The Cakes of Monte Cristo (7 page)

Gabriel slid a coaster onto the bar in front of me and leaned in so close I could feel his breath on my cheek. “You're here late. Long day,
chérie
?”

His voice worked on me like a shot of aged whiskey, warming me from the inside out. I hooked my bag over my knee and swung my legs under the bar's overhang. “That's putting it mildly. Is anybody else still around?”

He slid a glance over the crowd. “One or two people. Were you hoping to get me alone so you could have your way with me?”

We hadn't gotten that far yet, but we liked to flirt about it. I grinned and shook my head. “Another time. You know who I meant. Anyone from Zydeco still around?”

“Dwight was the last man standing and he left about half an hour ago. Something wrong?”

“No, not really. It's just been a weird day. How about making me one of your world famous margaritas? But you'd better make it light,” I warned as he turned away. “I'm driving.”

He pushed a bowl of peanuts in front of me and went to work blending what is probably the world's finest drink. He is a true master at his craft and his salt-to-rim ratio is absolutely perfect.

I munched happily and glanced around at the other occupants of the bar, most of whom looked familiar even if I didn't know their names. Another couple of years and I might even feel as if I belonged in this neighborhood.

Gabriel was back in a few minutes with my drink, as well as a plate of shrimp and grits. He put both in front of me, followed up with silverware and a napkin, and grinned at the confusion on my face. “I know, I know, you didn't ask for it. But I also know you pretty well. I'm betting you haven't eaten since breakfast.”

“Ha!” I said, reaching for the spoon. “I had lunch. Shows what you know.”

Gabriel shrugged. “You want me to take it away?”

I wrapped my arm around the plate. “Touch it and die.”

The shrimp was perfectly cooked and well seasoned. The grits were prepared just the way I like them, and creamed with Asiago cheese. The sweetness of the shrimp mingled perfectly with the tang of the cheese. I'm not sure, but I think I may have moaned aloud as I ate.

Gabriel watched me for a few minutes while he worked, a grin playing with the edges of his mouth. When he came back to me, he said, “You want to tell me about your day? Or are you going to keep your mouth too full to talk?”

I shrugged and put down the spoon. “There's not much to tell really. Estelle's niece started working at Zydeco today.”

“Yeah. I heard. Estelle seemed happy.”

“I guess she is,” I agreed. “But the thing is, Zoey caused a bit of an accident. Put a hole in the wall. Ripped up a couple of stairs . . .”

“Some accident. You thinking about firing the girl or something?”

I shook my head. “Of course not. It was an unfortunate mishap, that's all.” I argued with myself about mentioning the necklace, but decided Gabriel was worth the risk. I glanced around to make sure nobody was paying attention to us and asked, “Have you ever heard of something called the Toussaint necklace?”

One eyebrow shot up beneath that lazy lock of hair. “I've heard of it. Why?”

So it
was
a known thing. Huh. Well, at least he hadn't run away screaming. I was encouraged by that. “What do you know about it?”

Gabriel shrugged. “Not much. Just that it has some kind of mysterious history and that it's been missing for a long time.”

“That's it? You don't know anything else?”

He gave me an odd, searching look. “I've heard things.”

“What have you heard?”

“This and that. Why the sudden interest?”

If I didn't know better, I'd swear he was trying to avoid answering. “I'm trying to find out if the rumors I've heard are true,” I said.

“What rumors would those be?”

I gave an airy wave of my hand. “Nothing major. Just something about a curse.” I locked eyes with him and said, “You don't know anything about
that
, do you?”

He gave another shrug, probably trying to look casual, but he kept his eyes locked on mine and didn't even blink. “About a curse? I might have heard a thing or two.”

“Well, then, would you mind telling me?” I was over the
game playing. “I think I may have actually found the thing, and if I really do have it, I'd like to know what the story is.”

Gabriel broke eye contact and swiped at the bar with a rag. “If you really do have it, you might want to get rid of it. It's supposed to be bad news.”

I wanted to hear his take on the story, so I pretended ignorance. “In what way?” When he didn't answer me immediately, I gave up on the innocent act and said, “Come on, Gabriel. I just showed the necklace to Miss Frankie and she wigged out on me. I think I deserve to know why, don't you?”

His shoulders twitched. “You showed it to Miss Frankie and she had that kind of reaction? Where is it now?”

“Someplace safe.” To make sure, I checked the strap on my knee.

Gabriel glanced at the people sitting closest to us and lowered his voice. “You have it
here
?”

“What if I do? Does that make you nervous?”

He didn't answer right away. He just strode away, talked to the other bartender for a moment, and then came out from behind the bar. He took me by the arm and tugged me from my stool. “Come on. We're going outside.”

In spite of my attraction to Gabriel, I have an aversion to being manhandled. I pulled my arm away and hitched my bag onto my shoulder. “Gee, Gabriel, you sure know how to sweet-talk a lady.”

“Yeah, well, good thing I'm not trying to sweet-talk anybody right now.” He strode purposefully toward the door and I followed, too curious to argue. A dozen questions danced on my tongue but I held them all in. Gabriel's reaction was as out of character for him as Miss Frankie's had been. I honestly didn't know if that made me nervous or curious. Maybe both. I did know that I was a whole lot more determined to find out what the deal was with the necklace in my bag. I just hoped somebody would be willing to start talking.

Gabriel didn't speak again until we were standing outside in front of the Dizzy Duke and he'd satisfied himself that nobody was within hearing distance. Then he held out one hand and waggled his fingers impatiently. “Let's see this thing.”

“Here?” I laughed and shook my head. “I don't think so. You can come by my place later if you want. I'll show it to you there. What's the big deal anyway? Don't tell me you believe in the curse of the necklace.”

Gabriel's expression tightened at my mocking tone. “I don't believe or disbelieve,” he said, “but I have a healthy respect for things like that. You should, too.”

I folded my arms across my chest and lifted my chin defiantly. “It would be a whole lot easier to respect the stupid curse if somebody would tell me what it's all about.”

Gabriel let out a breath heavy with impatience and swept the lock of hair from his forehead. It fell back immediately, but he didn't seem to notice. “I don't know that there's an actual curse, but people who have had that necklace in their possession have a bad habit of dying.”

My mouth fell open. “Seriously? Like the Hope Diamond or something?”

“Something like that.”

“I've been carrying it around all day and I'm still here.”

“For now.”

The concern in Gabriel's expression was touching, but unwarranted. “How did the necklace get a curse on it?”

Gabriel glanced over his shoulder once more and led the way to a bench on the curb. “My grandmother used to talk about it,” he said when we'd settled in. “I don't know if I can remember the whole story, but what I do remember is that a guy named Armand Toussaint had the necklace made for his mistress back in the day.”

I interrupted to ask, “What ‘day' would that have been?”

“Right around the end of the War Between the States, I
think—what you Yankees like to call the Civil War. Anyway, I guess he promised the necklace to her, then changed his mind and gave it to his wife instead. The mistress was furious.”

“Understandably so,” I said. “Not that I condone the whole mistress thing, but still, that's a pretty lousy thing to do. A promise is a promise.”

“That's what she thought, too, apparently, since I'm told she put a curse on the necklace and within a week both Toussaint and his wife were mysteriously dead.”

“No joke? Okay, so that's a bit freaky,” I admitted. “So after that people believed in the curse?”

“I'm not sure it was right away,” Gabriel said. “According to Grandmère, people didn't really start believing the whole curse thing until a few years later, when Toussaint's nephew inherited the estate and gave the necklace to his bride—who died within a year, shortly after giving birth to their only child.”

Even I had to admit that was oddly coincidental. “Is that when the necklace disappeared?”

Gabriel shook his head. “That happened years later, when Toussaint's nephew gave the necklace to his daughter on her wedding day.”

I shifted uncomfortably on the cold bench. “Don't tell me she died, too.”

“Six months later.”

“But c'mon,” I argued. “That was a long time ago, when people died from all kinds of things. Medicine wasn't like it is now. They could have contracted some disease making the rounds or . . . whatever.”

“Could have,” Gabriel agreed. “I don't think we'll ever know for sure. But after the daughter died, the necklace disappeared and nobody has seen it since. Until now.”

“Maybe,” I reminded him. “I don't know for sure that's the same necklace I found. It could be something else.”

Gabriel nodded absently for a moment, staring at something—or nothing—in the shadows. “So what are you going to do about it?”

I thought about Miss Frankie's frightened reaction to the necklace and her insistence that I get rid of it. But I think we both knew I couldn't do that. “I guess the first thing to do is find out if it is actually the Toussaint necklace. Simone gave me the name of an appraiser earlier. I'll take it to her tomorrow.”

“And if it is the Toussaint necklace?”

“I don't know,” I admitted. “I guess I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. But really, Gabriel, how bad can it be?”

“Just make sure you watch out for yourself,
chérie
.” He pulled me into his arms and kissed me thoroughly enough to curl my toes and straighten my hair. I melted and kissed him back. And I told myself that maybe this curse wasn't such a bad thing after all.

But of course, I was wrong.

I spent the next day at work catching up on everything I'd let get behind. I made edible beads in the morning, rolling gumpaste into strings that would fit into silicone molds, pressing to make sure I got rid of any air bubbles, then scraping away the excess to avoid creating rough edges. Once I had each string perfectly in place, I unmolded the beads and started all over again.

It was mindless work, really, which gave me plenty of time to think. My mind kept ping-ponging between Miss Frankie's reaction to the necklace and Gabriel's story (plus that kiss, of course). I thought about Armand Toussaint, his wife and mistress, and his poor nephew's wife and daughter.

The story of the Toussaint necklace was intriguing, but I still wasn't convinced that the necklace in my purse was the genuine article. I'd made up my mind to take Simone's advice and get it appraised. The Vintage Vault seemed like a reasonable choice if, as Simone claimed, Orra Trussell
was knowledgeable about old jewelry. According to the Vault's website, it was open until seven. I planned to slip away after work and get an expert opinion.

Thinking about the necklace, Miss Frankie, and Gabriel was distracting, though. When I unmolded three flawed sets of beads in a row, I tried to put the whole thing about of my mind and concentrate on the job I was being paid to do. That worked for a few minutes until the worried look on Gabriel's face would flash through my head and the whole thing started all over again.

Eventually, I made all the beads I thought we'd need for the evening gown cake (and a few extras for the inevitable mishaps), then dusted them with pearl dust and moved the strings into storage containers to be kept cool and dry until we were ready to apply them to the cake.

With the bead situation under control, I moved into my office to sort through the accumulation of mail that Zoey had put on my desk. I was pleased to see that she'd caught on to the phone system and was adept at taking messages. When Edie took notes during a call from a prospective client, she gathered all the information I might ever need to know plus a little bit more. Zoey's notes were sparser, but the crucial information was there.

She seemed to have recovered from the accident on the stairs the day before, and had even attempted to help with the repairs by researching contractors who specialized in restoring historical properties. I found a file full of information printed from the Internet piled up with the mail on my desk.

Even with so much to do, the hours seemed to crawl by. At last, though, the workday was over and the staff started making noises about meeting at the Dizzy Duke. I begged off, pleading a headache, and waited until I was alone to pull up the GPS directions to Orra Trussell's shop on my phone.

Vintage Vault turned out to be a smallish shop in the middle
of a block crowded with numerous mom-and-pop stores. The street in front of the Vintage Vault was blocked by a couple of Dumpsters catching debris from the renovation of a record store two doors down, so I parked three blocks away and walked back to the shop.

That early evening's warm winter sunlight cast dappled shadows on the uneven sidewalks and jazz blared from a stereo somewhere out of sight. Walking around New Orleans isn't always enjoyable for me, mostly because of the heat and humidity—my desert-loving lungs hadn't completely adjusted to living at sea level, and I still felt waterlogged when the humidity rose to fifty percent—but the winter months in Louisiana are my favorites. Cool temperatures and a low level of mugginess made winter feel more like the springs I remembered from childhood.

I wondered what I would do if Orra actually identified the necklace in my bag as the cursed Toussaint necklace. Would I heed Miss Frankie and Gabriel's advice and get rid of it? Or would I take a risk and try to sell it? I didn't think I'd keep it. It was beautiful, but not really my style.

Did I believe in curses? I didn't think so. Aunt Yolanda had raised me on the fear of God, but she had also warned me to keep my distance from anything of the woo-woo variety. She had a strong belief in the divine, but she also believed in hell and everything that went with it. I believed that evil existed, but curses? The jury was still out.

Inside the shop I found a plump woman of around sixty behind a glass counter containing several old-looking pieces of jewelry and some beaded evening bags. A half-buried sign on the counter told me that the Vintage Vault had been in business since 1980, which I found impressive. Who knew a person could make a living for so long selling other people's castoffs?

The rest of the store was cluttered with racks of clothing
and displays of shoes and accessories, but I didn't see any other customers, which was fine with me. I wanted Orra's thoughts on the necklace, but after talking to Miss Frankie and Gabriel, I was ready to err on the side of caution. If I was lugging a possibly valuable and potentially cursed piece of jewelry around New Orleans, I didn't want anyone else to know I had it. Too many people had seen it already.

The woman behind the counter had blunt-cut salt-and-pepper hair and wide pale eyes. She sent me a beaming smile, which plumped up her cheeks and made her look like a garden gnome. “Good evening. How can I be of help?”

“I'm looking for Orra Trussell,” I said. “Is she in?”

She bounced up onto the balls of her feet and thrust a hand toward me. “I'm Orra,” she said. “And you are?”

“Rita Lucero.” I gave her hand a quick shake, surprised by the strength of her grip. “I'm with Zydeco Cakes.”

“Rita Lucero. Now why does your name seem familiar? Have you been in to see us before?”

I shook my head. “No, but my bakery is catering the Belle Lune Ball for the Vintage Clothing Society in a couple of weeks. Maybe you've heard of me that way.”

“Yes, yes. Of course. I've seen your name on some of the updates I've received.” She bustled out from behind the counter. “What can I help you with, Rita? A costume for the ball maybe?”

“No, thanks.” I glanced around the shop to make sure we really were alone and drew the wooden box from my bag. “Simone O'Neil suggested that I talk to you. I came across a necklace recently, and she thought you might be able to tell me if the stones are genuine.” I didn't mention the curse or give her the Toussaint name. I didn't want to put ideas in her head.

Even so, I saw a jolt of recognition in Orra's expression when she saw the wooden inlay on the box, and heard the
sharp intake of her breath when I lifted the lid. Her gaze shot to my face as she demanded, “Where did you get that?”

Weird reaction number three. My heart began to beat a little faster. “Do you know what it is?”

Orra put one hand on her chest and met my gaze. “It looks a great deal like a necklace that's been missing for a century and a half. Where
did
you find it?”

“Hidden inside a staircase,” I said without elaborating. I asked the same question I'd asked Miss Frankie. “If it's been missing for so long, how do you recognize it?”

“The portrait, of course.” Orra's answer came out a bit sharp. She blushed and smiled apologetically. “You couldn't know, of course, but I've seen the portrait of Beatriz Toussaint, the original owner of the necklace, wearing it. And you say you found it inside a staircase?” At my nod, she let out a breath and returned her attention to the necklace. “I suppose it would have had to be something like that,” she mused. “It disappeared so completely, you know.”

“That's the trouble,” I said. “I don't know. Obviously you're familiar with it. Is this genuine?”

Orra lifted the necklace from the box for a better look. The gems caught the light and glowed deep red. “I can't tell just by looking at it, but I'd be happy to examine it for you. It would take some time, though.”

A noise from the back of the shop caught Orra's attention and a young woman came into the showroom carrying an armful of clothing. She was tall and thin with a head of unruly dark hair and so much jewelry on her neck and wrists she jingled when she walked. “I finished sorting the clothes from the Yarborough estate sale,” she said as she burst into the room. “There are some valuable pieces, I think, but we'll have to have everything cleaned. The whole collection reeks of moth—” She broke off when she noticed me and gave an embarrassed laugh. “Sorry. I didn't realize we had a customer.”

“That's quite all right,” Orra told her. “Although perhaps next time you could be sure I'm alone first. My assistant, Dominique Kincaid,” she explained with an apologetic smile, and immediately returned to the necklace. “I would say that if this is a reproduction, it's quite a good one.” She touched a couple of the stones almost reverently. “But I'll need you to leave it with me for a few days. You're prepared to do that, I assume?”

A frisson of something unpleasant raced up my spine. “Leave it? I don't know if I can do that, but I'd be glad to bring it back when you have more time.”

Orra's pale eyes clouded. “Well, of course, if that's what you want. It's just that it's very hard to know when I'll actually have time to look at the piece. It would be much better if you could leave it with me. I'll get to it when I can and let you know when I'm finished.”

I wondered if she knew how much the necklace would be worth if it was genuine, and decided she must. “I understand, but I really don't feel comfortable leaving it.” From the corner of my eye I noticed Dominique inching closer to where we stood. “The necklace is not actually mine. I'm just making inquiries for the owner.” The facts that the actual owner wanted nothing to do with the necklace and hadn't asked me to pursue anything were mere technicalities.

A deep frown furrowed Orra's forehead. “The ownership of that necklace—
if
it's genuine—has been in dispute for some time. I don't know that anyone can rightfully claim ownership without some legal wrangling.”

I couldn't hide my confusion. “Are you saying it was stolen?”

Orra shook her head. “Not stolen exactly. You know the story of the piece?”

“A bit of it,” I admitted. “I've been told that it might be the Toussaint necklace, but that's about all I know.”

At the mention of the Toussaint name, Dominique looked quickly from Orra to me. “Is it?”

“It could be,” Orra said. “If so, you have to know that there will be a great deal of interest in it once word gets out—and not only because it's worth serious money. The stones alone are extremely valuable. Rare value, exquisitely cut. But it's the story behind the necklace that really adds to the value.”

“I've only heard a little about the family,” I said. I'd heard Gabriel's version of the story, but I wanted Orra's. “Can you tell me what the story is?”

Orra smiled and looked pleased at my request. “The piece was commissioned by a man named Armand Toussaint near the end of the Civil War. Even then it was worth a small fortune.”

“Who was Armand Toussaint?” I asked. “Someone famous?”

“I wouldn't use that word, but he was wealthy and powerful. The Toussaint family settled here in the middle of the seventeenth century and at one time owned land all along the Mississippi River. Armand married Beatriz de la Hera, whose father was from Spain and probably the only man in the area with more money than Henri Toussaint.”

“Henri was Armand's father?”

Orra nodded. “They were fabulously wealthy before the war, but like so many people, the conflict wiped out a great deal of their fortune. Armand still had some money, though—obviously.”

“Enough to buy a necklace like this for his wife,” I said disingenuously.

“Oh, it wasn't for his wife, dear.” Orra's mouth pinched in disapproval. “You must understand the way things were back then. It wasn't unusual for a wealthy white man to . . . dally with a woman of mixed race.”

That was a twist Gabriel hadn't previously mentioned. “Are you saying that his mistress was a slave?”

Orra shook her head. “Not a slave. Society had various systems in place back then.
Plaçage
existed to connect white men and free women of color. The men provided generously for the women and they . . . well, I'm sure you can figure out the rest.”

“Without any trouble at all,” I assured her.

Dominique had stopped near a crowded display of shoes and began tidying as if she was concentrating on work. I suspected she was listening to our conversation very carefully.

“Most wives knew what was going on,” Orra said. “They weren't stupid, and the men made no particular effort to hide what they were doing. But well-bred women were expected not to acknowledge their husbands' activities.”

I thanked my lucky stars that I hadn't been born back then. I'm not sure I could have conformed to the expectations. “So Armand had a mistress and Beatriz turned a blind eye to his philandering?”

“So the story goes.” Orra leaned against the counter, warming to her subject. “Armand commissioned the necklace in question for his mistress, Delphine Mercier, and rumor has it that when Beatriz found out, she raised holy hell. She had plenty of jewels in her own collection, of course, but nothing as fine as that necklace. I guess she didn't mind Armand sleeping with Delphine, but she drew the line at her getting better gifts than those he gave his wife.”