A Sheetcake Named Desire by Jacklyn Brady

as shocked as if he’d asked her to volunteer in a soup kitchen.
    “If you don’t mind.” He looked at all three of us women in turn. “I know this is bad timing, but since you’re all here together, it would be very helpful to my investigation if you could give me just a few minutes of your time.”
    Miss Frankie nodded. “Anything to help you catch the person who did this.”
    Her strength amazed me, but it didn’t surprise me. She’d raised Philippe on her own after her husband died, and she’d done a pretty good job of it. Sure, he’d had his faults, but he’d been a good guy. One who worked hard and respected women. At least he had when I knew him.
    Yet somewhere along the line, he’d apparently gone off the deep end. He’d started fighting with his friends and dating eye candy. And I couldn’t help wondering how many other things had changed.

Six

    By the time Quinn had composed herself, the sun had shifted so that it painted afternoon shadows with the wisteria in the garden. Soon it would be dark, and I remembered all too well how much worse grief felt at night.
    Miss Frankie stood quickly, her eyes blank. Functioning on autopilot. I knew that feeling, too. “Let me get the tea,” she said. “I’m sure we could all use it.”
    Southern hospitality at its finest, serving refreshments to the folks who’d just shattered your life. I waved her back to her seat. “I’ll get it. Is there anything else you want? Cookies? Cake?” I might not have visited often, but I remembered the drill.
    “I believe there are some ginger cookies in the jar,” Miss Frankie said, sinking back into her chair. “You could bring a few of those if you’d like.”
    Yeah. Those ought to help.
    I turned to leave the room, but Quinn got herself up off the sofa and darted in front of me. “I’ll go. I know where everything is.”
    Sullivan didn’t offer any objection to her leaving, so I shrugged again and turned around. “Suit yourself.”
    She beamed as if she’d won the lottery and bounced from the room, leaving a trail of something flowery in her wake. Shampoo or some expensive designer perfume. Philippe had probably loved it. He’d always been after me to “do something” with myself, but I’d never thought he meant poison injections and plastic inserts.
    “So she’s Philippe’s new girlfriend?” I asked Miss Frankie when Quinn was out of earshot. “Was it serious?”
    Miss Frankie waved a hand in front of her. “Don’t be silly. Quinn was a diversion, nothing more. But don’t tell her that. She’s an emotional little thing, God bless her.”
    A tinny-sounding laugh escaped me before I could stop it. “That’s a bit of an understatement, isn’t it?”
    “She means well.”
    A dozen other Quinn-related questions flickered through my head, but Sullivan pulled his notebook and pen from his pocket, clearly eager to start asking questions. “How long were they together?”
    Miss Frankie gave that a moment’s thought before answering. “I don’t know. A few months, I guess. Philippe didn’t talk about her much in the beginning. I met her for the first time about a month ago.”
    Sullivan looked up from his notes. “Was that unusual?”
    “Not particularly. Philippe and I are close, but he doesn’t tell me every little detail about his life.”
    That wasn’t true, but I didn’t correct her.
    “Yet you seem convinced that he wasn’t serious about her,” Sullivan said.
    “I know for a fact he wasn’t,” Miss Frankie said firmly. “And I’m sure everyone in this room knows why.”
    I hazarded a guess. “Because he was embarrassed?”
    Miss Frankie’s lips actually curved slightly. “No, sugar. Because he was still in love with you.”
    Sullivan glanced my way, but I refused to look at him. I wasn’t sure what he’d see on my face if I did. Did Miss Frankie know something I didn’t, like why Philippe had left that message for me at the hotel?
    “He was not still in love with me,” I