Bananas Foster and a Dead Mobster (6 page)

Chef Otto might be on crack.

He glances out the back window at another row of pecan trees swaying in the summer breeze. Georgina and I look at each other. It looks like for the time being we agree on something else. Chef Otto is having a meltdown.

"What do you mean you're being followed?" I ask. Opening his can of worms might lead me places I'm not prepared for.

"I mean someone is watching the house," he mutters, shaking his head. "Sorry, I don't want to drag you into anything."

"Why don't you sit down and let me make you a coffee?" Georgina says. She pulls out a chair from the kitchen table. One made of wood that matches the shiny floors.

"Coffee? Really?" I respond.

"Or tea," Georgina adds.

Otto rubs his eyes like he hasn't slept in days. He accepts Georgina's offer and takes a seat. She begins searching through his cupboards until she finds the mugs. I discreetly pull back a piece of curtain and stare outside. Otto's house sits on a good amount of land. I can see neighboring houses in the distance, but they're far enough that Susu can roam free.

"What kind of stalkers are we talking about here?" I didn't notice anything unusual on the drive here. Knowing Otto, he's most likely referring to members of his worldwide fan base. I hardly think a few peppy college girls hoping for marriage proposals are anything to worry about.

"I don't know," he answers, running his fingers through his hair until it looks messy. "I shouldn't have mentioned it."

"Oh, nonsense." Georgina morphs into an entirely different person when she's in Otto's kitchen. She isn't mad, snooty, or scowling.
She must be a gemini
. "It's good to talk about things. You know, you can trust me."

I roll my eyes.

Never mind.

That's the same Georgina but in housewife mode. She's still on the hunt for Otto's heart. At the moment, the only girl earning his attention is Susu. I walk quietly through the living room. The air conditioner in here works much better than the one in my apartment.

No one looks good with pit stains, not even Chef Otto.

He's caused quite a ruckus since he's been in town.

I pause, thinking back to the events of Saturday morning. Chef Otto is a new and unfamiliar face. He was there the morning Gino Milani was murdered, and he left the next day on a mysterious trek toward Atlanta, assuming he's not lying. Could Gino Milani have been in town because of Otto?

Susu rubs her nose on the back of my calf. I narrow my eyes, watching Chef Otto as he accepts Georgina's hospitality and regales her with stories of the many restraining orders he's been forced to file. I take the opportunity to snoop a little. The pitter-patter of Susu's paws follows me down the hall and into the study. The desk is clear, and every book on the bookshelf against the wall seems to be in its place. It doesn't surprise me that this room has gone unused. With so much space for just one person, I'm sure half of the house has remained untouched.

Blood pumps through my veins like a thin glaze of icing. My chest feels tight as I remember what my past has taught me. Never underestimate
anyone
. If Chef Otto is behind Gino's murder then I have to solve this case before he ruins me. Otto has more to lose than anyone. The truth could cost him his fame. He won't give that up easily. Not even to set an innocent pastry student free.

Chef Otto is hiding something.

If it's murder…I've been chosen to take the fall.

I move in from the study, listening carefully to Georgina giggling in the background. Susu follows me, walking quietly beside me. She takes the lead and trots to the front window. I walk past her, but she jogs forward and nudges my leg until she has my attention.

"Maybe you can tell me what your master is hiding?" I whisper.

I pull back a panel of beige fabric and peer down the street. An unexpected sight makes my stomach churn. I see flashbacks in my head of being pulled from the street in Paris. A kidnapping I kicked and punched to get out of, but in the end, I was no match for my attacker. Even with a few extra pounds on me.

Parked a few blocks away is a black Cadillac with tinted windows.

"That wasn't there before," I mutter out loud.

Susu growls.

"I agree, Susu. Your master is in trouble."

I start to notice things I didn't notice before. I think it's because I'm looking. I walk cautiously to class—examining every car that drives past and every person leaving the student bakery with a morning pastry. I'm early, but I want to sketch some concepts for my final buffet without any distractions. Bree has been focusing on school rather than the many things about Jeff that annoy her, and Cole and I are avoiding each other.

I rushed home from Otto's last night only to find that my paranoia kept me awake until dawn. Every creak, creep, and tap sent my heart soaring. I ran to my window dozens of times and resorted to sleeping with a steak knife in my nightstand. It still didn't help.

I stop, seeing the one thing I was hoping not to see. The one thing I've been looking for.

The black Cadillac.

I gulp and keep walking.

The morning sunshine beats down on my forehead, but the air is nice and breezy for the time being. The suspicious car sits just down the street from my walk to class. I take deep breaths, counting my steps until I finally reach the right building. I jog inside—chest drumming.

When I enter my classroom, it all adds up. Chef Otto must have had the same idea as me…sort of. He's sitting at his workspace up front going over his demo for the day. He jerks his head up when he sees me and quickly lets out a sigh of relief. I tighten my grip on my bag and cautiously walk toward my assigned seat.

"Poppy," he says, surprised. "You're early."

"So are you."

"A chef's work is never done," he smugly comments. I sit at my station without laughing.

"How are you this morning?" I ask. I debate whether or not to mention the car parked outside. I don't know if he's involved in whatever the Bianco family is planning. I don't know if he did the deed and murdered Gino Milani for reasons yet to be uncovered.

I don't know if he's a mobster himself.

"Okay, thanks." He clears his throat. "Actually…"

My eyes go wide, and I clench the closest thing to me that could be used as a weapon. My kit of fondant tools. Otto forces a fake grin like being cheery about it will make things less awkward. It doesn't work. Instead, I'm calculating my chances of survival if he decides to lunge forward and stab me in the torso. I instinctively scoot my stool backward.

"Yeah?" I respond. My voice quivers slightly.

"I'm glad you came in early this morning," he says.

"You are?" I scoot back even more.

"Yes, I think we should talk about what happened yesterday."

My mind jumps to the millions of things he could be referring to. His mini panic attack. Me—snooping around the main floor of his Georgian mansion. Keeping Susu overnight and letting her eat too many dog treats.

"Susu is okay, right? I mean, I didn't give her that many treats. I swear."

"Susu is fine," he replies. "I'm talking about my
minor
bout with a bit of anxiety."

"That's one way to put it," I say quietly—flashbacks of him nervously pacing from window to window surfacing in my brain.

"I want to apologize for it." He clasps his hands together. "I didn't get much sleep the night before, and I think it was just nerves getting to me. I'm due to start filming the next season of my new reality show when the semester ends."

A well-rehearsed lie.

"I see."
Liar
.

"Forget those things I said," he insists. "It was all nonsense."
Lies. All lies.

"You're sure about that?" I raise my eyebrows. Part of me is proud of myself for being so bold in the presence of a potential murder suspect, and part of me is terrified.

"Yes." He nods, letting the fake half-smile fade from his face.

"You are absolutely sure that
no one
is following you?"

His expression changes when I say it out loud. At first he has a vacant look on his face as if he's fighting to hide his true emotions. But his brick wall routine only lasts for so long. After a few seconds of biting his tongue, he finally eyes me suspiciously.

"Yes," he says while clenching his jaw.

"One hundred percent positive?" I push him further—something my mom does to me when she knows I'm lying. Eventually I break down, sick of all the questions.

"Yes."

"You're certain?" I grip the side of my seat, bracing myself.

"Poppy," he snaps. He scratches the side of his damp forehead. "Okay
no
, I'm not one hundred percent certain. But this isn't the first time I've been stalked by a fan."

Sure. Blame it on the fame.

"You and I both know that's not the case here." I try to sound polite and insightful in hopes that it'll glean a confession of some sort.

"I don't know what you're talking about." His expression curdles like a broken custard. It goes from anxious to angry in a heartbeat. "Don't you have some work to do? Or are you only here to question me?"

I dig into my bag and pull out my notebook. I open to a page of sketches on which I've already drawn out the theme for my buffet table. Until Chef Otto stomped on my vision. If he weren't my pastry instructor I'd challenge
him
to work with Georgina and see how much they get done.

Scratch that.

She would do everything he says.

I draw the base of a wedding cake but pause when I get to the main design. If only I could dig up dirt on Georgina and force her to see things my way. And, most importantly, see that a pastry spread on the theme of a royal wedding is something our instructors have seen many, many times.

Otto's eyes dart to the door at the sound of the air conditioner kicking on.

"You know it's parked outside, right?" I say, keeping my head down.

"What?"

I pretend to keep drawing.

"The car that was parked near your house last night is also parked near campus," I inform him. "I saw it on my way in."

"You're lying," he blurts out. I set my pencil down.

"You're
sweating
."

Chef Otto pushes out his jaw when he looks at me—a face that's definitely not suited for television. He wipes his forehead and all at once dashes through the student kitchen and into the hallway. I hop up and follow him. He can't play stupid with me once he sees the truth.

Otto stops when he gets to the building's entrance, casually glancing up and down the sidewalk running along the building through the glass. He calmly pushes open the door and steps out into the sun. He strolls down the path leading toward the opposite end of campus.

"Right over there." I tilt my head the direction in which I saw the black Cadillac. My stomach ties itself in knots as Chef Otto observes, seeing for himself that he's being watched.

"Like I said," he responds with a snide smirk. I turn my head. The black Caddy is gone. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Is he or isn't he a murderer?" Bree taps her foot, pausing in between scoops. "We should go straight to President Dixon about this." She resumes scooping the last of her spicy cocoa chip cookies onto a baking sheet. Cookie dough made with cocoa powder and cayenne. It has just enough spice to give the cookie an unexpected kick.

"I don't think so," I reply. "If he did murder Gino Milani, I don't think he'd still be here. Not with more mobsters on the move."

"But you think he's involved somehow?"

"He's got to be," I say. "Someone's tailing him." I pull out my cell phone. "I'm calling Detective Reid."

Bree waits for the oven to preheat as I search for Derek's number. I anxiously dial it, reaching down to pet an absent Susu to calm my nerves. I rub my palms on my jeans instead as the phone rings. Detective Reid answers immediately.

"Hello, Derek? It's Poppy."

"Poppy," he responds. "Staying out of trouble I hope."

"Doing my best."
And sucking at it
. "I need to talk to you about Gino's murder investigation."

"I'm trying to get hold of the Tanner sisters for an interview, but they won't return my calls," he informs me. If Mary Frances wouldn't talk to me, she definitely won't talk to Detective Reid. Not unless she's forced to. "You needn't worry, okay? I'm handling it." There isn't much of an age gap between Detective Reid and me, but he seems to forget it. Often. I hate it when he speaks to me like he's my elementary school teacher.

"That's not why I'm calling, though I could help you out with that if you let me."

"Stick to the kitchen."

"That's easy for you to say." I raise my voice. "You're not the one being framed for murder. And the murder of a member of the mafia at that."

"Don't argue with me, Poppy. I've been through this process thousands of times. I know what I'm doing." He raises his voice to match mine.

Bree crosses her arms, looking concerned.

"You wouldn't have figured out last year's scandal if it weren't for me," I blurt out. My experiences with detectives and inspectors, law enforcement in general, are always skewed by something. The first time I was pulled over for speeding, the cop gave me a free pass in exchange for my cell phone number.

It's time I did this
my
way.

"Don't do this, Poppy." He exhales loudly. "I was inches from cracking it. You just happened to get there first."

"Let me in on the case," I state. "Give me all the deats, and I can be your spy on the inside."

"No." Detective Reid doesn't even pause to think through his answer. His mind is made up. "I don't want a repeat of last time. Do you remember the danger you were in?"

"I wouldn't have been in that position in the first place if you would've listened to me. Why doesn't anyone listen to me?"

"Is this why you called me?" he shouts. "To criticize my work ethic?"

"I called to tell you that something's up with Otto Chimenti."

"I'll look into it." He grunts. "Stay on campus." He hangs up before I can explain any more. I toss my phone aside and tug at a strand of my dark chocolatey locks. Years ago it used to be raven black—the shade of black that shines blue in the sun. That Poppy wouldn't let a stubborn man like Detective Reid get in her way. That Poppy was also a bit reckless.

"Why do all men always think they're right?" I mumble.

"Because they never listen when you tell them they're wrong." Bree sighs, watching her cookies rise in the oven.

"When I was in Paris, I did a lot of waiting around." I stare at my phone. "A lot of good that did, and it turns out one of the Detectives on the case was in on it the whole time." I bang my fist on the table and quickly regret it. The side of my hand throbs, but I try not to focus on it.

"Don't do anything rash," Bree warns me. "You have that look on your face. You're scheming."

"Bree," I announce. "How would you like to help me catch a killer before Detective Reid does?"

"That'll definitely shut him up if that's what you're going for," she answers, directing her attention to the oven again.

"Do you still have that business card from the farmers' market?"

"Sweet T Soaps?" Bree guesses. "In my room."

"Grab it." I ready my fingers. "We're going to race Derek to the finish line."

*   *   *

I pray for Bonnie to answer rather than her difficult sister, Mary Frances.

"Hello," a woman picks up, "Sweet T Soaps, this is Mary Frances."

Darn.

"Mary Frances," I reply, trying to sound as upbeat as possible. "I'm actually looking for Bonnie. Is she around?" I see Bonnie's sun-worn face in my head along with the handmade yarn vest thing she wore on Saturday.

"Who may I ask is calling?" Mary Frances inquires.

"It's her friend from Georgia."

Bree stares at me.

"Poppy?" I say.

Bree shakes her head.

"Yes, I remember." Mary Frances pauses. "Bonnie is not here."

"Oh…" I look to Bree as she slowly nods. "When will she be in?"

"It's hard to say. Is there something
I
can help you with?"

"I was just wondering if you two will be coming back to Georgia this weekend." I improvise. "I was hoping to buy a couple of those peach tea bars that smelled so good."

"I'm afraid we're not stopping in Georgia any time soon," Mary Frances answers. "And you can buy our soaps online."

"Okay—"

"Thank you for calling." Mary Frances hangs up.

"I told you not to use your real name," Bree mutters.

"And what if Bonnie had been there? Was I supposed to just change my name back to Poppy?"

"Maybe?" Bree shrugs. She's as clueless as I am as to why Mary Frances is refusing to discuss what happened not so far from her soap booth.

Solving this case before Detective Reid is going to be harder than I thought.