Bananas Foster and a Dead Mobster Read online

  "Bonnie," I say again. "Will you please answer my question?"

  "What question?" Mary Frances snaps. "Either you buy something or you leave. I'm tired of you girls bothering us."

  "And I'm tired of all the lying," I blurt out. Mary Frances scowls, and it deters a young girl from purchasing the last cupcake bath fizz. "What happened, Bonnie? What did that man say to you?"

  "Man?" Mary Frances questions.

  "The dead man from the farmers' market in Georgia," Bonnie responds slowly.

  "Nothing," Mary Frances recites. "Nothing happened. We've never met the man."

  "Well…" Bonnie twists the corner of her mouth and glances at me.

  "End of discussion." Mary Frances widens her eyes and glares at her sister like she's scolding a young child.

  "Mary Frances," I go on. Her cheeks turn the color of her spicy red fruits shower bars. "One of your soaps was found in the victim's apartment. How do you explain that?"

  "I don't know," she replies in a hurry. "He could've stolen it? He could've purchased it from our online store?"

  "On the same morning that you were in town selling it?" I ask.

  "We've spoken to the police already, and we will speak no more about it." Mary Frances presses her lips together and turns her back to me.

  "But—"

  "Bonnie," she barks at her sister. "See if we have anymore cupcake bath fizzes in the returns box."

  "Of course," Bonnie replies, kneeling down to dig for more product.

  I grab a random bar of soap—one with swirls of blue called Salted Sea Breeze. I use it to steal Mary Frances's attention and keep it on me. She watches the bar as she hands a customer her receipt. I take a step back, acting as if I might take off running. Mary Frances flinches like my Uncle George does when he has to pay for drink refills at a restaurant. He's a stickler for money.

  "You do what I think you're going to do, and I'll contact the authorities," Mary Frances threatens me.

  "It's just soap." I grab a second bar.

  "To you it's just soap," she answers, balling her hands into fists. "But to me it's my livelihood. I'll do anything to keep our business going."

  "Anything?" I repeat.

  "You know what I mean." She outstretches a hand. "Now, give me the soap, and be on your way."

  "You would chase after me for like five dollars of inventory?" I ask.

  "Don't try my patience, young lady." Mary Frances bangs her fist on the table. Bree crosses her arms and takes a step back along with a few confused customers.

  "Please, Mary Frances." I try one last time to reason with her. "Tell me what happened that morning. It's a matter of life and death."

  Mary Frances takes a deep breath and watches as I put the bars of soap back where they belong.

  "Fine." She places a hand on her hip. "Yes, I did speak with the deceased the day before he was killed, but it was only for a brief moment. He bought a bar of soap."

  "Did he say anything out of the ordinary?" I question. "Anything at all?"

  "No," she answers. "He asked me for my best soap, I handed him our signature peach tea bar, and that was that."

  "So why keep it a secret?" I ask. "He was a customer of yours."

  "A one-time customer," she clarifies. "And I don't like people poking around in my business, okay?"

  I nod, accepting her explanation. Bonnie finds a few more cupcake-shaped bath fizzes and places them on the table. Mary Frances takes another calming breath and straightens her top. She sports a friendly smile for her next spurt of customers as if nothing is wrong. Bonnie's eyes dart to me. She tilts her head toward the neighboring vendor—a table of tiki-themed cups, plates, and bowls. Bree and I keep an eye on her as we walk away from the Sweet T Soaps booth.

  Bonnie follows us.

  "That's not the whole truth," Bonnie mutters, dashing from her post in order to speak to us in private. "Mary Frances and that man had an argument."

  "What about?" My heart rate soars. There's hardly any time to get all the facts out of her.

  "Something about our vegan certification," she admits. "Mary Frances is very protective of it. Vegan buyers make up half of our business. Anyway, she told me not to tell a soul, and that's all I know."

  "Why would Gino Milani care about something like that?"

  "I've already said too much, and—" Bonnie shakes her, interrupted by the thundering of her sister's footsteps.

  "Bonnie!" Mary Frances shouts in the middle of the aisle. "What do you think you're doing telling strangers about our personal affairs? How stupid are you?"

  Bonnie's mystical grin turns into the grimace of an angry troll.

  "I'm doing what you're too stubborn to do and helping these girls," she answers, holding her ground.

  "Why?" Mary Frances keeps a stern look on her face. She attempts to compose herself when a group of curious shoppers pass her with stares and even giggles.

  "Because you lied to them," Bonnie points out. She raises her voice so that it's louder than her sister's. "That man did come to our booth, and what did you do? You yelled at him for heaven knows what." Mary Frances stiffens her posture, making herself taller, so she can glare down at her opponent.

  "He questioned the legitimacy of our vegan certification, and then he showed up again the next day," she shouts. "What was I supposed to do, Bonnie? Let him run his mouth and tank the business? I got nervous."

  "What's does it matter?" Bonnie argues, shouting even louder. The bustle of the market around us comes to a halt. I feel like a target has been hung on my back, and a dozen sharpshooters are scoping me out. All eyes are on us.

  "Oh, Bonnie." Mary Frances seems more concerned with the attention she's gathered, but Bonnie fails to notice. Maybe she just doesn't care?

  "Don't oh Bonnie me," she yells. "I've let you push me around long enough! Need I remind you that if it weren't for me, we'd have no soap? Our bars are the best dang vegan products in the entire southern United States. I don't care about the opinion of a blob of a man who sweats like Niagara Falls and smells of cheese!"

  "Okay," Mary Frances says through her teeth. "That's enough."

  "Typical!" Bonnie goes on, waving her arms in the air like a ravenous baboon. "Here I am pouring my heart out, and you're still treating me like a toddler. Come on then. What did this guy say to you? Did he call you a liar? An old bat? A raisin in heels?"

  "Bonnie." Mary Frances's entire face looks like it's ready for lift off—steam and all.

  "Or worse, did he ask for your number, and you turned him down?" Bonnie pauses for a minute and then gasps. "Did you ask for his number?"

  "Bonnie!" her sister finally responds. "There was no exchange of numbers."

  "Then what? Surely a little comment about the ingredients in our products isn't worth the trouble we've been through." Bonnie pauses again, but this time she looks at her sister with glossy eyes. "Mary Frances…you didn't."

  Her sister stays silent.

  "You know how I feel about animal cruelty," Bonnie says, tears spilling down her cheeks. "I don't care about the extra cost!"

  "Bonnie," she says softly, trying to console her sister.

  "No!" Bonnie recoils her arm like a fallen snake. "You've been lying to me this whole time. What was it then? Huh?"

  Mary Frances gulps, a look of hard-stricken guilt spreading across her face.

  "The coconut milk," she quietly admits. "But I swear Bonnie, it was an accident! Marty delivered goat's milk instead, and I didn't notice until it was too late."

  "How many batches?" Bonnie asks, her fists clenched.

  "All of our oatmeal sunshine bars," Mary Frances replies. She tries again to place a hand on her sister's shoulder, but Bonnie doesn't accept her apology. Instead, she takes a few steps back. "But Bonnie, we would've lost so much money by throwing them all out. So when that gentleman from the farmers' market kept asking me questions, I had to shoo him off before he grew suspicious about our vegan certification."

  "And now we're frauds," Bon
nie responds.

  "It's only goat's milk." Mary Frances chuckles nervously as she glances around at her audience.

  "It's so much more than that, dear sister," Bonnie says. "You've betrayed me."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  "Really?" Cole laughs. "She called goat's milk a betrayal?"

  "Hey, she was really hurt by what her sister did," Bree responds. "I would be too if I were a hard-core vegan."

  "Yeah," I agree. "Mary Frances doesn't seem like the easiest person to get along with."

  Bree stays close to Cole and me, leaving Jeff to trail behind us. Georgina booked herself a last minute nail appointment she said she desperately needed. We explore more of the French Quarter—the sun beating down on our faces and streetcars rumbling in the distance. Karl's address is somewhat difficult to find with the internet pointing us toward a completely different street to reach our destination. Cole holds up his map, having resorted to the traditional form of address hunting.

  "Uh-huh." Cole chuckles. "I see the problem. This street name must have changed. That's why we couldn't quite find what we were looking for online."

  "That happens?" Bree chimes in.

  "My grandparents lived in the same house their whole lives, but their address changed a couple times," Jeff comments. Bree refuses to look at him. Cole folds his city map and jogs around the corner. The rest of us speed walk to keep up with him.

  "Here it is," Cole mutters, standing in front of a glass door with bars on the outside—a business entrance.

  "It's a pharmacy?" I exclaim. I take a deep breath as I look at the sign in front of us advertising their new longer hours. The chipped paint and weeds growing along the sidewalk send a shiver up my spine. We're not exactly in the nicest part of town. "No, this can't be right."

  "What were you expecting?" Jeff replies. "The mob's hideout?" He shrugs, kicking the side of his hiking boot against the brick building.

  "It still could be," Bree argues, holding her chin high. Cole and I glance at each other. Though we haven't specifically discussed it, I have the sneaking feeling he knows about Bree and Jeff too. I'm sure Jeff blabbed about it at some point. The tension between them is getting worse. "Secret mafia hangouts aren't exactly labeled, you know."

  "You're an expert on that too?" Jeff smirks.

  "Okay," Cole intervenes. "Poppy, you and Bree go check it out. Jeff and I will wait here and make sure nothing fishy goes down around here." I nod at him gratefully.

  "Come on, Bree," I say. I grab her arm and pull her inside before her cheeks get any redder.

  "I hate that guy," she mumbles.

  "Have you two—?"

  "No," Bree answers before I can finish. "No, we haven't talked about…what happened. Ugh. I hate thinking about it." She glances at me, forcing herself to smile. "Besides, talking it out didn't work so well for you, did it?"

  "That's different." I snap. I don't mean to sound defensive, but it's the way my comment flies out. "You and Jeff barely know each other."

  "Well, we're not as chummy as you and Cole." She crosses her arms and pauses when we come to an aisle of drugstore makeup. Bree lingers near a shelf of pink lipsticks.

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Don't play that game, Poppy. I saw you two at it, remember?" She picks a summery pink lipstick and swatches it against her skin. "You think I could pull this off?"

  "It wasn't what you think," I correct her. "It was an experiment."

  "Poppy, I can tell the difference between a kiss and a kiss." She raises her eyebrows, placing the lipstick back where she found it. "There's something between you two, and you're running out of time. Graduation is closer than you think, and before you know it he'll be back in Atlanta, and you'll be who knows where."

  "And you'll be back at the cupcake shop in Connecticut?" It seems they all have their lives in order but me. No surprise.

  "If I'm lucky, Marjorie will sell it to me," Bree responds. "She's been planning on retiring, and I practically run the place. It's a perfect fit." She smiles as she tilts her head to get a closer look at the selection of reds.

  "I'm glad one of us knows what she's doing." I glance up and down the aisle. "My only experience with the food industry is my shifts at the student bakery. I'd love a shop of my own, but I'd probably bake myself into bankruptcy."

  "Maybe you could find a job on a cruise ship or something?" she suggests. "You know, see the world?"

  "Why don't you?" I fire the question back at her.

  "Seasickness," Bree answers. "I'd never be able to keep anything down. Actually, maybe that's what I should do. I could shave off some of my cake weight." Despite her own opinions about herself, Bree is only a couple of sizes larger than me, and her figure is much more womanly. If only she knew how many women lay awake at night dreaming of having a bust like hers.

  "No diet talk," I remind her. "I'm trying to embrace my inner foodie, and I can't do that if I get caught up thinking about calories."

  "Sorry," Bree replies. "It's a habit I've never been able to break."

  The two of us move along, looking for clues. Something out of the ordinary. Someone out of the ordinary. Anything that might tell us why Karl thought a dumpy pharmacy on the edge of downtown New Orleans was worth visiting. We're coming up short.

  "It's pretty ordinary," Bree whispers. "Aside from their sparse cosmetics section. How hard is it to restock bronzer?"

  "We could try the bathrooms?" I suggest.

  "Are you hoping for a hidden message on the wall?" She sighs, searching for a sign that says restrooms.

  "We came all this way," I reply. "It's worth having a look."

  I follow her toward the back corner of the store to a tiny hall with two single restrooms. Men and Women. The small nook of space matches the rest of the store. It's old with scratched walls, dirty baseboards, and scuffed floors. Ironically, it's not a very clean-looking place for a pharmacy, and it's definitely not one I would choose to fill a prescription.

  I hesitate to open the door to either bathroom. First, because who knows what type of bacteria are growing on the doorknobs. And second, single bathrooms and I don't mix well. I either get stuck, walked in on, the sink doesn't work, or I somehow break the toilet.

  "You realize if Karl did leave some kind of hidden message here it's probably in the men's." Bree eyes the door to the men's room.

  "Yeah, but it's Karl." I smile and walk toward the women's room. "If this address really is a clue and it's really meant for us, Karl would've assumed that we'd check the ladies first. Which means he might've put our next clue in the women's bathroom."

  To prove my point, I try the door. It squeaks as it opens, revealing a single toilet, sink, and trash can. I step inside, and Bree follows, shutting the door behind us. The mirror is streaked, and there's scum building up around the faucet. The toilet seat is crooked, and there's an unhealthy amount of dirt, hair, and shreds of toilet paper in the corners. Bree covers her nose.

  "I doubt this has ever been cleaned," she says. I check behind the door, along the walls, and any place that Karl could've hidden something.

  "See anything?" I ask, thumbing through a stack of hand towels.

  "I'm afraid to look." Bree keeps her nose covered and hardly moves.

  I have no choice in the matter. One of us needs to brave the germs and search high and low. I guess it's kind of like when you pull over at the nearest truck stop during a long road trip. When there's no other bathroom for miles you just have to deal with it or wet your pants.

  I use my foot to tip the trash can. Nothing. I even force myself to check inside the trash bag. Still nothing. I sigh, glancing in the mirror. At least, one good thing came out of this trip. I now know that the soap sisters are innocent…of murder.

  "There's nothing here," I say. "Let's check the men's and then get out of here."

  "I may have to buy some hand sanitizer." Bree tries to open the door with two fingers. "I think it's stuck."

  "Here, let me." I step in fron
t of her and grip the doorknob. "Soap and water exist for a reason." I push and pull the door, but it won't budge. I squeeze the knob tighter and use all the muscles in my arms to force it open. My chest starts to pound.

  "We're stuck," Bree gasps. She takes a deep breath and begins fanning her face.

  "Calm down," I respond, but inside I'm not calm either.

  "Do you think someone locked us in here to rot away like the grime on the taps?" Bree closes her eyes and focuses on breathing. "Okay, is it just me, or is this bathroom getting smaller?"

  I yank at the knob again, using all my weight to try to force it open. It still won't budge, so I pound on the door, beating on the wood like a drum. Sadly, this isn't the first time I've been trapped in a confined space. Being stuck in here brings back terrible memories of when I was locked in a storage closet at the Palais Garnier in Paris. I was lucky I made it out alive. At least I have light in here. The storage closet was pitch black.

  "Hello?" I shout. "Can anyone out there hear me?"

  "Oh, we're in trouble," Bree mumbles. "We're in deep trouble."

  "Relax," I blurt out, mostly because if she keeps panicking I just might join her. "Cole and Jeff are outside. They won't leave without us."

  "Oh, right." Bree nods, calming herself down. "Of course."

  "Hello?" I pound on the door some more and listen for footsteps. My heart rate soars when the sound of heavy boots clang on the other side. "Hello? Is someone there?"

  The door shakes, and I push Bree away.

  The knob jiggles a few times before it twists hard, and the bathroom door finally opens.

  "Well what do we have here?" A man with matted hair and a long, frizzy beard smirks and stares at the two of us.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I can't tell if the man in front of me is a friend or an enemy.

  Bree and I stay frozen near the back wall of the women's bathroom as the bearded man waits for us to make the next move. I take a deep breath, and Bree nudges me forward. The man has a pointy nose and dark menacing eyes, but the rest of his face is hidden beneath handfuls of bushy hair.