Fat Tuesday Fricassee (7 page)

He scanned the café, and I became suspicious. As soon as he saw a man seated at the back of the eatery, away from the windows, he immediately set us in motion to join him.

I'd never seen the man before. He was older, like Chef Art, probably in his seventies. His hair was a full white mop on his head. He had a large ruddy face below it.

He was a big man with a broad chest and shoulders. The shoulders were slightly stooped with age, but he got to his feet easily as we got near the table.

“You must be Zoe Chase.” The man held out his hand to me. “Anabelle and Ted's daughter, yes?”

“Yes. And you are?”

“This is Tucker Phillips.” Chef Art introduced him as he pulled out a chair for me.

The last name couldn't be a coincidence. The dead reporter's name was Jordan Phillips. What was that old saying—out of the frying pan and into the fire?

I hesitated to sit opposite Tucker Phillips. Chef Art picked up on my reluctance. “That's right, my dear. This is Jordan Phillips's grandfather. Sit down, please. You make me feel short.”

I took Tucker Phillips's hand and squeezed lightly before I sat, carefully concealing Crème Brûlée under the large white linen tablecloth. I couldn't believe Chef Art had his fingers in this pie, too. “I'm so sorry for your loss, Mr. Phillips.”

Tucker and Chef Art sat, too. A waitress brought us menus, but Chef Art ordered coffee and beignets for all of us. “You're gonna love these, Zoe,” he promised with a grin. “Best in the city.”

I smiled at him and uneasily glanced across the table into Tucker's blue eyes. “Why am I here?”

“That's something I love about Zoe,” Chef Art said to Tucker. “She always gets right to the heart of the matter. The girl is
sharp
.”

“My son could do with a few more reporters like that. Any interest in working for the newspaper, Miss Chase?” Tucker smiled as he said it, but I could sense the terrible sadness and heartbreak behind his words.

“No, thanks. I'm a food person. I own the Biscuit Bowl food truck—deep-fried Southern biscuits with a dip in the middle that I fill with sweet and savory foods. I'm hoping to make my mark one day with a sexy new restaurant. The same way Chef Art and my uncle did.”

“Saul Chase?” Tucker nodded. “I remember his old place. Excellent food and good prices. Whatever happened to him? Did he finally join Ted in the banking business?”

“No. He lives in the swamp out near Farmington. He's happy there. He doesn't miss the city life. He's in town for Mardi Gras—or did you know that already?”

Our coffee and beignets arrived. There was an awkward moment as everyone added condiments to their coffee. I watched the cream swirl in my cup and wondered where this conversation was leading.

Crème Brûlée was getting bored, but he got quiet when I fed him a piece of my beignet.

Chef Art laughed. “Zoe is a little suspicious sometimes, Tucker. Eat up, you two. These beignets shouldn't be wasted.”

I sipped my coffee, not prepared to eat the delicious sugary donuts until I knew what was going on. “I think I have good reason to be suspicious. Let's get to it, shall we? You want to talk about Jordan's death.”

Tucker shuddered and put a big hand across his eyes.

I felt terrible that I'd caused him more pain with my careless words. “I'm so sorry, but I've had a rough day. Part of that has been dealing with my parents and their fears about what will happen if I talk about Jordan.”

Chef Art patted Tucker's shoulder and then started eating a beignet.

“I apologize.” Tucker got himself together as he impatiently wiped the tears from his eyes. “I'm an old man, Miss Chase, with very few things that I still enjoy in life. My grandson was everything to me. His death has been like dying myself.”

I reached my hand across the table to him. “I didn't know him, but your loss is terrible.”

“Thank you. I thought I had this under control or I wouldn't have faced you this way.”

Chef Art slurped his coffee. “Don't worry about it, Tucker. Zoe is a very understanding person. She's also clever, quick on her feet, and notices everything. She can help you.”

I stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Tucker has a few questions about his grandson's death—understandable, I think. We know you were there.” Chef Art held up a beignet. “You have to try one of these.”

Tucker took that lead-in from Chef Art to tell me about the
Mobile Times
newspaper—which his father had founded in the early 1900s. He was editor in chief until his son, Bennett, took over about twenty years ago.

“Bennett brought Jordan into the business the same way I brought him in—and the same way my father brought me into it—working from the bottom up. Bennett was a good reporter, but Jordan had a real zest for it.”

I ate the beignet Chef Art had offered me as I listened. A beignet is a fried doughnut sprinkled with powdered sugar and usually served with coffee. This one was exceptional. I hadn't eaten beignets this good since I'd been in New Orleans. The waitress brought fresh coffee, and I ate a second beignet.

I knew I shouldn't have eaten the second beignet, but I was stressed. I needed something to get through it, and they tasted so good. Yes, massage and exercise are better for your
body, but I could hardly break out in jumping jacks. And beignets were good for your soul.

“I appreciate you telling me about your son and your family,” I said when Tucker paused for a sip of coffee. “But I'm not sure how I can help you.”

Tucker leaned closer and whispered, “I know you found my grandson's body at the Mistics of Time masquerade ball.”

“What?” I gulped. If those two knew about it, who else knew?

“Don't worry.” Chef Art rubbed my shoulder. “It's all hush-hush.”

“You mean there's a mole in the Mistics of Time?”

Tucker and Art made shushing noises louder than what I'd said. Everyone in the café turned to look at us.

“Not a mole, exactly. There's someone in the society who was decent enough to tell me what was really going on,” Tucker said. “I didn't think things like this happened anymore. My father told me stories about crazy things during carnival in his day. The societies were much stronger then. I just want to know what you saw. I'm trying to figure out why Jordan was there.”

“Who told you about it?” I asked.

Tucker sat back, arms folded across his chest. “I can't reveal my source. He came directly to me rather than going to Bennett or the police. I owe him.”

“My only part in this was finding Jordan's body in the garden. I'm sorry, but I don't see how I can be much help. I didn't see anything. You should really go to the police. I have a friend who's a homicide detective and—”

“That won't work,” Tucker said. “Chadwick Sloane covered the thing up himself. He won't let his officers investigate and drag up dirt on the Mistics.”

Did he know Commissioner Sloane was a member of the Mistics? I wouldn't want to be the one who told him. Of
course, maybe Sloane was the one who'd told Tucker about his grandson.

“I don't know what you're looking for. It was dark, poorly lit. There may have been some things that I missed. I don't know.”

“I appreciate that, Zoe. My son says Jordan was following a lead on a big story. It's frustrating, not finding any answers. You're my last hope.”

No pressure
.

“I honestly don't know what else I can say.” I thought back. “He had a piece of newspaper in his hand. There was blood. It was awful.”

Chef Art cleared his throat. “Perhaps you could infiltrate the Mistics of Time using your father's position. Someone in that group knows what happened.”

I didn't even ask how he knew about Daddy being a member. Maybe it was just an assumption. They knew about what had really happened at the masquerade. It was probably easy to put it together.

I looked at him, hoping my total disbelief at his suggestion was written on my face. “Are you serious? My father is a complete basket case about this. He wants the two of us to leave Mobile until after Mardi Gras. He says he saw the ghost of Old Slac on the way home from the gym this morning. I've already seen a disappearing version of Jordan dressed as Death in the Biscuit Bowl as I was setting up today. I don't think spying on the Mistics is a good idea.”

Tucker's face paled as I finished speaking. He exchanged glances with an equally pale Chef Art.

“You're right.” Tucker got up from the table. “I'm sorry I bothered you, Zoe. Best of luck.”

I watched him leave as Chef Art called for the check. “What's up with you two?” The abrupt departure was making me nervous.

“Zoe, your father is right. Old Slac—or the ghost of Old Slac—is a sure sign that death is coming. As for you seeing another man dressed like Death in the Biscuit Bowl, I've never heard of it as an omen, but you should leave with your father right away.”

“Since when is the ghost of Old Slac a real thing?” I asked. “Is that supposed to be the ghost of Death I've seen, too? Come on, Chef Art. I can't believe you think any of that stuff is real.”

He hurriedly gave the waitress a hundred-dollar bill for our coffee and beignets. “You'd better start thinking it's real, my dear. I don't want to see you get hurt. Go away for a few months. Have a nice vacation. Maybe by that time this whole thing will have blown over.”

I felt like the proverbial rats were deserting the sinking ship—and I was the ship. Chef Art headed out of the café almost as quickly as Tucker Phillips. One minute they were begging for my help, and the next they were writing my obituary.

Their attitudes were even worse than those of my mother and father.

The parade was over when I stepped outside. Traffic was back to normal. I hailed a taxi for a ride back to the diner, hoping I'd find some sanity in the task of getting my food ready for tomorrow.

I opened the back door of the taxi after seeing the familiar flamingo sticker on the window. It was my uncle's friend, Cole.

- - - - - - -

I wasn't surprised to find Uncle Saul lounging in the backseat. “Get in, Zoe girl.” He grinned. “The ghost of Old Slac might want to take a potshot at you from a roof.”

I got into the taxi and slammed the door behind me. “I'm glad you think it's funny. No one else does.”

“That's Saul for you,” Cole said from the driver's seat. “How you doin', Zoe?”

“I've been better,” I replied honestly. “I hope you're good, Cole.”

“Can't complain. It's time for carnival. Greatest time of the year!”

“I used to think that, too.” I stared at Uncle Saul. “So what happens now?”

“I don't know. I left before your mother killed your father. I was hoping we'd bump into each other. Where are you off to?”

“I have food to make,” I told him briskly. “This is a big chance for me with the Biscuit Bowl. I know I don't have to tell you that. I'm not wasting it because the ghost of Old Slac, or a disappearing dead man, tells me I'm in danger.”

“I think I can help you with that. Disappearing dead man, huh? I didn't hear Ted or Anabelle talking about that.”

“It happened this morning while we were setting up the food truck. I didn't have a chance to tell anyone because they were so busy figuring out how to get me out of town.”

We talked on the way to the diner with Crème Brûlée snoozing on my lap.

I told him everything that had happened since I'd found the body at the ball. Cole made remarks as we went along. Traffic was heavy as people rushed to get from place to place without finding themselves in the middle of a parade. There were also a few thousand extra people in the city for the festivities.

When Cole stopped to let us out at the diner, he frowned at me. “Bad luck to see the ghost of Old Slac. I'll pray for your daddy, Zoe. You let me know if you need any help.”

I reached in the taxi window and hugged him. He always refused my money. “Thanks. I'm going to make you a big platter of food with some homemade MoonPies.”

He blushed and muttered a few words I couldn't understand before saying good-bye.

Ollie was waiting in front of the diner. He and Uncle Saul shook hands. “Good to see you, Saul. How's that gator?”

“She's doing better. Bonnie gave her some antibiotics and it picked her right up. Those albino gators get sick easy. That's why they don't last long in the wild.”

Bonnie Tuttle was the wildlife officer in Farmington where my uncle lived. I'd had some hopes of them getting together, but it hadn't happened yet. They were still just friends.

I opened the door to the diner while they were talking and switched on the lights.

It was nice to be home, such as it was. I hoped to make enough money to afford a small apartment not too far away. I hadn't figured that into my budget yet because I desperately wanted to spend all my extra money remodeling this place. But I knew the time was coming when Crème Brûlée and I would need a new home. The incident with Mr. Carruthers was just one of several recent problems living in the old diner.

Uncle Saul sniffed the air as he walked in. “I can smell those MoonPies. Chocolate, right?”

I smiled as I put away my bag and set Crème Brûlée at his food bowl. “I wouldn't make any other kind. Did you just come to town for Mardi Gras?”

“No. I wasn't coming this year. It's too loud and too crowded. I came down because Ted called. I was worried about you.”

“I've been worried about her, too.” Ollie stared down at me. “She's too stubborn for her own good.”

“I'm not leaving Mobile and hiding somewhere until whatever happened to Jordan Phillips goes away. We'll just have to figure out who did it. That way, Daddy and I are safe, and I can do what I want.”

I knew it wasn't as simple as I'd made it sound. I didn't care.

Uncle Saul and Ollie washed up and put on clean aprons and plastic gloves. They both loved to cook and gossip. I was offering them an opportunity to do both.

Ollie started his potato and pork fricassee by frying the sliced pork as I cut potatoes and tomatoes for it.

Uncle Saul started making his lemon meringue filling for the sweet biscuit bowls we'd probably need after the MoonPies were gone. “I'm glad you're not helping Tucker Phillips or his son. That newspaper has always been a rag. You've got enough on your plate without solving their problems for them.”

“It strikes me that their problem is the same as mine,” I told him as I switched to chopping onions. “We both need to know who killed Jordan and why.”

“No wonder they backed off after you told them about the ghost of Old Slac,” Ollie said with a shiver.

“It might not have been his ghost,” I argued. “Maybe it was just a man in a costume, like the one leading the Joe Cain procession every year. Everyone knows about the legend—why not make use of it?”

“Good point!” Uncle Saul punctuated his words by pointing a lemon at me. “But it still says they're thinking, and worrying, about you and Ted, Zoe. What about you seeing the person dressed as Death again?”

“I don't know. Maybe a warning? That's kind of what Miguel and I both thought.”

“Or another ghost,” Ollie said. “Speaking of ghosts, where's the salt?”

I pointed to the cabinet above the stove. “I put everything away for the inspector. And what does salt have to do with ghosts?”

“My mama always told me that salt kept ghosts and
demons away. They're afraid of the stuff.” He liberally salted the pork fricassee.

No ghosts would want to eat that.

“Taking ghosts out of the equation, let's say whoever killed Jordan is just staging these things for our benefit,” I suggested. “They want us to be scared so we don't report it to the police or look into it ourselves.”

Uncle Saul nodded as he got out the cornstarch. “That makes more sense to me than ghosts wandering around the city.”

“You don't believe in ghosts?” Ollie's voice was surprised.

“Not particularly.” Uncle Saul laughed. “I've never seen one. Have you?”

“Yeah. I've seen my share. I saw my grandfather's ghost when I turned thirteen. He was looking at the pocket watch he'd left me. And I saw my aunt Lavinia's ghost. She was eating sugar at the kitchen table.”

“How old were you when that happened?” I asked with a smile.

“I was just a kid, but I remember it like it was yesterday. You know that disgusting green ghost in
Ghostbusters
who ate everything? That's the way Aunt Lavinia's ghost was.”

Uncle Saul let out a hoot of laughter. “How could you tell it was her?”

“She was wearing the same ugly flowered dress they buried her in. And I wasn't the only one who saw her. Uncle Mattie saw her, too. He took the sugar away from her before there was none left for the rest of us.”

“What about you, Zoe?” Uncle Saul stirred the thickening lemon filling in the big double boiler.

“I've never seen a ghost, but I think it's possible. Maybe when some people die they don't have things finished. I could see where they could come back.”

“I think it's best if we don't consider these two
occurrences as supernatural—not if we want you and your daddy to live through this,” Uncle Saul said. “We understand why someone could be trying to scare you off. We just need to know who's doing it. That's the way to put an end to all this.”