Arsenic and Old Cake Read Online Free PDF Page B

apprehension, and I wasn’t sure where it was coming from.

Four
    When I first came to New Orleans, driving into Miss Frankie’s upscale neighborhood with its huge houses and manicured lawns had resurrected a whole slew of childhood insecurities. Having a little money of my own now had chipped away some of their rough edges, but they weren’t completely gone yet. I might have been driving a Mercedes, but deep down I was still that insecure Latina from the wrong side of town.
    As usual, Miss Frankie greeted me with a warm smile and an enthusiastic hug. She’s several inches taller than me and thinner, too. No matter what she eats, she never seems to gain an ounce. I’m not sure how old she is, but I’m guessing somewhere in her early sixties. It’s hard to tell. Her skin is flawless, and her stylist makes sure no untidy root growth would ever reveal her true hair color.
    Tonight, she was wearing a pair of loose-fitting black slacks and a flowing black top covered with birds of paradise that exactly matched the tint of her auburn hair. Her finger- and toenails had recently been mani- and pedicured and polished with the same color. “Come on in,” she urged as she tugged me through the front door. “Have you had supper yet? I was just about to sit down when you called, so I waited. There’s more than plenty for both of us.”
    Miss Frankie is an excellent cook, and I hadn’t eaten since noon. I didn’t put up a fight as she propelled me down the hall and into the kitchen.
    “Bernice was going to join me, but her nephew called at the last minute and asked her to watch the kids. Between you and me, I think she ought to say no from time to time, but you know how she is with those babies.”
    I laughed and dropped my bag on the table by the back stairs as we passed. “You talk tough, but you’d be the same way, and you know it.”
    The minute the words left my mouth, I knew I’d made a mistake, but it was too late to call them back. Miss Frankie’s eyes dulled a little, and her smile grew brittle. Philippe had been her only child, and I knew her heart ached for the grandchildren she’d never have.
    Kicking myself for making such a thoughtless mistake, I slipped an arm around her waist and changed the subject. “Something smells good. What have you been cooking?”
    She closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them, they were smiling again. “Now don’t you think badly of me when you see what we’re having. Promise?”
    “Cross my heart.” We stepped into the kitchen where a large red and white striped container filled with take-out chicken sat in the middle of the table surrounded by plastic tubs of mashed potatoes, gravy, coleslaw, and baked beans.
    My feet stopped moving, and I turned a surprised look on my mother-in-law. Millions of families eat fast food every day, but it’s an unusual choice for Miss Frankie. Her tastes are usually more refined. I, on the other hand, have fond memories of chicken buckets from childhood. Money was tight in Uncle Nestor’s house, and takeout of any kind was a very big deal. My cousins had been all about burgers and fries, but chicken had always been my favorite.
    I inhaled deeply and reached for a biscuit. “You surprise me, Miss Frankie. I didn’t realize you liked the colonel’s finest. Is this something new, or a guilty pleasure you’ve kept secret from me until now?”
    She left me at the table while she gathered plates and silverware and carried them over. “It’s not my preference. I’m partial to my mama’s recipe. But Bernice was in quite a mood this afternoon and she requested it.” She made a face at the bucket. “I didn’t have the heart to say no. Now you and I are stuck with it.”
    I laughed and crossed to the fridge. I might enjoy the chicken and coleslaw occasionally, but I draw the line at butter squeezed out of a plastic tube. I took out Miss Frankie’s elegant butter dish, sliced off a generous pat, slathered it on half a biscuit, and took