The Cakes of Wrath (8 page)

Isaiah jerked his chin toward the cases of water behind me. “It's getting late. I should finish moving those for you.”

He hadn't completely set my concerns to rest, but I didn't want to push too hard and make him nervous, so I left him to work.

He disappeared into the storage shed with the last two cases of water and reappeared a minute later, empty-handed. Glancing my way, he sketched a salute and ambled off down the driveway.

I wanted to believe the stolen van theory, but I had a gut feeling there was more to last night's incident. I just hoped that my gut wasn't sending me on a wild-goose chase.

The rest of the day passed by quickly, interrupted only by a call from the police telling me that the van had been found in a park near the Mississippi River but that they hadn't recovered any evidence that would identify the driver. I drove home after work, soaked my aching body in a hot bath, and climbed into bed before the late news came on. Next morning, I felt even worse than I had the day before. I seriously considered calling in sick, but two things stopped me. One, we had way too much work to do (for which I was extremely grateful); and two, if I stayed home, I wouldn't be able to ask more people what they'd seen the night of the accident. The more I thought about that van almost hitting Moose and me, the more I wanted to know who was behind the wheel and why we'd been turned into a couple of bull's-eyes.

I pulled into the parking lot behind Zydeco a little after eight and climbed out into the already-steaming morning. It had taken me a few minutes to ease into the car, and it took just as long to get out again. I was just straightening my back when I heard rapid footsteps and spotted Zora Rappaport from the Feathered Peacock coming down the driveway toward me. She wore a pair of brilliant blue leggings beneath an oversized tie-dyed shirt and a matching headband holding back her thin blond hair. She waved one hand over her head to get my attention, and called out, “Rita? You got a minute?”

I leaned against the car and waited for her to close the distance. “This is a surprise,” I said. “Your studio doesn't open until later, right?”

Zora looked pleased that I'd paid that much attention. “Doors open at ten on the dot. First class at eleven. I have to pick up a few things from the market before the workday starts. Since I'm here, I thought I'd stop by to see how you're doing. I tried all day yesterday to get over here but one thing and another kept getting in my way.” She took me by the shoulders and looked me over thoroughly. “Unbelievable, that's what it is. Absolutely unbelievable.”

“I'm having a little trouble processing it myself,” I said with a grimace.

“What do the police say? Have they found the driver?”

I shook my head. “They don't know much, I'm afraid. I've been trying to find witnesses who might help identify the driver, but so far nobody has seen anything. Were you there? Did you see the guy who was driving?”

Zora's big open face clouded. She glanced around, spotted the chair Edie had used the previous afternoon, and tugged me toward it. “Come over here. I need to sit a spell.” When she was comfortably situated, she said, “I wasn't there, unfortunately. I mean, not unfortunately in that I didn't get to see you almost hit by that van, but unfortunately because I can't help you. I didn't see anything. I only heard about it yesterday morning. Everybody was talking about it. So you don't know who was driving?”

It seemed to me I'd answered that question already, but Zora has always seemed a little flighty so I wasn't surprised I had to answer it again. I hitched myself onto a couple of boxes stacked in the corner. “I didn't see anything, really. Everything I know I've heard from someone else.”

Zora tsked and wagged her head slowly. “Well, it's just awful. I couldn't believe it when I heard. Scotty said—you know Scotty, don't you? From the Chopper Shop?”

“Destiny's father? Of course. I didn't realize he was there. Maybe I should add him to my list of possible witnesses.”

Frowning slightly, Zora leaned forward to touch my hand. “Maybe you should leave this to the police. After all, if somebody was trying to hit you, looking into it could be dangerous.”

“I'm not convinced that I was the intended target,” I said.

Zora gasped and drew her hand away. “Whatever do you mean?”

“There were two of us standing there. What if somebody was trying to hurt Moose?”

“Moose?” Zora said with a laugh. “Why would anyone want to hurt him?”

“I don't know yet,” I admitted. “And maybe I'm completely wrong about that, but I don't know anyone who would want to hurt me either!”

Zora put one hand on her tie-dyed chest and leaned back in her chair. “Well, for the record, Moose is a wonderful young man who deserves much better than he's got.”

She'd said something similar at the alliance meeting, and after yesterday's encounter with the strung-out Mrs. Hazen, I had to admit, I was curious about their marriage. Again, a little tug of guilt over gossiping almost stopped me, but again I excused it away as my civic duty. If Destiny wanted my vote, then I needed to know more about her before I could decide whether or not to give it to her. “Are you talking about his wife?”

Zora slid a look at me. I could see disapproval in her eyes, but I wasn't sure if it was directed at Destiny or at me. “I don't like speaking ill of people,” she said after a moment. “But that woman is nothing but trouble.”

“Trouble for Moose?”

“Trouble for everyone she comes in contact with.” Zora caught herself, smiled, and changed her tone. “She means well, bless her heart. And I think she does try. But she's made life a living hell for poor Moose. And Scotty . . . well, she's broken his heart more than once. All he wants is to make up for the past, but she . . .” She shook her head sadly. “But I'm not one to talk behind someone's back. You won't catch me telling tales.”

No, of course not. I swallowed a grin and said, “Moose seems to love her.”

“Oh, he does. The poor thing is smitten, though only the good Lord knows what he sees in her.”

Like the cartoon of the devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other, my two sides went to war. Destiny's family issues were none of my business. Aunt Yolanda would have sent me to my room for asking about them. But the woman had stolen my pain pills. I was convinced of it. Didn't I deserve to understand why? Didn't I need to know what kind of person she was so I could decide what to do about it?

I fought the urge to gossip, holding out as long as I could (roughly two seconds), but finally I blurted out, “Someone told me that Destiny was in rehab. Is that true?”

Zora looked surprised, but she nodded and sighed softly and studied her hands in her lap. “It nearly killed Scotty to see his little girl go through that, but she was sinking fast. Drinking and running around and using Lord knows what. He and Moose staged the intervention, you know. They could see the writing on the wall.” She flicked a glance at me and changed the subject. “But that's neither here nor there. I came to see how
you're
doing.”

“Sore and bruised,” I said, masking my disappointment, “but otherwise okay.”

“I'm just as glad as I can be to hear it. I could hardly sleep last night, thinking you might be seriously hurt.”

“Well, now you know. It's nothing to lose sleep over.” I wanted to steer the conversation back to Destiny or the accident, but Zora stood up before I could find a way to do it.

“I made some oatmeal raisin cookies last night. I meant to bring you a plate, but I ran out the door without them. I'm taking some to Scotty so I'll stop by later if you plan to be here.”

I smiled at the offer. “Thanks, but you don't need to do that.”

“I insist,” she said as she headed for the loading dock steps. “Sometimes these things just take a little TLC.”

Was she talking about my scrapes and bruises? Or about Scotty? She certainly seemed interested in him, which I found kind of cute. But I wondered how he'd feel about her discussing his personal family problems with me. On the other hand, I also wondered what it was that he wanted to make up for from the past. And whatever Destiny's daddy issues might be, whether they'd led to her drug abuse. I could almost hear Aunt Yolanda telling me to get my nose out of their business, but I paid no attention. Destiny's relationship with Scotty and the state of her marriage had nothing to do with the Magnolia Square Business Alliance or the upcoming elections, but they might have everything to do with why she'd stolen from me.

I should have known better. Ignoring Aunt Yolanda is never a good idea.

• • •

After Zora left, I tried to focus on making more petunias. Really, I did. I worked slowly, holding the flower nail just so and concentrating on the wrist action as I worked loops with the piping bag. But my conversation with Zora kept nagging at me, and the more I thought about Destiny and the missing prescription, the angrier I got.

I don't have a lot of experience with drug addicts, but I'd had a couple of school friends who'd had drug problems. The one thing I knew for sure was that most addicts think they're smarter than everyone around them. Destiny thought she'd gotten away with taking my pain pills. She probably thought I hadn't even connected her with the theft; or that if I had, I was too afraid or too polite to say anything about it.

Ha! I had news for her!

The angrier I got, the jerkier my movements became until I ended up scraping more lopsided petunias back into the buttercream bowl than I set aside to use on the cake. I swore under my breath and scraped yet another flower off its foil-lined nail. It fell into the bowl with a plop. I tossed the used square of foil into the trash and reached for a fresh piece.

“Maybe you ought to take a break,” Ox said.

I glanced up, surprised to find him standing beside my workstation wearing a worried frown. Ox is one of my closest friends in New Orleans, but we've also hit a few rough patches in the past year. He'd come to Louisiana to help Philippe open Zydeco, so after Philippe died, Ox had expected to take over running the operation. Instead, Miss Frankie had given me the job and made me her partner. Sometimes Ox still tries to show us all that he would have been the better choice, which makes me a little touchy.

“I'm fine,” I said. “Just having a bad day.”

“So maybe you should take a break. Get some fresh air. Cool down for fifteen minutes and come back to it.”

He was right, but I bristled at him telling me what to do. “I can do this,” I snapped. “Just back off.”

“It's not a question of whether or not you can,” Ox said gently. “You're good at what you do, Rita, and everybody knows it. But it's clear to me that you need a break. Nobody here will think less of you if you take a minute and get some air.”

The stubborn twelve-year-old inside, the orphan girl who worried about being good enough, wanted to argue with him, but he was being so nice I warned her to be quiet and answered with my adult side. “Maybe you're right,” I said, stripping off my chef jacket and tossing it onto a stool. “I'll be back in a minute.”

I hit the street five minutes later, with no clear idea where I was going. Or maybe I knew exactly where I was going. I just hadn't acknowledged it to myself. What I definitely didn't know was what a big mistake I was about to make.

Bright lights burned at the Chopper Shop, which seemed odd since the sun was up. I had expected to find Moose working, but in spite of the fact that every light inside the place was on and stadium-type lighting flooded the parking lot, the shop appeared deserted. Even Scotty's lawn chair sat empty in the parking lot with only a trash bag of empty beer cans to show that he'd ever been there at all. I fought down an uneasy feeling and told myself to get a grip, that I was just edgy from the almost-hit-and-run and the possibility that someone might have done it on purpose.

I looked into the three open bays—empty—then stepped into a small, greasy-smelling office. Half a dozen clipboards crammed full of invoices hung from hooks on a wall, and an open package of snack cakes and two half-empty cups of coffee in take-out cups acted as paperweights for another stack of paper. A cell phone lay half-buried under junk mail, and a pair of pale blue stilettos had been kicked off under the desk.

“Hello? Moose? Destiny? Is anyone here?” The echo of my voice bounced back at me, and the only other sound I could hear was the scuff of my own feet on the concrete floor. Strange. I figured that Moose was probably working in the back, and I moved through the office toward a door I assumed led outside. Instead, I found myself in a dim storage warehouse. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear soft music playing. It seemed to be coming from the far side of the space, so I walked slowly past several rows of shelves stacked high with motorcycle parts, a pile of greasy rags, and a gas can. Poking around on my own made me a little uncomfortable, but I was determined to let Destiny know that I was onto her. I might not get my prescription back, but maybe I could convince her not to take advantage of other neighbors in the future.

I followed the music to a small closet. The door was partially open and a sliver of light fell across the floor. The music was louder back here, but I still couldn't see anyone so I called out again. “Destiny? Moose? Is anybody here?”

Not a peep.

Where had everyone gone? I couldn't imagine Moose leaving the store unlocked, doors open, and lights on, but why wasn't anyone here?

I started to turn away, but something stopped me in my tracks. It took a minute for me to realize that I'd caught a whiff of a faint odor. Perfume. Destiny must be around somewhere, but why didn't she answer me?

I took a couple of steps into the closet and spotted a shadow edging out from behind a tall stack of boxes. Three more steps and I realized it was a foot. A bare foot. The bare foot of a woman who lay on her back, unmoving, her face turned to one side, eyes wide open as if she were looking at me. But I knew at once that she couldn't see anything at all. Her vacant stare told me that Destiny Hazen was dead.

I froze in place for what felt like forever while my mind took in details I knew I'd be asked to recount. She was wearing almost the same thing she'd been wearing yesterday—black leather shorts and a pale blue tank top. Her legs were bent at the knee. One hand lay on her stomach, the other stretched away from her body.

Shaking like a leaf, I told myself she might still be alive, but her complexion looked gray and waxy, and when I worked up enough courage to check for a pulse, her skin felt cold to the touch. I pulled out my cell phone and punched in 911, but just before I touched the “send” button, I realized that Destiny was clutching something in the hand on her stomach. An amber-colored vial with a white lid.

I stopped myself from pushing the button and tried to convince myself she wasn't holding a prescription bottle—or at least that it wasn't one of the bottles that had mysteriously disappeared from Zydeco. If she'd stolen drugs from me, she'd probably taken pills from other people. Right? But what if that
was
my bottle in her hand? Had my pills killed her?

My heart raced and my mind stuttered while I tried to figure out what to do. I knew her death wasn't my fault. I didn't even know yet how she'd died, but I battled guilt anyway. I didn't think the empty pill bottle in her hand was a coincidence. Maybe, if I'd been more careful with the prescriptions, she'd still be alive.

Tears welled in my eyes as I dialed 911 again and this time I pressed the green “send” button. I wanted to call Sullivan. If ever I needed his six feet of Southern charm, I needed it now. But he was out in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico, fishing.

The dispatcher asked me to wait outside, a request I complied with happily. I called Ox to let him know that I'd be delayed and sat in Scotty's chair to wait for the police. A cruiser arrived about twenty minutes later and two uniformed officers took my initial statement. They took down my contact information and asked me to stick around while they went inside. I was tired, achy, and sad, and I just wanted to get back to Zydeco. But I settled down in Scotty's chair again. Destiny and I hadn't been friends, but I hated thinking of her last moments on earth. Had she taken an overdose on purpose, or had she accidentally taken too many pills? Maybe she'd unknowingly swallowed a lethal combination. I felt bad about sending her away yesterday, and I kept hearing her telling me that I wasn't a nice person after all.

A long time later, a dark-colored Crown Vic pulled up to the curb and a heavyset man climbed out. He had a prominent nose and a ring of black hair circling his massive head. He wore a sloppy tan suit, a wrinkled white shirt, and scuffed brown shoes. Columbo for the new millennium.

He stood on the sidewalk, taking stock of the scene and hitching up his ill-fitting pants every few minutes. I'm just going to say that the man was no Sullivan. Not even close.

After a quick briefing from the uniforms, he disappeared into the building. He reemerged a while later and talked to Moose, who apparently had arrived at some point. The poor man looked shocked. Drained. As if losing his wife had sapped the life out of him.

When the Columbo clone finished with Moose, he lumbered across the parking lot to me. “Miss Lucero? Detective Aaron Winslow, Narcotics Division. Could I have a word?”

I nodded and shook his hand. He took a long hard look at the bruises on my cheek and jaw. “Looks like you got on the wrong side of somebody,” he said. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Fine.”

“You want to tell me about how it happened?”

Now? With a dead woman lying just a few feet away? I shrugged. “Somebody in a van tried to take me out Monday night. I was outside talking to Moose, the guy who owns this shop, and he pushed me out of the way. Moose saved my life, but I got a little banged up in the process. How is he taking the news about his wife?”

Detective Winslow gave me a sharp look. “Rough.” He hooked his thumbs in his waistband, nudging his pants a couple inches down in the process. “Is there any special reason you ask?”

“About Moose? His wife just died. I just wondered how he's holding up.”

“He'll be fine. Is that why you're here this morning? To see him?”

I shook my head. “I came to talk to Destiny.”

Winslow glanced up from his notes. “Again, I wonder—was there some special reason you wanted to see her?”

I hesitated to admit the truth, but Destiny was dead. There was no reason to protect her reputation now. “She was at my bakery yesterday. After she left, I realized that my pain pills and my antibiotics were missing. She's the only one who could have taken them. I just wanted her to know that I knew what she'd done.”

“I see. So what happened then? The two of you have an argument?”

“No! She was dead when I got here. I called 911 and came outside to wait.”

Winslow arched an eyebrow. “That's all?”

“That's all.”

“What were you doing inside the building?”

“Looking for Destiny, or Moose—or anybody, really. I heard music coming from the storage room and that's how I found her.”

His eyebrow arched another fraction of an inch. “So Mr. Hazen saved your life night before last while the two of you just happened to be having a private conversation. Late at night. His wife came to see you yesterday and left with a couple of bottles of your pills. You came here this morning to see her and now she's dead. Do I have that right?”

I blinked a couple of times and shook my head. “No. I mean, yes. But
no
! It wasn't like that at all.”

“Mr. Hazen didn't save your life?”

“Yes. I just told you he did.”

“But you didn't come here to talk to him alone. Before the shop opened.”

“No. And the shop
was
open when I got here. And I told you, I didn't come to see him. I wanted to talk to Destiny.”

“I see,” Winslow said with a smirk that told me he didn't believe a word I'd said. Maybe honesty wasn't such a great policy after all. “Did Mrs. Hazen happen to tell you about a conversation she had with me Monday evening?”

I started to shake my head, then remembered someone at the meeting saying that Destiny had been talking to a police officer. “She didn't say anything to me,” I said, trying to recall just what she had said. “But she told everyone at the meeting that she might not have to go to court if she played her cards right.”

His gaze locked on mine. He didn't look happy. “Did she now?”

“Yes, but that's all she said.” And then I remembered what she'd said to me at Zydeco and added, “Except she did tell me yesterday that she had something in the works that would make a few people sorry, but I have no idea what she meant by that.”

“She didn't tell you that the district attorney offered her a lesser charge if she'd give us the name of her dealer?”

That was big. I got an uneasy feeling as I remembered the two half-empty coffee cups on the desk. “Do you think she told her dealer about the offer?”

“That's what I'd like to know.” He stared at me without blinking for so long I started getting nervous.

“I don't know what she told anyone else,” I said. “I can only tell you what she said to me.”

“Mmm-hmmm. Tell me, how long have you and Mr. Hazen been seeing each other?”

“What?”

“You and Moose,” he said with a nod at the big man across the parking lot.

My head began to buzz and my heart thumped around in my chest. “We are not, and never have been, an item. We're barely even friendly. We just happen to be members of the same business alliance and were at the same meeting on Monday night.”

Winslow's eyebrows beetled up onto his forehead again. “Oh? And where was that?”

I nodded toward Second Chances. “At the thrift shop next door. We left the meeting at the same time. While we were talking, the van came around the corner and he shoved me out of the way.”

Winslow pulled a notebook from his wrinkled shirt pocket and made a note. “So tell me about what happened here this morning. What time did you get here?”

I wasn't sure he believed me, but at least he'd moved to a different line of questioning. “About an hour ago. You can check the time of the 911 call. I was here for maybe ten minutes before I placed the call.”

“Mrs. Hazen was holding a prescription bottle when she died,” Winslow said. “Any idea whose prescription it was?”

I laughed nervously. “I already told you that she came by Zydeco yesterday and that my prescriptions disappeared from my office. I have to assume the bottle was one of mine?”

He gave me a thin-lipped smile that practically screamed,
Liar!
“How many pills were in the bottle the last time you saw it?”

I had to think about that. I hadn't really paid attention. “I don't know. Twenty? Thirty? I just had it filled that morning. I hadn't taken any of them, so whatever the prescription called for, that's how many there were. How many are there now?”

“The bottle in her hand—one of yours—is empty. And you say you know nothing about that?”

“Of course not. I told you, she was dead when I found her and I didn't touch anything except her wrist to check for a pulse. I thought maybe I could help her.” His questions and his attitude were making me nervous. “Can I leave now? I need to get back to work.”

His eyebrows jumped again. “Oh, I'm sorry. Is my little investigation inconveniencing you?” He slipped the notebook into his pocket and took a step backward. “By all means, Ms. Lucero. You're free to go . . . for now.”

Winslow's sarcasm made me nervous, but I didn't let that slow me down. I turned around and walked away just as fast as I could.

• • •

The neighborhood was buzzing as I hurried away from the Chopper Shop. I'd been gone for at least an hour, and in that time people had arrived for work, noticed the unusual activity, and gathered on the corner to watch. I had to pass them, but I kept my head down and tried to avoid making eye contact with anyone. Finding Destiny and then talking to Detective Winslow had rattled me. I wasn't in the mood to talk about what had happened.