Fat Tuesday Fricassee (17 page)

He laughed. “If I go out of business because you stop paying me, I must deserve it. Make me some food, Zoe. Your money's no good with me.”

I thanked him and added another plate or two to what I owed him. I'd have to find some other way to say thank you as well.

Ollie turned to walk to the shelter. “I'll be back in a bit. I'm glad the shelter director has let me have a few nights off to help with the Biscuit Bowl. That was decent of him.”

“And I don't know what I'd do without you. Tell him I'll be glad to make him some food for his trouble.”

“Nah.” Ollie shook his head. “He's not
that
great!”

I let myself into the diner and mixed up the biscuit dough as I thought about Jordan.

Now that I knew that Tiffany had been dating Jordan, it was also apparent that she was at the masquerade ball with her father. If Jordan had meant to hurt her, he would've made sure of it. I suppose that also answered my question about why he was there dressed as Death.

I put in the first tray of biscuits, showered, and changed clothes.

All the while I kept reminding myself that I didn't know Jordan Phillips at all. I had no idea what he was like, if he was suicidal, how he felt about Tiffany. Everything I knew about him was secondhand knowledge—mostly from the people who'd loved him.

It was only because I'd found him and felt sorry for him that my mind kept insisting that his suicide couldn't be true.

I smacked myself in the head as I dried my hair and tried to get it into some order. The curls were running rampant. I didn't want to use gel on them because it wore off in the heat of the kitchen. Instead I used a colorful scarf to tie them back from my face. They didn't like it and promised revenge when I least expected it. I fluffed them back and added some lip gloss.

“You have to get a grip,” I impatiently told my image in the mirror. “Quit daydreaming about his death and face the facts. Detective Frolick probably knew Jordan better than you! The cover-up thing was because of where it happened and who was involved. You might not like it, but you understand it. That doesn't make it murder!”

Ollie was back by then in clean jeans and a Mardi Gras T-shirt from 1995.

The talk I'd had with myself had done me good. I felt calmer and more rational about the whole thing. It was good to be free of the responsibility I felt I'd owed Jordan for finding him.

Ollie pilfered the pantry and the freezer as we talked about what we could make for the biscuit bowls today. “What about sauerkraut and sausage in a biscuit bowl?” he asked.

“I know I have some sauerkraut, but in a biscuit bowl? Really?”

“You gotta be open to new ideas, young'un.” He held up a can of sauerkraut and grinned at me. “How about it?”

My stomach twisted at the idea. It was a little too revolutionary. “How about sausage gravy? We could cut up the sausages and pan fry them to mix with thick milk gravy. It would go a long way.”

“That's true,” he admitted. “We can jazz it up with some peppers, too. Doesn't mean it has to be bland.”

“I can live with that.” I laughed at his crazy face. “You're something else!”

“Always have been.” He looked at more frozen bags. “Hey! Plums! That sounds good. What could we do with plums?”

“Plum pudding?”

He hit himself in the head with his open hand. “Plum clafouti! Why didn't I think of it? My French grandmother used to make it all the time when I was growing up. All we need is some almonds, milk, amaretto—where's the amaretto?”

“I don't have any.” I moved two trays of biscuits. “Would brandy do?”

“Don't be silly!” he scowled. “You could add brandy to it, too, but you have to have amaretto!”

“Ollie—”

“The liquor store around the corner is open. I have ten dollars. I'll be right back.”

“I can give you money for it, but—”

He took my chin in his fingers and grinned. “Plum clafouti could be what makes your name, little girl! Just wait and see!”

“All right.” I gave in with a smile. “But let me pay for it.” I grabbed my bag from under the counter.

“You have visitors.” Ollie pointed to the parking lot.

“Not Mr. Carruthers!” I whispered, hoping I was wrong.

“Tucker and some young chick. I hope he isn't here to announce his engagement!”

Tucker was pale with deep, dark circles under his eyes. I could see the misery in his face. I went to him and threw my arms around him. “I'm so sorry.”

He sniffed a few times and wiped tears impatiently from his eyes. “It doesn't matter what they say. My grandson didn't kill himself. The whole idea that he would is ludicrous.”

I gazed at the slight woman to his right. Her limpid blue eyes were fastened on me like I could save her from the storm. “You must be Lisa.”

“I am.” She shook my hand. Her eyes were very red and puffy. “And you're Zoe?”

“Oh. I'm sorry. Of course. I'm Zoe Chase.”

“I brought Lisa here because she can refute everything the police are saying about Jordan.” Tucker frowned as he spoke. “They didn't even talk to her.”

“Excuse me.” I tried to gather my thoughts that had been
so calm and rational. “I have to cook while we talk. I hope that's okay.”

I started cooking the sausage. There was a lot of it—good thing. I added some onions to it and decided to wait and let Ollie add the spices when he got back from the liquor store. He'd left as Tucker had come in with Lisa.

I took my time even though it seemed rude to keep them waiting for a response. What could I say? Why had they brought this to me? It wasn't like I'd been able to help with the other information they'd given me.

When I'd waited as long as I could, I turned back to them. “I know this is a terrible loss for both of you and it must seem very unfair. I didn't know Jordan, but he seemed like a wonderful young man. I just don't see what I can do to help you.”

Tucker looked around. “Isn't your mother here yet? She said she'd meet us here.”

Oh. That's it.

My mother's car pulled up outside. At least I understood why they were there.

- - - - - - -

Chef Art arrived soon after my mother. The four of them sat at one of the lumpy booths and drank up an entire pot of coffee while I got food ready for the Biscuit Bowl.

Ollie was back with the amaretto. The plums were simmering in the pot.

Chef Art had known exactly what Ollie was talking about when he said plum clafouti. He kissed his fingers to the idea and called it a masterful stroke.

I was glad he'd heard of the dish, anyway. The almonds were defrosting, and custard was in the double boiler on the stove.

I knew Tucker and Lisa were grieving. My mother? I
wasn't sure why she was involved except that she admired Chef Art. Maybe she saw some way to help her political ambitions with them. Chef Art was there for his friend.

I just couldn't figure out why they hadn't met at a real café so they could've had a waitress bring them coffee and serve them breakfast. I didn't mind them being there, exactly. It made me feel like my diner was a real place to eat.

But on the other hand, I had so much to do and only so much time to do it.

Ollie was getting the sausage gravy ready, no doubt spicing it up more than I ever would. He loved hot food and frequently accused me of being scared of spices, which wasn't true at all.

He glanced at the group huddled over the table. “I don't understand why your mother is here again, Zoe.”

“Me, either.” I packed the last tray of biscuits into a warming bag like they use to deliver pizza. The bag kept the biscuits fresh and warm until lunchtime. “They're going at it, though, aren't they?”

“Why aren't you over there, too? I thought you wanted to help.”

“I did until I heard all Detective Frolick's information.” I glanced at the booth. Lisa was crying again. “I feel bad for Tucker and Lisa, but they have all that proof. What more can anyone do?”

“I don't believe the cops, anyway.” He stirred a little more cayenne into the sausage gravy. “Probably just covering their own butts.”

“I've got the biscuits ready. How's the savory coming?” I thought changing the subject was the best way to go.

“We're ready here. I need a few more minutes with the custard and then the clafouti will be ready, too.”

“I guess that's it.” I glanced at the table again. “I hate to kick them out, but they really need to go someplace else.”

I took a deep breath and told my nonpaying customers that I had to leave. They looked surprised that I was trying to get them to go, too.

“Just leave the keys, Zoe,” my mother said. “I'll lock up before we go.”

I wasn't comfortable with that. My mother tended to underestimate the importance of the diner to my business. It didn't matter at her house if she didn't lock up because Martha took care of things. My mother had plenty of people to take care of things for her.

I only had myself.

“I'm sorry. I'm going to have to ask you to leave. There must be somewhere else you could talk that would be better than this.”

She looked around. “This is the best place. No one would think to look for me in this old place.”

That was it. “Really? You need to go. Ollie and I are taking the food to the Biscuit Bowl. I need you to leave now.”

There was a lot of grumbling—mostly from my mother. Chef Art understood. Lisa and Tucker were too devastated to really care.

Chef Art was the last to go. He gave me a hundred-dollar bill. “Thanks for putting up with us. How's the food truck rally going?”

“It's been really busy, but I figured out how to keep the food longer and plan better.”

“My food truck will be in the parade today. It's a shame I couldn't have managed to get yours in, too, Zoe. I'll talk to you later. Sorry for the inconvenience this morning.”

Chef Art's food truck was a full-size RV with his face painted on both sides. It had all the comforts of home, including a double gas oven. He really didn't use it as a food truck, but he sometimes took it out for demonstrations and to create a spectacle in parades.

Someday I wanted one just like it—except not with my picture painted on it.

“That was nice of him to give you money,” Ollie said when we were alone again. “So you don't think there's anything to what Lisa and Tucker were saying about Jordan not killing himself over his fiancé?”

I put the hundred-dollar bill in my pocket. I'd use it to pay Ollie and Delia. I'd wrapped five plates of food for Cole. I'd have to figure out later what I'd give Miguel and Uncle Saul for their help.

“I don't know. I can't think about it anymore. Let me call Cole for a ride and get this table cleaned off before we go.”

I took the plates and cups off the table and put them in the big stainless steel sink behind the counter. I wiped the tabletop down and then noticed a cell phone on the lumpy seat. I thought it probably belonged to one of my visitors, but when I turned it on, I realized it was Jordan's. I put it in my pocket. I'd have to give it back to Tucker as soon as I could.

Cole was there to pick up us a few minutes later. The first thing I did was give him a hot egg-and-cheese biscuit. Then I piled five plates of food on the front seat beside him.

“Just to say thank you.” I smiled and hugged him.

“You didn't have to do all that,” he complained. “That's enough to feed me and my wife for the rest of the week.” He took a bite of the hot biscuit and rolled his eyes. “But I'm mighty glad you did. I love your biscuits.”

“You bring your wife and grandkids over to the Biscuit Bowl anytime. Your money is no good with me there, either, but I'll feed you all up until you can't walk to your car.”

He laughed at that.

Ollie had already finished filling the trunk with food. He looked up at the dark sky and shook his head. “Looks like a storm is brewing. I hope this food doesn't go to waste.”

He had barely spoken when it started raining. I knew none
of the carnival celebrations would cease because of the weather. We'd keep going at the Biscuit Bowl, too, as long as we had food.

It was pouring by the time we reached the food truck rally. Great sheets of cold rain blew in from the Gulf accompanied by high winds that threatened to blow all the carnival decorations into the streets.

The parades were still halting traffic. People waved from the sides of the streets in their rain gear and dived for throws as the floats went by. Bands still marched, and royalty from the various krewes, some masked to hide their identities, still waved from convertibles as they drove by.

Somewhere out there my father was waving and smiling as King Felix. I could hear the music, and sometimes applause, as ornate parade art passed inspection by the crowds.

But the crowds ignored the food trucks for the most part—probably sheltering in cafés and restaurants. If the day cleared, we'd be busy again, but the morning was nothing.

I called Delia and told her to enjoy the free time. Uncle Saul went to see one of his friends. Ollie stayed at the Biscuit Bowl with me, occasionally calling out orders as an intrepid customer braved the weather.

I mostly played with Crème Brûlée and looked through Jordan's phone.

I couldn't help myself, though I knew it was wrong. I was curious. Jordan was dead, but he still deserved his privacy. Once I'd opened the phone again—supposedly to call Tucker and let him know I had it—I couldn't close it.

It was like being inside another person's mind. All of his thoughts and dreams were cataloged here. His stories and ideas for stories, his calendar with notes, all of it was interesting. He didn't use full names on anything, but it didn't take long to figure out that L meant Lisa, G was Tucker, and E was his father, the editor. I could follow along on his good
and bad days. Sometimes E would throw out a story and L would be late for an appointment.

It struck me as the morning passed that Tucker was right about Jordan. His calendar was marked and annotated into the new year. He had so many things going on in his life, so much he wanted to do. It was hard to believe he had time to think about Tiffany. I couldn't find a single text or email to her. How much could he have cared if they never talked? He never mentioned her in his personal diary, though he mentioned Lisa.

I finally called Tucker. We talked for a while. He'd left Jordan's phone at the diner on purpose for me to find.

“I thought if you really had a chance to look through it, Miss Chase, you'd come to the same conclusion I did.”

“I know. You're right—and that was sneaky. Why do you care what I think about it?”

“I just feel like you and Jordan are linked in some way. You found him and were the first to raise suspicions about his death. It's like you were meant to figure this out.”

I didn't agree with his assessment of the situation. I suppose I didn't want to. I'd found Jordan, but I didn't know what else I could do to help. The medical examiner and Detective Frolick had said Jordan killed himself. Commissioner Sloane wanted to keep him, and his daughter, out of the picture. It seemed like a done deal.

“I'm sorry, Tucker. I'll get the phone back to you as soon as I can. I wish there was something more I could do.”

“You did your best. I appreciate it. Bennett feels the same as you, unfortunately. Lisa and I plan to go and lodge a protest at the police department. We'll see what happens then.”

“Be careful. I know you want to make this right for Jordan, but he wouldn't want something to happen to you.”

“Thanks. We'll watch our step. I'll drop by the food truck rally later today, if that's all right with you, and pick up Jordan's phone.”

“That's fine. I'll see you then.”

I hit end call on the phone and thoughtfully put it back in my pocket. The rain still drummed on the metal roof. The parking lot outside the open customer window was still empty.

“Was that Tucker Phillips again?” Ollie asked.

“Yes. He thinks I have a connection to Jordan because I found him after he was killed. What do you say to a thing like that?”

“I'd say you have two choices—ignore him or believe what he says. My old granny migrated to Mobile after growing up in New Orleans. I used to love being at her house. It was filled with dried lizards, skulls, and things I couldn't identify.”

“I'm sorry. What does that have to do with me and Tucker?”

“Nothing except she used to say the same thing. Souls who were there when you were born, or when you died, had meaning in your life. Maybe he's right about you and Jordan.”

Before I could answer that I wasn't with Jordan when he died, there was a sharp rap at the door and Tiffany ran into the kitchen.

“This weather is ruining our food truck rally.” She shook her poncho like a dog. “We've had some spot outages on electricity and some problems with gas lines. Are you all okay in here? Do you need anything?”

“We're fine as far as I know. Thanks, anyway.”

“Have you had any customers today?”

“A few,” Ollie answered. “It won't rain all day. My bunions don't hurt. That's always a sure sign that the weather is going to clear.”