Cake on a Hot Tin Roof (11 page)

“I’d count on it. Mr. Boudreaux was well known in these parts. And that’s going to create pressure from the top to solve this quickly. Why? Are you worried about Zydeco?”

That was as good an explanation as any. I nodded and said, “We don’t need any more negative publicity. We’re barely climbing out of the ditch we fell into after Philippe died.” But the truth was that Zydeco was nowhere near the top of the list of things I worried about. Uncle Nestor, Aunt Yolanda, and Miss Frankie took the top spots.

“We’ll try to solve this quickly,” Sullivan assured me. “If we can do that, you and Zydeco may not even hit the radar this time around.”

I could only hope.

“It’s too bad you don’t remember who he was talking to,” Sullivan said. “In addition to the wound that probably killed him, there’s some bruising on Boudreaux’s chin and cheek. Looks like maybe he was in a fight recently—like within the last few hours. I don’t suppose any of you can shed any light on that?”

I argued with myself for another few seconds, vacillating between telling the truth and protecting Uncle Nestor. But again, I reasoned that somebody would mention the fight to the police, if not tonight, then soon. So I opted for the truth, even though just the thought of bringing Uncle Nestor into this made my stomach hurt.

Folding my arms across my chest, I said, “It was nothing.”

Sullivan’s eyes lingered on my defensive posture a moment too long. “What was nothing?”

“The fight. It didn’t mean anything. Just a couple of guys who had too much to drink, that’s all.”

“So you do know.”

“It was over in a minute or two. And it happened hours before Big Daddy died.”

“Details, Rita. Who are you talking about, and what happened?”

“You have to keep in mind how obnoxious Big Daddy was,” I said, trying to smooth out the pavement before I shoved Uncle Nestor under the bus. He already thought I’d betrayed him by staying in New Orleans. He’d never forgive me for ratting him out to the police. “He was loud and abrasive and—”

“I got that part,” Sullivan interrupted. “Who are you talking about?”

Hating that I had to choose between truth and loyalty, I ran my tongue across my lips again. I opened my mouth to speak, but the sound of angry shouting cut me off before I could get a word out. Sullivan and I scrambled to our feet and bolted across the ballroom. I had to struggle out of the blanket first, which put him a few steps ahead of me. He paused briefly on the threshold to growl, “Stay here,” before pushing the door open and charging out onto the balcony.

Naturally, I ignored him.

I made it outside in time to see him start down the steps toward the pool, where Susannah Boudreaux was leaning heavily on a uniformed officer. She lifted one trembling hand and pointed at something—or someone—hidden from my view by a large flowering shrub. “That’s him!” she shouted. “Right there.”

Sullivan reached the bottom of the stairs and I craned to see who she was pointing at. I caught a glimpse of Aunt Yolanda and Miss Frankie emerging from separate doors onto the patio and a handful of crime scene techs milling about, all of whom stopped working to see who she was talking about.

“That’s him,” the woman shrieked again. “That’s the man who attacked my husband!”

Everyone in the yard turned to stare—at Uncle Nestor.

Twelve

Silence rang in the night air for roughly two seconds before all hell broke loose. Susannah Boudreaux screeched and pointed and demanded that my uncle be arrested, tried, and executed on the spot. Half a dozen officers drew their weapons and trained them on Uncle Nestor, all shouting at him to get down on the ground and put his hands behind his head.

Uncle Nestor was a child of the 1960s, and his distrust of “the man” was legendary in our family. I didn’t know whether to be more frightened that he’d do something stupid, or angry with the police for putting him in a position that might bring out the worst in him.

And I didn’t have time to figure it out. With a cry of distress, Aunt Yolanda started down the steps on the other side of the yard, heading straight for her husband. I understood why she wanted to get to him, but running into the middle of all those armed and angry cops seemed like a really bad idea.

I started down the other set of stairs, struggling to keep my balance on the slick stone. “Aunt Yolanda,” I shouted. “Wait! Stop!”

She kept going. I wasn’t sure if it was because she couldn’t hear me over the rest of the shouting, or because she was ignoring me. Panicked, I gathered my still-damp skirt above my knees so I could make better time. “Aunt Yolanda! No!”

She reached the lower terrace and sprinted toward the pool, where Uncle Nestor was, thank God, obeying instructions. Red-faced and angry, he was down on his knees, hands linked behind his head. There’d be hell to pay when we finally got out of here, but at least he was alive to rant about it.

While one scrawny officer patted Uncle Nestor down, two others kept their weapons trained on him. I guess I understood why. He looked capable of almost anything. Relieved that, at least for the moment, he was cooperating, I whipped around to find Aunt Yolanda and spotted her at the far edge of the pool, corralled by a burly officer with a bulldog face.

She didn’t look much happier than Uncle Nestor, but I didn’t care. They were both safe. That’s all that mattered.

I stopped running and paused for a moment to catch my breath. The cool, damp lawn on my bare feet made me wish I’d brought the blanket with me. I shivered and started walking toward Aunt Yolanda, but a uniformed officer with a grim expression and a name tag that read
Kilpatrick
blocked my path.

“Stop right there,” he barked. He was tall and thickly muscled, and it was obvious to me that he took his job seriously.

“That’s my aunt,” I panted. “I just want to make sure she’s okay.”

“She’s fine. I need you to stop right where you are.” I might have argued, but Kilpatrick’s hand was resting on the butt of his gun and his expression said he had no qualms about shooting me where I stood.

I didn’t
think
he would, but I decided not to take unnecessary chances. Nervous energy and impatience made it hard to just stand there, and the sound of Uncle Nestor’s voice, gruff and raised in anger, made it even harder. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but the fact that he was saying anything at all made me nervous.

“You’re making a mistake,” I said to Kilpatrick. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

Kilpatrick gave me a heavy-lidded look, but he didn’t say a word. He just left me standing there, waiting, watching, and wondering, until Sullivan strode across the lawn toward me.

His eyes had turned ice cold. “You want to tell me about it?”

I wasn’t completely sure what he was asking about, so I went with an innocent, “About what?”

“The fight. And don’t pretend like you don’t know which fight I’m talking about.”

I swallowed. Shifted from foot to foot, and then came clean. “Big Daddy and Uncle Nestor?”

“Bingo.”

Sullivan wasn’t happy. But then, I wasn’t either. I could hear someone coming up behind me, but I didn’t look to see who it was. “They had a disagreement earlier. I was just about to tell you about it when Uncle Nestor showed up.”

The person behind me gasped, and I knew without looking that it was Aunt Yolanda. I couldn’t let myself look at her, though. Sullivan was giving me the death glare.

“And you didn’t mention it before because…”

“Because it had nothing to do with Big Daddy’s accident.”

“Why didn’t you tell
me
about this,
mija
?” Aunt Yolanda demanded.

I slid a guilty glance over my shoulder. “Because it was over in a few minutes, Aunt Yolanda. It was nothing.” I tried a reassuring smile, but my lips felt frozen and lifeless. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

Sullivan gave me a look. “So again, you didn’t mention any of this to the police because—”

“Because they’re not connected,” I said again.

“You mean, you don’t
want
them to be connected.”

“I mean that I’m
sure
they aren’t connected,” I said. “Big Daddy said something inappropriate. Uncle Nestor lost his cool. They exchanged a couple of punches and then they went their separate ways.”

“It had to have been a minor scuffle,” Miss Frankie said helpfully. “I didn’t know a thing about it.”

“Nestor would never hurt someone else on purpose,” Aunt Yolanda agreed. “That woman is blowing the whole thing out of proportion.”

“You may be right,” Sullivan said gently. “But since neither you nor Miss Frankie actually witnessed the argument, you’ll forgive me for keeping an open mind.” He turned his attention back to me. “You know for a fact that they went their separate ways?”

Everything inside me wanted to say yes, but I couldn’t make myself tell an outright lie. “No. But Uncle Nestor sort of disappeared and I thought maybe he was lying down somewhere. Parties really aren’t his thing.”

Sullivan let out a heavy sigh. “Okay, tell me now. And tell me everything. No holding back. What did they fight about?”

“I have no idea. I couldn’t hear them.”

“You didn’t ask?”

“Of course I asked. Uncle Nestor wouldn’t tell me.”

“And you didn’t think that was odd?”

I shook my head. “Uncle Nestor keeps to himself when something’s wrong. It can be frustrating, but it didn’t raise any red flags for me tonight.”

“Big Daddy didn’t say anything either?”

“He ducked the question,” I said. “Frankly, I was glad to steer clear.”

“Which was the best thing you could have done,” Miss Frankie said. “You know how men are, Detective.”

He smiled a little. “I believe I do, ma’am. Anything else you’re not telling me, Rita?”

I shook my head. “Not that I can think of.”

Sullivan stuffed his notebook into his breast pocket, and then he put a hand on my shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Which is one of the things I like best about him. “Why don’t you take your aunt home? We’ll bring your uncle over when we’re finished talking to him.”

I found the idea that he didn’t plan to lock Uncle Nestor up overnight reassuring, but Aunt Yolanda didn’t seem to appreciate that subtle distinction. She crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin the way I’d seen her do a thousand times when I was growing up. “I’m not going anywhere without my husband.”

“It’s nearly four in the morning—” Sullivan started to say.

Aunt Yolanda skewered him with a look before he could finish. “I’m not going anywhere without my husband,” she repeated.

Sullivan slid a glance at me, but I wasn’t about to step in. Aunt Yolanda was already upset with me for not telling her about the argument. I wasn’t going to take his side against her and make things worse.

I took Aunt Yolanda’s arm and turned toward the clubhouse. “We’ll wait inside.”

I had no idea how I’d get through another hard day at work tomorrow. Even if we went home right now, I’d barely get any sleep, which probably wouldn’t help at all. But those worries fell way below convincing Sullivan that Uncle Nestor wasn’t responsible for whacking Big Daddy over the head and then pushing him into the pool to drown.

Thirteen

The seven o’clock alarm jolted me out of a deep sleep long before I was ready. With a groan, I reached for the clock and punched the snooze button. It was barely two hours since I’d closed my eyes. Even though sunlight was already streaming in through my bedroom windows and we had a busy Saturday scheduled at Zydeco, I might have let myself slip back to sleep if reality hadn’t punched me in the face with memories of last night’s tragedy.

Big Daddy Boudreaux. My devastated aunt. My stubborn uncle, who had flatly refused to answer any of Sullivan’s questions. Miss Frankie, who’d been showing definite signs of wear when I drove away. In the end, Sullivan had let us go home around four-thirty in the morning, but only because he had no direct evidence against Uncle Nestor and because I’d crossed my heart and hoped to die if I failed to deliver Uncle Nestor to the police station this morning.

Sullivan’s warning echoed in my head as I lay there trying to squash the sick feeling in my stomach. “I need your uncle to tell me what happened between the two of them,” he’d said. “Convince him to start talking by morning or my hands will be tied. I’ll have to detain him for questioning.”

I’d tried all the way home to get Uncle Nestor to confide in me, but all I’d gotten for my trouble was stony silence and a reminder from Aunt Yolanda that the good Lord expects us to honor the people who raised us. Neither of them was speaking to me by the time they climbed the stairs to the guest room.

I didn’t for one minute believe that Uncle Nestor had killed Big Daddy Boudreaux, but the circumstantial evidence against him was mounting. Surely Uncle Nestor could understand that, so why wasn’t he doing everything he could to clear away suspicion?

Wide awake now, I pulled on my robe and hurried downstairs to the kitchen. Usually Aunt Yolanda got up with the sun, but this morning the house was still quiet. So quiet that if the patent leather pumps she’d worn last night hadn’t been lying just inside the front door, I might have wondered if I’d only dreamed their visit.

Determined to start off on the right foot this morning, I pulled a canister of French roast from the pantry and put on a pot. First things first. Aunt Yolanda and Uncle Nestor would need a good breakfast when they got up. Besides, working in the kitchen always helped me think. After breakfast we’d give our statements to the police and then I’d head to Zydeco, where I could at least pretend that it was just another day.

I’d just started the coffee brewing when my cell phone rang, sounding unnaturally cheerful and far too loud in that quiet house. I fumbled with the phone, trying to silence it before it woke up my aunt and uncle.

“Rita? Thank God I caught you,” Edie said when I answered. “Where are you?”

“Still at home,” I said around a yawn. “I was just about to call you. What’s going on? Is something wrong?”

“Wrong?” Edie snorted a laugh. “Besides Big Daddy Boudreaux dying at The Shores, you mean? Isn’t that enough?”

My spirits drooped. “You’ve heard?”

“Um…yeah. It’s all over the news. I heard it on the radio when I was coming to work this morning, and Good Day New Orleans is all over it. We have the TV on in the back so we can watch the reports. I take it you haven’t been watching?”

“I just got up,” I admitted. “Didn’t get to bed until almost five.” I was going to pay for that later. “So what are they saying?”

“Just that Big Daddy Boudreaux is dead under suspicious circumstances. No real details yet except that it happened at the Musterion party.”

I was realistic enough to know the news wouldn’t stay buried, especially since Big Daddy had been a bigwig in the business community and all, but I’d been hoping for a
little
more time. “So what else are they saying?”

“They’re talking a lot about his work, his contributions to the community, and his connections within Musterion. Of course, they’re all over the fact that he was elected as captain for next year, and practically naming him a saint for some big-deal charity fund-raiser he was in charge of last fall.”

“I’m pretty sure he was no saint,” I mumbled. I wondered how Judd was taking the news that his brother had been killed, and what Mellie was feeling.

“So…suspicious circumstances. That’s code for murder, right?” Edie asked, cutting into my thoughts. “Do the police have any idea who did it?”

“Not that they’re sharing with me. I don’t think they have any solid leads yet. It’s still too early in the investigation. But I have to take my aunt and uncle down to the station this morning so we can give our official statements. I don’t know how long that will take, but I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

“Of course. Sure. We’ll be okay for a while.”

“I hope it doesn’t take long,” I said. “Big Daddy’s wife practically accused Uncle Nestor of murder last night. I’m pretty sure it was just the booze talking, but it may take a little while to get that all straightened out.”

“The police don’t think he did it, do they?”

“Of course not,” I said sharply. “My uncle didn’t have anything to do with Big Daddy’s death.”

“I never said he did,” Edie said quickly. “But if the police want statements from all of you, you’re already connected to the murder in their minds.”

“Only because Aunt Yolanda and I found the body. That makes us material witnesses or something.”

“That’s kind of the point, Rita,” she said. After a slight hesitation, she continued, “Don’t worry about us. If you need to take a day or two with your aunt and uncle, that’s okay.”

I blurted a disbelieving laugh. “Considering how much work we have to do? Absolutely not. I’ll be in as soon as we’re finished at the police station. I’m hoping it won’t be later than noon.”

Again a beat or two passed before Edie responded. “At least take the day off,” she said. “Your aunt and uncle are probably pretty upset. They’ll need you around.”

Yeah. Maybe. But I was getting a strange vibe from her. “What’s going on, Edie? Why do I get the feeling this isn’t really about me and my family?”

She sighed heavily, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer, as if she didn’t want to be overheard. “It’s nothing personal, Rita. It’s just that there are already reporters outside. Thanks to the staff at the country club, they’ve made the connection between last night’s party and Zydeco.”

The country club staff? My money was on that unpleasant kitchen manager.

“You were the hostess,” Edie went on. “So they’re going to be looking for a statement from you. Ox and I both think it might be a good idea for you to lay low for a few days—you know, until the police have a real suspect.”

She didn’t have to say the rest, but I didn’t like hearing that she and Ox had been making decisions for the bakery behind my back. I was already tired and cranky, so her argument rubbed me the wrong way. “Listen, Edie, I refuse to cower and hide just because Big Daddy Boudreaux had the misfortune to die at that stupid party. And maybe you should remember that I’m the one in charge at Zydeco, not Ox. He needs to quit trying to take over.”

“He’s not trying to take over,” she snapped back. “He’s concerned about the bakery, that’s all. If Zydeco goes under, we all lose.”

“Zydeco is
not
going under,” I insisted. “Instead of anticipating the worst, why don’t we do something constructive?”

“Such as?”

I floundered for a moment, trying to come up with something. “Put something on the website maybe. A statement about how sorry we all are over the unfortunate passing of such a beloved public figure.”

“We could do that,” she said slowly. “Are you going to write it?”

“Ask Ox to do it. If he works fast, he can text it to me for approval and have it uploaded before I even leave the police station. Just please work with me and not against me. My aunt and uncle aren’t speaking to me, and I don’t need you and Ox throwing up roadblocks and making things worse.”

“We’re not trying to make things worse,” she said. “We’re just trying to look out for Zydeco while your attention is splintered.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, as if I was trying her patience. “Look, Rita, you can’t take care of everything all the time, and right now you have your hands full. Nobody’s trying to take your job or push you out. Let us help you.”

I hesitated, but only for a heartbeat. Accepting help doesn’t come easily to me, but she had a point and I’d be foolish not to acknowledge it. Besides, tired as I was, I needed help remembering my own name. I rubbed my temples with my fingertips, as if that might relieve the stress headache I could feel starting. I sat down at the kitchen table. “I wish I knew what Uncle Nestor’s argument with Big Daddy was about last night. If I knew that, maybe I could convince him to talk to me about it.”

She laughed at that. “Their
argument
? Is that what you’re calling it?”

I stopped rubbing and leaned my head against the back of the chair. “Fine. Their fight.” A memory of last night wormed its way through the fog of exhaustion and I sat up again quickly. “Hey! You were there. Did you hear what they were talking about before the fight?”

Edie didn’t say anything for a few seconds, but I could hear her breathing so I knew we hadn’t been disconnected. “I was there,” she said after a while, “but I didn’t actually hear much. And most of what your uncle said was in Spanish.”

“So nothing?”

Another pause. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to get involved, Rita. Just let the police do their job.”

“I’m not trying to get involved,” I said impatiently. “Sullivan asked me to get Uncle Nestor to talk. I’m just trying to cooperate with the police. If you know anything about that fight, please tell me.”

Edie sighed heavily. “All right. But I’m only doing this under protest. I hope you know that.”

“Duly noted. What did you hear?”

“Not much, like I said before, but I’m pretty sure your uncle said something about his family’s honor. That’s it, though. I swear.”

Everything inside me turned icy cold. Nothing means more to Uncle Nestor than family. He’s not a cold-blooded killer, but if anything was going to push him over the edge, insulting or hurting someone in his family would be what did it. “That must mean Big Daddy said something about Aunt Yolanda,” I said, feeling miserable.

“Or you.”

“Or me,” I agreed reluctantly. Considering what a creep Big Daddy was and the fact that Uncle Nestor doesn’t go around punching people indiscriminately, it must have been something completely inappropriate. No wonder he was closed up tighter than a clam. He must know that if he told the police what they fought over, the police would be convinced he had a motive for murder.