Arsenic and Old Cake
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
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
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 establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
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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375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
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.”