Cannellino Caramel Page 3

  “I must get ze money to go back and restore my réputation.” He grabbed his cook’s knife and stabbed at the meat.

  He had a motive to steal my Christmas present, but there was no way I would question him while he was busy stabbing flesh. Instead, I did what every self-respecting PI would do—I fled through the swing door to the main dining room.

  Like me in the kitchen, the blonde waitress, Shawna, was being cornered by a fruitcake. Her back was to the wall, and my brother leaned in menacingly, only instead of a knife his lips were the deadly weapon.

  “I assume you’re asking her about my missing Christmas present, Anthony?”

  He turned. “Uh, what?”

  Shawna dipped under his arm. “I’d better get back to work.”

  I followed her to the wait station, where Rhonda was refilling sugar caddies.

  Shawna shot me a look more toxic than that mussel Chef Gaston had missed. “This area’s off-limits to customers.”

  “I’m not leaving until I find the emerald ring that was stolen from our room. Do you have any idea who took it?”

  She raised her chin.

  “If that’s the way you’re gonna play it, you either show me what’s in your apron, or I call the cops.”

  Her French Maid hooters heaved. She untied the apron and threw it on a condiment table.

  I looked through the two pockets. An order pad, some pens, and a bottle of Visine. I held up the eye drops. “Are you putting these in customers’ food? Or are these for clearing your eyes after you smoke a joint?”

  She snatched the Visine and apron. “We don’t do drugs.”

  I noticed she didn’t answer the part about people’s food, and my already alarmed gut gave a kick.

  Rhonda wiped a caddy with a wet rag. “We get drug-tested.” She glared at the kitchen. “By management.”

  That didn’t mean they weren’t dealing. Restaurants were often fronts for illegal drug operations. “What about my ring?”

  Shawna slammed a container of Slap Ya Mama Cajun seasoning on the table. “I didn’t take it, all right? And thanks for ruining my shot at a date with your brother.”

  “Trust me, honey. There’s nothing any woman could do to ruin their chances with Anthony. But I urge you to try.” I turned to Rhonda.

  “Don’t look at me, lady. I got a kid at home. I can’t get arrested, especially on Christmas Eve.”

  She seemed sincere, but I was convinced that something illicit was going on at Laurent.

  Chef Gaston placed several servings of the seafood gumbo in the pickup window and looked down his Gallic nose at the waitresses. “Here is ze slop, you mongrels.”

  “Hey, I ate that for dinner.” I touched my stomach, waiting for the poisoning pains to start.

  Rhonda jerked a bowl from the window, spilling it on the counter.

  “Animal,” the chef shouted, flinging bits of veal from his mustache. “How many times I tell you? My food is like a bébé. It must be coddled, stroked.”

  Like that veal he’d massacred on the chopping block?

  The chef cradled his knife in his arms and cooed and rocked it like a baby.

  My jaw dropped. The guy was crazier than a fruitcake. He was a full-on nut torte.

  I left the wait station to check on my mother and spotted Shawna talking to Maurice, the host, by the entrance. I pulled back and peered around the corner.

  She palmed something to Maurice. Without a word, he shoved it into his pocket and slipped outside.

  It was either drugs or my ring.

  5

  Inside the restaurant, I crouched beneath a window overlooking North Rampart Street and did what Chef Gaston had accused me of—I spied on the staff.

  Maurice and the valet, a wiry guy with slicked back hair, stood in front of a lime-green Chevy Impala lowrider smoking cigarettes and flashing gang signals. They could have been fooling around, trying to look tough, but I didn’t dare underestimate them. New Orleans had gangs it wasn’t wise to mess with, like the D-Block Boys, the Mid City Killers, and an unnamed group of transvestites who wore fluorescent wigs and showgirl attire.

  Per my father’s instructions, the valet had retrieved our station wagon and parked it behind the lowrider. My dad had been right not to trust him, or Maurice for that matter. They both seemed sketchy, casting furtive glances up and down the street as though they were waiting for something or someone they didn’t entirely trust. I still suspected drugs, but they could have been involved in any number of illegal operations—selling guns, running an escort service, or fencing stolen goods like my ring.

  Part of me wanted to forget the ring and leave Laurent. But if there was ongoing criminal activity at the restaurant, the PI in me couldn’t leave that uninvestigated. And I wasn’t in a hurry to go to church and listen to my nonna pray for me to find a husband. So, I rose from my hiding place and went outside to chat with the men.

  North Rampart was quiet for ten p.m., not even the streetcar was in service. It was a two-way street with two lanes of traffic on either side of neutral ground, a local term for the concrete median that ran down the middle. Despite recent gentrification, North Rampart still looked kind of seedy, and the dim light of the old lampposts added to the dodgy atmosphere.

  I approached Maurice and the valet, whose nametag said Reuben. It was a balmy sixty degrees out, and the air was thick with smoke, cologne, and suspicion. “Evening, fellas.”

  Reuben crossed his arms, and Maurice’s black eyes bore into mine. They were deep set and lined with dark circles, which made them all the more unsettling. He exhaled a puff of smoke and flicked his cigarette butt into the street. Then he reached into his suit coat pocket and pulled out a pack of Pall Malls—a common voodoo offering to Baron Samedi.

  The brand got me thinking. What were the odds that the underworld dealings going on at Laurent were the work of the god of the underworld’s lookalike?

  I needed to find out, but I had to tread carefully. “So, what’re you guys doing for the holiday?”

  Maurice lit a cigarette and stared at the empty street.

  Reuben leaned against the lowrider. “My homeboy, Maurice, be gamblin’ and hittin’ the strip clubs.”

  Your average Christmas Eve. “What about you?”

  “I’m goin’ to a fancy dinner.” He shoved his fists forward to reveal finger tattoos that spelled Taco Bell.

  If that qualified as fancy, I couldn’t fathom typical.

  He grinned, revealing silver teeth. “You wanna come?”

  “Uh, thanks, but my family’s in town.” I pointed at the restaurant, and a pain pierced my side. “Oh, no,” I muttered. “The seafood.”

  Maurice and Reuben exchanged a lidded look—one that said, she’s a problem.

  I’d hit on something they didn’t want me to know. But what? All I’d said was “seafood.”

  Maurice dragged off his cigarette, which he held between his thumb and index finger, and gazed at the street. “Maybe you should go back inside.” His black eyes shot the corners to glare at me. “To your family.”

  “Yeah, man.” Reuben kicked a foot onto the side of the car. “Y’all need to leave. The restaurant’s closed.”

  They were trying to get rid of me before whatever they were waiting for went down. “I’m aware of that, but someone stole my Christmas gift from our private room, and I’m staying put until I get it back.”

  Maurice blew out a cloud. “We don’t know anything about no ring.”

  Apparently they did, because I hadn’t said it was a ring. And I never saw Yvonne leave her office to inform the staff of the theft, as she’d said she would do. “That’s interesting.” I mimicked his side glare. “Because I never told you what the gift was.”

  A click caught my ear, and my eyes darted to the lowrider.

  Reuben had pulled out a switchblade.

  I stood my ground and hid the fear that squeezed my lungs.

  He opened and closed the blade against his thigh, as though it was a game. But t
he three of us knew otherwise, and the implication was clear—I’d get cut if I didn’t go away and keep my mouth shut.

  “I think she’s accusing us of a crime, Maurice.” Reuben’s voice was soft, but sharp.

  “It was a question,” I said, “not an accusation.”

  Maurice stiffened and threw down his cigarette.

  I stepped backwards, but he wasn’t interested in me. He nodded at the street, and Reuben rose from the lowrider and followed his gaze.

  A tricked-out Buick in glossy, candy-apple-red paint crept toward us. It had six wheels—four underneath and two on the trunk—with protruding wire hubcaps known as Swangas.

  Because I’d grown up in Houston, I knew the car was a slab, a local Hip Hop acronym for a Slow, Loud, and Bangin’ vehicle. What I didn’t know was what a slab was doing in New Orleans.

  Reuben tapped Maurice with the hand that held the switchblade. “What do we do, man?”

  “We take care of it.”

  Was a gang war about to start?

  Reuben popped the trunk of the lowrider, possibly to retrieve a weapon, and I leaned forward to see the contents.

  A hand covered my mouth, and an arm encircled my waist.

  I struggled, but my feet left the ground. I landed face-first in the trunk before I had time to kick.

  The lid slammed shut, and everything went black.

  I’d been kidnapped.

  6

  My heart raced like greased lightening as I squirmed onto my back in the pitch-black trunk. I was sure Maurice had dumped me inside, and he hadn’t done it to protect me. Meanwhile, my phone was in my handbag in the private room, so I couldn’t call for help.

  Muffled voices were audible.

  I stayed still and listened.

  There were three, maybe four men. They weren’t shouting, so I ruled out the gang war. A deal had to be in the works that they didn’t want me to see. But what happened afterward? Would they let me go? Or take me to a bayou and feed me to the gators?

  I shuddered and felt around the dark trunk for an emergency release. If the men did plan to kill me, Yvonne might have been involved. She could’ve called or texted Maurice and Reuben from the office and given them the same order she’d given Declan the bartender—get rid of me. Permanently.

  Sweat formed on my face—not from the humidity, but from fear. I couldn’t give in to panic. My life depended on it.

  Dragging sounds came from the street, like crates being pulled over asphalt, and I went still again. The driver of the slab had brought either a substantial shipment of drugs or something larger, maybe illegal arms.

  “No, man.” Reuben was near the lowrider. “Load it in here for now.”

  I waited for the trunk to open or to feel movement in the backseat, but the car remained as motionless as I did.

  After a few minutes, a door or a trunk slammed in the distance, followed by more voices and more slamming. An engine started, and a car sped away.

  The slab must have left.

  Locals believed that the voodoo loa Baron Samedi met the deceased in a top hat and tails to dig their graves. So, I had to get out of the trunk before his lookalike, Maurice, took me to meet him in person. “Help! If anyone is out there, please open the trunk.”

  Silence.

  I pounded on the lid until my fists were numb.

  No one came.

  Where were Reuben and Maurice? Had they left in the slab?

  Raindrops hit the car, lightly at first, and then leaden. Water seeped inside and dripped on my forehead like a torture tactic.

  I gave up the search for an emergency release and pulled my knees to my chest. Kicking off my heels, I placed my feet on the lid and pumped as hard as I could.

  It opened.

  And so did the sky. A bucket’s worth of water dropped on me like that dancer in Flashdance.

  I grabbed my shoes and held the heels like weapons. North Rampart Street was empty except for a guy in fairy wings. But he was trying to punch the raindrops, so I wasn’t worried about him.

  I climbed from the trunk and ran into the restaurant. The kitchen and wait station were empty, and so was Yvonne’s office.

  Had the whole staff fled and left us alone in the place?

  I returned to the private room. Chef Gaston and Shawna, the blonde waitress, stood near my nonna with two plates.

  Anthony observed with interest—the French Maid hooters, not the food.

  My mother looked up from her compact and lowered her tube of lipstick. “Oh, Francesca,” she scolded. “Where have you been? You’ve ruined your dress.”

  I clenched my fists. She acted as though I’d been playing in the rain instead of searching for my ring. “Uh, I’ve been looking for my Christmas present?”

  My dad rose from the table. “Have you sniffed out the culprit?”

  “Not yet, but there was a suspicious incident outside.” I went to my purse and grabbed my phone. It was better to tell the authorities what had happened instead of alarming my family. “I’m calling the police—”

  “Silence.” Chef Gaston shot cook’s knives at me and then nodded to Shawna, who curtseyed awkwardly and leaned forward to deliver the first dish.

  Nonna eyed Anthony and then Luigi, and she took the cloth napkin from her lap and tucked it around the waitress’s chest.

  Shawna’s eyes widened and darted to the chef.

  He pushed her aside and kissed his fingertips. “Zis is a French-Creole specialty, Signora. Veal grillades over jalapeño cheese grits.”

  “Grits-a?” Nonna reeled as though they were maggots. “Why not-a polenta?”

  He removed his toque blanche and used it to fan himself. “Because ze grits are ze traditional accompaniment to ze dish.”

  Nonna’s chin went up, and her mouth went down. “What else-a you got?”

  Shawna delivered the second dish, ravioli in cream sauce.

  “That don’t look-a like ricotta filling to me. And where’s-a the tomato sauce-a?”

  The chef’s cheeks took on the hue of a crisp rosé. “One does not pair fromage with pan-fried lobster and scallops, Signora. Ze sauce is a white wine and lobster stock reduction, which complements ze filling.”

  My nonna pulled a rosary from her handbag.

  His mustache twitched. “What are you doing with zat sing?”

  “Prayin’ someone teach-a you how to cook-a.”

  His face turned bordeaux. “My credentials are impeccable. And we are ze only restaurant in New Orleans with seafood of zis quality.”

  “Too bad-a for the seafood that you don’t-a know how to use it.”

  Chef Gaston made a choking sound and grabbed his neck.

  Nonna curled her lip. “And it smells-a like it’s been outta the fridge since Thanks-a-giving.”

  He spun, rose to the toes of his clogs, and hotfooted it from the room.

  I stared after him—not because he was strangling himself, but because of what he and my nonna had said. I didn’t understand where a low-rent place like Laurent would get better seafood than any other restaurant in the city, or how they could afford it. But if the lobster and scallops smelled fishy, maybe they hadn’t come from New Orleans.

  Were the dragging sounds I’d heard outside crates of shellfish?

  No. That was absurd. New Orleans was right by the Gulf of Mexico, so a despotic French chef like Gaston wouldn’t need to get his seafood from Houston—and from the trunk of a slab, no less.

  On the other hand, after I’d muttered the word seafood, Maurice and Reuben had branded me an enemy and locked me in the lowrider.

  It was time to re-question the chef.

  I returned to the kitchen, but Gaston wasn’t at the stove. The walk-in was ajar, so I figured he was getting more veal ammunition for his war with my nonna. I walked over and peered inside.

  Someone shoved me from behind.

  I catapulted forward and dropped my phone, which skidded across the kitchen, and I fell across some crates.

  The th
ick, metal door slammed shut, and the dungeon sound echoed in my head.

  Once again I was trapped in a dark space with no means of communication. Only this one was a freezer, and the staff was gone.

  Would my family find me? Or would I freeze to death in my wet dress on Christmas?

  7

  “Can someone please open this walk-in? My life isn’t all that great, but I still want to live it.” I slammed the ball of my fist on the door for emphasis and slumped onto the stacked crates. I’d been inside for about fifteen minutes, and my future was already in doubt. It was so cold that I could feel crystals forming on my dress, but I couldn’t see them because the walk-in was darker than the lowrider trunk.

  If only I’d been able to hold on to my phone.

  My mind drifted to Bradley. I’d probably received a text or voicemail from him, telling me he’d arrived in New Orleans.

  “Why, Franki?” I yelled at myself. “Why didn’t you go with him when he invited you to Boston? It wasn’t like you were going to have a Hallmark-Channel holiday with your family—or even a freakin’ greeting-card moment.”

  But I couldn’t dwell on my bad decisions. That would take hours, and I had to find a way out of the walk-in before I succumbed to hypothermia. Apart from an unlikely rescue, my best shot at survival was the overhead light. I hadn’t been able to find the switch on the wall, so I assumed it was outside the freezer. But if I could get the light to come on, I’d be able to see the cooling fan so that I could jam something in it to break the motor. Failing that, my only other option was to use the boxed and crated food to make an igloo.

  Slowly, I climbed onto the crates, and it wasn’t easy because my toes were going numb. I ran my hands along the ceiling. It took a few minutes, but I found the light bulb.

  And a pull-string.

  Illogically, I closed my eyes and tugged.

  Light filled the walk-in. Even though it was dim and yellowish, it was more beautiful than the light of any Christmas tree—and especially mine thanks to Glenda’s decorations.