Arsenic and Old Cake

236 Pages·2012·1.32 MB·English

by  Brady Jacklyn

PRAISE FOR
Cake on a Hot Tin Roof
“A fast-paced delightful amateur-sleuth tale starring a feisty independent pastry
chef . . . Cake on a Hot Tin Roof is an interesting whodunit.”
The Mystery Gazette
“The setting and atmosphere in Cake on a Hot Tin Roof are very appealing . . .
Rita is a very appealing character with loads of energy and a lot to deal with . . .
All done with aplomb.”
—The Mystery Reader
A Sheetcake Named Desire
“A tasty treat for mystery lovers, combining all the right ingredients in a
perfectly prepared story that’s sure to satisfy.”
—B. B. Haywood, national bestselling author of Town in a Wild Moose Chase
“A decadent new series with a Big Easy attitude.”
—Paige Shelton, national bestselling author of A Killer Maize
“A mouthwatering new series! Brady’s writing is smooth as fondant, rich as
buttercream—the pastry shop’s delectable confections are just icing on the cake
for the appealing characters and intriguing mystery.”
—Sheila Connolly, national bestselling author of Sour Apples
“Jacklyn Brady whips up a delectable mystery layered with great characters and
sprinkled with clever plot twists.”
—Hannah Reed, author of the Queen Bee Mysteries
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Jacklyn Brady
A SHEETCAKE NAMED DESIRE
CAKE ON A HOT TIN ROOF
ARSENIC AND OLD CAKE
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
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ARSENIC AND OLD CAKE
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / November 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Cover illustration by Chris Lyons.
Cover design by Diana Kolsky.
Interior text design by Laura K. Corless.
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ISBN: 978-1-101-61207-1
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One
“Try to be reasonable, Rita. We can’t keep everyone working full-time right
now.” Edie Bryce, office manager at Zydeco Cakes, pushed an ominous-looking
stack of documents across the desk toward me. We were sitting in my office, a
spacious room on the first floor of the renovated antebellum mansion near New
Orleans’ Garden District that houses the bakery. A pleasant May breeze blew
through the open windows, a treat I allow myself when the New Orleans
humidity drops below stifling on my personal weather scale.
Edie’s almond-shaped eyes, inherited from her Chinese grandmother, were
narrowed to mere slits in her round face, and she nudged the pile of papers
closer, daring me to disagree with her. “Business is slower than ever,” she
warned, “and especially now that we lost the Alexander-Mott wedding, we’re
going to have to find a way to tighten the belt.”
The sudden cancellation of the large upscale wedding that had been scheduled
for the following week had dealt us a blow; even I couldn’t deny that. We would
retain a modest deposit, but it would barely cover the cost of materials and labor
we’d put in so far. The profit I’d been counting on had evaporated. Not that I
wished the couple any ill will, but I was grateful they’d canceled because they
were splitting up, not because they’d changed their minds about hiring Zydeco to
make their cakes.
And that’s what I tried explaining to Edie. “I know this isn’t an ideal situation
—”
That’s as far as I got before she cut me off. “Ideal?” She laughed and tapped a
finger on one of the pages in front of me. “It’s not even in the same time zone as
ideal. It’s all right there in black and white,” she said. “I’m worried, Rita. And
you should be, too. If we had enough business to keep everyone busy, I wouldn’t
even suggest a payroll cut. You know how much I care about everyone here.”
And then she sat back in her chair, arms folded, waiting for my reaction.
My name is Rita Lucero. I’m a trained pastry chef and cake artist, half owner
(along with Miss Frankie Renier, my former mother-in-law) of Zydeco Cakes,
home of the finest specialty cakes in New Orleans. Since taking over the day-to-
day operations last year, I’d been trying to maintain Zydeco’s reputation and
make up for the dip in sales we’d experienced when Philippe, Miss Frankie’s son
(who happened to be my almost-ex-husband), died. Not only did I have to show
the cake-buying public that the quality of Zydeco’s cakes wouldn’t suffer on my
watch, but I also had to convince his wildly creative and emotional staff to trust
me. And even though I’d already known about half of them from pastry school,
Philippe had won custody of their friendships when we separated, and the
transition hadn’t been seamless.
Edie and I hadn’t exactly been friends in pastry school, but we’d grown closer
since Philippe died. I’d known her long enough not to underestimate her when
she was in a mood. And she was definitely in a mood today. Her dark eyes
glittered, and every few seconds she tucked a lock of sleek brown hair behind
her ear—an unmistakable sign of agitation.
I tried not to look worried, but it wasn’t easy. Though we’d had a few ups and
downs, the staff had quickly become like family to me. I hated the idea of
cutting hours and creating financial hardship for any of them. Even more
frightening was the idea of losing one of them entirely. Business at Zydeco had
taken a hit last year, and while it had started climbing slowly again a few months
ago, the tanking economy had caused people to cut back on luxury items. The
extreme cakes that we’re known for at Zydeco were apparently one of the first
things to go. We had done well during Mardi Gras season and still had a modest
stream of wedding clients, but orders for other occasions like baby showers and
birthday parties had dropped dramatically in the past few months. Every bakery
of our caliber had been hit, but I worried that one of our rivals might actually be
able to pay my staff what they were worth.
I looked over the bank statement Edie had placed on top of the stack and
moved quickly on to the bakery’s balance sheet. Our bottom line might seem
impressive to an outsider, but it costs a small fortune to fund Zydeco’s day-to-
day operations. We had enough money in the bank to stay afloat for the next
month or two, but if business didn’t pick up soon, we’d be in trouble.
In spite of the evidence and Edie’s warning, I refused to believe that cutting
staff work hours was inevitable. I still hoped we could find a way to keep
everyone working full-time and meet our expenses. “I think we should wait a bit
longer. Things are tight, but we’re not at the do-or-die stage yet.”
Edie pursed her porcelain-doll mouth in disapproval. “Close enough for me,”
she said and pushed a color-coded calendar toward me. “That’s what we have on
schedule for the next two weeks. There’s not enough work there to keep
everyone busy, and we can’t afford to pay people to sit around and shoot the
breeze just because we like them.”
The calendar was emptier than I’d realized. This was my first May wedding
season at Zydeco, but even I could see that we didn’t have the numbers we
needed to call it a success. My spirits drooped, and for one brief moment I
considered staging a reconciliation between the Alexander-Mott couple to patch
up their failed relationship. The cake they’d ordered before Jamal found Celia in
his best friend’s bed would have kept the entire staff busy for two weeks, and the
hefty price tag would have given our balance sheet a shot in the arm.
As if she’d materialized on my shoulder, I heard my aunt Yolanda whisper,
“Careful, mija. The love of money is the root of all evil.”
My aunt and uncle had raised me after my parents died when I was twelve. In
the years since I went to live with her, Aunt Yolanda’s deep faith had
underscored more life lessons than I could count, but I would have argued with
her on this one. I didn’t want the money for myself. I just wanted to provide for
those who depended on me.
“I know we can’t pay the staff if there’s no work,” I said, grudgingly shaking
off the urge to play Cupid. “But I’m sure things will pick up soon. They have
to.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” Edie’s voice was filled with skepticism. “Look, Rita, I’m not
saying you need to lay somebody off. I’m just suggesting that we trim a few
hours from everyone’s schedule for a while, including mine. We’ll make a push
to find some new clients and maybe hit the wedding-show circuit a little harder
in the fall. If we can weather through this now, hopefully we’ll be back to
normal next year.”
“Why wait until fall?” I asked. “How many wedding shows are scheduled in
this area over the next few months?”
Edie shook her head and crossed her legs. “None. Most of the shows are in the
fall and winter.”
“Maybe we could branch out and expand our radius,” I suggested. “There
might be something scheduled in other states.”
“Even if there were, we’d just spend money we don’t have on travel and
lodging,” Edie pointed out. “We’re in a bad spot, Rita. We didn’t get the
wedding orders we needed from last year’s shows, and we’re paying for it now.”
I looked at the schedule again, then sighed and propped my chin in my hand.
“We might have to cut hours,” I conceded reluctantly. “But you know I can’t
make a decision like that without talking it over with Miss Frankie.”
Miss Frankie and I have a good working relationship and a surprisingly close
personal one, especially considering that, had things turned out differently last
year, Philippe would have signed the divorce papers and our marriage would
have been over. I’d have gone back to my low-grade sous chef job at Uncle
Nestor’s restaurant in New Mexico, and Miss Frankie and I might never have