.

  "The guest registered to the room where you found my raincoat," I replied impatiently. "Tall, unruly black hair, gaunt face, black circles under the eyes, very strong, dressed in black, arrogant. He'd have been acting like a megaloma­niac."

  "Guess they didn't get him," said the detective. "All I saw was some cops trying to talk to a guy who was sitting on the floor in the clothes closet. He was crying."