Death on a Platter (13 page)

Josie barged on ahead. “But if the restaurant was closed, Lorena wouldn’t have to work there anymore. She could take the money and retire.”

“What money?” Jane said. “First you tell me Tillie might be in financial trouble and won’t get the money she expected for her property. Now you’re saying there’s enough money for Tillie and Lorena to retire—and Lorena is only in her fifties. What’s she going to live on for the next thirty or forty years?”

“I was just tossing out ideas,” Josie said.

“Well, toss that one back,” Jane said. Her chin came down like a guillotine, cutting off that thought. “If Lorena is the killer, you might as well shoot poor Tillie now. That girl is all she has in the world.”

Jane’s voice wobbled. Was her mother going to cry? Jane wasn’t a tearful type, but her friend’s arrest had left her shaken. Josie didn’t want to weather another tear storm today.

“I didn’t say Lorena did it, Mom. I was just speculating.”

“Well, speculate someplace else. You’re supposed to help my friend, not make things worse.”

“I thought we wanted to know the truth,” Josie said.

“The right truth,” Jane said. “The truth that will get Tillie out of jail, not make her life worse.” Stuart Little thumped his tail. Josie still wasn’t going to venture too close.

“Mom, I hope someone horrible killed Clay, like Desmond or Henrietta. But it doesn’t always work that way.”

“I understand that. But don’t you go accusing her daughter, Josie. Tillie wouldn’t raise a murderer any more than I would. I’ve known Lorena since she was a baby. She was always a good girl. She helped out at the restaurant on the weekends from the time she was thirteen. She went to work there after graduation.”

“And she’s been chained to the place ever since,” Josie said.

“She’s not chained. She’s a loyal daughter.”

“While we’re talking about daughters,” Josie said. “Where is mine?”

“In her room, doing her homework.”

Josie heard a giggle from down the hall. “She usually doesn’t find her homework so entertaining.”

“Go check on Amelia, then get your dinner before it’s completely dried out,” Jane said.

Josie tiptoed down the hall and peeked into the room. Amelia was waving a red ribbon at Harry. The cat tried to catch it, but it remained just out of his reach. He jumped at the ribbon and flopped over on his back, then whipped around and caught his own tail. Amelia laughed out loud.

“That doesn’t look like homework,” Josie said.

“My homework is done,” Amelia said. “Harry and I were taking a break.” Josie didn’t need to check her daughter’s work. Amelia was good about doing her homework. Josie trusted her on that and Amelia had never disappointed her.

“Grandma showed me how to make deviled egg casserole, Mom. It’s gross. We’ve got to start cooking meat again. Try it,” Amelia said. “Looks like barf.”

“Please, Amelia, don’t. I’ll see what I can do to help Grandma,” Josie said.

Josie’s stomach lurched when she saw the remains of the casserole. Amelia’s description was way too accurate. She spooned out one egg, popped it into the microwave, then poured herself a soda and brought her meal back in the living room. The creamy casserole tasted bland and heavy.

“What do you think?” Jane asked.

“It’s different,” Josie said. Usually Jane was better at choosing new recipes.

“Our girl has a natural talent,” Jane said.

“Yes, she does,” Josie said. “Amelia said you’re concentrating on low-cost meals. Budgeting is always a good idea, but those cooking lessons are expensive, Mom. I don’t want to take advantage of you. May I buy the food for the lessons?”

“You think I can’t afford a couple of eggs?” Jane was annoyed. More than annoyed. She was furious.

“No, no, Mom. I was just offering.”

“I don’t want your money,” Jane said. “I’m perfectly capable of handling my own finances. I’m teaching my granddaughter about bargains. She’s hanging around with rich kids at that fancy school. She’ll never learn anything practical there. And now, if you don’t mind, it’s time for me to go to bed. Come along, Stuart.”

Jane paraded out through the kitchen.

“Thanks, Mom, for watching Amelia,” Josie said.

Jane shut the back door a little too hard.

“Josie, why are you picking at your brain?” Ted asked.

Josie stared glumly at the sandwich on the thick white china plate. In the dim light at Ferguson’s Pub, she could see it all too clearly.

“It’s hard to work up an appetite for a deep fat–fried cow brain,” she said. She’d spent last night dreading this moment.

Josie managed a slipshod smile and turned her eyes to Ted. Even in the bar’s dark comfort, he seemed to glow. Maybe it was the beer sign behind him. No, Ted was special. When he loped into the bar, women watched him. Even the older ones seemed soft-eyed and dreamy. Ted had pulled out a chair for Josie. At the next table, the woman with the crinkly silver hair and worn face nodded approval. She knew most men didn’t do that anymore. Josie flushed at the attention. Mystery shoppers were supposed to be anonymous.

They’d ordered two brain sandwiches with fries and beer. The waitress brought their order way too fast. Now Josie was about to bite into this nightmare on a plate.

“Put some ketchup on it like I did,” Ted said.

She eyed his ketchup-slathered entrée. “That looks like an autopsy on rye.”

“Wrong,” Ted said, and kissed her cheek. “That looks like heaven. Tastes like it, too. Ferguson’s serves some of the best brains in St. Louis. I’ve been eating them since I was a kid.”

Josie concentrated on her sandwich, as if she could magically transform it into an everyday hamburger. Despite her intense gaze, it didn’t change.

“I can see the furrows in that brain,” she said. “I can practically hear it thinking.”

“You have an incredible imagination,” Ted said. “It’s one reason why I love you. Trust me. That is a good sandwich. I was right about the pig ear sandwich. You liked it, didn’t you?” He used the coaxing tone that parents reserve for children who won’t eat their peas.

“Yes,” Josie said. The pig ear sandwich had been good.

But her stomach shouldn’t have to jump hurdles for her job. Now it leaped like a startled trout when she contemplated the brain on bread.

“You’ll like this sandwich, too,” Ted said.

Josie wished she had his certainty. She wanted to believe him.

“Brains are a rare delicacy,” he said.

“This doesn’t look like one,” Josie said.

“It is,” Ted insisted. “Done right, brains are light and fluffy. They’re a dying art.”

“I can see why.” The sandwich seemed to be getting bigger and greasier on her plate.

“Then quit staring and start eating,” Ted said. “You don’t want a cold brain. They’re much better warm.”

Josie thought she might gag.

Ted continued his relentless cheerleading. “You’re a professional, Josie. This is an important test. You aren’t eating that brain for personal enjoyment.”

“That’s for sure,” Josie said.

“Don’t interrupt,” Ted said. “You’re doing this for St. Louis. Only a few places in the country still serve brain sandwiches. Thanks to you, gourmets will make pilgrimages to our city for the chance to eat one of these. If you like it, of course.”

The sandwich seemed to pulse on the plate. “I can’t get past the idea of eating a cow brain,” Josie said.

“Then don’t think about it,” he said. “Take a sip of beer for courage.”

Josie obeyed. The beer was cold, clean, and reassuring.

“And pick up your sandwich.”

She did. It felt warm and ordinary. That was good. She saw a dill pickle peeking out shyly from under the slice of bread. A friendly, familiar pickle.

“Close your eyes,” Ted said.

Josie shut her eyes and thought of a hamburger. An ordinary gray burger on a pillow bun. One she could eat and forget.

“Take a bite—now!” Ted said.

Josie bit down, then chewed tentatively. Not bad. She kept chewing. Good breading. Not too heavy. Now she could taste the sandwich’s full flavor. It was a pleasant surprise.

“It’s a little like very good liver, but not so heavy. It’s not squishy like I expected,” she said. “It’s sort of like a deep-fried cloud.”

Ted smiled encouragement. “That’s right.”

Josie took another bite. “I like it.”

Ted smiled. “What did I say? There’s nothing quite like it. You don’t often get food this quality in bars. Brain sandwiches are the saloon soufflé. A French chef would envy their texture.” He took another bite of his own sandwich.

“Ferguson’s is definitely an old city saloon,” Josie said. She liked the sound of that old-fashioned word, saloon.

“A great old South St. Louis saloon,” Ted said. “Like brain sandwiches, old-school city bars are disappearing. At Ferguson’s, you can get a beer and talk with your friends. It wasn’t designed by some decorator to look old. This is the real thing. No ferns or fake old-timey touches.”

Two more bites and Josie had finished the sandwich and turned to munching her crisp brown fries. Ted had talked her through this career crisis. The brain sandwich turned out to be tasty, even enjoyable.

“I spent more time dreading that sandwich than eating it,” she said. “I can give it high marks in my report.”

“I didn’t want to tell you before you ate your brain—” Ted said.

Josie interrupted him. “There’s no way to talk about this without sounding like a horror movie, is there?”

“Nope. It’s hopeless. Might as well savor the jokes. Anyway, I waited until you finished your sandwich to give you the gory details. You’re lucky you got a good brain sandwich. If you ever eat a bad one, you’ll never forget it. Brains are difficult to prepare. First, you have to remove the outer membrane and soak the brains in salt water to get out the blood, or they’ll taste bitter.”

Josie put her hands over her ears. “Stop! Too much information. I don’t want that in my brain. I mean, my mind.”

“I was trying to explain the secret to good brains,” Ted said. “It’s the preparation. Brains are time-consuming and difficult. That’s why so many of the city’s great brain sandwich restaurants are gone.”

“I thought the fear of mad cow disease did them in,” Josie said.

“Nope, they started disappearing before that,” Ted said. “Also, fried brains are not health food. They’re loaded with cholesterol. I read somewhere that there are three thousand milligrams of cholesterol in one sandwich. That’s practically a year’s supply on a plate, not counting the fries and beer.”

Ted finished the last of his sandwich and said, “Want anything else? Maybe some fried chicken? Ferguson’s has good chicken.”

“No, thanks,” Josie said. “I’ll sit here and sip my beer before I pick up Amelia at school.”

Ted signaled the waitress and ordered another draft. “How is your mom? I didn’t get a chance to ask about her since I saw on TV that her friend Tillie was arrested for first-degree murder. I couldn’t believe they had two big cops escorting her. That poor little lady. I imagine your mother is upset about her friend’s arrest.”

“Upset?” Josie said. “She’s a wreck. I was upstairs in her kitchen when Tillie’s story came on the news. She had to watch her lifelong friend do the perp walk in a powder blue pantsuit. I thought Mom would pass out. I brought her toast and tea and she slept for the rest of the day. Thank goodness she has Stuart Little. She hugged that dog like a teddy bear.

“This morning, Mom seemed better. She walked the dog, then stopped by on her way upstairs and made me promise again that I’d help find Clay’s real killer.”

“How are you going to do that?” Ted asked.

“I’ve already started. I talked to Tillie in jail last night. Tillie gave me the names of three suspects—Desmond the developer, Henrietta, and Gemma Lynn.”

“Gemma’s the girlfriend, right? Why would she kill Clay?”

“Tillie says they argued at the bar because Ted wouldn’t marry Gemma. She heard the fights. I have my own suspect—Tillie’s daughter. Lorena wants out of that restaurant bad.”

“Bad enough to kill?” Ted asked.

“I think she’s desperate to get away from there. Lorena has deluded herself that Desmond will marry her. She’s an attractive woman, but guys like Desmond are interested in young honeys.

“Mom made the arrangements through the lawyer so I could see Tillie last night. She really wanted to go with me. She thought her old friend would feel more comfortable if she was there.”

“Did you think Jane could have helped?”

“I don’t know,” Josie said. “Maybe. No, not really. I could have never asked about Lorena if Mom was there. She kind of butts in and takes over.”

Josie had left her mother wide-open for Ted to bash, but he ignored the opportunity. Instead he took her slightly greasy hand and squeezed it. His eyes were amber brown. He locked his gaze on hers.

“Whatever you need, you tell me and I’ll give it to you: You want a bodyguard, I’ll go with you as your muscle. You want support, I’m there. You want to talk, I’ll listen. You want money, I’ll take out a loan. Just tell me what you need.”

“Thanks, Ted. Money doesn’t seem to be the problem right now.”

“You don’t have to be alone anymore,” Ted said. “You have me and I love you.”

Ted said everything she wanted to hear in that dark old saloon under the watchful eyes of the beer-drinking neighborhood women.

“I’d kiss you,” Josie said. “But I don’t want a man with brains on his lips.”

“Alyce, want to go mystery-shopping with me today?” Josie asked. It was 9:15 the next morning. She had calculated the timing of this call, waiting until after Alyce’s husband had left for his office and Justin’s nanny had arrived at the house.

“Uh,” Alyce said.

Her friend was stalling, looking for a polite way to refuse. “I wouldn’t blame you if you said no. Not after what happened at Tillie’s,” Josie said.