The Cakes of Monte Cristo Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE PIECE OF CAKE MYSTERIES

  “Brady’s writing is smooth as fondant, rich as buttercream—the pastry shop’s delectable confections are just icing on the cake for the appealing characters and intriguing mystery.”

  —Sheila Connolly, New York Times bestselling author of An Early Wake

  “Decadent . . . with a Big Easy attitude.”

  —Paige Shelton, New York Times bestselling author of If Onions Could Spring Leeks

  “A tasty treat for mystery lovers, combining all the right ingredients in a perfectly prepared story that’s sure to satisfy.”

  —B. B. Haywood, national bestselling author of Town in a Sweet Pickle

  “Jacklyn Brady whips up a delectable mystery layered with great characters and sprinkled with clever plot twists.”

  —Hannah Reed, author of the Queen Bee Mysteries

  “Delicious from start to finish.”

  —Suspense Magazine

  “[A] lighthearted mystery featuring over-the-top characters and fun dialogue.”

  —Kings River Life Magazine

  “The prose is smart, snarky, and possesses as much character and charm as New Orleans itself.”

  —The Season

  “[It] wrapped me up in a delectable mystery right from the first page.”

  —Cozy Mystery Book Reviews

  “A truly excellent read.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “A heroine who takes the cake.”

  —Genre Go Round Reviews

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Jacklyn Brady

  A SHEETCAKE NAMED DESIRE

  CAKE ON A HOT TIN ROOF

  ARSENIC AND OLD CAKE

  THE CAKES OF WRATH

  REBEL WITHOUT A CAKE

  THE CAKES OF MONTE CRISTO

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  THE CAKES OF MONTE CRISTO

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2016 by Penguin Random House LLC.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  For more information, visit penguin.com.

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-62510-1

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market paperback edition / January 2016

  Cover illustration by Chris Lyons.

  Cover design by Diana Kolsky.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  Version_1

  For all the readers who love Rita,

  her friends, and her family,

  and who ask for more of their adventures,

  a heartfelt thank-you!

  For my editor, Shannon Jamieson Vazquez,

  for her unfailing faith and her amazing patience with me. Shannon, you truly are an author’s dream.

  Contents

  Praise for the Piece of Cake mysteries

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Jacklyn Brady

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Recipes

  One

  “What do you mean, trouble?” I barked into my cell phone. It was a beautiful January morning in New Orleans. The temperature was cool and the humidity low. It was so nice out that as I left home, I’d rolled down the windows of my brand-new Range Rover to let in the fresh air. The Range Rover, just two months old, still had that new car smell, a scent I’d never enjoyed in a car of my own before. It was the very first brand-new car I’d ever owned and it was mine because I’d totaled my previous ride last fall. (Don’t ask.)

  I’d enjoyed the spring-like day for exactly twenty-three minutes. That’s when I’d been halted by a solid wall of traffic on the freeway. The odor of exhaust began to fill the car, forcing me to roll up the windows as I settled in to wait for traffic to clear. In my book that was trouble enough for a Monday morning. Simone O’Neil’s phone call and her cryptic reference to trouble was a complication I didn’t want or need.

  “Tommy just called,” Simone O’Neil explained. “He sounded hysterical.”

  Simone is a member of the Crescent City Vintage Clothing Society. She and I had been working together for the past couple of months on the upcoming Belle Lune Ball, which the high-end bakery I run, Zydeco Cakes, was catering. The ball was just two weeks away, which meant that the stress was starting to build.

  “Tommy always sounds hysterical,” I reminded Simone. Tommy Sheridan, the drama queen, was our contact at the Monte Cristo Hotel, the venue for the event. “He loses it on a regular basis.”

  “He might have good reason this time. Apparently, a water pipe on the third floor broke and the Papillion Ballroom is completely flooded.”

  My heart dropped like a rock. The Belle Lune Ball was a very big deal and I’d put Zydeco’s neck on the line by accepting the contract. We were committed not only to delivering five cakes that would wow the guests, but catering the event as well—something we had never done before. Losing the space we’d planned for might derail us completely.

  “How bad is it really?” I asked. “Have you seen it?”

  “Not yet,” Simone said. “I’m headed there now. Evangeline wants me to check it out.”

  Evangeline Delahunt, Simone’s mother, was a founding member of the Vintage Clothing Society. She’s been in charge of coordinating the Belle Lune Ball for two decades, and has definite ideas about how things should work. That makes her a difficult woman to please. Simone’s the only one who can do it consistently.

  “Tommy swears they can still accommodate us,” Simone said. “But Evangeline is concerned that we’ll have to cancel. She’s not happy. I’m sure you can imagine.”

  I nodded, but didn’t r
espond out loud. I try not to share my negative thoughts about Evangeline with her daughter. I don’t want my big mouth to ruin our budding friendship. “Let’s hope the damage isn’t as bad as Tommy thinks.”

  “We can dream,” Simone said with a sigh. “He wants us to look at the alternate space right away so we can decide what to do. How soon can you meet me?”

  I craned to see past the wall of cars in front of me, but all I could see were more cars. “Judging from the way traffic is moving, maybe tomorrow. Did Tommy tell you what he’s thinking?”

  I could hear footsteps on Simone’s end followed by an electronic signal from inside a car, which probably meant that she was on her way. “No,” she said. “He just kept saying that he has a space to show us and promised over and over that we won’t have to move to another location.”

  “I hope he’s right. The Monte Cristo isn’t that big,” I mused. Cars in the lane next to me inched forward and a small space opened up between two of them, but traffic ground to a halt again before I could make a move. “I wonder if they even have another space with the square footage and electrical outlets we need.”

  “We won’t know until we look,” Simone said reasonably.

  I laughed. “That’s true. So I’ll meet you as soon as possible. All I have to do is get to the next exit. Then I’ll get off the highway and drive the rest of the way through town. I can see the exit from where I sit, but the ramp is packed with cars that don’t seem to be moving. Can you stall Tommy until I can get there?”

  “I’ll try,” Simone said. “Both he and Evangeline are chomping at the bit. I don’t know how long they’ll be willing to wait.”

  “I get that,” I said, “but I don’t dare approve any space without checking measurements and traffic flow.” I didn’t have my notes with me, but I wouldn’t waste time stopping at Zydeco to get them. I’d looked at them so often, I figured I could remember most of what I needed to know. If there was something important I couldn’t remember, I could always call Ox, my second-in-command at Zydeco.

  “I’ll get there as soon as I can,” I promised Simone. “Try not to make any decisions without me.”

  Simone agreed and I disconnected, immediately calling Zydeco to let my staff know about the latest development.

  The phone rang five times before someone picked up, and then an angry male voice snarled, “Zydeco Cakes.”

  “Ox? Why are you answering the phone?” Ox is a trained pastry chef, a gifted cake artist, and the one person at Zydeco besides me with enough culinary training to cater an event like the Belle Lune Ball. He had so much on his plate at the moment, he was the last person I expected to answer.

  “I answered because it was ringing,” he growled. “Somebody had to pick up the damn thing.”

  Oh good. He was in a mood. I really wanted to know why the temporary receptionist I’d just hired—the third temp in the two months our office manager had been on maternity leave—hadn’t answered my call. But since Ox was so full of sunshine, I decided not to pursue the question.

  I heard a crash and a cry of dismay in the background, which prompted me to ask, “What was that?”

  “Nothing. Where in the hell are you?”

  Ox had expected to take over at Zydeco back when my almost-ex-husband (and Zydeco’s founder) died. Maybe Ox should have been the one in the boss’s chair, but my mother-in-law, Miss Frankie, had chosen me instead. Ox has never completely reconciled himself with her choice and sometimes he forgets which one of us calls the shots. But that was another topic I wasn’t going to pursue that morning.

  “I was on my way, but I got stuck in traffic,” I said. “Plus, I just got a call from Simone. Apparently, there’s a major complication at the Monte Cristo so I have to swing by there before I come in.”

  “What kind of complication?” He sounded suspicious, as if he thought I might be making an excuse to skip out on work. As if I would ever do that.

  I refused to let him rattle me. “Broken water pipe. Flooded ballroom. They’ve told Simone there’s an alternate space, but I’m not going to commit without seeing it for myself.”

  “Does that mean you’re not coming in at all this morning?”

  “I’ll be there,” I assured him. “It’ll just be a bit later.”

  Ox let out a heavy breath but when he spoke again his tone was friendlier. “Sorry I got on your case. We’ve run into a snag of our own over here. Half the fondant on the Grady wedding cake has cracked. We’re peeling it off now, but I’m not sure how many of the decorations we’ll be able to save.”

  I moved the Range Rover a foot closer to the exit, where cars had begun to move slowly. “Do your best,” I said, although my direction really wasn’t necessary. “I’ll do what I can to help as soon as I can get there.”

  Ox mumbled something that I took as agreement and disconnected. I went back to watching traffic and looking for an opening that might let me escape the gridlock. Four lanes of traffic eventually merged into three, and then two. Thirty minutes later, I crept past a couple of banged-up vehicles, an ambulance, and a state trooper car. And just like that, traffic began to move again.

  I breathed a sigh of relief and concentrated on getting to the Monte Cristo. Thankfully, I’d shoved a tape measure into my glove box after our original inspection and I hadn’t gotten around to putting it back where it belonged. Despite what Aunt Yolanda had said when I was growing up, procrastination can sometimes be a good thing.

  * * *

  Simone was waiting for me in the Monte Cristo’s lobby when I came in through the revolving door. The Monte Cristo is a smallish hotel built sometime during the nineteenth century, but of no particular historic significance. Most of it is horribly outdated, including its kitchen, but its age appeals to tourists and to groups like the Vintage Clothing Society.

  The Belle Lune Ball has been held at the Monte Cristo for the past nineteen years and I suspected that the society’s members would be devastated if we had to change locations at the last minute—assuming we could even find another venue on such short notice. I knew for certain that Evangeline Delahunt would be devastated if we had to leave the Monte Cristo.

  Evangeline is one of those people who think the world revolves around them and takes exception to anyone or anything that tries to prove otherwise. Simone is as unlike her mother as possible. She’s around my age, tall and thin with short dark hair and a friendly smile. Not only is she aware that she’s not the center of the Universe, but she’s comfortable with that fact.

  On the surface, Simone and I seem to have little in common. She was born into money. I grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. She is unfailingly elegant. I’m what I optimistically refer to as casual. She’s happily married. I was married briefly, thought I was happy, but found out differently when my husband walked out on the marriage. Despite the fact that a couple of really great guys had become part of my life, I honestly didn’t know if I would ever take the plunge again.

  The fact that Simone had once been almost engaged to the man I later married could have driven a wedge between us, but I don’t think she’d ever been seriously interested in Philippe (or thankfully, he in her). The proposed union between them had been the brainchild of their mothers. Bucking the wishes of two such strong-willed women had required almost superhuman effort, but they’d done it, clearing the way for me to end up as Mrs. Renier—for a few years anyway.

  Even with our differences, I’d liked Simone the minute I met her and she seemed to like me. I refused to let the fact that Evangeline was her mother cast her in a negative light. After all, that hadn’t been Simone’s choice, and so far at least, it seemed that she’d fallen far from the maternal tree.

  During the two months we’d worked together on the Belle Lune Ball, Evangeline had thrown us both a few curveballs. I’d learned from Simone how to take them in stride, and eventually Evangeline had approved my menu and the cake desig
ns. After that, the road had smoothed out and the work had been enjoyable.

  Simone waved to make sure I’d seen her and started walking toward me. “Traffic must have been a real bear,” she said when we met up in the middle of the lobby. “It’s been almost an hour since I called you.”

  “Fifty-seven minutes,” I said. “Sorry. I got here as soon as I could. Have you seen the space?”

  She nodded and motioned for me to follow her. “It will work for what I need, but I don’t know what y’all need for the food. Tommy’s so distraught I promised to show you the space and sent him off to have a stiff drink. We’ll have to take the elevator. The stairs are closed because of the flooding.”

  “So it’s really as bad as Tommy says?”

  She nodded. “Unfortunately, yes.”

  I followed her to the elevator, a contraption so old I was never sure it would actually work.

  “The space is on the second floor,” Simone said as we stepped into the rickety elevator cage. “There’s no other area large enough to accommodate us.” She pressed the appropriate button and the car began its shaky ascent. “We’ll be on the north end of the building in the small ballroom. That means we’ll have to put the buffet tables in the hallway, but I think it’s plenty wide. Of course, you’ll have to see what you think.”

  Tommy had given us a brief tour of the hotel at our first meeting. I remembered the small ballroom and the hallway outside, but since we hadn’t expected to use the space, I hadn’t bothered to check the number of available electrical outlets or think about possible traffic patterns. With the stairs out of commission, access from the kitchen was a concern, and I worried that Tommy wouldn’t be able to provide a staging area to rival the one we’d originally agreed upon.

  “What about the guests on the night of the ball?” I asked. “Will they all have to get up to the second floor on this thing?”

  Simone nodded. “I’m afraid so. It will take a while to get two hundred people upstairs, so we may want to push dinner service back by half an hour.”