Free A Sheetcake Named Desire by Jacklyn Brady Page A

business.”
    “What!? Don’t you think you should have told Detective Sullivan about this while he was here?” I couldn’t believe she’d kept this information a secret.
    She looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. “Do you know what it would do to Zydeco’s reputation if this got out?”
    “It couldn’t do more damage than murder.”
    She shook her head firmly. “The point is I don’t know who I can trust. I need eyes and ears at the bakery. I want you to help me figure out who’s doing this.”
    I gaped at her. “You can’t be serious.”
    “I’m completely serious,” Miss Frankie said. The set of her jaw and the steely look in her eye convinced me.
    “But I don’t know anything about sabotage,” I argued.
    “You know about running a kitchen. You know the business end of things. You know most of the staff. You’re the obvious choice.”
    “I’m a cake artist, not a private investigator.”
    Miss Frankie waved off my arguments. “You’re the perfect person to help me, sugar. I trust you. I need you.”
    I took a second to think about it. Half of me wanted to refuse. Stepping in for Philippe would be awkward at best. But the other half felt a little thrill at the idea of working in that beautiful kitchen and design center, even temporarily. “I have a life and a career back in Albuquerque, you know.”
    “Working for your uncle? Is that a better career than running Zydeco for me?”
    No. Working as a sous chef in my uncle’s restaurant couldn’t compare with running my own cake shop, but the idea of running this particular shop made me more than a little uncomfortable. “Working with Uncle Nestor is a great opportunity,” I said, out of loyalty.
    Miss Frankie stood and pulled a couple of glasses from a nearby cupboard. “I’m not going to talk bad about your family, Rita, but you and I both know that what you’re doing isn’t worthy of you and your talents.”
    She certainly knew which buttons to push. “I can’t just pack up everything and move here,” I argued. “Uncle Nestor put me through pastry school. I owe him.” I wondered what Uncle Nestor would say if I agreed to stay here in New Orleans. Or, rather, I wondered how long it would take Aunt Yolanda to calm him down. I contemplated the reactions of Philippe’s staff. Would they be willing to take orders from me?
    But in the end, it was the pain in Miss Frankie’s eyes that convinced me. How could I say no?
    “I’ll stay for a few days,” I agreed. “But just until you can find someone permanent to take over.”
    Miss Frankie threw her arms around my neck and kissed my cheek soundly. “Oh, thank you, sugar. You’re a lifesaver. You won’t be sorry, I promise.”
    Famous last words? I hoped not. I really wanted her to be right.

Nine

    The next morning, I chased the aroma of fresh coffee, chocolate, and bananas into the kitchen, where I found Miss Frankie waiting for me.
    She looked tired and pale, but she’d set out plates and mugs, sliced the coffee cake, and added a bowl of fresh fruit to the table. We ate quickly, reminiscing about Philippe. Miss Frankie shared stories about his childhood, and I told her about things that had happened when we lived in Chicago. Occasionally, we lapsed into long stretches of silence. I remembered Philippe as he’d been when we’d met, and I knew Miss Frankie was thinking about the five-year-old boy who’d broken his arm when he fell out of the towering oak tree near the property line.
    After a quick detour to my hotel so I could shower, change, and check out (Miss Frankie insisted I’d be staying with her from then on), we walked through the front doors at Zydeco a few minutes before eleven. Unlike the previous two days, no enticing aromas filled the air. The hum of activity I’d noticed before was noticeably absent in spite of the fact that every chair in the reception area was occupied by a staff member. Apparently, Miss Frankie and I weren’t the only people coming to the