I wrapped my worries in a creamy crawfish pie baked inside a flaky puff pastry followed by a crisp salad covered with perfectly breaded catfish and pecans roasted to perfection and laced with lemon and butter. I wasn’t sure I could eat another bite, but when the next course arrived, I gave it my best. Miss Frankie suggested that we share the “Cajun Sampler,” which included cool, creamy coleslaw; Cajun meat pies; and a chicken gumbo so perfectly seasoned I could have lived off it for a week.

We ate alligator sausage—more tender than I’d expected—shrimp etouffée, jambalaya, and red beans and rice with andouille. By the time dessert arrived—peaches Foster in a brown sugar–cinnamon sauce served over rich, creamy vanilla-bean ice cream—I’d almost forgotten about the visit to the funeral parlor.

Miss Frankie told me that the restaurant we were dining at had been a famous brothel before what she termed the “War of Northern Aggression.” Bernice raved over the menu—The best gumbo this side of heaven!—and the two of them gossiped about mutual acquaintances—I swear, sugar, that woman could make a preacher cuss. After a while, the conversation hit a lull, and I thought surely they’d simmer down. But Miss Frankie turned up the heat.

“I suppose there’s no sense putting it off any longer, sugar. We’re going to have to decide when we’re going to the house.”

I swallowed wrong, so it took me a few minutes to answer. “The house?”

“Philippe’s house. Your house now. It’s a beautiful place, and I can’t bear the thought of it standing there empty. Abandoned. All of Philippe’s things . . .” Miss Frankie medicated a sob with half a glass of wine. “I’m going to need your help to sort through his clothes and things. I don’t think I can do it on my own.”

The pleasant food buzz I’d picked up over dinner fizzled out with an almost audible pop. Sorting through Philippe’s personal belongings was just about the last thing I wanted to do, but how could I say no?

Besides, I was curious about the house even though I still hadn’t wrapped my head around the facts that, one, Philippe had owned a house at all, and two, that house was technically now mine.

I held back a sigh and gave in to the inevitable. “When do you want to go?”

“Tomorrow? Or the next day. I’d like to take one of Philippe’s suits to the mortuary and find a particular pair of Italian leather loafers he picked up a few months ago. Lord, he loved those shoes.”

I smiled softly. “I’m sure he did.”

She blinked at me, and I watched the reality settle heavily on her once again. She drained her glass of wine, then covered her mouth with her hands and caught back a sob. “I can’t do this, Rita. I just can’t. How am I supposed to just go on?”

I reached across the table and put a hand on her arm. A weak gesture, but it was all I had. “You’re going to take it one day at a time. One minute at a time if that’s what gets you through.”

“I can’t believe—” She glanced around to see if anyone was paying attention to her and lowered her voice just in case. “I can’t believe that this is what it all comes down to. Everything he worked for, everything he loved. It’s all so meaningless.”

“I know it feels overwhelming,” I said. “And worrying about Zydeco must make it even more difficult.” I took a deep breath and put the idea that had been nagging at me since we left the mortuary on the table between us. “You know, there’s no reason to hang on to the bakery if it’s too much. Maybe you should consider letting it go.”

Miss Frankie jerked backward as if I’d slapped her. “Never in a million years!”

Bernice looked at me as if I’d suggested we all run through the restaurant naked. “I can’t believe you said that,” she hissed at me. “You ought to be ashamed.”

“It was just a suggestion,” I assured them both. “I’m still no closer to figuring out who’s been causing the accidents at the bakery, and I can’t stay here forever.”

Miss Frankie’s lips quivered. “But I need you.”

After the episode at the mortuary, I couldn’t argue with that. Tears brimmed in her eyes, and I felt guilty for upsetting her. I reached for my bag, hoping to find a tissue I could offer her. As I lifted it to the table, the strap caught on the back of my chair and the purse jerked out of my hand. I had enough momentum going to make the whole thing flip over onto the floor, spilling keys, wallet, lip gloss, and a dozen other things as it fell.

Could this evening get any worse?

Swearing under my breath, I began gathering my stuff. The ever-helpful Bernice leapt out of her chair and came around to my side of the table to help. “Don’t worry,” I told her. “I’ve got it.”

She scooped up a couple of receipts and my keys and shoved them into my hands. “It’s okay. I’m happy to help.” She reached for something under Miss Frankie’s chair, but instead of handing it to me, she stared at it with her mouth open. “This is the man,” she cried, holding up the business card Dmitri had given me earlier. “The one I told you about the other day.”

Dmitri Wolff was the man Bernice had seen canoodling with Quinn? “Are you sure?”

Miss Frankie’s gaze darted back and forth between us. “What man? What are you talking about?”

Bernice’s excitement faded, and a sheepish look took its place. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I just didn’t want you to worry.”

Miss Frankie’s brows beetled together, forming a little worry ridge over her nose. “Tell me what? What are you talking about?”

“This man. And Philippe’s girlfriend.” Bernice handed her the card. “I’ve seen them together more than once. I told Rita about it this morning.”

Miss Frankie snatched the card out of Bernice’s hand and glanced at it briefly before turning a furious glare on me. “Quinn and Dmitri Wolff? You knew about this and you didn’t tell me?”

I squirmed a little under the force of her anger. “Bernice told me that she thought Quinn was seeing someone else. I didn’t know who until now.”

Miss Frankie turned on her best friend. “You knew she was seeing someone else and you didn’t tell me?”

“Don’t be angry with her,” I said. “She was just trying to keep you from being hurt.” I kept my voice low and my tone soothing. The last thing I wanted was another scene. “And I think it might be best if we talk about this later, don’t you?”

Miss Frankie glanced around as if she’d forgotten where we were. “I think it would be best to discuss it now.” She rose to her feet, her back stiff and her anger palpable. “Please take me home.”

While Bernice kindly offered to take care of the bill, I trailed Miss Frankie to the car, feeling like a child headed for time-out. Once we were all settled in the car, I tried again to explain. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” I said. “I wanted to be sure before I gave you something else to worry about.”

Miss Frankie didn’t even look at me.

“It’s not as if you have any right to be angry,” I went on. “After all, you haven’t been entirely truthful with me either.”

That brought her head around with a snap. “What are you talking about?”

“Dmitri’s offer to buy Zydeco. I had to find out about that from him.”

She looked away again and stared at the road in front of us. “That’s hardly the same thing, Rita. After all, you’ve made it very clear that you don’t intend to stay.”

“But I’m here now,” I argued. “I can’t help you figure out who’s trustworthy and who’s not if I don’t know what’s going on.”

But the damage had been done. We drove the rest of the way in silence. Bernice set off across the lawn, and Miss Frankie disappeared into her room without so much as a good-night. I climbed the stairs, swallowed three ibuprofen tablets, and vowed to put the whole mess out of my mind for a few hours.

After the day I’d had yesterday, all I wanted to do was pull the covers over my head and go back to sleep. Not only did every inch of my body hurt from the incident at the mortuary, but my pride had taken a beating over the past couple of days, as well. The ache in my head and the stiffness in my joints warned that it was going to be a long day.

Another boom of thunder shook the house, and I silenced the alarm on my cell phone. Rolling onto my side, I reached for the window and inched open the curtains so I could watch the storm for a few minutes. But even that small movement made me groan in protest. I felt as if I’d been beaten with a rolling pin—twice.

After a while, I dragged myself out of bed and padded down the hall to the bathroom. I swallowed another dose of pain relievers and hit the shower, then limped back to the guest room and tried to put together an outfit from the meager contents of my suitcase.

I wanted to find Quinn and demand a few answers from her, but it would be smarter to tell Detective Sullivan about the latest development and let him handle it. Besides, Edie had scheduled a meeting for me with J. J. Hightower and his lovely bride for this morning. I had to be across town in an hour to talk about the bill they still refused to pay.

I wanted to look professional and put-together for our meeting, not an easy task considering that I’d packed to stay in New Orleans just a couple of days and nothing I’d brought was particularly businesslike.

After shaking the wrinkles out of my black pants, I dug through the guest-room closet and found a peach-colored sweater-set that I thought might work. The sweater was a bit too tight for me and too warm for summer in Louisiana, but it would have to do.

After making a mental note to find an inexpensive clothing store where I could pick up a few items, like . . . oh, some more underwear and an extra bra, I hurried downstairs. To my surprise, the kitchen was empty. No coffee. No breakfast. No Miss Frankie. Either she was sleeping off yesterday’s bourbon or she was avoiding me. Maybe both.

I hesitated for a few minutes over whether to knock on Miss Frankie’s door or leave her alone, but I decided that it would be irresponsible and rude to walk out the door without at least checking to make sure she was okay.

I could hear her moving around behind her bedroom door, but she made me wait for a while before her muffled voice responded to my knock. “Yes?”

I took a page from her book and tried pretending that yesterday had never happened. “I’m getting ready to leave,” I called out in my most chipper voice. “Is there anything I can do for you before I go?”

“No. Thank you.” Another bit of shuffling reached me, followed by a weak sounding, “I’m fine.”

If she was fine, I was Miss America. “Why don’t I make you some breakfast?” I suggested. “I can have it ready in half an hour at the most.”

“Don’t bother. I don’t have much of an appetite.”

“I have to eat, too,” I said. “And some protein may make you feel better.” Yes, it was a bit snarky of me to throw her own words back at her, but I reasoned that if a good meal had worked for me yesterday, it should work for her today.

She didn’t respond, so I decided to stop pretending and go for the direct approach. “Listen, about last night—”

The door flew open, startling me and revealing Miss Frankie as I’d never seen her before. Her short chestnut hair was spiked from sleep, and her face was bare of makeup. Exhaustion and grief etched deep lines into her face, and she looked every minute of her true age—whatever that was. “If you don’t mind, I would prefer not to discuss yesterday’s unfortunate incident. I have no doubt that sad little man is already spreading rumors to anyone who cares to listen.”

“I’m sure he’s not,” I said, wincing at the memory of the tongue-lashing she’d given poor Sawyer Biggs after we’d tumbled to the floor. I didn’t point out that he didn’t have to resort to rumor. The truth was juicy-enough gossip.

Apparently, she was going to pretend that the rest of the evening had never happened, and I wasn’t going to force the issue. “We never did work on the obituary,” I reminded her. “I can come home early if you’d like, and we can do it this afternoon.”

Her rigid expression softened slightly, and one hand fluttered to her chest like a wounded bird. “Yes. Thank you. That would be nice.” She started to shut the door, but I stopped her.

“Are you feeling all right, Miss Frankie?”

She worked up a thin smile, but the effort seemed to cost her. “I’m a little tired, that’s all. I’ll be better by this afternoon.” She shut the door between us as if the conversation was over. And I guess it was.

I made a mental note to check up on her partway through the day and whipped up a light breakfast for two of scrambled eggs, bacon, and fruit. I ate my share, then rinsed the dishes, loaded them into the dishwasher, and left a note about breakfast for Miss Frankie on the table.

Outside, I fired up the Mercedes, plugging the address Edie had given me for the Hightowers into the GPS. The directions took me to an upscale apartment building overlooking the Mississippi River.

I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror and strolled toward the apartment building—slowly, so I wouldn’t work up a sweat. No such luck. The sweater was sticking to my back by the time I reached the front door, and the hair at the nape of my neck was dripping. So much for making a good impression.

Inside the gleaming glass doors, I stopped to get my bearings and found myself in a lobby that sported a massive fireplace on one wall and a handful of conversation areas with the illusion of privacy thanks to skillful furniture placement and a few towering flower arrangements. Everything—from the artwork on the walls to the rugs scattered across the hardwood floors—made it clear that the residents here weren’t living from paycheck to paycheck. Which meant that the Hightowers certainly ought to be able to pay their bills.

I gave my name to a uniformed doorman who presided over the lobby from behind an antique desk, then rode the elevator to the twelfth floor. J. J. Hightower, a twentysomething kid with spiky sun-bleached hair, opened the door when I knocked. He rolled his eyes over me once, dismissing me as beneath him with the curl of his lip.

I was struck by two things: how young he was and how arrogant he was. I thanked him for agreeing to meet with me and offered him a hand to shake. He turned away, ignoring my hand and speaking over his shoulder as he walked away from me. “Well, come on. Don’t just stand there.”

I followed him into a spacious living room filled with sleek, modern furniture and a breathtaking view of the broad, brown Mississippi.

A young woman with thin, straight hair and a pallid complexion, presumably the new Mrs. Charlotte Hightower, sat on one of two couches that resembled twin slabs in a mortuary. She looked surprised to see someone walking into the room with her husband, and I wondered if he’d neglected to mention that I was coming.

“I don’t know what you think this is going to accomplish,” J. J. grumbled as he sat beside her. “You can’t undo the damage your people did at our wedding.”

Charlotte did a double take. “Are you from Zydeco?”

“Rita Lucero,” I said, and proffered my hand to her before perching on the other slab.

She held out a limp hand for me to shake, and I spotted bones protruding from places I don’t think bones belong. Proof that you can be too thin. “I don’t think we’ve met before.”

“I haven’t been at Zydeco long, but I worked with Philippe for several years in Chicago, so I’m familiar with his business, his style, and his artistry. I’m hoping we can come to an understanding.”

J. J. put an arm around his wife. Protective or possessive? Hard to tell. “That’s highly doubtful. You people destroyed our wedding, didn’t they, darling?”

“It was awful,” Charlotte agreed. “I’ve never seen J. J. that upset.”

“So what do you want to know?” J. J. demanded. “And make it quick. I have a meeting in half an hour.”

I resisted the urge to tell him he could leave. I didn’t want to talk to him anyway. Pegging Charlotte as the more reasonable of the pair, I addressed my statements to her. “Let’s start at the beginning, if you don’t mind. I’d like to make sure I have all the facts straight.” She gave me a little nod, so I went on. “I understand that you were unhappy with your wedding cake. Could you tell me why?”

J. J. barged in before she had a chance to answer. “What? They didn’t tell you?”

“Edie told me that you were concerned about some differences between what you ordered and what we delivered.”

He let out a harsh laugh. “Some differences? Are you freaking kidding me?”

I really didn’t like this guy, but I couldn’t afford to make things worse between him and Zydeco, so I tried again to deal with his wife. “It would help if you could be specific about those differences. I may be able to explain why our cake artists had to change certain elements to maintain the integrity of the cake.”

Charlotte looked as if she wanted to speak, but J. J. gave her a look that changed her mind. No question about who called the shots in this marriage. “We didn’t get the cake we ordered,” he snarled. “Is that specific enough? And I’m not paying you people another dime. You got it now? Or is that too complicated for you?”

There aren’t many things that upset me faster than being treated like I’m stupid. I could feel my temper rising, but I managed to keep a grip on it. “I understand what you’re saying, Mr. Hightower, but I’m confused. I’ve looked over the invoice and the photographs the staff took before delivery. There’s no discrepancy that I can see.” I held out a copy of each for them to look at. “You ordered a three-tier chocolate cake with white buttercream frosting and sunflowers—”

J. J. snatched the copies from my hand and studied them for all of about ten seconds. “What the hell is this?” he demanded, as he shoved them back at me. “Some kind of joke? Or are you people trying to scam us?”

“I can assure you—” I began.

“I don’t want your assurances. I want restitution. You didn’t give us what we ordered, and you ruined our wedding. And you have the nerve to ask me for money? I don’t think so, sweetheart.”

I clenched my teeth and tried to remain calm, at least on the outside. This kid needed a few lessons in manners. Or a punch in the face. Or both.

I took a steadying breath and reminded myself why I was here: to calm them down, find a resolution to the dispute, and salvage Zydeco’s reputation.

“Those are copies of our records,” I said when I trusted myself to speak again. “The original order you placed and photos of the cake just before delivery. As you can see, there are no differences.”

J. J. gave the invoice another cursory glance. “Oh yeah. I can see that. But that’s not what we ordered.” He opened a file folder lying on the glass coffee table between us and thrust a computerized receipt at me. “It was supposed to be five tiers. White cake covered with white icing and then a bunch of orchids made out of . . . whatchamacallit . . . edible stuff.”

Stunned speechless, I studied the receipt he’d given me. Sure enough, the invoice called for a five-tier white cake. White fondant. Lacy texture on one tier. Sugar beadwork on another. And gum-paste orchids—dozens of them. The kind Philippe had perfected while we were married. Most importantly, not a sunflower in sight.

Huge difference.

“A cascade of orchids,” Charlotte said, pulling my attention away from the second invoice. “It was supposed to be light and elegant, and it was supposed to match my colors. Lavender and silver and white. Two of the tiers were supposed to match the beading and stitching on my dress. Instead, I got that.” Her lip quivered when she finished speaking, and tears brimmed in her eyes.

Now I wished she hadn’t spoken. Those tears were far more convincing than her husband’s anger. “How is this possible?” I said, more to myself than to them.

J. J. answered me anyway. “It’s obvious what happened. Y’all messed up, big time, and now y’all are trying to cover your asses.”

“That’s not true,” I assured him. “Nobody is trying to cover anything. I don’t know how this happened, but I’ll do my best to find out.”

“Why bother?” J. J. tossed the receipt onto the coffee table and sat back. “It’s not going to make one damn bit of difference. I’m not paying for your screwup.”

“It’s not just the cake, anyway,” Charlotte said softly. “We might have been willing to work with you on that. It’s what happened at the wedding that I can’t forget.”

I lowered the invoice to my lap and asked, “What happened at the wedding?”

“The fight,” Charlotte said, watching my reaction as if that should be clue enough.

I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air-conditioning vent overhead. “What fight?”

“Your boss,” J. J. said. “The guy who died. He tried to deck me in the middle of the reception.”

“Philippe?”

“I guess so. I told him that cake wasn’t what we ordered, and he went off on me. Yelling. Threatening. The guy was a complete jerk.”

I had some trouble taking that in. “At your wedding reception?” In front of potential customers? That was so not like Philippe.

“In front of three hundred and fifty guests.”

My morning coffee churned in my stomach as I tried to make sense of what he was saying. “I’m sure there was some reasonable explanation for his behavior,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure at all.

“So now what?” J. J. asked with a smirk. “How are you going to make that go away?”

I tried not to let my panic show. “Let me figure out how the mistake was made on the cake,” I suggested. “Then I’ll try to find a resolution that will make us all happy.”

“Good luck with that.” J. J. got to his feet and stared down at me, clearly ready for me to leave. “We’re through here,” he said, grabbing his file folder and holding on as if it held the secrets of the universe. “Don’t bother contacting me again. I came home from the honeymoon ready to file charges against your boss for assault. Can’t do that now, but you’ll be hearing from my attorney.” He surged out of the room still clutching that file folder and leaving his wife to make sure I didn’t pocket the family silver on my way out.

I held my head high, trying not to look beaten as I followed Charlotte to the front door. I stopped on the threshold and tried once more to get through to her. “Your husband is clearly upset, but there’s no reason to make this worse. Give me a couple of days to figure out what happened at our end and come up with a resolution.”

She shook her head and her lips narrowed so far they almost disappeared in her face. “It’s not up to me.”

“But you can talk to him. You can convince him to give me a chance to fix this.”

“Fix it?” She opened the front door to shoo me outside. “I don’t know how you can do that unless you can turn back the clock. But it’s not up to me.”

My spirits sank to a new low, but I couldn’t give up yet. “This is a difficult time for everyone at Zydeco, and it may take me a little while to get to the bottom of this. Please. Can you talk to your husband and ask him to be patient for just another day or two?”

She shot a glance over one bony shoulder and dragged it back to me reluctantly. “I don’t think it would do any good. J. J. is used to getting what he wants.”

Including a bride with no backbone, I guess. She shuffled me out the door and shut it behind me, and I started toward the elevator weighed down by regret. I had no doubt that the saboteur had struck again, but that wasn’t what worried me most. I’d blown it. Instead of coming away with a resolution, I’d just made the situation worse. Maybe Ox was right about me. Maybe putting me in charge of Zydeco—even for a few days—was the wrong decision to make.