Fat Tuesday Fricassee (19 page)

“We go to see Dylan.” I put a tray of biscuits into the oven and tried to decide what to make for the sweet biscuit bowl filling. “I think Miguel will feel better if he goes, too, don't you?”

“I think he was already planning to go even though I can take care of one punk reporter by myself. I think you'll need more to convince him than that, young'un.”

I took a deep breath. “How about I'm going to meet with Dylan—with or without him.”

Ollie punched one fist into the palm of his other hand. “Now that's what I'm talking about. When do we go?”

I talked Miguel around when he returned with his car stuffed full of fresh produce.

“With all three of us, it can't be too bad, right?” I suggested.

“It could be a disaster,” Miguel said. “But I can see you're determined to go through with it. I think there's less of a chance for trouble with me and Ollie there, too. I wish Saul felt better. We can't have too many backups as far as I'm concerned.”

Miguel was talking to me as I finished baking biscuits. I was only listening with half an ear as I mentally calculated if there were enough sweet and savory fillings for the rest of the day. I thought I was doing a better job deciding how much food we needed after a week, but it was scary each time. I knew it was a lesson in cooking for crowds that I wouldn't forget.

My sweet filling was finally cool. I was making a coconut
custard with a dash of brandy that Ollie had suggested. It was really good. He'd wanted to add mint, too, but I thought that was too much.

“Zoe? Are you listening to me?” Miguel asked. “Your life could depend on making this man think there are more of us than he's going to see at the meeting.”

“I hope not—but I was listening.”

“You're going to have to tell him right away that you have people in the car waiting for you and something at home that will ruin his life if you don't get back safely.”

“Like one of those letters you give your lawyer to give to the newspaper if you die,” Ollie agreed. “I've seen those in the movies.”

“Is that what you're talking about?” I asked Miguel.

“Something like that,” he agreed. “Ollie and I will be right there with you. But if we could make Dylan think there was more than just the three of us, he might think twice about trying anything stupid.”

“I can do that.”

Ollie tasted the garlic soup I had been simmering for Uncle Saul. “This stuff is great! Too bad it's too thin to go into a biscuit bowl. Maybe we could thicken it up.”

“Maybe later.” I transferred the soup to a covered dish. “Right now everything is ready. Let's get back to the Biscuit Bowl. I don't like leaving Delia there by herself too long.”

We piled everything into the car and then made a brief stop at Daddy's apartment. I left the soup with Marvin, the security guard, who promised to take it right up to Uncle Saul.

There was nowhere to park when we got back to the food truck rally. It had become the staging area for a 5K race with about two hundred runners all limbering up in the street. Everyone was dressed in green, gold, and purple. Some wore masks or had feather boas on their shoulders. There were
even some runners with fool's hats on, their bells ringing when they moved their heads.

“We can't get through,” I said. We had so much food, plus drinks and ice, that had to go to the Biscuit Bowl. “I don't know how we're going to get it there.”

An older man with a golf cart came to our rescue. We loaded up his little green gator cart three times. The front of the cart was painted with a gator's face and teeth. The back had a short, stubby tail that swished from side to side when the cart was moving.

“I just like gators.” Frank Curlee grinned when I asked him why he'd painted his cart to be a gator.

I told him about Uncle Saul's albino gator, and he vowed to watch for my uncle's arrival at the rally. “I'd love to have a conversation with him! I had three gators that I kept in my swimming pool for a while. The city said I couldn't keep 'em there anymore. This little cart, and my memories, are all I got left of them.”

It was hard to imagine why anyone wanted to keep alligators. I knew I wouldn't want to. I was always afraid with Crème Brûlée when we visited Uncle Saul's cabin. Alabaster had snapped at him several times. I was pretty sure he'd make a nice snack for her.

I thanked Frank for his help and gave him a coconut custard biscuit bowl. I scribbled Uncle Saul's phone number down. “I'm sure he'd like to talk to you, too. There's nothing he likes to talk about more than food and his gator.”

He bit down hard on the biscuit bowl and smiled like a gator—a toothless one. “This is very good! Why haven't I had this before? You're a culinary genius filling these little biscuit bowls, Zoe!”

“We're right over there in the parking lot.” I laughed. “You can't miss us. We have the big biscuit on top. Usually,
I'm parked in front of police headquarters five days a week. Sometimes I take the Biscuit Bowl out for special events like this one.”

“Police?” He shuddered. “Why in the world would you park there?”

He and Uncle Saul would get along just fine.

“Business is good over there,” I explained. “I have to park somewhere people are going in and out during the day.”

“And whose kin did you say you were?”

“Chase,” I repeated. “My uncle is Saul Chase, and my father is Ted Chase.”

“I know those Chase brothers. I knew their daddy well. He was a good man. Those boys of his were always fussing and feuding. Never saw two brothers who loved each other more, though. You take care, little girl. Keep makin' these biscuit bowls!”

“Thanks. I will!”

Miguel took Delia home while Ollie and I unloaded the food. We were going to be shorthanded with Uncle Saul out sick, but Delia needed the break. It hadn't been all that busy while I'd been gone, but I knew it was tiring just sitting there waiting, too. I didn't expect anyone to be there twenty-four hours a day.

“So what are you gonna say to this man tonight?” Ollie asked as he spooned the thick chowder into the warming trays. “Got any ideas?”

“I don't know. I'm hoping he'll want to do the talking. He's a reporter. He should like to talk, right?” I filled the refrigerated trays with the coconut cream filling. “What do you think I should say to him?”

“Miguel is right—you should play it cool. Don't let him know that you don't know what he knows.”

“What?” I laughed. “How else will I get him to tell me what he knows?”

He waggled his brows, making the tattoo on his head move. “You could use your feminine wiles. He's a man. You're a woman. I mean, he's gonna know right away that you're not Jordan, isn't he? You need another way to approach him. Showing him that you're a woman and making promises you won't keep is the standard way.”

I felt bad that Ollie's experience with women had led him to that conclusion.

“I suppose he'll know right away that I'm not Jordan and that I'm a woman. I'm hoping to convince him that I was Jordan's friend, too. We can talk about Jordan, mourn him some. I don't think I have to seduce him to get him to talk.”

“But why would he spill the beans to you? You're gonna have to convince him—especially if he's afraid for his life.”

“Because he wants to unburden himself? And he wants to talk about Jordan with someone else he thinks knew him, too.”

“Better rethink that. He doesn't want to be unburdened. He wants someone to worm the truth out of him. A sexy, seductive lady, like yourself.”

“You must be talking about someone else!”

He put his hands on my arms. “Zoe, you are one of the sexiest women I've ever known! You're cute and petite. And you're just sexy.
Hot!
”

“Thanks.” My face felt a little flushed. “I wouldn't know where to start using my, er, sex appeal, though.”

“I'll show you.”

He put one hand on his hip and held the other hand in the air as he sauntered through the limited space in the kitchen with his butt swaying.

I barely contained my laughter.

“Why, Dylan”—he raised the pitch of his voice—“you should tell me everything you know about Jordan. I really want to help him . . . and
you
. Give me a chance to make you feel better.”

Ollie bent forward slightly and pushed out his chest.

That was too much. I laughed. I couldn't help it. “Is that how I'm supposed to sound?”

“Well you have more”—he waved to my bosom—“but you get the idea.”

“I don't think I'd be very good at that, but thanks for the suggestion.”

“Don't give up so easy. Girls do it naturally,” Ollie barked in the tone I'd heard him use on the other men in the shelter when they wouldn't listen to him. “Try it, Zoe. You can do it.”

“All right.” I turned around and rolled up my T-shirt under my breasts, tying it tight behind my back. I pushed my black curly hair free of its restraint and turned around with my lips puckered. “Don't you want to tell me all your secrets,
Ollie
?”

I fluttered my lashes and thrust out my breasts.

Ollie stared at me for a moment before he got up from the counter. “That was good. That was very good. I think he'll talk to you if you approach him that way. I would. I mean—I have to go and stock the cooler. Keep practicing. You'll be great.”

The Mobile Carnival Museum highlighted the history of Mardi Gras in Mobile, its true birthplace. It was mainly for tourists, but schoolchildren visited here, too. There probably wasn't a child in the city who couldn't talk to you about designing costumes and constructing floats.

There were also videos of parades and past coronations. The photos in the gallery went back to 1886. Everything anyone needed to know about carnival was located here.

There were two tour buses outside the museum—probably a special event, since I knew the museum had closed much earlier. I could see all the floral decorations through the windows. Women danced by in masks and silk gowns, as did men wearing fancy French costumes from the 1700s. I could hear a small quartet of musicians playing inside. Tables were elaborately decorated with fine china, silver, and leftovers from their champagne supper.

I wondered how this would all go down with a museum full of people. I hoped it wouldn't spook Dylan.

There was light drizzle in the streets after the food truck rally had closed down. It didn't hamper celebrations on the way from the municipal parking lot to the museum. People danced in the rain even when there was no music. Three men played guitars on one corner with a hat to catch coins. Horse-drawn carriages were making the rounds with lovers kissing inside them.

I wished I was doing any of that with Miguel instead of being exhausted and waiting for a man I didn't know to give me information about his dead friend. I started to call the whole thing off several times on the way there, but it had been so hard to talk Miguel into believing it was something that I should do. I couldn't just back out.

Ollie's advice about seducing the information from Dylan wasn't right for me. I would have felt stupid enough if it was only me and Jordan's friend. Ollie and Miguel would be right there, too. I stuck to my belief that Dylan would want someone to talk to about Jordan like a friend. If it didn't happen that way, I didn't think it would happen at all.

“Just remember,” Miguel said as we waited outside the museum, “we're right here with you. Tell him there are other people, too. Don't let him intimidate you.”

“Okay.”

“You can still call this off,” he reminded me.

“I'm fine.”

Ollie hugged me. “Remember to talk sexy, like we practiced today. You'll be great. I almost”—he gulped—“well he won't have a chance.”

“
What?
” Miguel asked with panic in his voice.

“Kidding!” I said, though Ollie didn't like that I sounded as though I might back out. “Quiet! Someone's coming.”

My heart was pounding and my breathing was shallow
as the figure walked toward me. I knew Ollie and Miguel were behind me, but they were in the shadows of the trees and the museum building.

It was someone dressed as Folly, Death's partner during the Mardi Gras revels. He was wearing gold and red, his costume a little like the Renaissance fools that hammed it up for kings and queens.

He was slight, thin, and didn't appear to be much of a threat. His gold mask covered his face. All I could make out were the eyes and mouth behind it.

“You're not Jordan,” he said in a muffled voice. “Are you with the police? Is he really dead?”

“Yes. I'm Zoe Chase. I found him—dressed as Death. He'd been shot. Do you have any idea who would want to hurt him?”

“They said in the paper that he killed himself,” Dylan reminded me. “I knew it wasn't true. That's why I was hoping—” He started to turn away.

I grabbed his arm. “You know what Jordan was working on, Dylan. You were helping him, weren't you?”

“I was. I didn't know what was going on when I told him about the story. I overheard someone at the office talking about a threat to the commissioner. I didn't even know if it was real. I was just looking for someone to take me seriously. I wanted to write about the good stuff, not gardening, you know? I'm sorry I did it now. I didn't mean for Jordan to get hurt.”

“What did you give him, Dylan?”

At that moment the party inside the museum began to let out. At least a hundred people spilled into the street with cars coming to pick them up at the curb. The smell of alcohol was strong, mingling with perfume and cigar smoke.

The rush of people separated us. Dylan backed away as the golden light from inside spilled out into the darkness.

“Dylan!” I called out. “Please talk to me.”

“Meet me at Clawfoot,” he answered. “Twenty minutes. I'll get what I have from my apartment and show you. I'm leaving Mobile. Maybe you can do something with it.”

“Twenty minutes,” I agreed. “I'll be there!”

“What happened?” Miguel asked when I hurried back away from the crowd still spewing out.

“He panicked when everyone came out of the party, but I think he's going to help. He said to meet him at Clawfoot. I'll buy him a few drinks. He said he has information he can give me. This might be it.”

Miguel grumbled, and Ollie shook his head as we got back in the car.

“It's a wild-goose chase, Zoe,” Miguel said. “He doesn't have anything or he would've given it to the police.”

“I agree with Miguel this time,” Ollie muttered. “If he really had something, he would've spoken up before now.”

“He read in the paper that Jordan had killed himself,” I reminded them. “He wasn't even sure if it was true. I think he just needs someone to talk to, maybe even confess to.”

“All right.” Miguel put the Mercedes into the heavy traffic at the museum. “Let's see what he has. At least he didn't sound dangerous.”

“I think he's just a scared young man,” I said. “He's afraid of the police. It has something to do with what he gave Jordan. He wanted to work with him on the story—whatever it was. We're close now. Dylan has the answers. I'm sure of it.”

We drove across town to Clawfoot. I had no idea where it got its name. I'd thought it was a newspaper term. But there was a large mummified animal foot with claws near the door on the inside. Clawfoot.

I waited alone at a table in the noisy, crowded bar while Miguel and Ollie sat close by. I was afraid if we sat together at the table that Dylan might be scared away.

My foot tapped impatiently on the old wood floor as dozens of parade-goers in costume and makeup came in for a drink. I had to fend off several men who wanted to buy me a drink or sit with me. Most of them were too drunk to do more than mumble their request.

Not very attractive.

It was two
A.M.
before we finally gave up. I was worried about Crème Brûlée out in the food truck alone. I knew he couldn't get out or hurt himself, but it still made me nervous. I needed to check on him and maintain some kind of presence at the Biscuit Bowl as we had since we'd started the rally. It was an awkward situation.

I had to face that Dylan wasn't coming to meet me. He was scared and had probably left town when Jordan didn't show up at the museum. I wished I knew his last name so I could find him.

Miguel and I dropped Ollie off at the shelter and then headed back to the food truck. Crème Brûlée was sleeping peacefully in the front seat where I'd left him. He probably hadn't even noticed I was gone. I took him for a short walk and then climbed wearily into the truck with him and Miguel.

Miguel took my hand. “You did what you could, Zoe. That's all you could do.”

“I know. I just feel like I botched it, you know? I wasn't prepared.”

“You should have seduced him?” He smiled.

I laughed at that. “You should've seen Ollie telling me how to do it. I wish I would've recorded it. I could've had a million hits on YouTube.”

“I wish I'd seen that, too,” he agreed. “Good night, Zoe.”

But I couldn't go to sleep. I was so tired I could barely see straight, but my mind kept working over everything Dylan and I had said to each other—admittedly not much.

Then it hit me—he wrote the garden columns for the paper! All I had to do was look that up and I could find him.

I found the
Mobile Times
website on my cell phone. Miguel was asleep. The light didn't seem to bother him. There it was—Garden Column by Dylan Medlin, staff reporter.

It was easy to find his address in the white pages online. I could find him, talk to him. Convince him to give me the information he said he had.

I didn't want to wake Miguel, but it was too far to walk. What if Dylan left town before morning?

I thought about taking Miguel's car keys and sneaking out. Really, I had no idea how sound a sleeper he was. I'd seen him put his keys with his wallet on the dash as he was settling down for what was left of the night. If I could reach them, I could sneak out and find Dylan.

Crème Brûlée was snoring. He rolled restlessly on his side. I reached across him and felt around on the dash for the keys. My hand hit the wallet, and I knew I was going in the right direction.

“Looking for something?” Miguel's voice was husky with sleep.

“I had an idea about Dylan. Sorry I woke you. Can I borrow your car?”

He glanced at the clock on the dash. “Zoe, it's almost four
A.M.
You have to be up in another two hours to make biscuits.”

“I know. And I'm sorry. I'll be back before you know it.”

He sighed. “I'll go with you.”

“You don't trust me to drive your car?”

“I do. I just don't want you to be out there alone.”

“Thanks.” I kissed his cheek.

We were both already dressed—I longed for a shower, but that would have to wait until morning. We crept out of the sleeping food truck rally. This time I brought Crème
Brûlée with me. I put him in his car seat in back and read Dylan's address to Miguel.

There were still people out celebrating. Drums were beating in the night, and fireworks lit up the sky. We passed what looked like a bikini beauty pageant on one corner and a dog show on another.

“This town doesn't sleep during carnival,” I said. “You were right.”

“People barely work. I've had five appointments cancel in the last week.”

“Sometimes I forget what a big deal it is until I'm in the middle of it again.” I grinned as I saw the lights on the bay. “I really love this place.”

“Me, too.” He squeezed my hand. “I love you, too, Zoe.”

I swallowed hard. I wasn't expecting this. We'd never talked about love. Here it was as big as the blue lights that had just sparkled across the sky. We had a good relationship. We enjoyed each other's company. But love—that took me by surprise. I'd hoped that one day he'd be ready to love again. I didn't plan to rush him.

My response was easy, though. “I love you, too, Miguel.” I kissed his lean, shadowed cheek.

We kissed at the next stoplight until it had turned green and then red again. I was smiling like a crazy person as I looked into his eyes.

“Now let's find Dylan,” he said. “I'm looking forward to some scrambled eggs for breakfast this morning. I'm cooking!”

- - - - - - -

It wasn't hard finding Dylan's small apartment. It was close to the newspaper. I could imagine that he walked to work each day. The neighborhood was quiet, which was surprising—no music or other festivities. Maybe it was just that it was so early—or late.

I yawned as we parked the car. I was so tired. I knew I'd be falling over tomorrow.

“None of that,” Miguel said. “We might need more than one pot of coffee this morning.”

“It says 1A,” I read from my cell phone. “That's three over there. At least it's on the ground floor.”

“I see it.”

We walked up to the door. There was a tiny dying azalea in a pot on a garden chair with a red ribbon tied around it. He
really
didn't like gardening.

Miguel quietly knocked. “No point in waking the whole building.” But the door swung open when his hand hit it. “Should we go in?”

“We've come this far.”

He took out a handkerchief and pushed the door open the rest of the way. “Call him so he knows it's you and he's not afraid.”

“Dylan?” I walked into a very plain living room that barely had any signs of personality. It could have been a motel room. “Are you here? It's Zoe Chase, Jordan's friend.”

“Maybe he's already gone.” Miguel looked around. He pushed open the bedroom door and quickly stepped back, grabbing my arm as I would have walked in beside him. “No! Don't go in there, Zoe.”

I caught a glimpse of a chair kicked over beside an unmade bed and caught my breath.

Still in his Folly costume, Dylan was hanging from the ceiling.