That Old Black Magic (6 page)

Chapter 16

S
abrina had looked as fetching as ever tonight, but Bertrand couldn't stop thinking about Piper. He listened to his wife's even breathing and fantasized that it was Piper lying beside him in bed. Bertrand imagined Piper's long, lithe body snuggling against his.

Marguerite was a good wife, supportive and loyal, but there hadn't been passion between them for a long time. Working together all day at the bakery, talking bakery business at home, the constant togetherness had gradually worn down his desire for her. Marguerite's frequent complaints of weariness and headaches didn't help either.

Marguerite was familiar. Piper, with her smooth white skin and shining green eyes, held the allure and excitement of the unknown.

Sighing deeply, Bertrand turned over onto his stomach. Then he turned to lie on his back again. He fluffed his pillow and tried to get comfortable. He needed to relax but couldn't.

He watched the digital clock numbers change, again and again and again. Finally Bertrand gave in. Realizing that he wasn't going to fall asleep, he got out of bed.

A
fter the drive from their home in the Garden District, Bertrand let himself in to the bakery and switched off the alarm. He thought about what he would tell Marguerite if she woke up and found that he wasn't there. He could tell the truth. He had gone to the bakery. He'd be able to think of a logical, believable reason. Beignet batter left unmixed, a wedding-cake design to be finished, a new recipe to be tried before inclusion in the next book. There was always something that could provide a credible excuse.

The night-light provided just enough illumination. Bertrand walked quietly past the glass display cases and through the salesroom. When he got halfway down the corridor that led to the kitchen, he stopped.

He took off his shoes and lined them up on the floor beneath the door to the dumbwaiter. Carefully Bertrand opened the panel and climbed inside the compartment. He sat on the platform, hunching his compact torso over his crossed legs. The space was cramped, but any discomfort was overshadowed by the pleasure that lay in store for him.

Bertrand reached outside and pushed the button on the wall beside the dumbwaiter. Quickly pulling his hand back inside, he felt the platform begin to move upward. He held his breath, though he knew that the journey could be made almost silently.

Bertrand felt his pulse race. He pictured Piper sound asleep, totally unaware that he was on his way.

Higher, higher. Finally he was at the level of the apartment. Piper was only a wall and a few feet away.

He pushed at the dumbwaiter door, and it opened into the closet. Bertrand swung his legs out and down, landing softly on the floor. He uncurled his body and took a small flashlight from his rear pocket.

Bertrand pushed through the clothes that hung on the rod, pausing a moment to enjoy Piper's scent. He closed his eyes in the darkness and buried his nose in the skirt she had worn that night at dinner.

Light from the lamps on Royal Street came in through the French doors to the balcony, bathing the small apartment in a soft glow. Bertrand clicked off the flashlight, parted the closet curtain, and tiptoed into the hall. He silently made the short trip to the bedroom doorway. Then he stood there, watching her.

Piper's blond hair fanned out across the pillow. Her mouth was slightly open. One leg protruded from beneath the bedcover, her toenails painted a much darker shade than her pale skin. He could detect the sound of her breathing. Soft breath. Warm breath. Youthful breath.

He edged closer. Now he could actually see her chest moving up and down evenly. Funny. Marguerite had been breathing evenly, too, but the rise and fall of his wife's breasts hadn't affected him at all. He'd had no desire to wrap Marguerite in his arms and smother her with caresses and kisses.

Yet it took every bit of control Bertrand had to keep himself from climbing into bed beside Piper.

Friday

March 14

Chapter 17

I
t was still dark when Mike arrived at work. He entered through the back of the store and flipped on the lights. As he took inventory in the kitchen, he didn't know if he should be patting himself on the back for being a good father and letting his son sleep in or kicking himself for giving in to Tommy's whining. Either way Mike was exhausted. He wondered how he was going to get through the long day ahead.

He put together a list of the meats, rolls, and cheeses he wanted to get ordered for the sandwiches he'd promised to make for the St. Patrick's Day fund-raiser at the Gris-Gris Bar for Wuzzy's little boy. When asked, Mike had immediately agreed to donate the muffulettas. Poor Wuzzy had a tough row to hoe with a disabled son, no wife, and mounting medical bills. Merchants up and down Royal Street were contributing goods and services to help Wuzzy Queen out of his little boy's problems.

Mike ripped open two cartons delivered the day before. He unpacked the contents and restocked the shelves with containers of potato crisps and jars of marinated mushrooms. Then he checked the meat case, replenishing it with a new ham from the walk-in refrigerator.

He walked to the front of the shop, tidying up merchandise as he made his way to the entrance and thinking how fortunate he was that his own son, while lazy, was exceedingly healthy. Mike unlocked the door. He reached to raise the shade in the front window, then stopped as the door opened.

“Wow. You're here early,” said Mike.

“I know, but it's going to be a crazy day. I won't be able to get over here at lunchtime. Could you make me a muffuletta now?”

“Okay,” Mike said, turning his back and walking toward the rear of the store.

The customer quietly turned the lock on the front door before following Mike to the workstation and watching as the butcher slid a fat smoked ham back and forth, back and forth across the razor-sharp blade of the meat-slicing machine. Mike caught each thin slice and piled it on the round, sesame-seeded bread that lay split open on the counter. He repeated the process with salami, depositing it on the ham. Next a layer of capicola, followed by pepperoni, Swiss cheese, and provolone.

“Looking good,” said the customer, observing from the other side of the counter. “Thanks again for this.”

“No problem,” said Mike. “We Royal Street folks have to help each other out when we can.”

“How many muffs do you think you've made in your life?” asked the customer, setting a shopping bag on the floor.

The sandwich maker laughed. “I couldn't even begin to tell you.” He reached for the glass container of olive spread he had mixed himself. Finely chopped green olives, celery, cauliflower, and carrot seasoned with oregano, garlic, black pepper and covered with extra-virgin olive oil, all left to marinate overnight.

The customer persisted. “All right, then. How many muffs did you make yesterday?”

Digging into the olive mixture, the butcher shrugged. “Maybe a hundred and fifty.”

The customer whistled. “Business is good, huh?”

“It's all right, but it's nowhere near the place on Decatur. They sell hundreds a day. Every time I go by, there's a line out the door. I gotta find me a way to get listed in those travel guides.”

“Location, location,” said the customer. “Being near Jackson Square and the cathedral sure helps.”

“True,” said Mike. “But Royal Street isn't exactly a poor relation in the location department. We're the heart of the French Quarter.” He nodded over his shoulder in the direction of the shaded front window. “Plenty of tourists are marching up and down that sidewalk out there every single day. They just ain't necessarily stopping here. No sir, the tourists read about Central Grocery online or in their N'awlins travel guides and put it on their lists of places to go while they're in town. Then they return home and tell their friends, who make it a point to stop when they come down. Herd mentality.”

“I suppose the fact that Central Grocery originated the muffuletta also has something to do with it,” said the customer, reaching down into the shopping bag.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Mike, cutting the sandwich into quarters. “But my daddy made muffs in this very shop, and his daddy before him. Our muffs are just as good as anybody's. In fact, I've had people tell me they're even better than Central's.”

Mike reached for the roll of aluminum foil, his back to the customer. As he ripped off a sheet, there was an insistent knock on the front door.

“That's weird. I thought I unlocked that,” said Mike.

The customer straightened, wrapping a hand around the leather coil in the shopping bag. “You did, but I locked it again.”

Mike pivoted around and stared warily.

“I thought I was doing you a favor,” said the customer. “You didn't need anybody else like me coming in this early. I'll go unlock it again if you want me to.”

Nodding, Muffuletta Mike turned his attention back to wrapping the sandwich as the customer silently unwound the long leather whip. Slowly, stealthily, the customer edged around the counter, closer to Mike, as the knocking at the front door continued.

“What's the problem up there?” Mike called over his shoulder. “Open the door, will you, and let the guy in.”

From the corner of his eye, Mike detected a flash of movement. As the whip wrapped around his neck, his hands shot up. He tried to pry the strap away from his skin, but he only felt it grow tighter and tighter, cutting off his ability to breathe. His face reddened and his eyes bulged as the garrote's pressure increased.

Death by strangulation took a lot of effort. Mike struggled and fought, but, unable to take in oxygen, he gradually grew weaker. Finally he collapsed, hitting his head hard on the corner of the counter as he fell.

Mike lay motionless on the floor. The knocking at the front door finally stopped. Bending down, the customer unwrapped the leather strap from around Mike's neck.

It was then that the whipping began.

Chapter 18

P
iper was up before dawn, determined to get some hours in at the bakery before leaving for her audition. She showered, dried her hair, and went to the closet to pick out something that would be good for the audition. As she looked inside, she got a weird feeling. Were the shirts, slacks, and skirts pushed to one side of the rack? She was almost sure she'd spaced them more evenly.

Looking more closely at the door to the dumbwaiter at the back of the closet, Piper wondered about the exposure it gave her. Had someone been in the apartment when she wasn't there? It was a creepy thought.

Oh, don't be ridiculous,
she thought.
You came home from dinner, tired and a bit buzzed from the Sazerac. Who knows how you left things in the closet?

P
iper was waiting at the front door of the bakery when Bertrand arrived. He smiled broadly when he saw her, and she was suddenly uncomfortably conscious of the lacy shell she wore stretched snugly across her chest. What had seemed an appropriate choice for the audition suddenly seemed all wrong for a morning with Bertrand.

“I didn't expect you to be here so early,” he said, kissing her on both cheeks. “You needn't come every day to open up the shop with me, Piper. But I am glad for your company.”

“I wanted to talk with you about the ideas I have for Sabrina and Leo's wedding cake. I'm really excited about it.”

“Wonderful!” said Bertrand as he unlocked the door and turned off the alarm. “You can tell me all about it while I get the beignets started.”

As she followed Bertrand back to the kitchen, Piper noticed the large wooden panel with a handle set into the corridor wall. She realized it must be the dumbwaiter that led up to her apartment. It made her a bit uneasy, knowing that there was such easy access.

But she pushed those thoughts aside as she watched Bertrand combine yeast, warm water, and granulated sugar in the bowl of the heavy-duty mixer. After the mixture stood for about five minutes, he added evaporated milk, eggs, salt, more sugar, and shortening.

“Okay, Piper. Would you begin beating and gradually add the flour?”

While Piper followed the instructions, Bertrand went to the refrigerator and took out a huge covered bowl. He dumped the contents onto the floured surface of the worktable and began rolling it out.

“You see, you are making the dough for tomorrow's beignets, Piper. It has to sit overnight. I made this batch yesterday.”

Bertrand began cutting the beignet dough into squares. “So,” he said, “tell me what you are thinking about for the wedding cakes.”

“Well, I thought we'd have three layers—six-inch, ten-inch, and fourteen-inch rounds for the big
Natchez
cake,” said Piper as she poured more flour into the mixing bowl.

“That sounds about right,” said Bertrand. “What kind of cake?”

“How about a red velvet cake for the steamboat party and a bananas Foster cake for the party at Bistro Sabrina? They're both so New Orleans, right?”

Bertrand nodded. “And icing?”

“Cream cheese with crumbled pralines for the bananas Foster cake and, for the red velvet, my mother has a recipe that she always uses. It's my favorite frosting ever.”

“Okay,” said Bertrand, smiling. “Sounds good so far. I'd like to try that icing of your mother's.”

“I'll make you some,” said Piper. “And in terms of decorations, I was thinking about doing fleur-de-lis dotting around the sides of the layers.”

Bertrand's facial expression collapsed.

“What's wrong?” asked Piper.

“Ah, Piper, do you know how many wedding cakes I've decorated with fleurs-de-lis, the symbol of New Orleans? I was hoping to do something different for Sabrina and Leo.”

“Well, I had a thought for a special cake topper,” Piper said tentatively.

“What?”

“I was thinking about a miniature paddleboat, like the
Natchez,
where Sabrina and Leo met. I saw one in a gift shop yesterday. We could have figures of the bride and groom standing together beside it.”

Bertrand smiled again, coming around the table and taking Piper's hands in his. “Now, that's an idea I like.
Très bien!
”