A Sheetcake Named Desire (10 page)

Thirteen

Putting my conversation with Uncle Nestor out of my mind, I reopened the door to the reception area and sorted through the first pile on the desk, carefully separating trade journals from advertisements, junk mail from envelopes that looked important. Edie had probably already dealt with the bills and invoices, so I made a mental note to go over those with her later. The junk mail I’d toss, and the rest of the unopened mail I’d take to Miss Frankie when I went back to her house that evening.

I found a couple of sketches created in Philippe’s bold strokes and put them on the check-with-Edie pile. I didn’t think I’d found the missing sketch, but you never knew.

When I finished with the desk, I started on the filing cabinet. Before we separated, I’d been slowly urging Philippe toward the world of computerized record keeping, but he’d put up a fight at every stage. The laptop sitting on top of the filing cabinet made me wonder if someone else had taken over where I left off. The fact that it wasn’t on the desk, however, convinced me that Philippe had never embraced the electronic age.

I don’t know how long I’d been working when I heard Zydeco’s front door open and the sound of heavy footsteps on the hardwood floor. Edie’s sharp voice reached me an instant later. “What do
you
want?”

A man with a deep voice answered, “I heard about Philippe. I came to offer my condolences.”

I was up to my elbows in files, and I didn’t want to be obvious about eavesdropping, but curiosity got the best of me. Leaning back slightly, I peeked into the front office, hoping I’d be able to see Edie’s visitor.

Unfortunately, I could only see the side of her face. She sniffed and turned away from the man at her desk. “You should have just dropped a card in the mail.”

“Oh, now, Edie, what kind of friend would I be if I did something like that?”

“You’re not a friend,” she snapped.

Okay, now I
had
to see who she was talking to. Trying not to make noise, I pulled my hands out of the drawer and turned so I could get a better view. I caught a glimpse of dark hair and a white shirt, but that was it.

“You wound me,” the man said, but he sounded more amused than injured. “Seriously, Edie, how are you doing?”

“How do you think I’m doing?” I heard a desk drawer slam shut and the slight squeak of the wheels on Edie’s chair. “Philippe is dead, and there’s a killer wandering around loose, and now you’re here. I’m just peachy.”

“There’s no need to be sarcastic.”

“There’s no need to be condescending. Just tell me what you want.”

Part of me wanted to walk to the door and inject myself into their conversation, but I didn’t want to make Edie think I didn’t trust her to do her job. If I leaned forward
just so
, I could see a tall man with dark hair, a swarthy complexion, and eyes shielded by sunglasses.

I tried to be inconspicuous, but he spotted me immediately and turned a white-toothed smile in my direction. “Ah, this must be the lovely Ms. Lucero.” He advanced on me like a panther after its prey, holding out a hand for me to shake as he closed in. “I heard you were in town.”

He oozed charm on the surface, but some internal instinct in me gave off a danger warning. “I see the grapevine is alive and well in New Orleans, Mr.—?”

He peeled off his sunglasses, revealing clear blue eyes filled with a predatory gleam. “Wolff. Dmitri Wolff.”

The name suited him. I wondered if he’d been born with it or if he’d changed it to match his personality.

Edie made a face behind Dmitri’s back. “Dmitri owns a cake shop, Gateaux, in the French Quarter.” The warning in her dark eyes underscored what I was feeling.

“Ah.” Another reason to be careful around the wolf. “So you’re Zydeco’s competition?”

Dmitri flashed those white teeth again. “That doesn’t have to be the case. Besides wanting to offer my condolences, I’m here to put an end to your worries.”

Seriously? That was his angle? I folded my arms across my chest and leaned against the door frame. “Is that so? And just how do you intend to do that?”

“I’m here to make an offer for Zydeco—a very generous offer, if I do say so.”

Everything inside me recoiled. “You want to buy Zydeco?”

Dmitri held out both hands in a gesture designed to look helpless. “Someone will have to. I don’t expect that Miss Frankie will want to run this operation on her own.”

“Miss Frankie doesn’t have to run this operation on her own,” I pointed out. “She has a large, highly trained staff.”

He swooped in close and put one hand on my back. He had a light touch, but my skin crawled beneath his fingers. “Well, now,” he said, still grinning as if we were talking about nothing more serious than that morning’s weather report. “She certainly has a large staff. But highly trained? I’m not so sure about that. I’d put my staff up against this one any day of the week.”

I tried to shift away from his touch, but he had me cornered. “Then why do you want the business?”

Dmitri urged me deeper into the office. “It’s no secret that I’m interested in expanding my operation into the Garden District.”

“It’s no secret you want the Zydeco name and reputation,” Edie snarled from somewhere just behind me.

Dmitri laughed. “Your reputation? After the fiasco at the Hightower wedding? Hardly.”

“We have a perfectly good reputation. That was a fluke,” Edie argued. “And we’ll prove it to everyone, too.”

“Without Philippe’s talent?” Dmitri shook his head. “And let’s not forget that you’ve just been victims of a gruesome murder. Nobody’s going to want to spend money here.”

“Yet again, you still want Zydeco.”

“What can I say? I’m a sentimental guy. I’ll take this cursed place off your hands, and I’m even prepared to pay a very good price to boot. I’d bring in my own people to run it, of course. I’d almost have to, considering the talk that’s going around on the street. Besides, I hear that Miss Frankie is looking for a buyer.”

He was right about one thing. Between the murder, the Hightower wedding fiasco, and Ox storming off (which meant we were down a graphic-design artist), there’d be plenty of talk. Any of those issues alone would be a problem. Together, they left me feeling pretty beat up.

Not wanting Dmitri to sense my insecurities, I squared my shoulders and said, “I believe you heard wrong. As far as I know, Miss Frankie
isn’t
thinking about selling. She certainly hasn’t made any decisions yet.”

Dmitri’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes glittered with irritation. “This is a large operation. It would be overwhelming for someone who isn’t used to running a business this size.”

I removed my arm from his grip and sat behind the desk, a visual reminder that he was—technically, anyway—on my turf. “I’m sure that Miss Frankie will hire someone who knows what they’re doing.”

Dmitri sat in one of the leather chairs facing me. “Someone like you?”

That predatory energy made me edgy, but the sneer in his voice made me angry. I was tempted to say yes just to mess with him, but I didn’t want to make trouble for Miss Frankie down the road. “I’m only here temporarily.”

“Of course.” He leaned back and made himself comfortable, his arms stretched along the chair, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. “I was curious about you, Ms. Lucero, so I did a little research. There’s no doubt you’re a talented cake artist, but you have no real business experience.”

Jerk!
“I’m not the issue,” I said. “But for the record, I have as much business experience as Philippe did when he opened Zydeco.”

Dmitri didn’t even blink. “Of course. I’d forgotten. Although . . . with Zydeco’s reputation in the toilet, as we’ve said, well, that really isn’t much of a recommendation, is it?”

“Philippe was a good businessman,” I said. I caught myself and cut off the rest of my argument. Why should I convince him that Zydeco was worth buying?

Dmitri dipped his head, acknowledging my point or at least pretending to. “I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. My apologies. But in light of the circumstances . . .” His gaze traveled around Philippe’s office, and I swear he almost licked his chops in anticipation. “I would like to make your life, and Miss Frankie’s, a little easier.”

By swallowing Philippe’s life’s work? Not by the hair of his chinny-chin-chin. “I suspect you’re really here to make
your
life easier.”

Dmitri’s smile wavered ever so slightly. “That’s harsh.”

“So is swooping in and trying to get your hands on Zydeco before Philippe’s body is even cold. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot to do. I’m sure you understand.” I stood to indicate that our conversation was over.

Dmitri’s eyes narrowed, and I caught a glimpse of the danger I’d only sensed before then. With a show of reluctance, he got to his feet and gazed around Philippe’s office one more time. “I understand this is all very sudden, so take your time. Think about my offer. You’ll regret it if you don’t.” He turned toward the door, tossing one last thing over his shoulder. “I’ll be in touch.”

I watched him leave, barely repressing a shudder. He was a thoroughly unlikable man. The only question I had was whether he’d just issued a warning or a threat.

At eight that evening, I parked Miss Frankie’s car in a small lot between two saggy old buildings and walked half a block to the Dizzy Duke, an ancient redbrick building two blocks east of Zydeco. The neighborhood had definitely seen better days. As I walked past one rundown store after another, I wondered whether I was looking at damage from Katrina or the passing of years. I’d nipped back to Miss Frankie’s for a couple of hours after work to make sure she was doing okay. If she had asked me to stay, I would have skipped the memorial entirely, but she’d practically begged me to go and represent her to Philippe’s colleagues and friends.

I couldn’t say no. Even though I’d wanted to.

I stepped into the dimly lit interior and paused for a moment to let my eyes adjust. A polished wood bar stretched across one end of a long, narrow room. Round tables filled with people surrounded a small dance floor, and at the far end of the room, a small raised platform held an array of musical instruments, just waiting for the band to take the stage.

A pungent musty smell rose up beneath the overlying odors of cigarette smoke and sweat. Laughter and conversation ebbed and flowed from all around me, and jazz music blared from speakers positioned around the room.

After a minute, I spotted Sparkle and Isabeau at a table in the corner. Isabeau noticed me at the same time and bounced out of her seat to wave me over. Sparkle looked less enthusiastic, but I was getting used to her gloomy outlook.

Amazed that smoking indoors was still allowed anywhere on the planet, I hitched my purse onto my shoulder and plunged into the smoky room. I slid between crowded tables and inched between chairs. It seemed to take forever, but I finally wedged myself into an empty chair in the corner.

Isabeau grinned up at me. “You came!” She had to shout to make herself heard.

As my nose grew accustomed to the mustiness, I picked up the aroma of seafood and spice—shrimp, sausage, and cayenne pepper if I wasn’t mistaken. Jambalaya. My mouth watered just thinking about the possibility. “Edie told me about the memorial,” I shouted back. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

Sparkle rolled her black-lined eyes in my direction. “Whatever makes you happy,” she shouted.

Wow. I felt all warm and fuzzy now. “Where’s everybody else?”

“They’ll be here,” Isabeau assured me. She spotted an overworked cocktail waitress and bounced up again, trying to get her attention. Either the woman didn’t see her or she pretended not to.

Isabeau scowled at the woman’s rapidly retreating back, but her irritation didn’t last long. With a perky toss of her pale-blonde ponytail, she turned back to me. “Sorry about that. You may want to go to the bar to order. It could be a long wait.”

What I wanted was to try the jambalaya, but I was in no hurry to make the long trip back through all those tables. So I settled in, stashing my bag under my chair and taking in the aged brick and weathered wood of the place. Jazz posters and neon lights. Wooden tables and chairs that looked as if they’d been here for at least fifty years and a huge mirror behind the bar that reflected an impressive inventory of bottled courage.

Sparkle downed a straight shot, grimaced, and reached for a wedge of lemon. Tequila. Interesting choice. I’d have put my money on absinthe. She’d already lost interest in me, and her gaze was firmly locked on the four or five people who had stepped onto the small bandstand and were in the process of picking up and strapping on their instruments.

Within minutes, the guitar player stepped up to a microphone center stage and began talking—but that’s when he lost me. Between the dull roar coming from the crowd, the echo caused by bad acoustics, and his unintelligible accent, I didn’t understand a single word.

The jukebox went silent, and the band launched into a high-spirited tune. I recognized the style. Philippe had loved zydeco music—that was why he’d named his bakery after the New Orleans sound—and hearing it played in his honor made my heart twist painfully. “So this was Philippe’s regular hangout?” I shouted at Isabeau.