Fat Tuesday Fricassee (4 page)

What could I say?

I had kind of rescued Delia from working at a dirty bar downtown. I knew helping me with the food truck wasn't much of a job, probably only a means to an end. I wanted her to do better.

I knew about her big family and all their financial hardships. Delia had kept them going, paying for her sisters' education. I couldn't ask her not to be there when one of them needed her.

I pulled back from her hug and smiled at her. “Of course I want you to go. I hope everything is okay with Hazel. Come back when you can.”

“You know I'll be back as soon as I can. What a time to need appendix surgery—just in time for Mardi Gras!”

She hugged me again and then told me she had to pack. Delia had found a small place that she was sharing with a friend. It was better than a cot in the kitchen at the diner. But I missed having her there.

I waved good-bye to her as she left in a taxi and wondered what I was going to do without her for the next two weeks.

I awoke on Sunday morning to the news anchor on TV telling me that a man's body had been found in an alley near midtown on Saturday night.

“Jordan Phillips was a staff reporter for the
Mobile Times
newspaper,” the anchorman explained with a somber expression on his face as they showed the reporter's photo. “Mr. Phillips had been shot, according to Mobile Police detective Dan Frolick. The investigation into his death is ongoing.”

Oh my gosh!

I was stunned as I switched off the tiny TV in my office/bedroom at the diner.

That reporter was the dead man in the garden at the masquerade ball on Friday night.

Crème Brûlée cuddled close to me, his whiskers tickling the side of my face.

“Are the police lying about when and where they found Jordan Phillips? Or is this some kind of trap to catch the
killer?” I asked him. “That's the man in the Death costume that I found in the garden. What should I do?”

My cat wasn't exactly helpful in that regard. He licked me a few times and then pushed me away with his big paws. While I lay there, he rolled out of bed and started crunching some dry food.

My father had been very clear about not getting more involved in what had happened at the ball. I guess I could understand the cover-up, considering the secret society and the important people who wouldn't want to answer embarrassing questions. But this was much worse than that.

My mind raced with questions as I got up, showered, and dressed. The shower at the diner was a plus that was a leftover from the time when the diner had been a truck stop. I was fortunate to have found it with everything else I'd needed.

Detective Frolick had been the one who'd questioned me and Daddy. He probably wouldn't have done this by himself. Why were they keeping the real location of the reporter's body a secret? Had Commissioner Sloane asked him to do it to keep everything away from the Mistics of Time?

“Saying they found him in an alley, blocks away from the masquerade ball, on a different night was a good way to do it,” I fussed at Crème Brûlée.

I knew I should leave it alone. I told myself that a hundred times as I ate the last piece of king cake I'd brought home with me from a party three days before. It was right on the verge of going stale, but it was still delicious. The colorful frosting was good, too, but no lucky baby trinket inside.

I was drinking orange juice and frying bacon to make the breakfast healthier when Ollie came down from the shelter.

“You've got green frosting on your lips.” He laughed. “Was that the last of the king cake?”

I nodded as I used my finger to get the bit of frosting and put it in my mouth.

“I knew it!” He smacked his hand on the counter as he sat down. “I should've polished that off when I saw it yesterday. Did you find the lucky baby?”

“No baby. Coffee? Bacon?” My own recipe for home-brewed coffee that contained some chicory was beginning to perk. It smelled wonderful.

“Sure. I'll take both.” He got up and got out the milk. “Is that bacon leftover from the food truck Friday?”

“Yes. I'm working on menus for the next two weeks. I'm afraid I may be short if I want to serve something interesting and different every day. Got any ideas?”

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I have some good fricassee notions.”

“I only know chicken fricassee. What else have you got in mind?”

We pored over old cookbooks for ideas. The best menus for the Biscuit Bowl had come from them. Some of the books I'd borrowed from my uncle Saul. Others I'd found at various antique sales around the city and at the library.

Ollie was suggesting a fricassee of pork when Miguel walked in. He kissed me and poured himself a cup of coffee. I offered to split the bacon with him, too, but he turned me down.

“What's the difference between pulled pork and fricassee pork?” Miguel asked after looking over Ollie's shoulder.

“A fricassee is more like a thick stew except without the liquid,” Ollie explained. “I have a pork fricassee in mind with potatoes and maybe a few eggs.”

“That sounds good,” I remarked. “Fricassee is different.”

“What about sweets?” Miguel wondered.

“I'm making homemade MoonPies. I don't think I'll respect myself if I don't. We'll probably have to do with biscuit bowl fillings later.”

“You're gonna need more than that, Zoe, but that sounds
good as a starter!” Ollie echoed my words. “Are we doing that today?”

I glanced at the biscuit-shaped clock near the door. “I'm supposed to drive the Biscuit Bowl over to its parking space and get set up at noon. That gives us a while. We'll have to make the MoonPies here, anyway.”

“I'm always ready for a good MoonPie.” Ollie slurped his coffee and crunched his bacon.

“Maybe we can have lunch after you drop off the Biscuit Bowl,” Miguel suggested with a smile.

“Sure,” Ollie agreed. “I'm not busy.”

“I think he meant me and him,” I explained.

Ollie scrutinized both of us. “Oh. That kind of lunch. Sorry. Those of us who have been uncoupled sometimes forget that there are couples still together out there.”

Miguel and I exchanged glances.

“You might as well come with us,” Miguel said. “It's going to take all three of us to set up the Biscuit Bowl. We'll go out after that.”

“You sure?” Ollie asked.

“Very sure,” I said.

So no romantic lunch, but we could at least be together.

We talked about the coming parade season. It was going to be good and bad for the Biscuit Bowl. I'd never have a better chance to reach new customers, and I didn't have to get started so early in the morning.

On the other hand, the Biscuit Bowl had to stay open until at least midnight for the next two weeks and then open early each day. There would probably be more traffic than we'd ever seen, too, without any way to know when people would be coming.

“In all the excitement I forgot to ask how the ball went on Friday night,” Ollie said. “Are you riding on a float in a parade?”

I'd been a little tempted to tell Ollie and Miguel about what had happened on Friday. My oath to my father had kept me from mentioning it randomly yesterday while we'd been doing everything else.

Today was a different story. Now the police were saying they'd found the dead reporter in an alley a few blocks away from the garden where I'd found him.

I was still a little worried about what might happen if I said something to them about it. But as far as I knew, Ollie and Miguel weren't part of any of the secret societies. I trusted them, and I really needed to tell someone.

“Something happened at the masquerade ball Friday night.” I took out the huge bag of graham cracker crumbs that I'd smashed for the MoonPies. “I'm not supposed to say anything about it, but now something else weird has happened.”

Miguel smiled as he moved his coffee cup off the counter before Ollie started cleaning it. “How weird is it?”

“Really weird. And bad.”

“How bad, Zoe?” Ollie asked. “What could happen at a masquerade ball?”

“Someone died.”

“Like a heart attack?” Ollie tried to pin it down.

“With those societies and krewes, maybe you shouldn't say anything else, Zoe,” Miguel counseled. “I've heard terrible stories about people who give away their secrets. If one of their important members had a heart attack and died, they might not want people to know.”

“If your father said to keep quiet, you should keep quiet.” Ollie nodded.

I pursed my lips, a little annoyed at their fatalistic attitudes. They didn't even know yet how bad it was. “Come on. This is the twenty-first century. It's not like it was back in the 1800s. I'm not scared of them.”
Not much, anyway.

Miguel washed out his coffee cup and put it on the drain board beside the sink. “I suppose it all depends what it is. Is it something illegal?”

“Yes.” I got out the marshmallow and chocolate. “It involves the police.”

“Don't share.” Ollie shuddered. “I don't want to know what a crazy mystic society is doing behind closed doors.”

“Even if it involves murder?”

Ollie looked up from drying the countertop. “Especially if it involves murder.”

Miguel sat again. “Just say it, Zoe. Neither one of us is going to take it out of the diner. It will help if you tell someone. I'm sure it's not as bad as it seems.”

So while I covered the counter in waxed paper and loaded all the crushed graham crackers on it, I told them about the dead man in the garden and the visit from the police commissioner. I even told them that Commissioner Sloane was a member of the Mistics of Time.

Ollie whistled. “Your father is a member of the Mistics? That's one of the oldest societies in the city!”

“I know.”

“Were you a debutante and everything?” Ollie grinned. “I'd like to see
that
picture!”

“No. I was never a deb. Or a queen. Or even a princess. I wasn't interested. Daddy might have talked me into it, but Mom was against it.”

“I'm sure the police are handling the situation.” Miguel studied the marshmallow. “Just because they didn't do anything right away doesn't mean they aren't going to do anything at all.”

“Have you heard or seen the news today? The dead
Times
reporter was the man in the Death costume at the ball. I saw his face when I took off his mask. He wasn't found in the alley. But I'm not supposed to say anything. Daddy was very serious about it.”

“That sounds really bad,” Ollie said with a frown.

“I don't believe the police would purposely hide where they found the reporter, unless it was information that could lead them to the killer,” Miguel said. “I can understand that your father would be nervous about you getting involved in it.”

“That wasn't the Mistics or Daddy on TV this morning,” I reminded him. “And Commissioner Sloane was there with someone named Detective Frolick. They know where the reporter was found.”

“Maybe they're trying to keep your name out of it, too, Zoe,” Miguel said.

“Or the police just out and out lied to protect the Mistics of Time,” Ollie remarked. “I think they're capable of looking after their own.”

I stirred the chocolate in the double boiler so it would melt evenly. “What do you think I should do?”

“Your Daddy knows best,” Ollie said. “Don't get involved. What difference does it make where they found him? He's dead, right?”

“Ollie's probably right,” Miguel agreed. “The police are investigating. If you get into it they'll have to acknowledge where they found the reporter. That could be a disaster for your family and maybe ruin the investigation.”

Ollie looked pleased that Miguel thought he was right. “That's not where you want to go, Zoe. Leave it alone. Let's make some MoonPies.”

Miguel didn't say anything else about it as we smoothed the chocolate across the top of the graham crackers.

But I had a terrible feeling I hadn't heard the last of the reporter's death.

After the MoonPies were made and carefully put away—Crème Brûlée loved MoonPies—we took the Biscuit Bowl to the assigned area. It was a large municipal parking lot close to the parades and other festivities.

There was plenty of room for all the trucks. A man in an orange vest told us where to park. Miguel was in the Mercedes. He followed me, Ollie, and Crème Brûlée into the parking area.

There were ten times more regulations about how and where to park for the parades than I faced each day as a business owner. All the food trucks had to have their wheels blocked so they couldn't move. Each truck had to have exactly twelve feet between it and the next truck. When serving, each truck was supposed to be responsible for putting out orange cones to designate where customers should stand.

“Good thing you have some chairs,” Ollie observed. “There's nowhere to sit and eat.”

“They won't let me use my chairs or tables,” I told him. “They're supposed to put out picnic tables.”

“That's stupid,” Ollie replied.

“It was part of the deal the city made with local restaurants who feel like the food trucks might take away their business.”

Miguel had to move his car to the street, but he finally made it back over to us. We had about forty-five minutes to get everything set up so it could be inspected. Even if you had a recent health inspection—as I had—you still had to have another one.

“I've been thinking about the reporter's death,” Miguel said as he and I were putting the cups, plates, and plastic forks away.

“Me, too. Almost nonstop.”

“It could be dangerous for you to ask questions about it.”

I knew he still had more to say on the subject. I noticed that he'd waited to say it until Ollie was outside blocking the wheels on the food truck.