Bananas Foster and a Dead Mobster Page 11

  "Mom is going to give herself a stroke," Mark says. He pauses and lets out a sigh. "I don't know what else to tell her."

  "So, the wedding is off then?"

  "Yeah. Lauren and I called off the wedding. I tried to explain to Mom that it was an amicable split, but she just wouldn't listen to me."

  "I know what you mean," I respond. "I don't know how many times I told her that Locke and I were through. But last year at the holiday party, who did she invite?"

  "I knew I didn't like that guy."

  "You met him once," I comment.

  "Yeah, once was enough," he jokes. "Grandma Liz would've hated him as a grandson-in-law anyway."

  I smile, glancing at the unzipped suitcase in my bedroom. Clothes are spilling out of the sides because I've been too busy or too tired to put them all away. A fan is running next to my bed, keeping me cool. A memento of my trip to Paris sits on my nightstand—a framed napkin from Le Croissant bearing the bakery's logo. Unused, of course. Though one of the kitchen staff, Dandre, thought it was strange when I grabbed one as a keepsake on my last day.

  "Grandma Liz would've scared him off," I point out. "I wouldn't have had to deal with him in the first place." Mark chuckles. "On the other hand, I think she would've liked Lauren."

  "I never meant for the two of us to…" He takes a deep breath. "I never meant for things between us to go the way that they did. It just happened."

  "Want to talk about it?"

  "I don't want to bore you with my relationship problems," Mark answers. "I pay a therapist for that."

  "Sometimes it's good to get an outside opinion from someone you barely know," I tease.

  "Okay, point taken." Mark chuckles again. "I should have called you, but I knew Mom would."

  "What happened?" I ask, leaning back against my pillow.

  "Do you want the long version or the short one?"

  "Long," I reply. "Definitely the long one."

  "Okay, let me sit down." He pauses for a moment, and I swear I hear the sound of his fridge door slamming shut. "I know you're going to laugh at me."

  "You don't know that." I cover my mouth because pointing out that I might laugh makes me want to laugh at him. Even back in grade school when he fell and ripped his pants while trying to scale the neighbor's fence, I laughed. His knee was cut up pretty bad, but still, I laughed.

  "Just do me a courtesy and cover the bottom of your phone so I can't hear it," he instructs me. "When you get going, you do this really annoying high-pitched squeal."

  "I do not."

  "It all started with lasagna." Mark ignores my comment and moves on with the story. "I asked Lauren to mince some garlic so I could cook up the meat, and she didn't know how."

  "So you dumped her?" I laugh, but not as excessively as Mark is expecting.

  "She didn't know that you're supposed to crush the clove first, and then peel it."

  "I had no idea you were so into cooking," I respond.

  "You're not the only one Grandma Liz sunk her teeth into, you know."

  "Oh." I pause. The thought of Mark in the kitchen has never even crossed my mind. I've never seen him cook. Never seem him comment on Mom's cooking. Never seen him with any kind of cooking utensil in his hand. I assumed he was a take-out kind of guy.

  "Anyway," he goes on. "You know how it is when you haven't seen an old friend in a long time? And then when you finally do see each other again, you seem to pick up where you left off?"

  "Sure," I reply. I have a friend just like that. Little Evie from next door who is now big-girl Evie with flashy red hair and a job at The Denver Post.

  "It wasn't like that between Lauren and me, and I realized it too late."

  "You argued a lot?" I guess, drawing from my own bad relationship experiences.

  "The opposite," Mark responds. "We never argued about anything."

  "Some people would call that a success," I point out. "Myself included."

  "But we never dug deep enough to have a reason to." He pauses and lets out a sigh. "I did what I always do and started analyzing our relationship. Maybe over-analyzing it."

  "It takes time to get to know someone at a deeper level."

  "What if there is none?" he asks. "I think Lauren and I liked the idea of us together, but it got to the point where I found myself criticizing everything about us."

  "And that itself didn't lead to a heated argument?" I tease him.

  "It should have. There was just no fire between us, and she was okay with that."

  "I'm not sure I understand," I admit. "Are you saying your relationship with Lauren was too perfect?"

  "Too perfect and too superficial," he adds. "Neither of us wanted to feel like we were settling, so we decided to take a break. I told Mom it was all amicable, and it was only temporary…only…" He pauses to clear his throat. "Only it has been a while now, and…I don't miss her as much as I thought I would."

  "Well, there's your answer then. You shouldn't be with someone you feel okay with. You should be with someone who makes you feel like your best possible self."

  "Does that even exist for people like us?" he asks.

  "What do you mean us? You're grouping me and you into the same category here? Should I be honored or offended?"

  "Both." He chuckles. "I mean the sort of people who work too much and who tend to choose business over love."

  "So you don't think I'm down here in Georgia baking bonbons while sitting on my biscuits?" I reply.

  "I think switching careers like you did is a hard thing to do."

  "The hardest," I admit. "And to answer your question, I have no idea if real love exists. I'll let you know if I ever figure that out."

  "Tell Mom to stop worrying." Mark chuckles again. "She can always adopt a grandbaby."

  "Sure," I laugh. "I'll let her know.

  I guess I was wrong.

  My brother, Mark, and I have lots in common.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The classroom is silent.

  Eerily silent.

  Chef Otto stands in front of us ready to do a demo on airbrushing techniques, but he can't bring himself to start. He keeps looking at the empty seat next to Bree. The place where Karl used to sit. I clench the edge of my chef's jacket and try not to think about finding his body back at the factory, but I can't shake the image of his sneakers poking out of the broken steel pipe.

  "Airbrushing…" Chef Otto forces himself to start class, but he stops. He rubs his sleeve over his damp forehead and tries to start over. "When airbrushing fondant…" He looks up at the door as it creaks open. The color slowly leaves his face like he's expecting a ghost to waltz in and take Karl's seat.

  I wouldn't put it pass Karl to show up for class even in an undead state. In fact, ghost, zombie, or demon, Karl would still probably apologize for his tardiness and list reasons why he shouldn't be counted as late due to his hellish commute from the underworld.

  "Mr. Chimenti," a voice says. "Can I speak with you please?"

  I turn around and see Detective Reid lingering in the doorway. He's dressed a little less like he's on his way to church and a little more like a gritty investigator. Georgina looks at me and then at Bree as Chef Otto nods and leaves the classroom.

  "You tattled?" Georgina whispers as soon as the door closes.

  "Georgina—"

  "I'm not accusing you, Poppy. It was just a question." She raises her voice to a normal volume and stops herself from flashing her usual fake smile.

  "Yeah, okay, I told the police," I quietly admit. "You would've too if you knew what happened yesterday." I glance at Bree. Her fingers lightly touch Karl's station. She insisted on coming to class today. She said it would keep her mind busy. At breakfast all she could talk about was who she'd be partnered with now for our final buffet. She said Karl would haunt her dreams at night if she didn't complete her display cake. I think she's trying to keep herself from reliving yesterday.

  "What happened to Karl?" Georgina whispers again. "Are the rumors true? Is
he…dead?"

  I nod.

  "Murdered."

  "By who?" she asks.

  "No clue." My eyes dart to Bree as she stops what she's doing and watches us.

  "What are you two talking about?" Bree chimes in, leaning closer. She stands up and joins us at our station, glancing back at Jeff who is taking full advantage of Chef Otto's absence by napping in the back corner.

  "Do you think the murders are connected?" Georgina goes on.

  "Whoa," Bree blurts out. "Keep your voice down."

  "Well, it couldn't have been Otto," she informs us. "I saw his stupid Ferrari headed toward Atlanta again while I was driving back from the shops."

  "He wouldn't…" I refrain from saying Karl's name in front of Bree. I don't know how ready she is to talk about it so openly. "I mean, I don't think he's involved in what happened yesterday."

  "So, it was the black Cadillac?" Georgina speculates. "That goon who ran us off the road."

  "Most likely," I respond.

  "So, what are we going to do about it?" Georgina looks from me to Bree as if we're now experts on the subject.

  "We aren't going to do anything." I glance at Bree as she hangs her head.

  "You can't leave me out of this, Peters," Georgina says.

  "I did last year, and you didn't seem to care." I raise my voice.

  "That's because last year you were a total—"

  "New Orleans," Bree cuts in.

  "What?" I nudge her arm. "Are you feeling okay?"

  "I'm fine," Bree insists. "That address we found in Karl's book. I think we need to go there."

  "Address?" Georgina perks up. She smiles, directing her full attention toward Bree. "What address? How interesting."

  "Bree—"

  "It's okay, Poppy." She takes a deep breath, taking another look at Karl's empty seat. "I've thought about it a lot, and there was something that Karl was desperate to show me. I think we should honor his wishes and follow the clue he left behind."

  "We don't even know where that address will lead us," I point out. "It could be another abandoned factory in the middle of the bayou for all we know."

  "We've at least got to try," Bree insists.

  The door creaks as Chef Otto returns to the front of the room, keeping his head down. He exhales loudly as he sets up his station for the hundredth time in preparation for his demo. His face still seems chalky, but a rosy color slowly returns to his cheeks.

  "My place tonight," Georgina whispers. "We have some details to work out."

  * * *

  The very first time I met Georgina, I knew we would never be friends. We're too different. Yes, we both love food enough to pursue it as a career, but Georgina's idea of a proper dessert is a traditional chocolate religieuse. A French treat made by stacking two choux buns on top of each other and filling them with pastry cream. Mine is something more daring, and probably wrapped in bacon.

  I knock lightly, glancing at Bree as she holds up a plate of her latest Franken-sweet creation—a mix between a brownie and a cookie. Or simply put, a brookie. Georgina answers the door and immediately looks down at Bree's chocolatey offering.

  "What are those?" she asks, wrinkling her eyebrows.

  "A chocolate chip cookie and a brownie all-in-one," Bree answers. Her shoulder twitches as she tries to keep up the strap of her tote bag. Georgina rolls her eyes.

  "Come in," she responds, opening the door wider.

  Georgina's apartment is farther from campus, and somehow she was able to swing rooming solo even though the school is always short on housing. Most students who come to Calle Pastry Academy aren't from the area.

  "What do you think?" I mutter to Bree. "Is it what you expected?"

  The living room looks completely different than ours. The furniture has been replaced with a white linen couch and a matching armchair. The dusty pink and soft lemon throw pillows match the floral rug, and a circular glass coffee table houses a short bouquet of white orchids. The walls even look different. Not as much tan.

  "Have these walls been—" Bree starts.

  "Repainted?" Georgina finishes. "Yes. That beige color was just ghastly. The room needed a little brightening up."

  The kitchen also looks new. Gone are the ancient oak cabinets and laminate countertops. There are tall cabinets with crown molding at the top, granite counters, and stainless steel appliances. The kitchen compliments the circular farm-style kitchen table pretty well.

  "When did you manage to do all this?" I ask. Really, I know the answer to that question. She didn't do it.

  "Mr. Dixon gave me permission," Georgina replies. "How am I supposed to study in such an…outdated space, for lack of a better word?"

  "Such a dilemma," I murmur. "How have we all survived this long?"

  "Have a seat," Georgina says, sitting down at the kitchen table.

  Bree sits first, setting her plate of brookies in front of her. Georgina glares at them.

  "They're really good," Bree assures her. She grabs the first one and takes a bite. "They're crunchy and chewy. Sweet and fudgy. Chocolatey and—"

  "I get the point," Georgina interrupts her. "But I just ate." She pulls out a notebook. "Tea, anyone?"

  "Yes, please." Bree smooths her ruffled top and softly places her sweet back on the plate.

  "Ingrid!" Georgina yells. "Tea for three!" She sits up straighter with a proud look on her face. "My old nanny is here helping me with some cleaning. She's more of a housekeeper now."

  An older woman with dark hair enters the kitchen. She's wearing khaki pants and a button-down blouse. Her sneakers squeak a bit as she pulls out the kettle and a set of teacups. She doesn't seem to mind that Georgina hasn't looked up once since she's entered the room. Ingrid lifts the full kettle with little effort and prepares a basket of tea selections.

  "Studying some more," Ingrid comments. Her voice is soft and melodic.

  "Sort of," Georgina replies. Ingrid places our teacups in front of us. "So, what have we got? Let's start from the beginning."

  "Uh, come again?" I nod at Ingrid as she straightens my tea setting.

  "We need to map out everything we know before we go to New Orleans this weekend," she says. "Isn't that how these things work?"

  Georgina's caught the sleuthing bug.

  "Wait a second. I thought we were meeting to talk about buffet ideas?" I set my elbows on the table, and Georgina eyes them like they're a pair of crumby teacakes—messy and annoying.

  "We can discuss all that later." Georgina waves a hand as if she's cleaning the slate. "What happened to Karl is more important."

  "Well, it all started with the murder at the farmers' market," Bree blurts out.

  "Bree," I say through my teeth, looking over at Ingrid.

  "Don't worry about her," Georgina informs me. She glances over her shoulder at her former childhood nanny—a woman who must have all the patience in the world to have raised Georgina and still be standing in the same room as her. Ingrid, the saint. "I tell Ingrid everything."

  "You know, there's no guarantee that the address from Karl's book even means anything," I mention. "We could drive all the way to Louisiana and not get a single step closer to figuring out who the killer is."

  "At least we could talk to the soap sisters," Bree adds.

  "Soap sisters?" Georgina jots something down. "Who are they?"

  "Please, Poppy," Bree says quietly. "For Karl?"

  "Fine." I sigh. "We'll go over the facts, but only because it's my Bundt on the line here." I rub my eyes. A road trip to New Orleans will either open up a new can of worms or be a total waste of time. "Georgina, you have been warned."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  "I think I left my brookie plate at your apartment." Bree gathers her things and waits for me to finish my assignment for the day. I set down my piping bag and look up front at Chef Otto. He's been less talkative than usual since his meeting with Detective Reid.

  "Check your bag," Georgina says.

  "I did."

>   "The bottom of your bag," Georgina clarifies. Bree sets her tote bag on the counter and digs through it. Her eyes widen when she pulls out her missing plate from yesterday. She studies both sides, amazed at the sight of it.

  "How did it get in there?"

  "Ingrid." Georgina giggles, noticing the strange look on Bree's face.

  "But my bag was next to me the whole time," she says. "When could she have done it?"

  "It's a gift really," Georgina answers. "She can clean a room without interrupting anyone. It's a talent my parents have paid to keep around."

  A sudden crash steals our attention. Chef Otto looks flustered as he bends down to pick up a stack of mixing bowls he dropped on the floor. Bree puts her dessert plate back in her bag and slowly approaches him. Half of our classroom has cleared out for the day, and Cole and Jeff are still discussing if they should serve chocolate lollipops or chocolate mousse as part of their final buffet.

  "Excuse me, Chef." Bree brushes a strand of her strawberry blonde hair out of her face. Georgina and I take a step closer, listening carefully. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

  "Sure." He scratches the side of his head—his cinnamon hair shining in the light. "What can I do for you?"

  "You still haven't told me who my new partner is going to be," Bree says. "I can't be expected to bake all the required pastries in the allotted amount of time all by myself."

  Cole and Jeff fall silent at the back of the room.

  "Right, I understand," Chef Otto replies. "That's why President Dixon and the other instructors have agreed to change your presentation requirements. You will be responsible for your main showpiece and nothing else."

  "Are you sure, Chef? I was kind of looking forward to the challenge."

  "I think you've more than demonstrated the expectations that are required of any graduate," he responds. Bree nods. "Is that all?" She hesitates to walk away.

  "No."

  "What else can I do for you?" Chef Otto asks.

  "Um…" Bree looks from me and Georgina to the guys in the back. "I also wanted to know what happened yesterday with Detective Reid. Did he tell you anything more about the case?" Bree can't resist asking questions, and Otto can't resist avoiding them.