Renier, why don’t you tell me what happened this morning?” I glanced up from the table in the conference room above Zydeco’s kitchen and looked toward the door, fully expecting Miss Frankie, Philippe’s mother, to be standing there. “Mrs. Renier?” I looked back at the owner of the voice, realizing slowly that the scowling police detective was talking to me. He was a large man. Fit, not fat. His light brown hair was buzzed short, making him look like someone who meant business. He leaned forward, a pair of muscular forearms resting on the polished tabletop, watching me intently as he waited for my answer. “It’s Ms. Lucero,” I said, trying to shake off the mental fog that had settled in as soon as I had finished repairing the paddle-wheel cake. I’d had to cut out the whole midsection of the cake, stack and carve a replacement section. While the staff worked on creating new detail work out of fondant and gum paste, I’d given the new stack a quick crumb coat, then iced it with buttercream and covered it all with fondant.
