Fat Tuesday Fricassee (10 page)

The expression on his face was one of astonishment. He looked a lot like his father, except that his hair was cut short instead of a mop on his head. He was thinner than Tucker, too. At one time Tucker had probably looked a lot more like Bennett.

Jordan didn't look like either of them. He must have taken after his mother.

“You know nothing about my son.” His words were terse, but I felt the pain behind them.

“You're right. I never even met him. But I have to tell you that he's had a huge impact on my life. In fact, I'm worried about that life right now. My father was attacked yesterday, and Commissioner Sloane paid me a visit this morning. I need help trying to figure this out. I don't think that help is going to come from the police, do you?”

He reached out to his phone on the desk and pushed a button. “Alice, hold my calls.” She said something back that
I couldn't understand. “Hold him, too. I'll see him when I'm finished with Miss Chase.”

And I didn't have to give him a biscuit bowl at all. I was pleased and impressed.

Bennett came around to my side of his big, old desk and leaned against it. “I apologize for my hostile attitude when you came in. I read about your father—I gave the okay for the article about his attack. Darn shame. He's a longtime subscriber and a good friend.”

“Are you a member of the Mistics of Time, too?” I thought I might as well get to the point.

He frowned. “No. Is your father a member? I saw that he was crowned as King Felix this year for carnival. I didn't know which society he was with.”

So much for secret societies. Give me a month and a membership list, and everyone in Mobile would know which krewe or society everyone else was with. I wasn't good with secrets.

“Are you a member of
any
secret society?”

“I don't understand what that has to do with Jordan's death.”

I blurted the entire story to him in probably less than sixty seconds. He knew everything I knew since the night of the masquerade ball. I would be a terrible spy. They wouldn't even have to torture me to find out everything.

“Do you know what you're saying?” His bushy brows came together in a large line across his forehead, like a gray caterpillar. “This is police misconduct, if what you're saying is true. Can you verify any of it?”

“I don't have pictures or documents, if that's what you're asking, Mr. Phillips. But I've been threatened and so has my father, who was the second person to see your son dead in the garden that night.”

“Are you willing to swear an affidavit to that effect? Would Ted be willing?”

“I want to help. But I don't think that would be in my—or my father's—best interests right now.”

“Then what? What are you offering me that I don't already know?” he grumbled as he went back to his chair. “What can you possibly do to help find my son's killer?”

“I'm not really sure. I thought if I could figure out what he was working on when he died that it might give me something.”

“The police already cleared out his desk. I don't have any of his notes. I'm not sure how I can help.”

“You were his editor. Didn't he have to talk to you about stories he was writing?”

“In a cursory kind of way, yes.” He shook his head. “Jordan had the right temperament for this game. I let him have his head. Sometimes we talked—sometimes we didn't. He always delivered something fresh and insightful. That was what mattered.”

If there was no way to get a look at what Jordan had been writing before he died, I wasn't sure if we could do anything. He liked to stir the pot, as Commissioner Sloane had accused me. But we needed to know which pot he was stirring.

“Did you know your father talked to me about helping him find Jordan's killer?”

“No! Why on earth would he do that?”

“My friend, Chef Art Arrington, encouraged him. They both knew Jordan was found in the garden instead of the alley, like the police say. They know something about the Mistics, too. They were talkative until I told him that my father had seen the ghost of Old Slac.”

“That old thing.” He shook his head. “Chef Art, huh? He likes to cause trouble. He and my father go back a long way. I'll give Dad a call and ask him what that was about.”

“I wish there was more we could do.” I thought about what had happened to Miguel with his career in the DA's
office and losing his family. I didn't want that to happen to me. I wanted to make everyone tell the truth about Jordan, but how much was I willing to risk?

“Me, too,” he said gruffly. “But with the police covering this up, we don't have a chance, do we?”

“I don't know.” I got to my feet. “I'm sorry I wasted your time.”

He stood, too, and offered me his hand. “You're a brave soul, anyway, Zoe Chase. It was a pleasure to meet you.” He scribbled a phone number on the back of a business card. “My personal line. Don't talk to anyone else about this.”

I gave him my cell number in return. “It was nice meeting you. Maybe we can still figure this out.”

“I hope so.”

I passed Belle Wood, the slightly rude assistant outside Bennett's door. There were also three police officers waiting, along with Detective Frolick.

Frolick stood and came over to me. “Miss Chase. What brings you here today?”

“My father was attacked, Detective. I hoped there was more news than the paper had printed. Mr. Phillips told me that was it. I guess I'll look somewhere else.”

“Around here, we call what happened to your father a warning,” he told me. “I'd take it to heart if I were you.”

I didn't want to antagonize the man or give anything away. I smiled, nodded, and walked quickly to the elevator. He didn't follow me.

The elevator door opened as Frolick and the officers stepped into Bennett's office and closed the door.

“Excuse me, Miss Chase.” Belle got up from her seat and came toward me with a worried glance over her shoulder.

She reminded me of an older, plus-size version of Delia with reddish hair. That's when I knew who she was. “You
were the Mistic's Queen of Carnival when I was about ten, weren't you?”

“Yes.” She seemed surprised that I recognized her. “That was a long time ago.”

“You haven't changed that much. I remember how beautiful you were that night and what a gorgeous gown you were wearing.”

“Thank you.” She cleared her throat. “The police asked me for Jordan's cell phone yesterday. He didn't have it with him when they found him. I only found it this morning. He'd left it here as he was walking out. Sometimes he wrote on it while he was waiting for people. I haven't looked at it yet. Maybe there's something worthwhile on it.”

She held out a cell phone. It was one of the bigger ones with a wide screen.

“Why are you giving it to me?” I asked.

“I don't think Jordan is getting a fair shake from anyone,” she whispered, her voice choked with tears. “Maybe you can help him. I don't know what happened or why, but something isn't right. He shouldn't have died that way.”

I took the phone from her and put it in my bag. “Thank you. I'll let you know if I find anything.”

“I know you'll do your best. I knew your father once. He's a good man.”

Cole's number was on my cell phone. He was waiting at the street by the time I got out of the building. It was still raining, but poncho-clad revelers were out now. If there had been a parade scheduled, it wasn't happening in the rain. Many of the floats were made of tissue paper and cardboard. Only the big parades at night would continue despite the dismal weather.

But that didn't stop street musicians from playing jazz at the corner or a few clowns who were handing out throws along the street. Everyone was eager to party—and hopefully to eat.

“I hope I have some customers now,” I told Cole as I closed the back door to his taxi. “The Biscuit Bowl is parked with the food truck rally. Can you take me there?”

“I sure can. How's your daddy doing? That was a terrible thing that happened to him. You think it really was the ghost of Old Slac?”

We talked about all of the old myths and legends surrounding the carnival in Mobile. Most people thought our city had copied the celebration from New Orleans, but it was the other way around. Mardi Gras happened in Mobile fifteen years before New Orleans was founded. Their celebration might be better known, but it was certainly not as old. I liked to think that our carnival was more exciting, too.

“I'm glad you gave me a call,” Cole said. “I've wanted to taste your homemade MoonPies ever since you mentioned them. My mouth has been watering. I'm going to put up my no-call sign and eat an early lunch with you, Zoe, if that's okay?”

“That sounds great.” We'd just reached the food truck rally in the municipal parking lot. Maybe I'd left it empty, but there were people everywhere now. “Looks like we're busy.”

I walked quickly past Ducky's Dancing Shrimp and Betty's Blossoming Onions, which both had lines going around their trucks. My heart started pumping as I reached the Biscuit Bowl—a huge crowd was waiting outside.

I took Cole into the kitchen with me. Ollie was zooming around like a madman.

“Where the fudge have you been, young'un?” he demanded, not stopping between dropping biscuits into the hot oil and drizzling white icing on some that were already fried. “These people are crazy. They want every kind of biscuit bowl we have. Some of them just bought plain biscuits so they wouldn't have to wait.”

“You know what I was doing.” I took off my poncho and put on my apron.

“How'd that go?”

“I don't know yet.” I took over the biscuits in the deep fryer, and Ollie went to the window.

“Let me give you a hand with these napkins and such,” Cole said as Ollie floundered, trying to find the plates, plastic forks, and napkins.

“Thanks.” Ollie smiled at Cole. “You're exactly what we need right now—another pair of hands.”

Cole had a smoker's wheezing laugh. “I've never seen so much activity since my wife had twins.”

We all laughed at that and then had to pay attention to what we were doing. Ollie took the orders and set up the food. I cooked the biscuit bowls and filled them. We were already running low on MoonPies. I put three aside for us to make sure we got some before the crowd devoured them.

The customers kept appearing. It wasn't long before we were running out of pork fricassee. I could see the bottom of the last metal container we'd brought with us. There were still plenty of biscuits and lemon pie filling. But what were we going to do about our savory biscuit bowls? It wasn't even lunchtime.

“I have to go back and get something together,” I explained to Ollie. “I was prepared for our usual crowd at police headquarters. These people are eating us out of food.”

He nodded. “You go on. I can hold 'em off.”

“Can you take me back to the diner, Cole?” I asked him.

“I can, but I sure hate to miss this.” He grinned. “This is a lot more fun than driving a taxi. And it smells a lot better.”

“I'd really appreciate it. I'm making you a plate right now.”

“Okay, Zoe. Let's go.”

I got his plate of food, including a MoonPie, and covered it with plastic wrap. I started to push open the back door and almost pushed it into Miguel. “What are you doing here?”

“I came by to see if you needed any help.” He glanced at the long line of customers. “It looks like you do.”

I hugged him. “I have to go back to the diner and find something savory for the biscuit bowls. I completely underestimated what we needed. We're almost out of food.”

“Miguel! My man!” Ollie handed three sweet biscuit bowls out the window to a customer. “I don't think I've ever been so happy to see you—except for that time the police hauled me in for breaking and entering. Step up here and deep-fry some biscuits.”

Miguel removed his suit coat and rolled up his sleeves. “It's a good thing I've got some experience with this. Hurry, Zoe.”

Cole and I waded through the crowd to reach his taxi. There were so many cars parked outside the parking lot that the police had shut down the street. It was going to be difficult to get back to the diner.

But Cole maneuvered his taxi through the cars with one hand, the other wrapped around a MoonPie. “This is the best MoonPie I ever ate. You are a good cook, Zoe. No wonder people love your food.”

“Thank you. That means a lot.”

Uncle Saul called as we were trying to get across town to the diner. Other roads had been closed due to impromptu parades that were choking traffic across the city.

Cole and I were behind a group of musicians marching down the middle of the street, their instruments covered in plastic to protect them from the rain. There was also a group of scantily clad young women wearing crowns and sashes. They rode in convertibles with the tops down despite the rain. They waved and smiled even though their hair was wet and their faces were shiny with water.