Arsenic and Old Cake Page 3

  “I’ll switch shifts with someone. No big deal.”

  “And what if this guy isn’t Dog Leg’s brother?”

  “Den he’s up to no good,” Dog Leg said. “And if he’s up to no good wid me, den he’s been up to no good before. If he’s goin’ around lyin’ to people, we gotta find out so de police can stop him.”

  Hmm. I guess there was that. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to check the guy out. If Gabriel and I could find evidence that Monroe was a phony, the police would be far more likely to run a background check.

  Dog Leg must have sensed my resolve weakening because he leaned forward eagerly. “Will you do it?”

  When I didn’t immediately say yes, Gabriel locked eyes with me. “Come on, Rita. Do you really want to leave our friend in the lurch?”

  I chewed my bottom lip and tried once more to think of another way to make everyone happy. But that was easier said than done. Old Dog Leg needed my help. Once I finished today’s payroll, it would be easy for me to take a little time away from the bakery. With me gone, there would be more work for everyone else. Win-win.

  With a little sigh of resignation, I pushed my chair away from the desk and stood. “Okay, I’ll do it. But I’m going on record as saying that I think this is a bad idea.”

  “Relax,” Gabriel said as he leaned up to kiss my cheek. “It’s going to be just fine. Mark my words.”

  That nagging sensation of impending doom skittered up my spine, but the smile on Old Dog Leg’s face made it easy to shrug it off and tell myself that Gabriel was right.

  I really should have known better.

  Three

  After Gabriel and I made plans to meet at eleven the following morning, he and Old Dog Leg beat a hasty retreat. Hoping an infusion of caffeine would help my concentration, I grabbed a mug of coffee from the employee break room and spent the next few hours calculating payroll and running expense figures. Cutting my hours over the next few days would help a little, but it wasn’t a long-term fix. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make the numbers going forward look any less bleak. Even if we landed a big job in the next few days, we really would have to scale back on the work schedule. We simply couldn’t keep everyone working full-time and hope to make ends meet for long.

  I shut down my laptop and called Miss Frankie to ask if I could drop by on my way home, then shelved my financial concerns until later. I come from a long line of worriers, but I knew that fretting about money would eat me alive if I let it.

  By the time I left my office, Edie had already gone home for the day. I carried my empty cup back to the break room, rinsed it, and left it on the rack to dry, then wandered into the design area to see how what little work we did have was going.

  Besides my office, the design area—a massive room with brightly painted walls and huge windows overlooking the garden—is easily my favorite room in the building. The gold, fuchsia, teal, and lime green walls might seem overpowering in a smaller room, but they work well in this large space. It is the design room of my dreams, with a dozen metal tables creating individual work spaces, each one surrounded by shelves crammed full of cake-making equipment.

  I’d sketched this room more times than I could count when Philippe and I were married, and I’d been both elated and angry to find it in his bakery when I arrived in New Orleans. It had been one of the biggest carrots Miss Frankie had dangled in front of me when she’d asked me to stay. Some days I still pinch myself when I realize it’s mine, but today all I felt was a cloying sense of panic that I could lose it to the crumbling economy.

  Most of the staff had cleared out for the evening, but Ox, my second in command, was still there with Isabeau Pope, a cake artist who also happens to be Ox’s significant other. The two of them have been dating for almost a year now. As long as their relationship doesn’t spill over into the workplace, I’ve got no issue with it.

  Ox, another friend from pastry school, is closing in on forty, and he’s one of the most talented pastry chefs I know. He’s tall and in tremendous shape, a dead ringer for an African American Mr. Clean. He was scowling at a sketch on the table in front of him, jotting down measurements and notes about ingredients.

  Isabeau’s at least fifteen years his junior. She’s petite, blond, and cheerleader perky. She sat at a nearby workstation sorting through one of the bins where odd tools and pieces of small equipment get routinely tossed when we’re busy.

  Ox gave me a chin-jerk in greeting as I walked in. Isabeau treated me to a little finger wave.

  I waved back and dragged a stool to Ox’s station so I could talk to him while he worked. ���Sorry I didn’t get back here earlier. I’ve been working on payroll.”

  Ox glanced up quickly. “Get it done?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. How did it go back here today?”

  He shrugged, made a note on his design, and tossed the pen onto the table. “The retirement party cake is finished and ready for delivery first thing tomorrow. Dwight finished the twin baby-shower cakes, so I put him to work sorting supplies and making sure everyone’s workstation is completely outfitted. I had to put Sparkle to work cleaning some of the equipment. With these two cakes finished, we’re running out of things to do. You know I hate assigning busywork. It’s a complete waste of time.”

  My stomach knotted as I listened to him talk. “Not a complete waste,” I said, channeling my inner Pollyanna. “Those are all things that need to be done.”

  Ox rolled his eyes at me. “In what universe?”

  His dour mood on top of Edie’s dire predictions and my own worry pushed a hot button for me. I couldn’t give in to fear or I’d never find a solution. “Oh please. This isn’t going to last forever. And it’s important that you and I don’t act like it’s the end of the world. If the two of us give off a doomsday vibe, it will undermine the whole staff.”

  Isabeau’s blue eyes clouded as she sorted a handful of decorating tips into piles. “But it’s bad, Rita. I spent the afternoon reorganizing the flavor extracts, and Estelle said she’s going to check the expiration dates on the food coloring tomorrow. This is stuff almost anyone could do. We need real work.”

  Ox frowned at her affectionately and then admitted, “Okay, so maybe it’s not that bad . . . yet. We still have that order for the EMS dinner on Tuesday and that will keep most of us busy for a few days. But I’m really starting to worry, and so is everyone else. People are speculating that you’ll have to start laying people off.”

  So much for keeping my financial concerns from the staff. I thought about glossing over things, but I knew that would be a mistake. Ox had expected to take over at Zydeco after Philippe died, and he’d been hurt by Miss Frankie’s decision to make me her partner. As a result, he and I had butted heads a few times over which direction to take the bakery. But he’s also an old friend, and I’m lucky he stayed on to work for me. He’s my right arm at Zydeco, and I wouldn’t feel good about lying to him. “I know business is really slow,” I said. “But I’m going to do everything I can to keep the staff working. I’ll take money out of my own pocket before I let them take a hit.”

  Isabeau flashed me a grateful smile.

  Ox frowned. “That’s no solution.”

  “It’ll buy some time until we get a few more contracts on the books.”

  “If we get a few more contracts on the books.” He linked his hands behind his head and swayed gently on his swivel chair. “What we need is a new game plan.”

  Ox’s specialty is coming up with new game plans, but since they usually mean more work for me, I tend to be cautious when he starts thinking. “Such as?”

  “Nobody knows how long it’s going to take the economy to rebound, right?”

  I nodded slowly. “Right.”

  “So I think it’s a mistake to just sit here and wait for people to feel safe spending money. I think we need to diversify.”

  The last difference of opinion between Ox and me had been over the bakery’s King Cake recipe. Ox, the traditionalist, had insist
ed it was wrong to mess with our winning recipe. I’d argued for diversity, suggesting that adding filling to some of the cakes would appeal to a broader audience. Hearing him argue for diversity now surprised me.

  I squeaked out an uncertain laugh. “And do what?”

  “Exactly what we’ve been doing, only on a smaller scale. I think we should add a new line of moderately priced cakes so we can appeal to a larger demographic.”

  My jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”

  “It’s a good idea,” Isabeau put in from her table. “I mean, it’s not as if people have stopped getting married or having babies or birthdays. They still want to make those occasions special. Maybe they can’t afford an expensive specialty cake, but maybe they’d order something less . . . unique.”

  She said less unique. I heard ordinary, and my defenses went up. It didn’t help that the two of them had obviously discussed this before, which made me feel like I’d been ambushed. “But that’s not what Zydeco does.”

  “Well, maybe it should,” Ox said. “Listen, Rita, I don’t know what our bank account looks like, but I know we can’t go on this way indefinitely. The staff isn’t just getting worried, they’re bored. A few more weeks like the one we just had and they’ll be at each others’ throats.”

  “It’s not as if we’re completely out of work,” I pointed out. “We just need to drum up more business. We can put people to work taking flyers to the upscale wedding shops around town and set up meetings with high-end wedding and event planners. Maybe even work out special deals for their customers. When you think about it, that’s something we should be doing already. The new website you’ve created is great, but it’s no substitute for face-to-face contact.”

  “I agree,” Ox said. “Let’s not ignore any possibility. But we’d be making a mistake to stick with top-of-the-line exclusively. We should do whatever it takes to keep Zydeco afloat, right?”

  I nodded slowly, considering his idea but still running into a huge wall of internal resistance. But was I against the idea because it was wrong for Zydeco, or because I hadn’t thought of it first, or because, once again, Ox was trying to steamroll me? “You’re suggesting a huge change,” I said. “I’m not convinced that it would be for the better. Would we be lowering our standards? Would our current clientele go somewhere else?”

  “Not if we do it right,” Ox argued. “I’m not talking about lowering quality, just about adding a line of cakes that people with moderate incomes can afford. At least let me pitch it to Miss Frankie and see how she feels about it.”

  He looked so earnest, I felt my resistance slip a little, but I couldn’t make such a big decision out of sentiment. Nor could I make it on my own. I added it to my mental list of Things to Talk About with Miss Frankie. I was pretty sure how Miss Frankie would react, but there was a chance I was wrong. She had surprised me in the past. And no matter what she thought of Ox’s idea, it was only fair that I let him throw his Hail Mary pass in person.

  “Okay. Fine. I’ll set up a meeting.”

  Ox beamed. “How about tomorrow after I deliver the retirement cake?”

  “I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t promise anything. And that brings up the other thing I wanted to talk to you about. I’m going to be gone quite a bit for the next few days taking care of a personal matter. I’ll need you to cover for me when I’m not here.”

  I knew Ox was disappointed at having to wait for his meeting, but he hid it well. “Anything wrong?”

  “Not really. I promised to help a friend with something. Since we’re running out of work for everyone this seemed like a good time for me to clear out for a bit. One less person to keep busy, right?”

  Ox reached for his pencil again. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever. Just let me know when we can get together with Miss Frankie.”

  I promised I would and went back to my office to gather my things. Twenty minutes later, I tossed my bag into the Mercedes I’d inherited from Philippe and pulled out of the parking lot into evening traffic. It was a beautiful evening, cool enough to drive with the windows down and still very low humidity, which made my hair and my dry-air-loving lungs happy. But beneath that feeling of contentment lurked a whisper of apprehension, and I wasn’t sure where it was coming from.

  Four

  When I first came to New Orleans, driving into Miss Frankie’s upscale neighborhood with its huge houses and manicured lawns had resurrected a whole slew of childhood insecurities. Having a little money of my own now had chipped away some of their rough edges, but they weren’t completely gone yet. I might have been driving a Mercedes, but deep down I was still that insecure Latina from the wrong side of town.

  As usual, Miss Frankie greeted me with a warm smile and an enthusiastic hug. She’s several inches taller than me and thinner, too. No matter what she eats, she never seems to gain an ounce. I’m not sure how old she is, but I’m guessing somewhere in her early sixties. It’s hard to tell. Her skin is flawless, and her stylist makes sure no untidy root growth would ever reveal her true hair color.

  Tonight, she was wearing a pair of loose-fitting black slacks and a flowing black top covered with birds of paradise that exactly matched the tint of her auburn hair. Her finger- and toenails had recently been mani- and pedicured and polished with the same color. “Come on in,” she urged as she tugged me through the front door. “Have you had supper yet? I was just about to sit down when you called, so I waited. There’s more than plenty for both of us.”

  Miss Frankie is an excellent cook, and I hadn’t eaten since noon. I didn’t put up a fight as she propelled me down the hall and into the kitchen.

  “Bernice was going to join me, but her nephew called at the last minute and asked her to watch the kids. Between you and me, I think she ought to say no from time to time, but you know how she is with those babies.”

  I laughed and dropped my bag on the table by the back stairs as we passed. “You talk tough, but you’d be the same way, and you know it.”

  The minute the words left my mouth, I knew I’d made a mistake, but it was too late to call them back. Miss Frankie’s eyes dulled a little, and her smile grew brittle. Philippe had been her only child, and I knew her heart ached for the grandchildren she’d never have.

  Kicking myself for making such a thoughtless mistake, I slipped an arm around her waist and changed the subject. “Something smells good. What have you been cooking?”

  She closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them, they were smiling again. “Now don’t you think badly of me when you see what we’re having. Promise?”

  “Cross my heart.” We stepped into the kitchen where a large red and white striped container filled with take-out chicken sat in the middle of the table surrounded by plastic tubs of mashed potatoes, gravy, coleslaw, and baked beans.

  My feet stopped moving, and I turned a surprised look on my mother-in-law. Millions of families eat fast food every day, but it’s an unusual choice for Miss Frankie. Her tastes are usually more refined. I, on the other hand, have fond memories of chicken buckets from childhood. Money was tight in Uncle Nestor’s house, and takeout of any kind was a very big deal. My cousins had been all about burgers and fries, but chicken had always been my favorite.

  I inhaled deeply and reached for a biscuit. “You surprise me, Miss Frankie. I didn’t realize you liked the colonel’s finest. Is this something new, or a guilty pleasure you’ve kept secret from me until now?”

  She left me at the table while she gathered plates and silverware and carried them over. “It’s not my preference. I’m partial to my mama’s recipe. But Bernice was in quite a mood this afternoon and she requested it.” She made a face at the bucket. “I didn’t have the heart to say no. Now you and I are stuck with it.”

  I laughed and crossed to the fridge. I might enjoy the chicken and coleslaw occasionally, but I draw the line at butter squeezed out of a plastic tube. I took out Miss Frankie’s elegant butter dish, sliced off a generous pat, slathered it on half a biscuit, and took a bite.
Not exactly light and fluffy, but childhood memories can’t be held to the same standard as adult pleasures. “You want me to help you get rid of it?”

  “I would be forever in your debt.” She picked up a chicken thigh and studied it with a slight scowl. “I’m sure Bernice is just heartsick that she has to miss this meal. She’d best be feeling better tomorrow because I’m not eating it two nights in a row.”

  I thought about suggesting that Miss Frankie save the bucket and fixings for Bernice and that we go out to dinner instead, but I was actually looking forward to polishing off a plate. Plus, I thought it would be best to discuss Zydeco’s future in private. I dug out a breast for myself and took a bite. The chicken was moist and delicious, even if the coating was heavier than I remembered. The coleslaw had a pleasantly commercial tang, and the beans were both sweet and savory. Mass-produced food to be sure, but the memories it brought back were one of a kind.

  “So,” Miss Frankie said as she handed me the potatoes. “What did you want to talk about? Is there a problem at Zydeco?”

  How to begin? Losing Philippe last year had left her reeling for months. She was getting stronger all the time, but I didn’t want to cause a setback by making her worry about money—especially when I knew her own finances were strained. But I couldn’t keep her in the dark, so I explained the situation at the bakery and told her about Edie’s suggestion to cut staff hours.

  Miss Frankie nibbled chicken and swallowed a few bites of potatoes and gravy while she listened. “You need money,” she said when I finished.

  “No,” I said quickly. “I mean, yes, but I’m not asking you to put money into the bakery. What we really need is more business. But we’ll find a way out of this hole eventually. I’m really just asking for your reaction to cutting payroll.”

  She stopped eating and wiped her fingers on her napkin. “Edie does have a habit of seeing the glass half-empty. Is the situation really as bad as she claims?”