Two seconds later, guilt hit me like a rogue wave. What kind of person was I, scoping out the hot bartender while at a memorial for my ex-husband? Really!

I shook myself and focused on getting to Ox. The bar was lined with people ordering drinks the waitresses didn’t have time to deliver, which kept the bartenders racing to make everyone happy. On one side of Ox, a woman in shorts and a tank top flirted outrageously with the bartenders. On the other, a sour-faced man of about forty sucked down one beer and belched as he ordered another. The woman moved away first, and I slid onto the stool she’d been blocking.

Ox didn’t look up, but I could tell he knew I was there. I decided to give him some space, which he used to ignore me for a few minutes. Rude and very un-Ox-like, but I didn’t let that deter me.

While I waited for a bartender, I breathed in the intoxicating scent of homemade jambalaya and tapped my fingers on the bar in time to the music. I’ve never been a fan of the accordion, but the energetic beat and lilting melodies brought back fond memories of Philippe and wore down my resistance.

After a while, Ox cut a glance at me and growled, “What do you want?”

The bitter anger in his voice put my bravado to the test. I scanned the surrounding area for sharp knives and hated myself for doing it at the same time. I told myself not to let him intimidate me. This was Ox. My friend. “What do you think I want?” I snapped. “You were a jerk to me today. You walked out on the bakery. What’s going on with you?”

The belcher leaned up to look at me. I put him at around forty. Shaggy haired with a leathery face he hadn’t shaved in a few days. Probably wrestled alligators in his spare time. “Hey, little lady,” he snarled. “Why don’t you leave the guy alone?”

Little lady? Was he serious? I leaned up to glare back at him. “Hey, jerk,” I said, matching his tone exactly. “Why don’t you butt out? This doesn’t concern you.”

The band switched to another fast-paced song, and in the lull I heard Ox say, “It’s all right. She’s a friend.”

The jerk took a long pull on the bottle he held and reluctantly removed his bulbous nose from our conversation.

Slowly, Ox turned to me, giving me a look that was far from friendly in my opinion. “I’m surprised, Rita. Do you really have to ask what’s bothering me?”

I tried to act as if a giant bubble of animosity wasn’t sucking the oxygen from the space between us. “I kind of picked up on the fact that you think you should be running Zydeco. You were pretty subtle about it, though. I’m not sure anybody else got it.”

My effort to inject a little humor into the conversation fell flat. Ox scowled at me from beneath his thick black eyebrows. “You think this is funny?”

The half smile I’d been wearing slid from my face. “No. I don’t.”

The alligator wrestler muttered something I couldn’t make out. Before I could politely offer another suggestion that he mind his own business, he turned his attention to the harried cocktail waitress I’d noticed earlier. Fine with me. Maybe she could keep him occupied.

“I’m just confused,” I said to Ox. “This isn’t like you. What’s going on?”

“What’s not like me? Being pissed that Philippe sold me out? That Miss Frankie is handing you the keys to Zydeco when they should be mine?”

“She’s handing me the keys temporarily,” I reminded him. “I’ll be here a few days at most. But while we’re on that subject, what the hell was that crack you made about the business imploding if I’m running things?”

He looked away. “This isn’t your deal, Rita. Zydeco was mine and Philippe’s. I was on the fast-track to partnership. Then, all of a sudden, I’m lower than dirt on a snake’s belly.”

“I can’t believe that,” I said. “Philippe wouldn’t turn on you like that. Maybe you misunderstood what he was doing.”

He lifted the bottle to his lips, but stopped short of drinking. “There was no misunderstanding. Believe me.”

“Good grief, Ox! No wonder the police are calling you a person of interest in the murder. You’re making yourself sound guilty as hell.”

He reared back as if I’d sucker punched him. “You think I killed Philippe?”

I shook my head and scooted my stool closer so we wouldn’t have to yell at each other. “No, I don’t. But I’m definitely one of a very small minority. Look, this thing with me and Zydeco? It’s not permanent. If that’s what your arrangement with Philippe was, I’m sure Miss Frankie will honor it. She’s just freaked out right now, you know? Give her a few days. I think I can manage to keep Zydeco afloat that long.”

He snorted a laugh and finally took a drink, but he didn’t say anything.

I took the laugh as a hopeful sign. “So what’s going on at Zydeco? What were you and Philippe fighting over yesterday?”

Ox lowered the bottle to the bar and shrugged. “It’s complicated.”

I was losing patience with his evasive answers. “So tell me about it. What did he do to make you that angry?”

He picked at the bottle’s label for a moment. “What makes you think I’m the one who started it?”

I stared at him, shocked by the implication. “Philippe started the fight?”

With the cocktail waitress gone again, the alligator wrestler turned toward me and muttered something that sounded like “couldn’t put the fish dime.”

I ignored that helpful remark and silently willed him to find someone else to annoy. “Why?” I asked Ox. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything, but he wouldn’t believe that.”

“Okay, then, what did he think you did? Come on, Ox, talk to me.”

He gave me a long look out of the corner of his eye. “Why, Rita? What would be the point?”

“The point,” I said, “would be to convince the police you’re innocent and then help me convince Miss Frankie that you should be in charge at Zydeco. Isn’t that what you want?”

He shifted in his chair so he could look at me straight on. “You really think you can do that?”

“I think I have a shot at it, but only if you’ll quit acting like such a jerk.”

“Jerk,” the alligator wrestler agreed. He leaned up and caught my eye so he could wink at me. “Total jerk.”

Yeah. Thanks. “So what did you and Philippe fight about?” I asked for what felt like the millionth time.

“What else?” Ox said. “Zydeco.”

I rolled my eyes in exasperation and looked around for one of the bartenders so I could take the edge off my increasingly irritated mood. No such luck. They were all helping other customers. “Come on, Ox.”

He shook his head and took a long pull on his beer. “It was no big deal.”

“You guys fought. Philippe was found dead just a few minutes later,” I reminded him as gently as I could. “A lot of people might think it was a big deal, including the police.”

Ox smirked. “I didn’t do anything wrong. The police can’t prove I did. As for them?” He gestured toward the staff’s table. “What do I care what they think? They’ve already shown me their true colors.” He slid from his bar stool, as if he intended to walk away.

I wasn’t finished with him yet, so I grabbed his arm. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Miss Frankie has asked me to figure out what’s going on at Zydeco, and I intend to do that. So what do you know about the accidents that have been happening around the bakery?”

The smirk on his lips evaporated. “I know that somebody’s been causing trouble. Why?”

“Who do you think is behind it?”

Ox’s smile turned nasty, and he slapped a bill on the bar. “You haven’t figured it out yet? Ask any one of the crew. They’ll tell you that Philippe was convinced I did it. And if Philippe believed that, you can bet Miss Frankie does, too.” He looked as if he wanted to say something else but changed his mind. “This was a mistake,” he growled. “I never should have come here.” And before I could stop him, he pushed through the crowd, leaving me gaping after him like a fish on land.

As Ox walked away, the alligator wrestler sent me a knowing look. “That guy was a real son of a bitch.”

“Ox is under a lot of pressure,” I said automatically. I watched him disappear through the front door and wondered if I’d made the right decision to let him go. As if I could have stopped him.

“I’m not talking about Ox,” my new friend said. “I’m talking about the other one.”

The air left my lungs in a whoosh. I could only stare as I tried to figure out if I’d understood him correctly. “What other one?”

He waved an arm to encompass the crowd and the bar, and the stench of body odor hit me in the face. Charming. “I’m talking about Pretty Boy. The one all this bullshit is for.”

“Philippe?” Of course that’s who he meant. Who else could it be? “You think he was a jerk?”

Alligator man lifted one shoulder. “Like I says, couldn’t push the fish dime that son of a bitch started trouble.”

This time, I tried translating his heavily accented mumble and finally realized he was saying, “Wouldn’t be the first time . . .” but Philippe had never been the type to start trouble.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked, but a young man staggered between us and leaned heavily on the bar for support, diverting the alligator wrestler’s attention away from me.

The older man belched and elbowed the kid beside me. “You seen my old lady? I need some money.”

“Wait!” I tried to use my own elbow to get around the kid, but he wasn’t moving. “Mister! Wait! What did you mean by that?”

If he heard me, he pretended not to. I slid from my stool, determined to continue our conversation. Before I could move, Isabeau bounced into the space between us with a swish of blonde hair. Her big blue eyes were wide open and brimming with worry.

“Got a minute?” she asked me.

“Actually, no. I just need to talk to—” To my dismay, I spotted the alligator wrestler moving away from the bar. “Wait!” I shouted, but my voice was swallowed by the noise all around us.

“Please, Rita? It’s important,” Isabeau continued.

The alligator wrestler stopped to say something to the cocktail waitress. She scowled but pulled a couple of bills from her pocket and passed them over.

In spite of Isabeau’s obvious impatience, I considered going after him, but what would I say? What if he was a knife-wielding murderer? Did I really want to follow him into a dark alley?

Letting the rational side of my brain take over, I sank back onto the stool and tried again to catch the attention of a bartender. No sense being too rational. Isabeau tapped me on the shoulder.

“Seriously, Rita? I need your help.”

With a sigh, I turned back to her. “Sure. What’s up?”

“I saw you talking to Ox. Did he tell you anything?”

The question wasn’t what I’d been expecting. I gave up on the bartenders and took a closer look at her. “About what?”

“Anything.” She inched closer and shouted in my ear. “I’m worried about him. I was hoping he’d talk to you. He sure isn’t talking to me.”

Her blue eyes were clouded and I saw something in them that sparked a realization. “Are you and Ox . . . a thing?”

Blushing like a schoolgirl, Isabeau swept that pale-blonde lock of hair from her shoulder and nodded miserably. “Yeah, but we haven’t said anything to the rest of the crew, so keep it under wraps for now, okay?”

I had news for her. Shouting it to me in a crowded bar was hardly the way to keep their relationship secret. At least now I understood why she was so eager to defend him. “Why don’t you want the others to know?”

Isabeau stared at me as if I’d lost my mind. “It’s not that. It’s just that the age difference and everything . . . I mean, why rock the boat before we know whether it’s going to last?”

I wondered whose idea that was but decided not to ask. A woman holding two daiquiris turned away, and Isabeau claimed the bar stool Ox had been sitting on. “So did he? Talk to you, I mean?”

I hesitated over my answer. She seemed genuinely worried, and I hadn’t picked up any weird vibes from her. Ox hadn’t said anything useful, but she might be able to answer a few questions for me. No telling what she’d learned from pillow talk.

I shook my head. “He didn’t say much. He’s in a foul mood, that’s for sure. Do you know what went wrong between him and Philippe?”

“Me?” She squeaked a little and one hand flew to her chest.

“Did Ox confide in you?”

She glanced over both shoulders to make sure nobody was paying attention, then leaned in close. “Ox never said anything, but if you want my opinion, I think it’s her.”

“Her who?”

“You know . . . Quinn.”

My heart gave a little skip. “You think she was responsible for what happened between Philippe and Ox?”

Isabeau made a face. “Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t have any proof. But things didn’t start going bad between them until she came on the scene.”

She had my full attention now. “You think Quinn was intentionally stirring up trouble between them?”

“Intentionally?” Isabeau shook her head thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t go that far, but Philippe was so wrapped up in her, he couldn’t see anything else.”

My breath caught, and a sharp pain shot through my chest to hear about Philippe’s infatuation, but it only lasted a second. Was I surprised? Not really. Disappointed? A little. Knowing that he’d left me and taken up with someone like Quinn was a blow to my ego. I told myself I’d have felt better if he’d traded up, picked someone more intelligent or more talented than me. Or if I’d found out he was gay. Okay, maybe not. But knowing that he’d lowered his standards for someone like Quinn was downright insulting.

“He didn’t do it,” Isabeau said, jerking me back to the moment. I must have looked blank because she clarified. “Ox. He didn’t kill Philippe, you know.”

“I know,” I assured her. At the moment, my money was on Dmitri Wolff. Or Quinn. I wouldn’t put anything past her. I was also curious to know just why the alligator wrestler seemed so hostile toward Philippe. Was it just the alcohol talking, or was there something more sinister afoot?

“But Ox is so stubborn,” Isabeau said, dragging my attention back to our conversation. “He’s making things worse for himself, not better.”

I nodded agreement. “You need to talk him into telling the police what happened between him and Philippe.”

Isabeau laughed, but she wasn’t amused. “Are you kidding? The mood he’s in, I couldn’t talk him into brushing his teeth. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

“Why me?”

“Because Ox has told me about you, about how you and he and Philippe were such good friends. About how you were always the smart one.” Isabeau gripped my hands and squeezed. “Please, Rita. He’s going to end up in prison if he’s not careful. Can’t you talk to him again? Make him tell you what happened that morning.”

I tried to pry my hands away from hers, but she wouldn’t let go. “Weren’t you paying attention in the meeting this morning?” I said. “He’s not exactly thrilled with me right now.”

“He’s angry and hurt,” she said, “but he’ll listen to you. I know he will.”

The rational side of my brain told me to just say no. But Isabeau looked so worried I had trouble getting the word out. I could hear Aunt Yolanda warning me to keep my nose out of other people’s business, but I ignored her just as I always had. I wanted to help Ox, and I was really curious about what had come between these two men who’d once been so close.

And I really wanted to know who had killed Philippe.

“I’ll try,” I told Isabeau, “but I’m not making any promises.”

Tears shimmered in her eyes. “Oh, thank you! If I can ever help you with anything, just let me know.”

“You could start by letting go of my hands.”

She let out a self-conscious laugh and loosened her grip. “I’m sorry. I’m just . . . Well, you know.”

Actually, I think I did.

She lifted her hand, and two bartenders made a beeline for our section of the bar. There were a lot of things about New Orleans that made me feel oddly out of place, but some things are the same wherever you go: if you’re twenty-two, blonde, and curvy, the world’s yours for the asking. Add ten years, mousy-brown hair, and twenty pounds, and you can wait all night for someone to notice you.

I looked around the rest of the bar, and as I did, my gaze lit on an unexpected face. Unlike me, Detective Sullivan seemed right at home inside the bar. I didn’t know why he’d showed up for Philippe’s memorial, but I was pretty sure he wasn’t here as a mourner.

I didn’t object to him doing his job, but I didn’t want him ruining the memorial for Philippe’s friends who weren’t guilty of murder.

It felt like it took forever to work my way through that raucous crowd. A few more people had drifted onto the dance floor, but most were gathered at tables, huddled deep in conversations I couldn’t make out over the music.

When I finally drew up to Detective Sullivan, he was leaning against the wall by the front door, arms folded, one leg crossed over the other in a pose I was beginning to recognize. He greeted me with a jerk of his chin and a lazily drawled, “Evenin’, Miss Rita.”

“Good evening, Detective. What brings you here? Following a suspect, or looking for one?”

He uncrossed his feet and straightened slightly. “Maybe a little of both. How’s it going so far?”

I flicked a glance at the chaos behind me. “Loud. Other than that, I’m not sure.”

“How’s your mother-in-law?”

I probably should have argued with him over technicalities, but I was too tired. Besides, it was nice of him to ask. “Miss Frankie is hanging in there; thanks for asking. How’s the investigation going?”

He shrugged and pushed away from the wall with one shoulder. “Slow. There’s not a lot of physical evidence to go on, and nobody on your staff is interested in talking with us.”

Disappointment landed hard inside my chest. “There’s no physical evidence?”

He stepped out of the way to let a heavyset man come inside. “Seems odd, doesn’t it?” he said as the man moved past us. “It’s almost enough to make me officially rule out a crime of passion.”

“You really think someone planned to kill Philippe?”

“It’s looking more and more that way.”

Before I could stop myself, I glanced at Zydeco’s table and found everyone at it watching me and Detective Sullivan. Edie had joined the others while I wasn’t looking, and she glared at me as if I’d turned traitor.

The band ended one song and started another, and more people came inside, bringing with them a blast of hot, moist air from outside. How did people live like this? All this warm, moist air made me feel like a mousse in a bain-marie. I swiped perspiration from the back of my neck, but the noise, the people, and the music were beginning to wear on me. A dull throb started up in the back of my head. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think it was anyone from Zydeco,” I told Sullivan. “In fact, I may have a lead for you. But I don’t want to talk about it here.” Just in case Dmitri Wolff had spies at the bar.

The smile slid from Sullivan’s face. “You know something?”

I shook my head quickly. “I don’t know anything, but there is something I’d like to talk to you about. It may or may not mean anything.” I stole another look at my temporary comrades and asked, “Could we talk tomorrow? I really don’t want to ruin this for Philippe’s friends.”

Sullivan gave that some thought, but finally dipped his head. “You want me to come to you, or do you want to talk at the station?”

I didn’t like either option. I didn’t want to talk at Zydeco, and I wasn’t excited about the idea of going down to the station. “Can we meet at Miss Frankie’s? Say, eight o’clock?”

“You got it.” Sullivan jerked his chin toward the table. “Looks like your friends are wondering what you’re doing.” Which I figured was copspeak for, “We’re through here.”

“Right. Tomorrow.” I inched my way back to the bar. I expected Sullivan to leave, but as I caught my reflection in that massive mirror, I saw him claim a recently vacated table, where the last group’s empty glasses hadn’t yet been cleared away.

I dragged my eyes away from him and finally found a narrow opening in the crowd in front of the bar. Hot Cajun slid a beer onto a coaster, took an order from the cocktail waitress, and then made his way toward me. He settled a frankly assessing look on my face. “What’ll it be?”

I tried not to let his look make me self-conscious, but I felt myself shifting uncomfortably under its weight. “I’m not sure. What do you suggest?”

He shrugged and flicked at the lock of hair that insisted on drooping over one eye. “That depends. You a beer drinker, or are you interested in something stronger?”

“I’m not really a drinker at all, but tonight seems to call for something.”

“Ah. You’re here for the memorial.”

I nodded.

“You were a friend?”

“You could say that. Philippe was my ex-husband.”

The bartender pulled back slightly. “You’re Rita?”

Okay, that was awkward. “He told you about me?”

“Not exactly.” He offered me a hand to shake. “Gabriel Broussard.”

His hand was warm and hard, his handshake as bold as the look in his eye. “You were a friend of Philippe’s?” I asked.

“Not exactly. So, about that drink . . .”

“Can you make a blended margarita?”

“The best in New Orleans. Salt?”

“Of course. Do you have any of that delicious-smelling jambalaya left?”

“Sorry. We ran out about ten minutes ago.”

She who hesitates, starves. “Another time, maybe.” A couple of young women abandoned their bar stools, and I hitched myself onto the closest one to wait. The band stopped playing, and in the abrupt silence, several conversations stilled. The band’s lead singer, an aging man with a shaggy Fu Manchu moustache and long graying hair pulled back in a ponytail, shifted his guitar so that it hung at his side. “Y’all know why we’re here,” he said, his voice deep and surprisingly gruff. “Philippe was a good friend. A great guy. The kind of guy who’d give you the shirt off his back and buy you a beer to go with it.”

Murmurs of agreement rose up from all around the bar, and that lump that was never far away these days landed in my throat again.

“It’s a helluva thing that’s happened, and we’re holdin’ Philippe’s mama and all y’all in our hearts.” Fu Manchu mopped at his eyes with his sleeve and cleared his throat a couple of times. “The mike’s yours if anybody wants to say a few words.”

A handful of people rushed to the stage, and I wondered if the staff would expect me to say something. I wanted to honor Philippe in some way, but in front of two hundred strangers?

I’d rather crumb coat a thirty-tier cake with nothing but a butter knife.