Under the Cajun Moon (8 page)

I had heard numerous stories over the years about my father’s insatiable quest for cooking knowledge and his love for Cordon Bleu and his vagabond days in Europe, but now that I knew more of the story, slowly the pictures I kept in my mind were having to realign themselves. He wasn’t just a poor kid from the Quarter who made good; he was a poor kid from the Quarter who got lucky and then made good. When I was growing up, he was always driving home the point that hard work and dedication can get you anywhere. Somehow, much of that rhetoric felt like a lie once I knew he had had a secret treasure footing the bills.

The waiter came back with our entrées at that point, and I was glad for the opportunity to collect my thoughts.

The man set my delicious-smelling bowl of crawfish bisque in front of me, but Kevin’s Croûte de Sel Rose was a little more complicated than that. Part of the dish’s appeal was the elaborate presentation it required. Much like Caesar salad or bananas Foster, the final steps of serving salt-crusted fish lent itself to a bit of tableside drama. Kevin and I both watched the waiter act out that drama now on our behalf, not an easy task considering that this performance usually involved the assistance of several attendants, silent workers who would hover at the waiter’s
elbow and provide each tool as he needed it, much like a scrub nurse in an operating room.

As our waiter was working alone, he simply laid out an array of tools, a cutting board, and a plate on the empty side of our table. Turning his attention to the hot pan in which the fish had been baked, he tapped along the solid crust with the back of a heavy spoon, breaking the seal and releasing the aromatic fragrance of the herbs. Next, he used a special pair of tongs to separate the crust along its fault line, pushing each side back to reveal the tender, juicy fish inside. Once the salty package was wide open, in a quick, careful movement with yet another tool, he scooped out the whole fish and set it down on the waiting cutting board. There, he filleted it perfectly, right along the bone, and placed the resulting meat on the empty plate. Trading tools again, he used a slotted spoon to scoop out some tiny red potatoes and pearl onions from the pan and add them to the plate. He used a pastry brush to whisk away any errant chunks of the salt, and then he topped the whole thing with a meuniere sauce.

“This isn’t going to be too salty?” Kevin asked as the waiter finally set the plate in front of him and gathered up his tools.

“No, sir, not at all. Enjoy!”

Kevin took a bite of the fish as the waiter again left us alone. I could tell by his closed eyes and rapturous expression that he found it even more delicious than he had expected. I enjoyed my bisque with equal enthusiasm, feeling as I did a twinge of pride at the fact that Julian Ledet was my father. The man had his flaws, but truly he was an artist and a genius when it came to food—regardless of how he had paid for his education way back when. In the restaurant that bore his name, though he no longer prepared the food himself, he had created the recipes for most of the items that were served there.

“Ms. Ledet, may we see your hands, please?”

Startled, I opened my eyes to find myself back in the hotel room. Detective Walters and another woman were standing in front of me expectantly. Kevin was dead, I reminded myself, and though I knew there was still more of last night for me to remember, the two people standing here and staring at me were obviously waiting for something.

“Excuse me?” I asked, blinking

“Your hands. May we see your hands?”

I held my hands out in front of me. As I did, I noticed for the first time since waking up in this strange place that my perfectly manicured fingernails were dirty.

As the woman and Detective Walters studied my hands, I tried to remember how my fingernails could possibly have gotten so dirty.

“Uh-huh,” the woman said to Detective Walters as she studied my nails. Then, before I could stop her, she pulled out a pair of nail scissors and a plastic bag and clipped off my right thumbnail at its base.

“What are you doing?” I cried, pulling back and staring at her.

“I need the tissues and dried blood under your fingernails as evidence,” the woman replied, reaching out again and grasping my hand in a firm grip.

Blood? Dried blood?

“How would I get blood under my fingernails?” I asked, watching in disbelief as she finished one hand and started in on the other, destroying with a few quick snips a sixty-dollar manicure.

“More than likely from the scratches on your friend’s cheeks,” she replied.

Stunned, I looked up helplessly at Detective Walters. He didn’t say a word but merely pantomimed the scraping of his fingernails across his cheek.

Were they serious? Did they really think I had killed Kevin? That was ridiculous!

Once the woman finished with my fingernails, she sealed up her plastic
bag, thanked the detective, and walked away. He looked down at me and told me not to go anywhere, that he would be back in a minute. Then he followed her out of the room, and I was left alone again except for the cop at the door. Looking at him now, I finally realized that he wasn’t here to protect me. He was here to keep me from leaving.

I knew if I had indeed killed Kevin myself, my only hope lay in remembering how and why. Could I have done it in self-defense? Near panic, I forced my mind back again to the memories of last night.

Kevin had explained the rest of the story as we ate, saying that neither my dad nor Mr. Naquin had been able to turn up any information at all about the origin of the statuettes. Of course, they hadn’t exactly been experts at historical research, and there was no Internet back then to make it easier. Finally, Ruben had offered to do the research on their behalf, but at a price. If he was able to find proof that the treasure was free and clear, he wanted a share of the profits. His offer seemed fair, so the three men signed a contract to that effect. Because Ruben was just starting out in a law firm and didn’t have much spare time, progress was slow. Eventually, the whole thing turned into a hobby for him, one that he did on the side whenever he could.

Ruben kept at it, telling the others to be patient, but eventually my father reached the point where he wanted to melt down the rest of the treasure—or at least his half. There were fifty-five statuettes left, and gold was still hovering around forty dollars an ounce, so his share, melted down, would have given him a little more than a hundred thousand dollars. He was an accomplished chef by that point and eager to create a first-class restaurant, one that could compete with the likes of Antoine’s and Broussard’s and Galatoire’s and the rest. In the late sixties, that much money would have allowed him to buy the building he had in mind, renovate it, and cover all operating costs in those first crucial months until the restaurant began turning a profit. Most men in that position would have taken on partners, but my father wasn’t interested in giving anyone else a say in how he did things. This was to be Julian Ledet’s baby from start to finish. He needed the treasure to make that happen.

Ruben, on the other hand, was convinced that the treasure was worth
at least three times that much intact, so he came up with a clever alternative. They could handpick several wealthy investors, ones who knew how to keep their mouths shut. Julian would tell them about the treasure, describe the conundrum they were still in about trying to find its true origins, and offer his share as collateral. If the restaurant was a success, they would get back their initial investment plus a healthy rate of interest. If the restaurant failed, they would get the value of their initial investment paid back in gold statuettes. At that point, it would be up to each investor whether he wanted to melt down his share and sell it for the going rate or hang onto it until the research was complete and the statuettes’ true value could be determined.

Except for the statuettes, that part of the story fit in with what I knew about how Ledet’s got started. My impression had always been that my father owned the restaurant free and clear but that a few well-heeled friends had helped him to get it going—and that he had done so well so fast that he had been able to pay them all back in full within three years. One of the investors, Conrad Zahn, was involved in local politics, and he had also been pivotal in helping my father navigate through the complicated red tape of renovating the historical structure that would house the restaurant.

“Okay, I think I have a pretty good understanding of what went on back then. What happened with the treasure?”

Kevin dabbed at his mouth with his napkin and then spoke.

“Ledet’s was a huge success, so the investors got their money back plus interest, and your dad’s share of the treasure remained intact. Unfortunately, in the meantime my father’s research turned up at least one tie between the statuettes and the French crown. It wasn’t enough to prove that the treasure belonged back in France, but it definitely gave them reason to keep it quiet a bit longer. Time passed, and your father’s restaurant did so well that he was no longer hurting for money. Naquin, on the other hand, was getting up in years and was tired of waiting for the treasure’s big payoff. He tried to convince your father that it was time to make a decision once and for all.”

“What was the problem?”

“They couldn’t agree on how to get that payoff. All along, your father
maintained that the smartest move was to melt down the gold and sell it as ingots, saying a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush. Naquin, however, couldn’t stand the thought of destroying what might be an important historical find, especially given that it would be worth far more money intact. He wanted to take the treasure public and try to sell it, even with the risk that a foreign government might swoop in and take it all away and leave them with nothing. Given how much time had already passed since they first found the treasure, it seemed to Naquin it was a chance worth taking.”

“I have to agree with him.”

“Yes, well, your father didn’t. The two men argued about it for years but never reached a solution. They finally had a parting of ways last year. Gold was selling at almost eight hundred and seventy dollars an ounce at that point, so the gold alone was now worth more than four and a half million dollars. I can’t even imagine the value of the treasure intact. Twice that much? Three times? Ten times? Regardless, your father wouldn’t budge. Naquin had had enough and cut all ties.”

“How sad, that such good friends would allow money to destroy a relationship.”

“I know. Adding fuel to the fire was the fact that your father was just about to buy Paradise from Naquin when they had their big blowup over the treasure. In retaliation Naquin canceled the sale on the land. Even though his family doesn’t even want Paradise anymore, Naquin stubbornly hangs onto it. To be honest, I think the only reason he still lets your father go down there is just to torment him by hanging it over his head like that. That land is Naquin’s biggest weapon in their fight over the treasure.”

“Sounds like two stubborn old men, both digging in their heels,” I said. I was still trying to wrap my head around all that I had learned. “So now that I understand the situation with the treasure, go back to what you were saying earlier. What was the deal clincher my father told you this morning, the one that would finally make Naquin willing to sell him the land?”

“Believe it or not, your dad decided to let Naquin win the battle over the treasure. He wants Paradise so badly that he’s giving in. If Naquin
will sell him the land, in return your father will allow Naquin to have his way with the treasure and take it public.”

“After all these years of fighting, my dad’s the one who surrendered? That’s not the Julian Ledet I know. He once gave Sam the silent treatment for an entire month just because he didn’t like the way Sam had the staff folding the napkins.”

“I was as shocked as you, but when we spoke this morning, your father sounded very happy about it, almost jubilant. He was ready to wave the white flag with glee.”

“Did he give you a reason for this uncharacteristic hundred-and-eighty-degree flip?”