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Bernice swears she just saw the ghost of her moonshiner uncle who disappeared in the swamp fifteen years ago. And when her cousin soon goes missing in the same swamp, Bernice is certain someone’s playing a nasty trick, and convinces Rita and Miss Frankie to help her investigate. They’ll just need to watch their steps, as these ladies are liable to get mired in a very swampy mystery…
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(copyrighted material)
ONE
“You need to tell her,” the voice inside my head whispered. It’s an
annoying voice, so despite the fact that my aunt had raised me to listen when
my conscience voiced an opinion, I did my best to ignore it. It isn’t always right, and besides, I was pretty sure Aunt Yolanda hadn’t counted
on me having to deliver bad news to Frances Mae Renier when she gave me that
advice.
Frances Mae, known by most as Miss Frankie, is my mother‑in‑law
(which explains why Aunt Yolanda didn’t know about her when I was a kid). She’s
also my business partner. Together we run Zydeco Cakes, a high-end bakery near
New Orleans’s Garden District. Actually, I do much of the running. Miss Frankie
is my mostly silent partner who does behind-the-scenes stuff like writing
checks and nudging high-profile clients our way.
My name is Rita Lucero, and I want to say up front that, despite
my hesitation to come clean with Miss Frankie, I am not a coward. I am
a trained pastry chef who
moved from Albuquerque to New Orleans just like that last summer when Miss Frankie offered me the chance to take over
the day‑to‑day operations at Zydeco
after the death of her son, Philippe, my almost‑ex‑husband.
I’d had to stand up to Uncle Nestor to do it, too. Believe me, that took
courage.
My complicated relationship with Miss Frankie is why I was parking
the Mercedes I’d inherited from Philippe’s estate in her driveway on a Friday
night. I should have been joining the rest of Zydeco’s staff for a birthday
party at the Dizzy Duke, our favorite after-hours hangout. But Miss Frankie had
summoned me, so here I was. I didn’t know what she wanted, but that wasn’t
unusual. Still, I was feeling a little resentful as I climbed the front steps
and rang her doorbell.
A stiff wind tossed the branches of the massive trees that lined
the street. Their shadows did a macabre dance suitable for the Halloween season
on Miss Frankie’s sweeping front lawn, and I smiled as I watched them shift and
bend.
Halloween is one of my favorite holidays. Not because I’m overly
fond of ghosts and goblins, but because I have sweet memories of trick‑or‑treating
with my parents when I was young. They died in a car accident the year I turned
twelve. I’ve lost too many memories of them over the years so I cling to the
ones I’ve managed to keep. Losing them flipped my world upside down for a
while, so I knew how much losing her only child had rocked Miss Frankie’s. I do
my best to be gentle with her, which is why I was hesitating over telling her
that I’d be going to Albuquerque for Christmas.
We’d limped through the holidays last year, mostly ignoring the
festivities and staying home rather than joining others. She tries hard not to
be clingy where I’m concerned, and some days she succeeds. Others, she hangs on
to me like a good-quality plastic wrap.
Miss Frankie was well aware that I had missed home since I’d moved
to New Orleans. She knew that, with the exception of one brief visit from Aunt
Yolanda and Uncle Nestor, I hadn’t seen my family in over a year. I’d left my familiar
Hispanic culture behind and stepped into the very different world of New
Orleans, and sometimes homesickness hit hard. Surely Miss Frankie would
understand why I wanted to go back for Christmas. At least she’d try to.
I heard footsteps on the other side of the door, and an instant
later it flew open. Miss Frankie greeted me with a warm hug and a glimmer of
excitement in her golden brown eyes. In spite of the late hour, she looked
ready to begin her day. Her auburn hair was teased and sprayed, a whiff of Shalimar
noticeable as she wrapped her arms around me.
She wore a pair of wide-legged pants and a loose-fitting tunic
made of silky rust-colored fabric. A pair of off-white sandals revealed
toenails painted a deep pumpkin color to match her fingernails. “Thanks for
coming, sugar. Let’s talk in the kitchen. I’ve got everything in there.”
I wondered what “everything” was, but I knew there was only one
way to find out. After closing the door behind me, I followed her to the back
of the house. “I can’t stay long,” I warned as we walked. “I’m meeting the rest
of the staff at the Duke in half an hour to celebrate Dwight’s birthday.”
Dwight is one of Zydeco’s best cake artists and an old friend from
pastry school. He’d come to New Orleans to work for Philippe, but he’d been
supportive of me since Philippe died and I took over at Zydeco. I wanted to
show him that I could be a good friend, too.
I was even looking forward to the party, which I considered progress
since I’m not much of a partier. When Philippe and I were married, I was much
more likely to be found balancing the books while he entertained our friends.
Since stepping into his shoes at Zydeco, I’d been making an effort to loosen
up.
Miss Frankie glanced back at me. “Is that tonight? I guess I plumb
forgot about it. But don’t worry. This won’t take but a minute.” She stopped
just inside the kitchen and motioned me toward the table, which was piled with
magazines, recipe books, newspaper clippings, and a large three-ring binder—the
kind she used whenever she coordinated a social event. It’s her favorite thing
to do.
“It looks like you’ve been busy,” I said. “Are you planning a
party?”
She grinned and headed for the coffeemaker. “Not exactly.” She
turned back to me and linked her hands together over her chest. “Oh, sugar, isn’t
it exciting? I decided to take Pearl Lee’s advice.”
I knew right then that we were in for trouble. Pearl Lee Gates is
Miss Frankie’s cousin, five foot nothing of “Let’s see how much I can get away
with.” She’s a few years younger than Miss Frankie, which puts her somewhere in
her late fifties or early sixties, I think. Talking to her is dangerous enough.
Taking her advice could be a disaster.
You’d think Miss Frankie would know that by now.
“What advice is that?” I asked. I thought I sounded remarkably
calm, considering.
“Well, about Christmas, of course. It’s only two months away.”
Uh‑oh. I got a squidgy feeling in my stomach, and my conscience
gave me a sharp poke. This was the perfect time to tell Miss Frankie about my
plans. And I probably would have if she hadn’t kept talking.
“I was thinking about giving it a miss again this year. The thought
of sitting around while people talk about Philippe—and you know they will—is just
too much. It’s barely been more than a year since he died and people think I
should be through grieving. But we both know it doesn’t ever really end.”
We’d just stepped onto uneven ground so I thought about my
response before I spoke. I didn’t have any experience with losing a child, but
I did know how easy it was to get stuck in the moment of a loved one’s death. I
didn’t want that for Miss Frankie, and I knew Philippe wouldn’t have wanted it
either. “It doesn’t end,” I agreed cautiously, “but it does change with time. I
still miss my parents, but the thought of them doesn’t hurt like it used to.”
My conscience flicked me again, but Miss Frankie was staring at me
with eyes that were too bright and a smile that looked too brittle. She tried
so hard to cope with the death of her only child but I could tell that she was
on the edge of tears, so I swallowed my news and smiled instead. “So does this
mean you’re going to join your family this year?” I said. “I think that’s
wonderful.”
“It’s better than that,” she said, waving me toward a chair. “We’re
hosting this year.”
I think I gasped. I was all for Miss Frankie taking a step forward
this year, but hosting? What was she thinking?
“You’re doing what?” I squeaked.
“Hosting the family. They’ll all come here this year.”
If Pearl Lee had been in the room, I might have throttled her
right then and there. In Miss Frankie–speak, family meant a dozen cousins from the Dumond family line
along with their spouses and any children or grandchildren who had no other
plans. Throw in a couple of ancient aunts and uncles and a Renier relative or
two at loose ends, and she could be looking at fifty mouths or more to feed.
“That’s a huge job,” I pointed out in case she’d failed to do the
math. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”
“Well, of course, it’s far
too big a job to do alone. That’s why I’m counting on your help. I’ll admit
that when Pearl Lee first suggested it, I thought it would be too, too much, but then she pointed out that by inviting everyone here, we’ll
be able to set the tone for the holiday week and maintain some kind of control
over the events. It’s my turn anyway, so I really should just jump in and do
it.”
“But I—” I sank into the closest chair and tried not to sound
angry. That wasn’t easy. Miss Frankie has a habit of volunteering me for things
without talking to me first. It’s one of the few downsides of our relationship.
“I’m sure everyone would understand if you wanted to wait another year.”
“But I don’t want to wait. That’s the point.” I knew that Pearl
Lee was responsible for Miss Frankie’s attitude, and that irritated me big-time.
Pearl Lee has her fair share of problems, but Miss Frankie is fiercely loyal. I’d
learned not to bad-mouth her cousin in front of her, so again I went with a
careful answer. “Pearl Lee might have a point,” I said with caution. “But
wouldn’t you rather put your heads together and do this with her?”
Miss Frankie waved a dismissive hand. “Pearl Lee is useless when
it comes to things like this. I need your head, sugar. I’ve been thinking that
if you make some amazing cake for the family, they’ll see that the bakery is in
good hands and we’ll be able to focus on the future instead of the past.”
“Yes, but—” Hearing her talk about moving on was a good sign, even
if her chosen method for doing it was questionable. I took another deep breath
to steady my nerves. “You can’t keep making commitments for me without talking to
me first. What if I had other plans?” Okay, so it wasn’t the direct approach,
but it was the best I could do with the threat of my mother‑in‑law’s
tears so close to the surface.
When it comes to Miss Frankie, it’s more effective to steal a few
bases at a time than to try for a home run right off.
Her expression fell, but she looked concerned for only a moment. “Have you made plans? Gracious! I never even thought. Well, that’s no
problem. You’ll just invite whoever it is to join us here. After all, the more
the merrier. Is it one of your young men?”
By that, she meant Liam Sullivan, a detective with the New Orleans
PD’s Homicide Division, and Gabriel Broussard, part-owner of the Dizzy Duke. I’d
been seeing both of them over the past year—all open and aboveboard—but neither
relationship had progressed to the “spend holidays together” stage.
I screwed up my courage, ready to tell Miss Frankie about Albuquerque,
but she didn’t wait for an answer. She waved a hand at the mess on the table. “We
can work all of that out later. That isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about
anyway. I have the most wonderful news for Zydeco, and I simply couldn’t wait
to tell you. How would you feel about making a cake for the Crescent City
Vintage Clothing Society Belle Lune Ball?”
Every thought inside my head froze and my heart began to thump.
The Crescent City Vintage Clothing Society was one of the most prestigious
groups in New Orleans. The Belle Lune Ball, held each January, was a premiere
social event. The moneyed set shelled out staggering amounts of cash for
tickets every year, and the silent auction brought in a whopping total that was
used to help disadvantaged women around the world.
“Are you kidding me?” I asked. “We actually have a shot?”
Miss Frankie smiled slyly. “You like the idea?”
“Um . . . yeah!
It’s only one of the biggest
events in the whole city. Do you know what a coup like that would do for our
reputation?”
“I have a good idea. That’s why, when I heard that the society had
an opening, I invited Evangeline Delahunt to lunch. She’s eager to find someone
quickly. For an event that size, time is running out. I saw an opportunity to
get your work in front of the right people and I took it.”
Uuurch! My excitement ground to a screeching halt. “Wait a minute. You’re
not talking about this year’s ball? The one just three months away . . .
are you? With the holidays and everything, it’s going to be tough to come up
with a design, coordinate everything, and put together the kind of cake they’d
want.”
“Well . . . it’s a little more than just the cake, sugar.
Actually, she needs a caterer for the entire event.” Miss Frankie flicked her
wrist as if catering dinner for a few hundred people would add barely any extra
work. “Don’t worry, though. I have faith in you.”
“But Zydeco doesn’t do catering,” I pointed out in
what I hoped was a reasonable tone. “We’ve never done catering.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t do it. You’ve had training, and I
know Ox and Dwight have, too. Really, Rita, I’m offering you the chance of a
lifetime. But if you really don’t want to do it, I’ll call Evangeline and tell
her to look for someone else. She’ll be disappointed, but I’m sure she won’t hold
it against you.”
I kneaded my forehead and tried to pull my thoughts together. “Why
did she wait so long to find a caterer? Surely she knows what a huge job this
is.”
Miss Frankie waved her hand again. “Well, of course she knows. She’s
been in charge of planning the ball for at least a decade. This is a great
opportunity for Zydeco and for everyone who works there. There will be press
coverage of the event, and there’s a very good chance you’ll be interviewed yourself.”
“But we don’t do
catering,” I reminded her
again. “I don’t want Zydeco to gain a reputation as a caterer. I want it to be known
as New Orleans’s premiere bakery for high-end cakes.”
“And it will be, after you do this job.” Miss Frankie gave me a
look that clearly said she thought I was being a bit slow on the uptake. “Philippe
tried more than once to get his foot in the door with Evangeline Delahunt. He
never could do it.”
That made my ears perk up. Philippe and I had met in pastry
school, and at least in the beginning, we’d indulged in what I thought was a healthy
and harmless competition, pitting our cake decorating and business skills against
each other whenever the occasion arose. Looking back, I could see now that
before we’d separated, the competition had become less healthy, but I hadn’t
realized it at the time.
Hearing about Philippe’s failure to land the contract I’d just
been handed made my competitive side yawn and stretch like a cat waking up
after a long nap. I tried again to get an answer to my question. “If working
for Evangeline Delahunt is such a coup de grace, why is she looking for a caterer at this late date?”
Miss Frankie’s gaze flickered ever so slightly, which set off a
warning bell in my head. “She had to let the first one go. Something about them
failing to produce an appropriate design and menu. I could have told her she’d
be dissatisfied with her original choice if she’d only asked my advice. Anyway,
she’ll be coming to see you tomorrow morning at ten. I hope that works with
your schedule.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “I haven’t agreed to this yet. Who was
her original choice?”
My mother‑in‑law gave me an enigmatic
smile. “Gâteaux.”
I could almost hear the sound of her reeling me in. Gâteaux was
Zydeco’s stiffest competition, and Dmitri Wolff, Gâteaux’s owner, was a
complete snake in the grass. He’d not only tried to lure away my staff, but
also indulged in a little industrial sabotage before trying to buy Zydeco from
Miss Frankie after Philippe died. I smiled slowly.
“Wolff couldn’t make her happy?”
“Apparently not.”
Just like that, every one of my objections disappeared. Like I
said, I have a competitive nature. So what if Gâteaux had had months to come up
with a winning plan? The important thing was that I had a chance to succeed
where Dmitri Wolff had failed.
I had an amazing staff made up of the most talented cake artists
around. About half of us had formal training in the kitchen, and the others
were talented artists who’d learned on the job. We worked together like a well-oiled
machine.
Most of the time anyway. If anybody could do this, I thought to
myself, we could. And besides, it would be morally irresponsible to leave such
a well-publicized and popular event without a caterer. Or, considerably worse,
with substandard food for their event.
I swallowed all of my concerns and smiled. “I’ll make it work.”
“Good. Now, about Christmas—”
The abrupt change of subject caught me off guard, and before I
could shift gears, I heard the sound of Miss Frankie’s back garden gate open
and close, followed by rapid footsteps tapping toward the kitchen door. A
moment later someone banged on the door urgently.
Mild concern hit me at once, but relief at the interruption was
the stronger emotion. After all, I thought, nothing bad ever happens in Miss
Frankie’s neighborhood. Yep, I actually thought that. And yeah, I was wrong.
(copyrighted material)
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