Bananas Foster and a Dead Mobster Page 14

  "You ladies need another minute?" The man chuckles, rubbing a strand of his facial hair.

  "Huh?" Bree wrinkles her nose.

  "It's not like that." I roll my eyes. "We were looking for something, and we got stuck."

  "Yeah," the man responds, "the lock likes to stick sometimes. What are you looking for?"

  My eyes dart to a crooked nametag on his shirt that says Felix.

  "Nothing," Bree nervously blurts out. "Sir."

  "Wait," I whisper to Bree. "Maybe he can help us." I walk toward him, and he steps aside, letting the two of us back into the cramped hallway. "Have you seen a small guy with glasses in here recently?"

  Felix laughs. It sounds more like a throaty cackle than actual laughter.

  "You're gonna have to be more specific than that," he answers. "We get a lot of fellas by that description passing through here."

  My shoulders sink.

  This place is a dead end.

  "Well, have you seen anything suspicious around here in the last couple of weeks?" I try again, hoping to trigger a memory that might point us in the right direction.

  "Suspicious," the man repeats. "As a matter of fact, ma'am, it's been a good while since the place has been robbed. That's a bit suspicious to me."

  "Okay," Bree gulps. "We'll be going now." She races back into the store, but I stand my ground, desperately trying to piece together everything I've learned since the morning of the farmers' market murder. Karl has to have had a reason for seeking this place out. He was a very methodical and logical sort of man. Not one to waste time on anything that wasn't educational. He had a love affair with facts, so that's exactly what this place has to be—a physical piece of the puzzle.

  "Maybe we have the address wrong," I mutter to myself. "Sir, is there any other street around here that people tend to mix up with this one?"

  "Eh…" Felix curls his lip as he thinks. "No."

  "Well, did this street used to go by another name?"

  "Um…" Felix curls his lip again. "I don't know, ma'am. But you can ask my boss. He's in the back."

  "Will you run and get him, please?"

  "Poppy," Bree calls me. "Come on. Let's just go." I ignore her plea and keep my attention focused on Felix. My fists remain clenched as he nods.

  "Okay, but just so you know, ma'am, he's not much of a people person. Here at the shop we call him Crazy Al on account that he's a bit fried in the head."

  "Fried?" Bree repeats, placing her hands on her hips.

  "He still thinks it's the 1970's," Felix explains. "Don't stare at his lazy eye, don't agree to check out his shed out back, and don't say the word creole. It's one of his trigger words."

  "Why?" I'm starting to wonder if talking to Felix's boss, even if it's just to ask him a simple question, is a bad idea.

  "Because he's Cajun," Felix replies. "He's gets real mad when people don't know that there's a distinct difference between the two." Felix heads toward a scratched door marked with the words Employees Only. "Hey, Al. Al!"

  "What?" a voice shouts back.

  "Some ladies out front here want to ask you something," Felix yells.

  My chest pounds as we wait in silence for Al to emerge from his cave. The door opens slowly, revealing a stick-thin man with a beard similar to Felix's and an eye that stares off into the space behind me. I have to remind myself not to look at it for too long. Crazy Al smirks when he sees me. I take a step back when he reaches out his arms as if a warm embrace is the most appropriate greeting for the occasion.

  "Welcome to the neighborhood," Crazy Al announces, eyeing the two of us.

  "Hi," I respond. "I'm Poppy, and this is Bree, and—"

  "I love poppies." Al butts in. He can't seem to control the volume of his voice. At first it's loud, but as he talks it dies down to a faint whisper. Add in the heavy Cajun accent and Crazy Al is difficult to understand. "I must show you my shed out back, Poppy. You would love it, Poppy."

  Felix shakes his head.

  "Actually, Al, I wondered if I could ask you a question?"

  "Fire away, my little flower. My little Poppy." His gaze wanders away from us and toward the store. I pause, waiting for him to regain his thoughts.

  "Um, do you happen to know if this street used to go by another name?" I ask. "You see, we're looking for something, but I think we've got the address mixed up."

  "The street, Al." Felix attempts to help me keep his boss on task. "What was it called back in your day?"

  "My day?" Al responds in almost a scream. But the expression on his face doesn't change to match it. "I'm not as old as you think. Poppy, come have a look at my shed out back."

  "No one is going out back today, Al," Felix reminds him. "Just answer the question."

  "Oh." Al looks at me with a vacant stare.

  "How long have you worked here?" I ask him, channeling my inner sleuth. A basic interrogation will have to do. I have no idea if I'll be able to get any information out of him at this rate.

  "Oh, I've been here since 1991," Al answers. "That's when this hole in the wall was converted into a drugstore."

  "And the street address?" I follow up. "Has that changed too over the years?"

  "Only the once." He chuckles. "I'd be happy to tell you more in—"

  "Al," Felix cuts in. "If you light up out back again, those nosy neighbors of ours will be calling the cops. Is that what you want?"

  "Smoking isn't illegal," Bree adds, confused.

  "These ain't cigarettes, sweetheart," Felix clarifies.

  "Oh." Bree's eyes widen.

  "Yeah, yeah," Al shouts. "Okay, forget about my shed."

  "The street address," I say, frustrated. I hate having to repeat myself so many times just to get a standard reply. "When did it change?"

  "Oh, it changed right after the business changed, but the old address still leads folks our way." Al rubs his beard—his lazy eye aimed at Bree. I don't know if it's on purpose or if he can't control where it looks. "Remember all those couples we used to get walking through the door?" Al laughs.

  "I wouldn't know, Al," Felix responds. "I've only been here a few years, remember?"

  "Nah." Crazy Al waves a hand, looking at his employee like smoke is blasting from his ears.

  "What did this place used to be?" I ask.

  "Oh…hang on, little Poppy." Al bites his bottom lip. "I know this. Um…" He exhales loudly, trying to come up with the answer.

  "It's okay." I nod, turning to leave. "We'll figure it out." The smell of dust and body odor being thrust throughout the store by box fans is starting to get to me. "Thank you for your time, Craz…I mean, Al."

  "Whoa! I got it." Crazy Al goes through the motions of reeling in a large fish on a fishing pole. "I remember. I remember, little Poppy."

  "Great," I patiently respond. "What was it?"

  "This place here…it used to be one of them fancy adoption agencies."

  "An adoption agency?" Bree questions him. "Are you sure?"

  Crazy Al raises his eyebrows as if Bree just muttered that there is no difference between a Creole and a Cajun. I grab her arm and pull her toward the exit. Crazy Al fits his label to a T. He's crazy. And, just like the varying volume of his voice and his jumbled train of thoughts, he's unpredictable.

  "Thank you," I yell from the front entrance. I take a deep breath when we step back out onto the street where Cole and Jeff our waiting for us. I'm suddenly very glad that they're normal. Well, mostly.

  "Remind me never to trip on acid," Bree mumbles. "That was like pulling teeth."

  "You don't think Karl was researching his own adoption, do you?" I ask her. "Did he ever mention anything to you about his family or being adopted or anything like that?"

  "No." Bree shakes her head. "And trust me—he talked about a lot of things."

  I take another breath, glancing down the street at a man strolling the avenue with an instrument case in his hand. Karl knew something. A secret that got him killed. What sort of secret is worth murdering for?


  "He had to have a reason," I point out. "If he wasn't adopted then maybe…"

  I gasp.

  "What is it?" Bree looks behind her as if she's expecting Crazy Al to be standing there with open arms.

  "I think Karl worked it out," I go on. "The murder. The mob. And an old adoption agency?"

  "You think the mafia is stalking CPA because of some old adoption records?"

  "Not just any old adoption, Bree," I add. "What if all of this has to do with a long lost child of the Bianco clan? I mean, the big boss is on his deathbed. It's all over the news. What if meeting his forgotten kin is one of his dying wishes?"

  "That seems a bit far-fetched," Bree responds. "But…" She sighs. "I guess it could be possible. But who on earth would hide a baby at a pastry school?"

  "I'm not talking about a baby," I insist. "Think about it."

  She pauses to piece it together like I have, but my stomach is bursting with butterflies. I only know of one person who's new in town, who's being followed, and who's Italian. It has to be him. I don't know how exactly, but it has to be.

  "Who then?" Bree blurts out.

  "Mr. Gamblers' Anonymous himself." I can't hold it in any longer. "It's Chef Otto."

  * * *

  Keeping the secret in is like holding an entire batch of Bree's homemade brookies in my mouth. It's not possible. We leave for Georgia in the morning, and I can't stop pacing back and forth in the courtyard. Jeff splashes in the pool with nothing on but a pair of shorts, and Georgina is lying back and working on her tan. Bree is sitting next to her trying not to look at Jeff's abs, and Cole is inside helping Ingrid with the crawfish—his weekly dinner, as promised.

  "I still can't believe he never said anything," I say out loud. "And it all makes sense, too. The black Caddy outside his house. The black Caddy hanging around campus. It still doesn't explain who murdered Gino Milani though."

  "I think we've established he's a liar," Georgina mentions from her comfy poolside haven. She admires her new manicure, exposing her legs to as much sunlight as possible. Her expression turns sour the more I talk about him.

  "Otto wouldn't have killed Gino then." I try to reason my way through it. "Gino would've been family."

  "Unless he doesn't know he's a Bianco," Jeff chimes in from the pool.

  "I'm sure he knows," Bree argues. "And if he didn't know then, he certainly does now."

  "Maybe not." Jeff grins, swimming closer to Bree. "We have secrets in our past that tend to stay buried, right girls?"

  Bree rolls her eyes, and Georgina hardly pays him any attention.

  "I wonder if Detective Reid knows?" I blurt out.

  "I mean, how do you even know Otto is the child in question?" Jeff continues, lifting himself out of the pool. Bree turns her head. "The adoptive parents could've brought the kid up anywhere in a number of different cultures. Who says it has to be Chef Otto?"

  "He's Italian, you half-wit," Bree barks at him.

  "So?" The more of a rise he gets from her, the happier he appears. "I could be Italian for all you know."

  "Are you saying you're the long lost son of 'More Dough' Bianco?" I ask him.

  "I wouldn't be here if I was," he jokes. "I'd be up north collecting my inheritance."

  "A dirty inheritance," Bree points out with a scowl on her face.

  "I can't take this anymore," Georgina butts in. "You two are driving me nuts." She gets up—her head held high as she strolls back inside to check on dinner. Bree's cheeks turn rosy. I want to leave also to give them some privacy, but I'm afraid Bree will never forgive me for it.

  "Well, she's clearly an only child," Jeff comments. "She has zero patience for anything."

  "I…uh…" I look at Bree. "I think I'm going to head upstairs and call Detective Reid. Maybe he's already figured this whole thing out?"

  "Now?" Bree mutters. Jeff runs his fingers through his wet hair and avoids looking at me. The two of them have things to discuss. Whether or not they will is entirely up to them, but it's time for me to go.

  "Yes," I reply. "I think that might be best."

  I head back inside to the smell of boiling crawfish. I walk up the stairs to my room, avoiding the urge to spy on Jeff and Bree through the windows overlooking the pool. My stomach churns as I grab my phone and dial Detective Reid's number. I know what he's going to say. He'll start off by asking me what the hazelnuts I'm doing in New Orleans when he asked me to stay put.

  "Detective Reid," he answers his phone.

  "Derek," I reply. "It's me." He stays silent for a few seconds. "It's Poppy."

  "Yes, I know it's you, Poppy."

  "Let me guess," I respond. "I'm one of the only people with enough gall to call you by your first name?"

  "Something like that." He chuckles. "What can I do for you, Poppy? Please, don't tell me you've discovered another body. I'm in deep water as it is with this case."

  "No." I take a deep breath, hoping that my new findings won't stir up another argument. "I have some new information for you."

  "I hope you're staying out of trouble like we discussed."

  "Actually, I'm in New Orleans." I brace myself for shouting, yelling, or a lecture on cooperating with the police.

  "Why am I not surprised?" he says quietly.

  "I'm here because of Karl," I add. "Because he figured something out that I never would have. He was truly brilliant."

  "Poppy, I can't help you if you keep nosing around like this," Detective Reid replies.

  "Before you say anymore," I cut him off. "Let me finish. I came to New Orleans to follow a lead that Karl left behind. He lost his life because of it."

  "Yes." Derek exhales loudly and waits for me to continue.

  "I think Gino Milani was in town on a special assignment," I continue. "He came to fulfill the dying wish of his boss, Vito Bianco. But in the process he was murdered, of course. I don't know who murdered him, but I do know what he was doing at the farmers' market that morning."

  "And what was that?"

  "He was following a family member—Vito Bianco's long-lost son." Saying it out loud again sends chills down my spine. I glance around my bedroom, making sure I'm still alone before I continue. "You see, Karl located the adoption agency, and I'm willing to bet that if you do some digging into Chef Otto's background you'll find that he isn't a real Chimenti. He's a Bianco."

  "But I looked into his background, and nothing seemed unusual," Derek argues. The butterflies in my stomach drop to the floor.

  "Then check again," I insist. "Whoever gave him up probably buried the trail for good reason. Otto would never be what he is today if the world knew he was a Bianco."

  "Okay, I'll check again," he agrees. "Give me the address of this agency, and I'll investigate further."

  "Thank you."

  "And Poppy," Detective Reid adds.

  "Yeah?"

  "Get the hell out of New Orleans." He clears his throat.

  "You got it."

  I'm so close to the killer I can almost taste it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  "What did Jeff say?"

  I've waited all Sunday morning to hear the verdict. Bree had an entire night, including a crawfish boil and a good night's sleep, to think about her moment with Jeff. Now that we're back in Georgia in our little apartment it's time for her to dish the details the way she'd make me do if the situation was reversed.

  "I was wondering when the questions would come," she responds. "I'm surprised you didn't scrape the info from me last night."

  "I was hoping you would tell me on your own time," I answer. "But I can't wait anymore."

  "Sorry to get your hopes up, but we're not eloping or anything." Bree gently touches her cake pan and searches through our cupboards for ingredients.

  "Are you sure nothing happened?" I study her as she pulls out sugar and vanilla extract. She's in the mood for baking—her way of dealing with life. "I'm pretty sure we both ate enough last night to last the week." Bree glances down at her mixe
r and shrugs.

  "Fine." She visits the fridge next and grabs a stick of butter. "He wasn't going to bring it up, so I did. It was horrible."

  "Oh, Bree." I place a hand on her shoulder. "I'm really sorry."

  "He asked me out." She shakes her head.

  "What?" I cover my mouth to hold back a giggle.

  "Yeah." Bree brushes a strand of strawberry blonde hair from her forehead. "Can you believe that?"

  "The nerve," I joke. But Bree frantically hunts for desserts. Her hands start to shake before she finds a few leftover pecans from her prior praline kick and pops one in her mouth.

  "I said yes, Poppy. I don't know why I did that."

  "You think it's possible that you might actually like him?"

  "It's Jeff," she responds. "Do I need to remind you what he did our first semester? He's completely unpredictable. His workspace is always messy, and he likes death metal."

  "So?" I grin, realizing that his unpredictability might be a good thing for Bree. I guess opposites do attract. But is that a good thing?

  "Death metal," she reiterates. "He'd never be allowed in my parent's house if they knew that."

  "Don't tell them." I smile, claiming a palmful of pecans for myself.

  "Poppy, I know I sound hysterical, but I don't want to be responsible for my mother's sudden untimely death, okay?"

  "Point taken." I settle on a kitchen chair, happy to be talking about her problems instead of mine. "But you have to admit it would be nice to show up with a date this year around Christmas time. I mean, what with Todd getting married and everything." Todd again. Bree's longtime crush, and the man responsible for all her late night sugar escapades. Bree should send him an invoice.

  "Oh." Bree's expression changes. "I hadn't thought of that."

  "Don't knock what you haven't tried, right?" My eyes wander across the surface of the counter and the many ingredients she's pulled out to start a new baking venture.

  "It's easier when it's food," she admits.

  "What desserts are you meshing together this time?" I tilt my head waiting for a New Orleans inspired combo. Maybe a crawfish cake or a Cajun gator doughnut?