Pastry chef Rita Lucero's Mardi Gras party turns funereal when one of her guests is found dead after a public fight with her uncle -- leaving Rita no choice but to find the real killer and clear her uncle's name...
Excerpt:
(copyrighted material)
CHAPTER ONE
“You’ll be here by seven, won’t you, sugar? You won’t be late?"
My mother-in-law sounded so hopeful, I hated to disappoint
her, but how could she ask me to leave work early on a Friday evening during
Mardi Gras season? I shifted my cell phone to the other ear and glanced at the
chaos surrounding me. Clutter and constant movement filled every corner of
Zydeco Cakes, signs of the work overload the staff and I had been experiencing
since the first of the year.
Stacks of empty boxes, all decorated in traditional Mardi
Gras purple, green, and gold, teetered in every corner of the massive design
room. Near the door to the loading dock, boxes filled with King Cakes awaited
delivery to businesses and events. More boxes filled the other end of the room,
in preparation for the walk-in customers we hoped would be coming in droves to
pick them up before the season was over. And that was on top of our regular
business: cakes for two weddings, a Valentine’s Day party, and a fiftieth birthday
party, all scheduled for delivery in the coming week.
I’d only been running Zydeco Cakes for a few months, and
this was my first Mardi Gras in New
Orleans . I knew the carnival season was a big deal
around here, but as a recent transplant to the city, I was still shocked at
just how big a deal it was. We were already a month
into the season, but the sharp increase in business had left me off-balance and
scrambling to catch up. I’d been looking forward to the celebration, but I was
starting to wonder if I’d be able to find enough free time to enjoy any of it.
But that wasn’t Miss Frankie’s fault, and I tried not to
take out my frustrations on her.
She and I became partners last year, shortly after the
death of her only child, Philippe Renier, who’d also happened to be my
husband—at least on paper. I was his widow on a flimsy technicality: he’d been killed
minutes before he was supposed to sign our divorce agreement, though Miss
Frankie liked to imagine that we’d been on the verge of reconciling when he
died.
I’m the one with the training and experience as a pastry
chef, so I handle the day-to-day work at the bakery. Miss Frankie offers moral
support and the occasional cash infusion from the comfort of her living room.
Most of the time our arrangement suits me, but today I was frustrated by my
partner’s lack of hands-on experience.
I’d been working alongside the rest of the staff for days,
ignoring the growing heap of paperwork in my office and the even longer to-do
list for tonight’s Mardi Gras party at Miss Frankie’s country club. The same
party Miss Frankie was nagging me about at that very moment.
“Rita? Are you even listening to me?”
Her insistent tone pulled me away from my growing
frustration and back to the conversation. “I’m listening,” I assured her. “But
I don’t think you realize how crazy it is around here. We’re up to our eyeballs
in work. Nobody has been able to take a lunch break for two days and things are
only getting worse.”
“I know y’all are busy,” Miss Frankie said, “but tonight’s
party is important.”
And there it was: the crux of our argument.
“It’s a party,” I pointed out.
“A very important party,” she
pointed back. “With very important people. It’s not just a social event, Rita.
It’s the Captain’s Court for Musterion. It’s crucial to the business that you
be here, and that you show up on time.”
Like I said before, I’m no expert on Mardi Gras, but over
the past few months I’d learned a few things. All of the parties, parades, and
balls are organized by social clubs known as krewes. There are hundreds of them scattered across the Gulf Coast
Carnival season may seem heathen on the surface, but it
actually has deep roots in Christianity. The whole point of it, after all, is for
people to stuff themselves silly on Fat Tuesday before the forty-day austerity
of Lent begins on Ash Wednesday. That “last hurrah” starts all the way back at Epiphany
on January 6. Which is where the King Cake gets its name—the word King refers to the wise men, and the
traditional plastic baby figurine baked into every cake represents the baby
Jesus. According to tradition, the person lucky (or unlucky) enough to get the
slice of cake with the hidden baby in it is obligated to host the party next
year.
Philippe, who had been a longtime member of the Krewe of
Musterion,
got the baby at last year’s Captain’s Court celebration, which put him on tap
to act as this year’s host. Thanks to Miss Frankie, I got custody of the baby
when he died. This party was, according to Miss Frankie, a very
big deal, which was why she volunteered me to take over as hostess. I just wish
she’d discussed it with me first.
I’m all about doing what’s best for the business. I just
didn’t happen to agree that this party she was so wound up about needed the top
spot on my priority list. I’d said so about two million times in the past few
weeks, but Miss Frankie wasn’t listening.
“I’ll get there as soon as the orders for tomorrow morning
have been filled,” I said, also for the two-millionth time. “That’s more
important for the business than me standing around with a glass of champagne in
my hand.” She started to argue, but I went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “I don’t
know any of the people on your guest list. They’re not going to miss me if I’m
a little late. If you need help entertaining the masses before I get there, I’m
sure Bernice will pitch in.”
Bernice Dudley is Miss Frankie’s neighbor and closest
friend. She’s a sweet lady with a halo of white hair and a drawl as smooth and Southern
as aged Kentucky
bourbon.
“Well, of course I can count on Bernice,” Miss Frankie said
with a tick of her tongue. “That’s not the point. A proper party simply cannot
begin without its hostess.”
That would be me, though not by choice. I was harboring
some resentment over the way Miss Frankie had finagled me into the role, which
might have been making me slightly more stubborn than usual. I still wasn’t
convinced that Philippe’s predeath party obligations had legally become my
responsibilities.
Miss Frankie let out a long-suffering sigh. “Rita. Sugar.
Try to understand. This party is important. All the top brass of Musterion will
be here, and that includes some very influential—and wealthy—people.”
I could have refused, but I was a little concerned about
Miss Frankie. Losing her only son had shaken her world to its core. She’d made
a valiant effort to keep her spirits up as we stumbled through the holidays
together, but by New Year’s Eve she’d had enough. The idea of heading into an
entire year without Philippe had crumbled her like a stale cookie. She’d spent
the whole month of January in a funk, and had only started rallying again in
the past week or so. I didn’t want anything to jeopardize that.
“These people were friends of Philippe’s,” she was saying
now. “Most of them were clients of Zydeco when he was alive.”
“I understand that, but—”
“They’ll want to meet you.”
I laughed. “I doubt that.”
“Why would you? You were Philippe’s wife and you’re running
Zydeco now. Of course they’ll want to know more about you. This is your chance
to make a good impression. To establish yourself as one of them. Otherwise,
they might take their business somewhere else now that Philippe is gone.”
But I wasn’t one of them. I knew
it, and they’d figure it out soon enough. Philippe and Miss Frankie had been
born into that society. Old money and the genteel Southern breeding might be in
their blood, but they weren’t in mine.
“I know there are a lot of potential customers on the guest
list, but I can’t ignore current paying customers just to play nice with people
who might spend money at Zydeco in the future.” It was
a lousy excuse. Even I knew that. But the thought of trying to impress two hundred
of New Orleans’s most influential citizens at once was stressing me out,
“I’m not asking you to ignore anybody,” Miss Frankie said. “But
you work too hard. I’m asking you to take one evening to have a little fun and
make an investment in the bakery’s future at the same time. Is that so
difficult?”
“Much more difficult than you can imagine,” I grumbled,
sounding like a moody teenager. Work had always been my comfort zone, and I was
resisting leaving it big-time.
Over the phone, I heard the tap-tap of fingernails on a
hard surface, a sure sign that Miss Frankie was processing my response and
formulating another argument. “What’s the matter, sugar? Why does the idea of
this party bother you so much?”
She knew me too well. “Besides the fact that I don’t know
anyone on the guest list?” I rubbed my forehead with the fingertips of one hand
as if I could scrub away my nervousness. I had half a dozen solid objections to
hosting this party, but Miss Frankie didn’t really want to hear any of them. “It’s
just that it falls at such a bad time. This carnival thing is pretty
overwhelming.”
Miss Frankie gave a low chuckle. “Relax, sugar. Have fun
with it. That’s the whole point of carnival.”
Relax. Have fun. This wasn’t the first time she’d given me
that advice. I rotated my head on my neck and tried to work out a few of the
stress kinks. “I’ll try,” I said. But it wasn’t that simple. I’d been raised by
a master worrier. My uncle Nestor didn’t know the meaning of the word relax, and he’d taught me everything I
knew about stressing out. Part of me wanted to enjoy life more—I just didn’t
know how.
“Will you?”
“Of course.”
Miss Frankie pretended to believe me and changed the
subject. “By the way, did I tell you who phoned in an RSVP this morning?”
I stopped rolling my head. “This morning? I thought we
turned in the final head count to the caterer two weeks ago.”
“We did, but everyone knows that, for a party like this,
the final head count is just a guideline.”
“Not everyone,” I mumbled. We’d
hired a caterer for the buffet, but Zydeco was supplying the King Cakes and I’d
been relying on those figures to plan how many we’d need.
“I’m sure we’ll have plenty of food,” Miss Frankie said. “Nobody
expects us to turn away a guest who calls at the last minute. Now, guess who it
was.”
I wasn’t even going to try. “Who?”
“Ivanka Hedge.”
The muscles in my neck tightened up again. Ivanka Hedge was
one of the wealthiest young women in New
Orleans , heir to the Lafitte perfume fortune. Just a
week earlier, she’d announced her engagement to Richard Montgomery III, son of
an obscenely wealthy businessman with international ties. His grandfather,
Richard I, had founded the prestigious Terrebonne Academy
The city had been buzzing with wedding talk all week, and
every business that was remotely tied to the wedding industry had been
scrambling to offer their services for flowers, dresses, entertainment, china,
silver, and of course, the various cakes they’d need.
At Zydeco, we’d been discussing the possibility of landing
the wedding cake contract—a dream only slightly less ambitious than being hired
on by the White House. For the past four days I’d tried countless times to
reach Ivanka personally or, failing that, to set up an appointment through her
assistant. For all my efforts, I had yet to even speak to a live person.
My heart did a little pitty-pat at the prospect of actually
meeting Ivanka tonight. I nibbled at the carrot cake Miss Frankie was dangling
in front of me. “Are you serious?”
“Would I lie to you?” she asked.
Only if she thought the means justified the end. “How did
you manage to get her to come?”
“I have connections, sugar. The Montgomery men have belonged to Musterion for
six generations. Richard is on the Parade Committee this year. I knew he and
Ivanka were on the guest list, but I didn’t want to say anything until I knew
they were coming. So you see why you have to be here on time. This really is
your chance to make a good impression.”
Well. That ought to help me relax. No pressure at all.
I chewed on my bottom lip and argued with myself for a few
seconds. Maybe I could leave work a few minutes early.
Someone else on staff could stick around here to make sure all the orders were
filled. My staff was competent and well trained. They didn’t need me to hold
their hands to make sure the work was done. And if leaving early would help me
land the Hedge-Montgomery wedding contract, everyone at Zydeco would benefit.
Win-win.
“Fine, I’ll be there by seven,” I said, making an executive
decision. “Should I bring anything special with me?”
“Just your sunny personality.” I could hear the triumphant
smile in Miss Frankie’s voice. “But don’t keep the staff working too late. They’re
all on the guest list, too, and you know Philippe wouldn’t want them to miss
out.”
She was right about that. Philippe had loved a good party
more than almost anything else. If he’d still been alive, the whole bakery
would have shut down early so the staff could get ready, even if he’d lost
business as a result.
I’d always been more practical. It’s not that I don’t like
a good party. I’m fun. I just believe that work should come first, especially
in our current circumstances.
Zydeco’s reputation had suffered a hit because of Philippe’s
death. We’d lost enough business to hurt our bottom line, and new orders had
been slower to come in since I took over at the bakery’s helm. I guess people
were waiting to see whether I could maintain the high quality and creative
genius Zydeco was known for.
Eventually people would realize that the quality of our
work hadn’t suffered. But until then, we’d have to rely even more than usual on
the income we could make during Mardi Gras. Shutting the whole operation down
early and losing walk-in customers wasn’t an option I would consider.
I was trying to figure out a tactful way of saying so when
Dwight Sonntag looked up from his work table and gave me the stink eye. He
jerked his chin toward my own station, where the work was beginning to pile up.
“Hey! Rita! A little help?”
I’ve known Dwight since pastry school in Chicago . He’s a talented cake artist with a
strict work ethic, but you’d never know that to look at him. He’s
six-foot-nothing with shaggy hair and an untidy beard, both tucked into
sanitary netting when he’s working. His clothes hang off his thin frame and he
slouches through life looking as if he just rolled out of bed. But there was
nothing casual about the frustration glinting in his hazel eyes this morning.
I held up a finger to indicate that I’d be finished in a
minute and told Miss Frankie, “I have to go.”
“Trouble?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
Since I took over at Zydeco I’ve tried to protect Miss
Frankie from unpleasant reality whenever possible. Partly because losing her
only son had left her vulnerable and—let’s face it—a little unhinged. But also
because my life is a lot easier when Miss Frankie doesn’t know about every
speed bump Zydeco encounters. If it’s earth-shattering, I discuss it with her,
but if I ran to her every time one of my eccentric, talented, and emotional
staff members got upset, I’d never get anything else done.
A momentary silence fell between Miss Frankie and me,
followed by a soft, resigned sigh. “Seven
o’clock ,” she said again. “Don’t be late.”
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