Rebel Without a Cake (6 page)

Ox nodded and reached for an eraser. “Sounds great.”

Judging from the tone of his voice, that was a big, fat lie. It looked like bringing Ox around would require both finesse and persistence. I moved on and let myself into the front of the house, where Edie reigns over the reception area from behind a massive U-shaped desk.

It's a large room dominated by Edie's desk and an ornate staircase made of rich, dark wood. A couple of inviting seating areas take up space in front of the large front windows, and framed poster-sized photographs of extreme and elegant cakes adorn the crisp white walls.

Edie glanced up when I came through the door, but looked away quickly. “Morning.”

I hoped that was contrition on her face, but I couldn't be sure.

I helped myself to a handful of M&M's—her snack of choice since she got pregnant—from a bowl on her desk. “Have you been back in the design room this morning?”

She shook her head. “Not yet. Why do you ask?”

“Because everybody back there is on edge. Would you like to guess why?”

Edie's glance landed on mine. “I suppose you're going to say it's my fault.”

“Are you seriously going to suggest it's not?”

Her almond-shaped eyes narrowed and she turned her chair so that she was facing me head-on. “You ought to be thanking me. If I hadn't done what I did, you and Ox would have completely ruined the night for Dwight.”

I couldn't believe my ears. “You're blaming
me
?”

“Not just you. Ox, too. Really, Rita, you should have heard the two of you. Half the people at the Duke were laughing. The other half were whispering. We've all worked too hard to build up Zydeco's reputation to ruin it in a barroom brawl.”

I felt about two inches tall. “Okay. Maybe you have a point. Kind of. But that doesn't let you off the hook for your part in last night's disaster. We were all scared to death and we drove like maniacs to get you to the hospital, only to find out it was all a joke?”

“Not a joke.” Edie flicked a lock of hair from her cheek. “I was going to have a trial run anyway. Last night just seemed like the right time to do it.”

Unbelievable
. “It was a very bad idea,” I said. “You upset people who care about you, and I need you to apologize to them.”

“Apologize for what?”

“For upsetting everybody. For lying to us. For making us think you were about to have the baby. Pick one.”

Edie laughed, but she wasn't amused. “And what about you and Ox?”

I'd apologize when Ox did, but getting him to apologize wouldn't be easy. I'd deal with that later, though. First, I had to get him to look at me. “How about you just take care of your part? We have too much work to have bad feelings cutting into productivity.”

Edie rolled her eyes. “I don't think I have anything to apologize for. Like I said, you should be thanking me.”

Edie's always been one of the most hardheaded people I know. Pregnancy hasn't softened her any. “I appreciate you stepping in before our argument got out of hand,” I said. It wasn't entirely true, but I wanted to show that I could be flexible. “But don't you think faking labor was overkill?”

“It worked, didn't it?”

“In a way,” I admitted grudgingly. “But it just created a whole new set of problems.”

“That's a matter of opinion.” She looked away and I could tell it wasn't going to be easy to convince her. I could stay and argue (which would clearly be a waste of time), or I could give up for the time being and use the next hour or so to mentally prepare for my meeting.

The choice was obvious.

But that didn't stop me from trying to get the last word. I stood and gathered my things. “Just don't do it again.”

My conversation with Edie left me feeling edgy and dissatisfied, but I didn't have time to dwell on it. I grabbed a cup of coffee and holed up in my office—an elegant room with a bay of five floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over a broad street lined with graceful old trees. A couple of built-in shelves hold a combination of Philippe's extensive cookbook library and mine. I'd also inherited Philippe's beautiful cherry wood desk, as well as the office chair he and I used to good-naturedly bicker over when we were together.

I settled down, opened my browser, and Googled the Crescent City Vintage Clothing Society. Naturally I was curious to know why Philippe had refused to work with Evangeline Delahunt, but not so curious I'd let myself ask Ox for details. But since the cake and menu were for the society, not for Evangeline personally, I decided to focus on finding what I could about the society itself.

Within minutes I'd learned that “vintage” refers to clothing made between twenty and one hundred years ago. Anything older is antique. The society had been founded twenty years earlier, and Evangeline Delahunt was a founding member. She'd initially served as the society's president, a run of successive terms that had lasted five years. Afterward, she'd stepped into her current role as events coordinator, with her specialty being the Belle Lune Ball, held every year at the historic Monte Cristo Hotel.

I'd filled two pages with notes by the time Edie buzzed to let me know my appointment had arrived. I closed my computer, stashed my notes on one side of my desk, and took a couple of deep breaths before stepping out to meet my new client.

Evangeline Delahunt was an impressive woman. Tall, thin, and stylish. I guessed her to be about the same age as Miss Frankie. Her silver hair was cut short and she wore a tailored suit that seemed to float around her body as she walked. One look at her reminded me that I had not grown up in her world and would probably never fit into it.

I offered her a hand to shake, which she took after looking it over for a moment. Once she had her hand back, she ran her eyes slowly over every inch of me, starting at my head, going down to my flat and well-worn sandals, and then back up again. Her lip curved slightly as if she saw something distasteful.

Somehow, I resisted the urge to smooth my hair and tug at the neckline of my shirt as I led her into my office. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Delahunt. Please, have a seat. I'm excited to hear your thoughts on the cake and menu you want us to put together for the ball.”

She crossed the room slowly, giving everything in it the same curled lip inspection she'd given me. Finally, she arranged herself in one chair and put her purse on the other. “I'm here because Frankie insists that you people are capable of making a cake suitable for our event. You've heard of the Crescent City Vintage Clothing Society, I assume?”

I nodded. “Yes, of course.”

“And you're aware that the Belle Lune Ball is one of the most prestigious society events of the year.”

“Absolutely. We're thrilled to get this chance to work with you.”

She relaxed her lips slightly, but still didn't smile. “As well you should. If I weren't desperate, I wouldn't take a chance on an unknown.”

My shoulders stiffened, but I did my best to smile. “Zydeco is hardly an unknown.”

“It is to me.”

My nerves twitched but I managed to avoid showing my irritation. “Then I plan to make it worth the risk you're taking. Now, I'd love for you to tell me a bit more about the ball.”

Evangeline ran a finger along the armrest of the chair, probably checking for dust. “What would you like to know?”

“The basics, to begin with. How many guests do you expect? What kind of menu do you have in mind? And how many do you need the cake to serve?”

“I thought you said you were familiar with our event.”

“Well. Yes. Familiar.” Familiar-
ish
anyway. I'd read about it online and planned to quiz Miss Frankie about it, but I hadn't had a lot of notice. What little time I'd been given had slipped through my fingers. “I've done my research,” I said easily, “but I'd much rather hear about the society from you. I'd like to view the event through your perspective.”

Evangeline tilted her head to one side, gave that some thought, and then began talking. “The Vintage Clothing Society's Belle Lune Ball is always a premiere event here in New Orleans, but this is a particularly important year for us. The society was founded twenty years ago in January, which makes next year a milestone for us.” Everything about Evangeline's expression said she was taking full credit for the society's longevity.

“That's quite an achievement,” I said, hoping I sounded sincere. “What's your theme this year?”

She gave me a
duh!
look. “It's our twentieth anniversary. That's our theme.”

Well, that was helpful. I tried to remember what the tradition was for twenty years of marriage, but all I knew offhand was that it wasn't silver or gold. “Are the decorations already planned? Do you have a color scheme?”

Another annoyed look crossed her face. “We haven't revealed that yet and we won't until the night of the ball. That's a society tradition.”

I was quickly becoming irritated with her. Did she not know the answers to my questions, or was she trying to be obnoxious? I refused to let her get the best of me. The more she stonewalled, the more determined I was to get this right.

I pointed out what should have been obvious: “If we're going to work on this event, my staff and I will need to know. I'll also need access to the other people working on the event. If I can meet with the person in charge of decorations, I'll be able to successfully tie in the cake design, the menu, and presentation of the dishes.”

Evangeline lowered her head slightly in what could have been a nod. “I suppose I can put you in touch with the committee head—after you sign a confidentiality agreement, of course. I'll need one from anyone who will be working on the event.”

Wow. Weird. But whatever. “Of course. We'll be happy to sign.”

“Do you have a business card? I can have her call you.”

I'd have preferred to make contact with the committee chair myself. I didn't know how long it would take Evangeline to pass on my phone number, but I'd take what I could get. I handed her a card and resumed my seat. “Terrific. The sooner the better. Are you thinking about a sculpted cake or something more traditional? We could do round tiers or square. Or if you want something more modern, maybe we could do a sculpted and decorate it to look like a vintage dress.”

A little crease formed in her forehead. “I won't be able to say until I see what you have in mind.”

“Yes. Of course. I'll run up some sketches and get them to you. Do you have a preference about the flavor or type of icing? We can do a lot with buttercream, but cream cheese is always popular. Or there's fondant . . .”

Evangeline didn't say anything for a moment. She just looked down her nose at me in silence. “So you're the girl Philippe married, are you?”

That was so unexpected, the pen slipped from my fingers. “Yes I am.”

“It's strange that you're here now, running his bakery like this, don't you think? Tell me, why did we never see you around here when he was alive?”

Her audacity stunned me into silence, but only for a moment. I'd had my reasons and they'd seemed legitimate at the time. But legitimate or not, they were none of her business. I could have said so straight out, but I'd lose the contract for sure if I did, and I still had things to prove.

“Oh, you know,” I said with a thin laugh. “Life gets in the way. Now, about the cake—”

“You two met in Chicago. Is that right?”

“Yes. At pastry school.” I wanted to escape those cold, hard eyes so I grabbed the portfolio from the top of the filing cabinet. “Maybe you would like to look at some of the other cakes we've created. We have some extremely talented cake artists on staff. Looking at cakes we've made for other clients may give you some ideas.”

After handing her the folder, I sat behind the desk again. “I'm sure you'll want the cake to tie into the idea of vintage clothing, so what if we did something like this?” I sketched a rough outline of a couple dancing, both in what I hoped was appropriate vintage clothing, and turned the sketch so she could see it. “It's off the cuff, of course, but it's a rough idea.”

Evangeline glanced quickly down at the sketch and away. “It's
quite
rough, isn't it? It's also somewhat ordinary.”

I was tempted to show her a whole bunch of ordinary, but I bit my tongue and swallowed my pride. “Meeting with your decorators will help.” So would a few suggestions. If she was this unforthcoming about what she was looking for, no wonder the other bakery had failed to produce a design she could approve. “If you could help me narrow down what you're looking for—”

Just then there was a knock on the door and Edie poked her head inside. “I'm really sorry to disturb you, but you have a phone call, Rita.”

The interruption surprised me. Edie knew better than to barge in on a client meeting. “Take a message, please. Tell whoever it is that I'm with a client and I'll call back when I'm finished.”

“I tried that. It's Miss Frankie's neighbor, Bernice. She says it's an emergency.”

She had to be joking. I should have called this morning to tell her about the cat. Quickly, I pondered my options. I could stay with Evangeline Delahunt and let her continue taking potshots at my self-esteem, or I could take a moment to reassure Bernice. Maybe the break would also help get Mrs. Delahunt back on track.

It took me roughly two seconds to make up my mind. “Would you excuse me, Mrs. Delahunt? I'll only be a minute. You can go through the portfolio to see if there's anything that sparks an idea for you.”

Evangeline looked anything but pleased, but I hurried out to Edie's desk and picked up the call. “Bernice? What's wrong?”

“What's
wrong
?” she whispered. “There's a crazy woman sitting in my living room and she's got a voodoo whatever with her. You have to get over here right now and get rid of them.”

Surely I'd heard her wrong. “I'm sorry, who did you say was there?”

“I just told you. You have to come now. I don't know what to do with them.”

I wasn't sure why I was responsible for her visitors, but clearly she thought I was, so I tried to get a bit more information. “Are they friends of yours?”

“Of mine? No! The crazy girl says she's a friend of yours.”

“But that's impossible.”

“Are you saying you didn't send them over here? That you're not responsible for that frightening-looking woman I found on my porch? She was shaking something at me, Rita. I swear they're bones.”

Bernice had to be imagining things. “I doubt that,” I said gently. “Where are the women now?”

“In my living room,” Bernice whispered. “I had to let them in so the neighbors wouldn't see them.”

Seriously?
“You let complete strangers into your house even though you thought they were carrying bones?”

“I had to,” she insisted. “They said that they refused to leave until I let the voodoo lady contact Uncle Cooch, and Polly Ebersol was out walking her dog. I didn't know what else to do. But don't worry. I'll be all right until you get here. I have my gun.”

That
did it. “Do not use your gun,” I ordered. “I'm on my way.” And then I bolted for my office to get rid of Evangeline Delahunt.