Cake on a Hot Tin Roof (5 page)

“All my life,” Miss Frankie said. “My mother’s people have been part of The Shores for as long as this building has been standing.”

“How lovely,” Aunt Yolanda said. “Roots are so important. I hope it’s all right for us to join you and your friends this evening. Rita assured us we wouldn’t be in the way.”

“In the way?” Miss Frankie looked astonished at the very idea. “You’re family. How could you be in the way?”

Uncle Nestor tugged at the knot in his tie. “Thanks for having us,” he said in a flat voice, “but we don’t belong here.”

“Neither do half the people on the guest list,” Miss Frankie said with a laugh. “This is just an informal little get-together for the krewe’s board members, the people who’ve run the committees all year and their spouses. A chance to blow off steam before the work begins in earnest and to honor those who’ve been so busy behind the scenes. I’m thrilled as can be that you’re here, and everyone else will be, too.”

Aunt Yolanda ran a glance over the elaborate decorations, the long table laden with dishes for the buffet at the far end of the room, a small four-person jazz band tuning up in one corner, and half a dozen waiters milling about near the kitchen. “This is informal?”

Miss Frankie followed her gaze and laughed again. “We like to do things up big here in the South. It all looks more impressive than it is. Now, why don’t the two of you have a seat? I’ll have someone bring you some drinks while Rita and I run over a few last-minute details.”

“Good idea,” I said. “I’d like to talk to you about Ivanka Hedge before she gets here.”

“We’ll get to that in a minute,” Miss Frankie said. She led Aunt Yolanda to a seat near the captain’s table and motioned for Uncle Nestor to sit by his wife. He hesitated for a moment before taking a seat, probably looking for the plastic cover to keep stains away.

He finally planted himself on a chair and Miss Frankie motioned for me to follow her as she went in search of a waiter. She has more energy than most women half her age. I had to quick-step to keep up with her, and that wasn’t easy in my new sandals. She tossed off instructions as we walked. “I’ll try to stick with you as much as possible in the beginning, but don’t worry if I slip away. You’ll be just fine. Everyone will love you.”

“I’m not worried about that,” I said, trying not to breathe hard. “I’d like to get your take on the best way to approach Ivanka when she gets here.”

Miss Frankie stopped a waiter and sent him to check on Aunt Yolanda and Uncle Nestor before responding to me. “You’re just meeting the woman, sugar. You’re not cinching a deal. Be personable. Be charming. Be approachable. And don’t talk business. With anyone. You promised, remember?”

“I remember,” I said, and I
would
try, although I had no intention of forgetting my responsibilities completely. But Miss Frankie didn’t need to know that. I’d slip away occasionally to make sure things were running smoothly and she’d be none the wiser.

I must have seemed sincere, because she patted my cheek affectionately and swept an arm to encompass the massive room and all the decorations. “Now, what do you think? How does it look?”

We passed a bank of windows that looked out over the expansive grounds and terraced gardens, where thousands of tiny white lights gave the place an almost magical appearance. “Everything looks great and smells even better. You’ve done an incredible job.”

“Thank you, sugar.” Miss Frankie beamed with pride. “That’s music to my ears.”

“I don’t know why you keep insisting that I should pretend to be the hostess tonight. You’ve done all the work. You should get the credit.”

She laughed and started walking again. “That’s nonsense. It’s your party. I was just happy to help, especially now that your uncle and aunt are here. This will be a great chance for them to see you shine.”

I wondered whether Uncle Nestor would appreciate any shining I might do, but before either of us could say more, we heard footsteps and chatter, warning us that new arrivals were heading our way. Miss Frankie clapped her hands with excitement and signaled the band to start the music as she pressed me into duty. “Your guests are arriving, sugar. Shoulders back. Head high. Put a smile on your face. And remember to relax. Tonight’s all about having fun. Don’t you waste a minute being concerned about your aunt and uncle. I’ll make sure they’re taken care of.”

Relax
. Right. I lifted my chin and put a smile on my face, but leaving worry behind was a whole lot easier to say than do.

Six

I spent the next two hours watching for Ivanka Hedge’s arrival and experiencing a little dip of disappointment every time someone who wasn’t Ivanka came through the sparkling saxophones. I met the guest of honor, Musterion’s captain, and his wife, along with the krewe’s first and second lieutenants and more of Philippe’s friends than I could possibly count. I struggled to connect names and faces with the brief histories Miss Frankie had been sharing with me for the past few weeks, and did my best to remember who’d served on which committee, especially those who’d worked on the Social Committee with Philippe.

I heard countless stories about Philippe’s life before we met and more about his life after we separated. Some were charming and amusing. Some made me nostalgic for the early days of our relationship, and some made me wonder how well I’d really known him.

Little by little, most of the staff from Zydeco drifted into the party. Dwight came in first, wearing what passes for formal wear with him—a clean pair of threadbare black pants and a white shirt that looked as if it had been wadded in the bottom of a laundry basket for a month. I saw raised eyebrows as he came through the archway, but he’d knotted a tie—so wide and old-fashioned it must have come from Goodwill—around his neck, and I guess that was enough to put him on the right side of the club’s rigid dress code for one night.

He was followed quickly by Sparkle and Estelle. Sparkle wore a dark purple gown with a tight-fitted corset and black ribbon lacing, which she’d paired with lace-up high-heeled boots. Estelle had also cleaned up nicely. In fact, she looked amazing in a silk turquoise sheath and loose-fitting silk jacket. I was pretty sure the outfits had put a hefty dent in both their budgets, which just proved how important Mardi Gras was to the people around here.

Wearing an expression that clearly said, “Don’t talk to me,” Sparkle settled at a corner table with a glass of champagne, while Estelle drifted from group to group, greeting people she knew. Ox and Isabeau showed up next. After spending the afternoon stuck in traffic, he made a beeline for the alcohol. She headed straight for my aunt and uncle, earning major brownie points and my undying gratitude in the process. Only Abe was missing, but that didn’t surprise me. A party like this would have been hell for him.

By nine o’clock, my mind was a blur of details and my feet were killing me—and there was still no sign of Ivanka Hedge. Aunt Yolanda seemed to be making new friends, which didn’t surprise me. Slightly more surprising was the realization that after a second (or maybe a third) beer, Uncle Nestor had actually stopped baring his teeth at people. Maybe things were actually looking up.

After the first hour Miss Frankie started drifting away, leaving me on my own for long stretches at a time. When she wasn’t at my side, she floated from one group of guests to another, greeting old friends with exuberant hugs and kisses and looking interested in what everyone had to say. I tried to follow her lead—minus the physical displays of affection—but I was so far out of my comfort zone, my head felt as if someone had put it in a vise.

Wishing for some ibuprofen, I snagged a fruity Riesling from a passing waiter and sipped gratefully. The wine danced across my tongue and the burst of flavor I experienced as I swallowed made me want more. I drained the glass quickly and contemplated the wisdom of a second. Many of the guests were showing obvious signs of inebriation, and the noise level created by all that music, conversation, and laughter confined in one room had risen to deafening levels as a result. I didn’t want to go overboard with the wine, but a pleasant buzz might ease the ache in my head and even help me relax.

And that
was
the goal, right?

I left my empty glass on a tray and joined the line of guests waiting to place their drink orders. To my relief, the bartenders were fast, and less than ten minutes later I turned back toward the crowd, running a quick glance over the King Cake service station as I did. I hadn’t had a chance to thoroughly check out the setup, but with Miss Frankie otherwise occupied and a free moment of my own, this seemed like the perfect opportunity.

Miss Frankie’s warning to relax rang in my ears as I wound my way through the crowd toward two long tables draped in white and covered with confetti. The largest King Cake we’d made sat on the table amid the decorations, waiting for Musterion’s captain to perform the ritual cake cutting at the stroke of midnight. At the far end of the table, rows of silverware waited beside stacks of napkins that had been arranged in an artistic twist. The rest of the cakes should be in the kitchen, where the kitchen staff would cut and plate them so the waitstaff could deliver them at the appropriate time.

Reassured that everything was in order, I started to turn away. But as my eyes glanced off the stacks of napkins for the second time, I realized that something was wrong. I moved in for a closer look, telling myself the missing Zydeco logo was probably just a trick of the dim lighting. But even when I stood directly over the stack of napkins, I couldn’t make that cartoon alligator standing next to the outline of a wedding cake appear.

I didn’t know whether to be worried or irritated over the omission. I’d spent a substantial chunk of money on those napkins, figuring they’d work as a subtle form of advertising, and Estelle had assured me that she’d talked with the club’s kitchen manager about using them tonight. I knew the box had been in the van with Dwight when he pulled away from Zydeco, so why weren’t they on the table?

I glanced around for Estelle or Dwight, hoping one of them could tell me what had gone wrong. I couldn’t find either in the crowd, so I decided to check with the kitchen manager myself.

I know, I know. I’d promised Miss Frankie that I wouldn’t work, but I couldn’t just ignore the problem. And anyway, how long could it take to swap out the napkins? Five minutes? Ten? Even Miss Frankie couldn’t complain about that.

After checking to make sure she wasn’t watching me, I slipped through the crowd and pushed through the doors I’d seen the waitstaff using all evening. Behind the scenes, the corridors were brightly lit and bustling with the activity that made me feel at home in a way the high-society crowd in the ballroom couldn’t.

I followed a line of waiters bearing empty trays along a short corridor and rode the service elevator to the ground floor, drawing up in front of the kitchen just as a heavyset man backed through a set of swinging doors pulling a cart loaded with silver serving trays full of food for the buffet. He was watching his load so intently he almost flattened me in the process.

I jumped back and put out a hand to keep him from plowing right over me. “Hey! Watch out!”

He shot a look over his shoulder that was steely enough to sharpen knives. He looked harried and irritated, and ready to bite my head off. It was an expression I knew well. One I’d seen on Uncle Nestor’s face many times when he was working. I’m pretty sure others had seen the same look on my face. When he realized that I wasn’t one of his coworkers, he made a visible effort to rein in his temper and even managed a thin smile. “Sorry, ma’am, but you shouldn’t be here. This area is for staff only.”

I smiled back to show there were no hard feelings. “I understand, and I hate interrupting when you’re obviously busy, but there’s a problem with the King Cake serving station. Could you tell me where to find the kitchen manager?”

He released his grip on the cart and straightened slowly. “What kind of problem?”

“The napkins are wrong.”

He looked confused. “Excuse me?”

“The napkins,” I said again. “Someone has put the wrong ones out.”

The irritation he’d wiped away just seconds earlier came back with a vengeance, along with a look that said he considered himself several rungs higher up the ladder than me. “I personally checked that service station earlier. Everything was fine.”

I tried not to squirm under the weight of his superior expression. I wasn’t that frightened little Hispanic girl from the wrong side of town anymore, and I refused to let him make me feel that I was. “I’m not trying to make more work for you,” I said, still determined to play nice. “And I don’t want to hold you up when it’s obvious you’re busy. If you could just tell me where to find the kitchen manager, I’ll take care of it myself.”

He held out a hand, fingers splayed, as if he was trying to avoid touching something nasty. “I
am
the kitchen manager.”

Peachy.

I gripped his cool, limp hand and gave it a firm shake. “Well, then, I guess you’re the man I’m looking for. I’m Rita Lucero, the hostess for tonight’s party. Could you tell me where to find the box of napkins I had delivered this afternoon? They’re embossed with Zydeco’s logo.”

With a put-upon sigh, the manager started pushing the cart toward the service elevator. “I’m sure they were delivered, but the staff set up that serving station using the club’s napkins. That’s our usual practice. You understand. It’s club policy.”

I’m pretty sure my mouth fell open. “Seriously? You have a napkin policy?”

He gave me a tight-lipped smile. “My hands are tied. I’m sure you can use your napkins for some other event.”

Maybe, but that wasn’t the point. I was 95 percent sure he was lying to me because he didn’t want to be bothered, and that just made me angry. Perhaps I should have just let it go, but there was a principle involved. And some pride.

“Obviously there’s been a misunderstanding,” I said, “but I’m sure you and I can clear it up easily.”

The elevator bell dinged softly and the manager gave his cart a nudge, positioning it so I’d have a hard time getting on the elevator. “Not if it means you interfere with the work my staff has done.” The doors swished open and he maneuvered the cart inside. “Look, Ms…. Whatever. If the napkins you’re so worried about were delivered, I’m sure they’re here somewhere. I’ll make sure they’re returned to you when the evening is over. There’s no need for you to worry. Just relax and enjoy the party.” With that he pulled the cart into the elevator behind him, still blocking the door. An instant later, the doors swished closed, leaving me staring at my very angry reflection in the shiny metal.