Under the Cajun Moon (18 page)

“Yes, that’s it.”

I knew what she was talking about, where it hung, and what it looked like, but I hadn’t bothered to read the verses in years. I also just assumed it was a memorial of the origins of Ledet’s restaurant, a gesture of sentiment to remind my father of where it had all begun. Now that I thought about it, Ledet’s had all begun with a loan from friends who accepted my father’s treasure as collateral.

The treasure.

Quickly, I concluded the call with my mother, and as I hung up I had the sudden urge to throw my arms around Travis and give him a big hug. I didn’t, of course, but I couldn’t help but place one hand on his arm and give it a squeeze as I thanked him for his hard work with the tape.

“This may be my first big break,” I said, a plan forming in my mind. I didn’t tell him about the treasure, of course, but I did explain that there was something I needed from inside the restaurant, something that might go a long way in helping me figure everything out. Once I had that, we could take a quick look in Sam’s apartment, and then I would be out of Travis’ hair, in my own car, and heading to the hospital.

Five minutes later, I was hovering just outside the front door of Ledet’s, an empty tote bag from Travis’ truck in my hand, pretending to read the menu featured in my window.

Though I had every legal right to walk inside and take that poem from the wall, I didn’t want to do it in a way that might attract attention. Primarily, I didn’t want to tip anyone off who might be watching that this inane little poem that had been hanging on a wall of the restaurant for forty-two years was of any significance to the things that had been going on in the past few days.

On a more personal level, I was just so embarrassed at how I looked and what everyone in there must be thinking about me and my murder charge that I didn’t want to show my face inside the restaurant unless I had to. My hope was that whoever was working the welcome station would be someone I didn’t know and who wouldn’t recognize me. As my ace in the hole, I was sending Travis in ahead of me, to distract attention while I nabbed the picture. As long as the hostess on duty had eyes, she would no doubt be quite distracted with the likes of the handsome and charming Travis Naquin, even if he was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and a backwards-facing baseball cap.

“Meet you back at the truck,
cher
,” he said softly as he brushed past me, pushed open the door of the restaurant, and stepped inside. I slowly counted to twenty and then summoned my nerve and stepped inside as well.

“So you’re telling me if I bring my family here for dinner, you can’t
make little Susie a peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich?” Travis was asking the woman at the front counter. “I know it sounds weird, but she’s a weird child. All she eats, day after day, is peanut butter and jelly.”

The hostess was not someone that I knew, thank goodness. While she explained to Travis that their chefs would be happy to try and put together whatever his family would like, within reason, she said she would have to check with the kitchen to get a definite answer on a PB&J.

“Super. Why don’t you go check right now?” he asked, no doubt giving her a broad dimpled smile.

“Certainly,” the woman said, pausing before she went to look over at me and ask if I had a reservation.

“No, I’m waiting for someone,” I replied. “You go ahead and help him first. I’m in no hurry.”

“Okay. I’ll be right back.”

As soon as she was gone, I stepped over to the frame and tried to lift it off of its hanger. Unfortunately, the wire wasn’t simply on a hanger, it was bolted to the wall! As I struggled to work it loose, I gave Travis a look of panic, and he responded with a tilting of his head toward the dining room. Stepping into there, he just barely headed off the hostess at the pass, talking to her in the next room in order to buy me time to get the frame loose. Finally, as specks of plaster sprinkled to the floor, the bolt came loose from its mooring with a soft
thwunk
and the frame was finally in my hands.

Dropping it into the tote bag, I turned around and carried it out the front door. I knew that taking the poem wasn’t stealing, but I still felt as though I had committed a major crime. My heart was in my throat all the way to Toulouse. I had hung onto the keys, and so once I reached the truck, I clicked the remote to unlock the door and quickly slipped inside, locking the door behind me. The tap dancers were gone, but there were plenty of other people milling around.

Travis would be back in just a minute or two, so in the time I had I pulled the tall, narrow frame from the bag and quickly skimmed the poem. Later, I would take the frame apart and look inside and see if perhaps my father’s “insurance policy” had been an actual insurance policy, something tucked inside behind the poem and picture. I had a feeling, though, that
the poem itself was the key. Even just skimming the first few verses, I thought it sounded like a mind game, a puzzle of some kind. The title of the poem was “Recipe for Success.”

This had to be it, their own little insurance policy, their special recipe.

Above the poem was a photograph that had been taken back in 1967, a picture of my father with giant scissors in hand, cutting a big red ribbon just outside of the restaurant. He was in his late thirties, wearing a white chef’s jacket, his hair long and pulled back into a ponytail. As that was the era of the hippie, lots of men had long hair, but I had a feeling his had been more an affectation of European style than a sign of the times in America. Not far behind him stood my mother, young and beautiful at just twenty-three. In the photo, she was wearing a leopard skin cape and huge dark sunglasses, looking like a blond Jackie Onassis or a French fashion model.

My phone rang, startling me, and I quickly grabbed it from where it sat, still charging, in the drink holder. The number on the screen looked familiar, and when I answered I realized it was Wade, my father’s old friend who had visited me in jail.

“Hello?”

“Chloe? Wade Henkins.”

“Hello! Thank you for calling me back.”

From the corner of my eye, I could see Travis approaching, so I gave him a little wave to show that I was on the phone and would be just a minute.

“When we spoke earlier today,” I said, “I had a feeling there was something you weren’t telling me. Do you have more information for me, something that might help me out of the situation I’m in?”

He cleared his throat and asked if I was alone. Outside of the truck, Travis was killing time by fooling with the parking meter.

“Yes, I am.”

“Okay. Listen, it’s not much, but I think it’s important.”

“I’m listening.”

“There was one other thing a little strange about yesterday. Down at
Paradise. It was after we finished working and I was about to leave to go get groceries.”

“Yes?”

“He said something to me, Chloe, something I’ve been thinking about ever since. It was almost like he knew something terrible was going to happen.”

I sat up straight, my chest tightening.

“What? What did he say?”

“After he handed me the keys to his car, he looked at me, real intense like, and said, ‘Wade, if anything ever happens to me, would you give Chloe a message for me? Don’t tell anyone else but her.’ I didn’t take it serious at the time. It was just one of those things a person might say if they was feeling sentimental or something.”

“What was the message?”

“He said, ‘Tell Chloe to follow the recipe.’”

Holding the phone against my ear, I closed my eyes, knowing that very recipe Wade was talking about was sitting on my lap.

“I don’t know what your father meant when he said that, but it’s been bugging me that he might have known he was in danger.”

Outside the car, I noticed a trio of attractive young women coming up the sidewalk toward Travis. They were obviously tourists, wearing Mardi Gras beads, weaving a bit, and drinking from bright green plastic cups.

“I might have a few ideas,” I replied. “It’s kind of complicated.”

“Well, listen, if I can be of help in any way…”

I watched as the girls caught sight of Travis and paused to talk to him. They were obviously drunk and ready to have a good time. That he smiled and chatted with them in return was a bit disconcerting, though I couldn’t say why.

“You’ve already been more help than you know, Wade.”

“Well, listen, you keep my number close at hand, okay? Let me be the first one you call if you get into any more trouble.”

“Will do.”

“I’m glad to help you out in any way I can. Your daddy and I go way back, you know, before you were born.” Much to my dismay, he launched into a long drawn-out tale about how his father died when he was fifteen, and my father and Alphonse sort of took him under their wing after that.
“My family lived on a little houseboat just a few miles up from Paradise, and though I was a lot younger than them, I used to join up with their whole group to go out in the woods sometimes. They were like big brothers to me, especially your daddy. I was a young man angry at the world about losing my father. Julian had a temper too, you know, but he handled his better than I did mine. I tried to learn from that.”

I didn’t comment, but my head filled with a thousand tirades, echoes of my father’s temper. If he handled it well, that was news to me. As far as I knew, he had never struck anyone physically, but he could whip a person to death verbally. I had seen grown men wither and fade under a Julian Ledet tongue lashing, sometimes for crimes so absurdly unimportant that I couldn’t believe they had even been mentioned, much less yelled about.

“Anyhoo,” Wade continued, “it was your daddy who helped me get out of the swamps altogether. We was so poor, you know, really hard up. After your pop opened his restaurant in New Orleans, he helped me find a room to rent near the Quarter and gave me a job at Ledet’s.” Wade chuckled. “I didn’t have no skills and I couldn’t do nothing right. But instead of firing me, your daddy helped me figure out what I really wanted to do with my life and then go for it. Even after I made it through police academy and was working the force, whenever money was tight I could always call up your dad for help and he’d throw odd jobs my way, give me a little extra work on the side. He’s a real stand-up guy, that man. I’m sorry he’s not doing so well now. If I can pay back just a little of his kindness by helping out his daughter, I’m more than happy to do so.”

I thanked him again and finally managed to conclude the call. My mother had always thought of Wade Henkins as a crude and crass backwoodsman. He had a few rough edges, but his heart was obviously in the right place. I was just glad to know I had an insider on my side.

Glancing out at Travis, I could see that he was in no hurry to embark on our next errand. Though I was eager to get to Sam’s apartment, I decided to take another minute or two and read the “Recipe for Success” all the way through.

It was getting dark outside, so I turned on the cab’s dome light and began reading:

Recipe for Success

By Julian Ledet

There is a place of great repast,
Where promises and friendships last.
Where patrons dine on meals of kings,
And Quarter boys can live their dreams.

Yet not alone do I succeed,
But with your help in word and deed.
And so I give you at this time
Security inside a rhyme.

Here in the City Care Forgot
We’ll make a gumbo in a pot.
So grab your spices from the shelf.
We start with Chef Ledet himself.

In gumbo, always make a roux,
4T oil heated through.
Then add 5T flour, white,
Stirred over heat till the color’s right.

For the one who loves chou and chouchou,
I couldn’t have done it without you,
I add to the roux your trinity,
First learned in your vicinity.

For the Bürgermeister, a man of means,
Who learned to fight in old Orleans,
I add some andouille sliced fine as can be
’Cause you Allemands love your boucherie.

For king of the Sunday breakdown raids,
Whose ancestors brought seeds in their braids,
Professor of juré extraordinaire,
I add fresh okra into the pot there.