Fat Tuesday Fricassee (9 page)

Miguel was furious. “I don't think it's legal for you to stalk her this way. I don't know all the rules and regulations you follow, but this seems over-the-top.”

I kind of agreed with him, but I also wanted Mr. Carruthers out of my life. If I could get through this inspection with him, I hoped the city would do a quick change-up before next year. I might not get Mr. Sullivan again, but anyone would be better than Mr. Carruthers.

I had already closed the door to my office/bedroom. Crème Brûlée was snoring on my pillow. He didn't look at me when I checked on him.

I hoped that was one problem out of the way.

Mr. Carruthers was going through his checklist on his clipboard again, but rapidly, without really looking at anything. We stood in the kitchen where I glanced at the clock. The biscuits weren't made, but the coffee was on. Usually, I was out on the street at six
A.M.
for a good spot at police
headquarters. At least I didn't have to get things ready before eight
A.M.
for the food truck rally.

“I guess this looks pretty good now, Miss Chase.” He kept slowly reading through his notes.

Impatiently, I poured myself and Miguel a cup of coffee.

“Could I have one of those, too?” Mr. Carruthers took a seat at the counter. “It's a long day starting this early, but so many restaurants are open for breakfast. You have to inspect them while you can. Nobody likes an inspector hanging around while the customers are eating, you know?”

“I can only imagine.” Since he wasn't in any hurry to leave, I started my biscuit dough. Miguel helped me out by getting some of the ingredients from the pantry.

Crème Brûlée scratched at the door to get out.

My heart started pounding. Miguel had heard, too, and turned on the radio. I gave him a grateful smile and began cutting the vegetable shortening into the flour.

“I've heard people talk about your biscuits,” Mr. Carruthers said with a crooked smile. “Only good things, mind you.”

I returned his smile and thanked him. Was he never going to leave?

He started talking about his years as an inspector and about the Navy—he was a sailor for six years in his youth. I listened with half an ear. The other half was listening to Crème Brûlée, hoping he wouldn't start meowing loudly from the office.

“I have to go now, Zoe.” Miguel's words were carefully chosen. It wasn't his normal speech pattern, so I knew something was up. “I'm going to take that container of shortening out of the office over to the Biscuit Bowl so it can heat up.”

I had no idea what he was talking about, but I knew he had something in mind. “Okay. I'll see you later.”

He did a quickstep into the office, closing the door
immediately behind him. I kept working the biscuit dough. He came out a few minutes later with a large covered container.

I realized he was trying to smuggle Crème Brûlée out of the diner.

“I'll get the door.” I started to clean my hands.

“No need,” Mr. Carruthers said. “I can get that for you.”

Miguel and I stared at each other as Mr. Carruthers opened the front door. I looked down at the biscuit dough, hoping I hadn't kneaded it for too long. Too much kneading made for tough biscuits. If I could just get through the next few minutes, maybe this would be over.

The door closed behind Miguel. It was getting light. I could barely make him out as he walked to his car and stowed the container in the backseat.

“I guess I should be going, too.” Mr. Carruthers stood up and handed me my inspection card. “You've passed, Miss Chase. Good luck with your food truck.”

“Thank you, Mr. Carruthers.”

“And sorry to hear about what happened to your father. I hope he gets well soon.”

I watched him leave the diner, thinking that bad news traveled fast—or he was a member of the Mistics. I was probably just being paranoid. He'd probably just seen it in the paper or on TV and put me and Daddy together.

That had to be it, right?

“My hero!” I kissed Miguel. “Brilliant plan.”

“He started howling right after I got him to the car.”

“Poor kitty. He doesn't know what to make of his new life. Our old life was very sedate and routine. I didn't drag him around this way. He loved watching cooking shows with me. I'm sure he never dreamed he'd actually be involved.”

Miguel waited a few minutes after Mr. Carruthers's car
was gone to get Crème Brûlée. He came back in with the container and let the cat out in the office. “That was close.”

“Thanks for thinking of that. What a morning.”

I made and baked another five trays of biscuits. I could never be sure how many biscuits I'd need in a day. Since biscuits were my specialty food, they went fast.

I knew I would probably have to come back and bake again since the parade days would be longer than my usual seven-to-six working days. I thought five trays was good for a start and would take me through until lunch.

We packed the car with MoonPies, lemon pie filling, biscuits, and bottled water before heading over to the Biscuit Bowl. It was already almost seven. The food trucks had to be open at eight
A.M.

The streets and parking lot were empty as we approached the area where the food truck rally was being held. It would be a good spot to sell food, away from the main parade routes, but close enough for easy access when the parades were over.

Food truck operators were outside talking, laughing, and smoking in the municipal parking lot as they waited for the day to begin. As promised, the city had set up picnic tables so our customers could sit and enjoy their food.

“Thank God you're here,” Ollie joked when we reached the Biscuit Bowl with the first load of food. “There was a man who staggered through the parking lot on his way home from a party. I was worried sick that he might be hungry. But I didn't need to panic. All the other food truck operators jumped on him trying to sell him breakfast. Poor man said he wasn't hungry and threw up all over that big joker who owns the crepe food truck.”

“Nice story. Sorry you were bored. Mr. Carruthers came by again. This time the diner passed inspection.”

“So early in the morning?” Ollie glanced at Miguel. “Was he crazy or drunk?”

“Neither one, as far as I could tell,” Miguel replied. “I'm not sure it was right for him to be there, but it's done, anyway.”

“Let's get this food in the Biscuit Bowl,” I suggested.

Miguel said he'd go back to the car for Crème Brûlée. I smiled and thanked him.

I could see that it was going to be harder for me to be here each day than it was for some of the other drivers. Many food truck owners made their food right in their food trucks. I could only finish my food here.

I was used to going back to the diner at five or six
P.M.
and then getting ready for the next day with the Biscuit Bowl in the diner parking lot. For the next two weeks I was going to have to transport all the food here every day. Dragging the food over here was going to be an extra challenge, but one well worth the effort.

We got all the food stowed away by eight. The deep fryer was on, already hot and bubbling. I'd heated up the water in the warming trays and added the fricassee so it would stay hot. I could throw a small amount into the microwave and heat it up for individual servings if I needed to.

Ollie, Miguel, and I sat down for a cup of coffee and egg biscuits at a picnic table. It was very quiet, but we were surrounded by marvelous smells as other foodies got their day's menus ready. The breeze was cool. The first day of the rally promised to be fair.

I hoped those moments were the quiet before the customer storm. Crème Brûlée was fed, and I'd walked him on his leash in a small patch of grass so he could go potty. He was asleep again in the front of the food truck.

Two hours later we were still waiting for customers. Miguel went home to get ready for an appointment with a
client. The other food truck drivers started walking around and sampling one another's food. I wasn't hungry, but Ollie made the rounds. He passed out some of our biscuits—food truck drivers eat, too, right?—and he brought back samples from the trucks around us.

“These tuna nuggets from Charlie's Tuna Shack are really good.” His mouth was full as he spoke. “And these spicy onion rings from Betty's Blossoming Onions are awesome. Betty wasn't half bad herself.”

“Great.” I was a little depressed at our lack of customers. “I can't believe they want us out here so early every morning and no one is eating.”

“You go out at this time every morning during the week,” he reminded me. “What's the difference?”

“I only go out so early to get a good spot. We already have our spots here. I'm just here doing nothing.”

He brought out a kabob with chunks of pineapple, tomatoes, and pork on it. “Try this. It's from that new place, Flo's Flaming Kabobs. I love it! Everything is served on fire. We should try that.”

“Flaming biscuits don't sound very good.”

“You're just in a bad mood, Zoe.” He ate the kabob. “Why don't you call the hospital and see how your daddy is doing? That should make you feel better.”

“Maybe.”

He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Unless he took a turn for the worse during the night.”

“Ollie!”

“Sorry.” His grin was wicked. “I'm sure he's doing fine. I'm going to try one of Ducky's Dancing Shrimp. Sounds good, right? Want me to bring one back for you?”

“What's a dancing shrimp?”

“They kind of cut them up to look like little ballerinas. Cool, huh?”

“Yeah. Bring me back a dancing shrimp. I'd like to see it.”

“Want one with coconut or lime?”

“Whatever.”

I took out my phone when he left and called the hospital. I knew they had my number and could've called me, but what if they forgot?

“Your father is doing fine, Miss Chase,” a nurse told me. “He's going to sit up in a few minutes and try to eat something. Your mother is with him. Maybe you should give her a call.”

“Thank you.” I looked at the phone, wondering if it was really my mother with him or one of his girlfriends. It was hard to believe my mother had gone back to have breakfast with him. I knew they were still involved with each other—mostly because of me. I thought they cared about each other somewhat, but this seemed out of proportion for their relationship.

The back door to the kitchen area opened. I expected it to be Ollie with a dancing shrimp.

Instead, it was Police Commissioner Chadwick Sloane.

“Hello, Miss Chase.”

He reminded me of a gator with his sharp features and tiny dark eyes. I didn't think he would hesitate to chew up and spit out anyone who crossed him. He was a big man—probably used to using his height and weight to intimidate others.

Maybe it was just the impression I had from him.

He took his hands out of his overcoat pockets. “I wonder if I might have a few words with you.”

I didn't respond—still amazed to see him there.

He must have assumed that meant it was all right. He sat down on the edge of the counter where Ollie had been with his kabob only moments before.

“What can I do for you, Commissioner Sloane?” I felt trapped in the small kitchen even though I could easily have run out through the partially open back door.

I think it was the whole situation that made me feel like I couldn't get away. For all the tough words I'd spouted about staying in Mobile, I was terrified. But I was more afraid to
lose my livelihood and have to admit to everyone that I'd been wrong as I had to look for another job.

“Miss Chase, you and I seem to have a small problem.”

“Really? We barely know each other. How could that be?”

“You've been trying to stir the pot, haven't you? Asking questions about that reporter's death, trying to set my own people against me.”

I swallowed hard, hoping he wasn't talking about Patti. I didn't want her to get hurt in this. “Maybe you could just tell Jordan Phillips's family what really happened to him and that would take care of the whole problem.”

“There are two reasons I can't do that. First, the investigation into Mr. Phillips's death is ongoing. We don't know who killed him or why he was killed. Second, his family is in the newspaper business. They'd be likely to report what I told them.”

“I understand what you're saying, Commissioner. But you lied about him being found in an alley.” My voice trembled. I squared my shoulders and pretended I was my mother. Her voice wouldn't have wavered. Neither would her resolve. “Was that to protect the killer, the investigation, or the Mistics of Time?”

“I'm not protecting anyone. I'm just trying to make sure this young man's death gets the investigation it deserves.”

“By saying he was found in the alley instead of in the garden at the masquerade ball? Was he a member of the Mistics? Was he trying to do an article about the secret societies in Mobile?”

“You know I can't talk about members of the order of the Mistics of Time. It's against our rules.”

This was getting me nowhere. “What is it you want me to do, Commissioner Sloane?”

“Run your little food truck.” He smiled as he glanced around the kitchen. “Enjoy carnival. The police have this well
in hand. I have an officer keeping an eye on the situation—on
you
, Miss Chase!”

“Did someone tell my father that before they hurt him?”

He got to his feet. “I wouldn't know, Miss Chase. I'm sorry that happened to Ted. He's a good man. Take care now. This can be a dangerous city.”

I sat there with my hands shaking when he was gone. He'd made it pretty clear that I should leave Jordan's death alone. It made me angry that he'd treated me that way, and that he might even have had a hand in what had happened to a young man who was only trying to impress his father and grandfather.

I couldn't leave the Biscuit Bowl, but I took out my laptop and started looking at stories Jordan had written just before he'd died.

He was a wonderful writer and crusader. He'd written stories exposing hospital fraud, problems with child care in the city, and senior citizens being scammed out of their retirement money.

When Ollie came back about twenty minutes later, I was reading an article about a bank taking advantage of their workers. Thankfully, it wasn't Bank of Mobile, my father's bank.

“Here you go.” Ollie handed me a shrimp with a piece of lime.

It really looked like a tiny ballerina. “It must take them forever to cut each shrimp this way.” I stuck it in my mouth. “But it tastes good.”

“I thought that, too, and there's only one person working the kitchen. I don't know if he'll make it with any crowds. This is his first time out. Makes you wonder, doesn't it?”

“You mean how they chose the food trucks?”

“Exactly. Here I was thinking they chose us because we have experience and street cred. This guy doesn't have either.”

“But he does have interesting food. Maybe Tiffany Bryant is a fan of fancy shrimp.” I glanced at the clock again. “What took you so long? Are there long lines of customers at Ducky's Dancing Shrimp?”

“Nah. Just talking to Ducky. There aren't any customers at any of the food trucks.”

I yawned. “We do better than this in front of police headquarters on a Monday morning. Where is everyone?”

“Maybe it's too early for people to be out at parades. We'll catch some later.”

“But somebody is probably making money in our usual spot.”

He shrugged and sat on the counter. “What are you reading?”

“Articles written by Jordan Phillips.”

“I thought you weren't going to mess with that, Zoe. I'd say it could be bad for your health.”

“Commissioner Sloane paid me a visit while you were gone.” I smiled. “He was pretty convincing that I shouldn't ask so many questions. But I don't think we should look the other way. He was so smug about the whole thing.”

My phone rang. It was Patti Latoure. “Zoe, I may have overstepped.”

“Anything to do with the police commissioner?” I told her about him stopping by the Biscuit Bowl. “He wasn't interested in food, either. I hope you aren't in trouble.”

“No. I'm fine. I spoke with Dan Frolick. I thought we could do this detective to detective. I was wrong. I don't know why he has such a problem with this. The man is annoying. I'm glad he's not my partner.”

“Thanks for checking into it, anyway, Patti. Maybe we should both back off, huh?”

“No way. Not after what you told me. We need to know what's going on. I'd like to say that Mobile has more secret
societies than it knows what to do with, but that may not be the case. Maybe Phillips was targeted for something else and dumped at the ball for this very reason.”

“I won't back off if you don't.”

“That's where the problem is. I'm a police detective. You're a food truck operator. I'm better equipped to handle this kind of thing. Don't be stubborn. I'll take care of it.”

“Thanks, Patti. I know you'll do your best.” I said good-bye and ended the call.

“What was that all about?” Ollie snacked on some other food he'd brought back with him.

“Patti doesn't think I should help her look into Jordan's death.”

He laughed. “The Biscuit Bowl better get busy then. That's the only way I see you staying out of it.”

We both looked out the customer window at the gray morning light. Rain began falling as we watched. Within a few seconds it was a downpour. With it came cool air from the bay sweeping the streets where people were ready to party.

“Oh brother.” Ollie slapped a hand to his head. “Go on. I'll keep an eye out here. But you'd better watch the weather. If the sun comes out, hightail it back here.”

“Thanks.” I shut my laptop and left it there for him in case he got bored. I knew Ollie wasn't crazy about the Internet or any other electrical devices. But I thought if he got desperate, it would be something to do, anyway.

“Where are you headed in case Miguel drops by?”

“Tell him I'm headed to the
Mobile Times
office. I want to talk with Jordan's father.” I put on my rain poncho.

“You'd better not say anything about the ghost of Old Slac so you don't scare him off, too,” he suggested. “That seems to get people right away, even if it is an old myth. I believe it. I guess other people do, too.”

I thanked him, left the kitchen, and headed out of the
parking lot, my head down as the rain poured on me. Ollie was right—the only people in the parking lot were bored food truck drivers. I hoped the whole day wouldn't go like that. I had a lot of money invested in food for the next two weeks. I expected to break even, anyway.

There were no taxis on the street. I didn't know if it was the weather or because there were extra tourists in the city. I was standing fifty feet from a bus stop as the bus rumbled up. I ran to catch it and managed to find enough change in my bag to pay.

The bus was empty, too—unusual for this time on a weekday. I knew carnival interrupted almost everything from school to government. Maybe no one was out yet because of the rain. Later there were bound to be crowds on the street.

I got off in front of the big white
Mobile Times
building. It had been here for as long as I could remember. It was one of the older buildings, probably historical. Daddy had read this newspaper when I was growing up. It wasn't as “highbrow” as some of the other newspapers in the city—his words, not mine. He also enjoyed reading about Hollywood gossip.

My mother, on the other hand, only read legal briefs and law reviews. It was no wonder they hadn't stayed together.

I stepped inside and spoke to a young woman behind a desk in the front lobby. She called to see if Bennett Phillips had time to see me. I looked at all the old front-page stories about carnival that were on the walls. It was a nice way to celebrate. Some of them were from the 1800s. The floats had lanterns and candles on them. It was interesting to see all the changes that had taken place through the years.

“Mr. Phillips says he'll see you, Miss Chase.” The girl smiled. “I know you. My fiancé and I have eaten at the Biscuit Bowl. We love your gumbo!”

“Thanks. We're part of the food truck rally for carnival this year. You should come by and check out our homemade
MoonPies.” It was nice to be known for something I did instead of someone I knew.

“Sounds great. Your biscuit bowls are delicious.”

I took a nice warm glow up on the elevator with me. It was great to meet people who loved my food. I could only imagine what it would be like to open my restaurant to hundreds of people every day. I couldn't wait.

It was easy to find Bennett Phillips's office. It was on the third floor—the only thing there. He had his name in bronze letters by the door with
Editor in Chief
right below it.

There was another woman—this one in her fifties or early sixties—seated at a desk outside the closed door. The name plate on her desk said, Belle Wood. “You're Miss Chase?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Mr. Phillips will see you in a moment.” She didn't look up at me. “You'll only have about sixty seconds to talk to him. He's squeezing you in between important matters. Have a seat over there, please.”

I sat in one of the chairs where she pointed. Obviously he knew who I was, since he'd agreed to talk to me. I tried to think of ways to say what I needed to say in sixty seconds. I tend to be a blurter, so that could work for me in this case. I hoped he hadn't already talked to his father about me and decided that I was too frightening to be around. I only had a few questions. Maybe we could get to them before he kicked me out.

I should've brought a biscuit bowl filled with lemon pie. That might have gotten his attention. Food was a good distraction. I could've talked while he was eating.

The phone rang on the assistant's desk. She immediately told me to go in. I thought I recognized her from somewhere but couldn't place her.

I didn't waste any time taking her up on the invitation.

The office inside was huge. Bennett Phillips sat with his back against three large windows. I could see the bay from here. It was gray with the rain. Very few boats out.

His desk was big, too. There were pictures of him with the mayor, with a state senator I recognized but whose name I couldn't remember, and with his father and Jordan.

“Well?” he barked. “I assume my secretary told you I don't have long. Get to the point.”

“I've been researching your son's stories. They have a common theme of Jordan trying to bring problems with large institutions to light. Was that what he was trying to do at the Mistics of Time ball?”