Rebel Without a Cake (2 page)

I kneaded my forehead and tried to pull my thoughts together. “Why did she wait so long to find a caterer? Surely she knows what a huge job this is.”

Miss Frankie waved her hand again. “Well, of course she knows. She's been in charge of planning the ball for at least a decade. This is a great opportunity for Zydeco and for everyone who works there. There will be press coverage of the event, and there's a very good chance you'll be interviewed yourself.”

“But we don't
do
catering,” I reminded her again. “I don't want Zydeco to gain a reputation as a caterer. I want it to be known as New Orleans's premiere bakery for high-end cakes.”

“And it will be, after you do this job.” Miss Frankie gave me a look that clearly said she thought I was being a bit slow on the uptake. “Philippe tried more than once to get his foot in the door with Evangeline Delahunt. He never could do it.”

That made my ears perk up. Philippe and I had met in pastry school, and at least in the beginning, we'd indulged in what I thought was a healthy and harmless competition, pitting our cake decorating and business skills against each other whenever the occasion arose. Looking back, I could see now that before we'd separated, the competition had become less healthy, but I hadn't realized it at the time.

Hearing about Philippe's failure to land the contract I'd just been handed made my competitive side yawn and stretch like a cat waking up after a long nap. I tried again to get an answer to my question. “If working for Evangeline Delahunt is such a
coup de grâce,
why is she looking for a caterer at this late date?”

Miss Frankie's gaze flickered ever so slightly, which set off a warning bell in my head. “She had to let the first one go. Something about them failing to produce an appropriate design and menu. I could have told her she'd be dissatisfied with her original choice if she'd only asked my advice. Anyway, she'll be coming to see you tomorrow morning at ten. I hope that works with your schedule.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “I haven't agreed to this yet. Who was her original choice?”

My mother-in-law gave me an enigmatic smile. “Gâteaux.”

I could almost hear the sound of her reeling me in. Gâteaux was Zydeco's stiffest competition, and Dmitri Wolff, Gâteaux's owner, was a complete snake in the grass. He'd not only tried to lure away my staff, but also indulged in a little industrial sabotage before trying to buy Zydeco from Miss Frankie after Philippe died. I smiled slowly. “Wolff couldn't make her happy?”

“Apparently not.”

Just like that, every one of my objections disappeared. Like I said, I have a competitive nature. So what if Gâteaux had had months to come up with a winning plan? The important thing was that I had a chance to succeed where Dmitri Wolff had failed.

I had an amazing staff made up of the most talented cake artists around. About half of us had formal training in the kitchen, and the others were talented artists who'd learned on the job. We worked together like a well-oiled machine. Most of the time anyway. If anybody could do this, I thought to myself, we could. And besides, it would be morally irresponsible to leave such a well-publicized and popular event without a caterer. Or, considerably worse, with substandard food for their event.

I swallowed all of my concerns and smiled. “I'll make it work.”

“Good. Now, about Christmas—”

The abrupt change of subject caught me off guard, and before I could shift gears, I heard the sound of Miss Frankie's back garden gate open and close, followed by rapid footsteps tapping toward the kitchen door. A moment later someone banged on the door urgently.

Mild concern hit me at once, but relief at the interruption was the stronger emotion. After all, I thought, nothing bad ever happens in Miss Frankie's neighborhood. Yep, I actually thought that. And yeah, I was wrong.

“Goodness, what a racket!” Miss Frankie said, waving me back to the seat I'd risen from. She peeked out the window and glanced at me with a scowl. “Well, for heaven's sake, it's Bernice. Honestly, Bernice! There's no need to break down the door,” Miss Frankie scolded.

She opened the door and her next-door neighbor, Bernice Dudley, stumbled inside. The two women have been friends and neighbors for much longer than I've been around. I'm pretty sure they're roughly the same age but they wear the years very differently. Miss Frankie is tall, thin, and angular with short hair that's not only kept teased and heavily sprayed by her stylist, but tinted an unnatural shade of auburn for a woman her age.

Bernice is shorter, rounder, and generally fluffier. But not today. It took only one look for me to see that something was wrong. She clutched a Bible to her chest and her face was as white as the cloud of softly curling hair on her head. She blinked back tears as she staggered through the door. After fumbling with the knob for a moment, she looked up in frustration. “How do I lock this thing?”

Miss Frankie gently nudged her out of the way and turned the lock. “Why, Bernice, you're shaking like a leaf. What's wrong?”

Bernice tightened her grip on the Bible. “I just saw someone outside my window. It about scared me to death.”

Concern suddenly trumped the relief I'd been feeling over the interruption. Bernice is a sweet woman, and I didn't like thinking that something had frightened her.

Miss Frankie just looked confused. “What do you mean, you saw someone?”

“I mean, I
saw
someone,” Bernice snapped. “A man. Right outside my kitchen window.”

That got me on my feet in a hurry. I looked out the large back window, hoping I wouldn't see anything—or anyone—out there. The two women live in an affluent neighborhood with a low crime rate, but it is part of New Orleans and bad things can happen anywhere. Better to be safe than sorry.

The dense trees separating one property from the next would make it easy for someone to hide in the shadows, but I couldn't see any men, strange or otherwise, skulking around the backyard. That made me feel a little better. “Are you sure you saw a man?”

Bernice gave her eyes an impatient roll. “As sure as I'm standing here. He was right outside my window, staring inside. At
me
!” A shudder racked her body and she collapsed onto the chair I'd vacated.

I turned back for a second look. I could see Miss Frankie's reflection as she sat beside Bernice and patted her hand. “I'm sure it's not anything to worry about,” Miss Frankie said. “It was probably one of the neighbors.”

“It was
not
a neighbor,” Bernice informed us tersely. Her attitude surprised me. I'd never seen her like this, and it worried me. “I know all my neighbors,” she insisted. “This was not one of them.”

“You didn't recognize him, then?” I asked.

Bernice took a shaky breath and her gaze fell to the Bible on her chest. “I thought I did for a minute. He looked like . . . like someone. But it wasn't him. That I know for sure.”

“Try not to let it upset you,” Miss Frankie said in a soothing tone. “It's almost Halloween. Kids are out playing tricks. One of them just wandered into your yard, probably trying to spook you. It's understandable that you were startled, but let's not overreact.”

Bernice's cheeks turned a deep shade of pink. “I am
not
overreacting. I know what I saw, Frances. That was no child playing tricks. And don't you look at me that way. I know you think I'm seeing things, but I wasn't.”

I checked the window for a third time, craning to see into all the corners of Miss Frankie's yard. The trees were still doing their dance in the wind, and shadowy shapes flitted here and there in the moonlight. “Maybe it was a trick of the wind,” I suggested. “You know . . . a shadow or something.”

“It was
not
a shadow. I saw a man clear as day. I saw his
face
. He was as close to me as I am to you. Just, thank God, on the other side of the window.”

Miss Frankie glanced at me briefly. I could see the doubt in her eyes. “In that case,” she said to Bernice, “why did you leave the house? Something horrible might have happened to you.”

Bernice put one trembling hand into her pocket. “Well, I couldn't stay there by myself, could I? I had my Bible and I said the Lord's Prayer over and over while I was running over here. And besides, I had this with me.” With a flourish, sweet little Bernice pulled out a small handgun.

I gasped in surprise. “You have a gun?”

“Well, of course I do. Don't tell me you don't carry protection.”

“No, I don't. Is it loaded?”

She gave me a
duh!
look. “There wouldn't be much point in carrying it if it wasn't.”

I guess she had a point there. But still . . . “Do you know how to use it?”

“Rita, honey, I've been shooting since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. Daddy taught all us kids.”

My own father and I had skipped that particular bonding ritual, but I didn't mind. Leaving my post at the window, I joined the other two women at the table and jerked my head toward the gun in Bernice's shaky hand. “Did you know she had that thing?” I asked Miss Frankie.

She shrugged casually. “Of course I did. I have one myself.”

Whoa!
What?
“You do? Where?”

Miss Frankie transferred her patting hand from Bernice to me. “Oh, sugar, just about everybody I know carries a gun. It's not something you need to worry about.”

I wanted to believe her, but it was hard to relax. “Bernice is obviously upset. She's shaking like a leaf. The last thing she should be doing is running around the neighborhood with a loaded gun.” Turning to Bernice, I added, “What you should have done was call the police. In fact, that's what we'll do right now.”

I reached for my bag, intending to find my cell phone.

Bernice grabbed my wrist with a surprisingly strong grip. “No! No police.”

“But if there's someone dangerous in the neighborhood—” I began.

Bernice shook her head so firmly, a couple of white curls bobbed out of place. “I know you mean well, but I can't let you call the police. Polly Ebersol, the church music director, lives just down the block. She's a sweet woman, but she does love to talk. If she sees the police at my house, everybody at church will know about it before morning. Come Sunday, I won't be able to show my face in the sanctuary.”

Now
there
was a good reason to take a safety risk. “I understand that you don't want people talking, but what if something happens to you? Or what if this guy moves on and robs one of your neighbors?”
Or worse
. “You'd never forgive yourself if he hurt a friend.”

Bernice's eyes flew wide and the hand at her throat fluttered. “Oh! Do you think . . . But I—” She turned to Miss Frankie. “You don't suppose she's right, do you?”

Miss Frankie went back to patting Bernice's shoulder. “If you're sure you saw someone, it might be a good idea to call the authorities. Just in case. But I really think it was just kids pulling a prank.”

Bernice tilted her head to one side and gave that some thought. “But he looked so
real
. Then again, it's been a while since I saw him. Maybe I was mistaken.”

I stared at her. “Are you saying that you recognized the man? I thought you said you didn't know him. So who was he?”

Bernice slipped the gun back into her pocket and put both hands on her Bible. “I don't believe I said that I didn't know him. I said it couldn't possibly be him.” She closed her eyes for a moment, and I wondered if she was offering up another round of the Lord's Prayer. “I can't believe I'm going to tell you this,” she said when she opened her eyes again. “And I'll only tell you if you both promise not to say a word. Not one single word. To anybody.”

She waited until Miss Frankie and I had vowed utter silence.

“The man I saw tonight looked exactly like Uncle Cooch. He had long gray hair and a beard hanging halfway down his chest.”

“This is Louisiana,” Miss Frankie reminded her. “There are plenty of men who look like that.”

“Not all of them have a lazy eye,” Bernice argued. “Or a birthmark on their cheek.” She pointed to a spot just below her eye. “Right here. It's in the shape of a football but very distinctive. I guess you could say it's a family mark, but it doesn't show up more than once or twice in a generation. My granddaddy had it, too,”

I counted to ten, drawing on all my patience. Though I'd never known Bernice to be overly emotional, there's a first time for everything. But it was beginning to look as if I'd miss Dwight's birthday party completely, and that wasn't okay with me. “If it was your uncle coming to see you, he's probably still out there. Why don't I go look for him?”

Bernice sat straight up in her chair and shook her head firmly. “Abso
lute
ly not. You'll stay right here. We all will. You did bolt the door when I came in, didn't you, Frances?”

Miss Frankie nodded. “I did, but I don't think we need to worry. If your uncle stopped by for a visit—”

“I said that he
looked
like Uncle Cooch,” Bernice said, cutting Miss Frankie off. “But it wasn't him.”

“You can't possibly know that for sure,” I said. “Obviously seeing him outside the window startled you, and you came right over here. I know you didn't really get a good look at him, but it all sounds innocent enough.”

Bernice put both hands on the table and split a glare between Miss Frankie and me. “Will you both stop talking for a minute? I swear, with the two of you yapping like a couple of hounds, I can't even finish a thought.”

We both fell silent, startled by Bernice's uncharacteristic outburst.

Seemingly satisfied by our obedience, Bernice brushed a lock of snowy white hair from her forehead, took a deep breath, and lifted her chin as if defying us to utter another word. “That's better. I do wish you'd pay more attention, Frances. I've told you about Uncle Cooch before.”

Miss Frankie lowered her eyes and tried to look sheepish, but the smile playing on her lips gave her away. “Of course you have,” she said. “But in my defense, you do come from a large family. It's difficult to keep them all straight.”

“Uncle Cooch was my father's youngest brother. He's just ten years older than me. You remember I told you about the still he had out in the middle of the swamp. Everybody knew about it, but nobody could ever find it. The location was passed down the Percifield line from father to son for generations. Nobody else ever knew where it was. Uncle Cooch had quite a business. Made a small fortune and hid a whole lot of it somewhere out there in the woods.”

This was a side of Bernice that I would never have guessed at in a million years. I leaned up, chin in hand, eager for the rest of the story. “Your uncle is a moonshiner?”

“Among other things,” Bernice said. “He hunted. Trapped. Fished. Even caught alligators for a while.”

“He sounds like quite a character,” I said with a laugh. “I'd like to meet him.”

“That's not going to happen,” Bernice said. “Uncle Cooch went missing out in the swamp fifteen years ago. Nobody's laid eyes on him since . . . until tonight.”