Fat Tuesday Fricassee (20 page)

It was time to call Patti Latoure.

The ambulance arrived in five minutes and pronounced Dylan dead. Patti was there twenty minutes later with five officers and a crime scene team.

“What are you two doing here?” she asked me and Miguel.

“It's a long story,” he said.

“I've got time.”

I explained as well as I could. It wasn't easy, since I felt like I'd been kicked in the stomach. I didn't know Dylan, but I had just met him last night. I couldn't even see his face. He was still wearing the mask he'd had on at the museum.

“Two suicides over this thing, Patti? Really?” My head ached and my eyes were burning.

“We don't know what this is yet, Zoe. Go on back to the Biscuit Bowl and cook something. Come in later and give us your statements. I should know more by then.”

“All right.” I was thinking about the information Dylan
had claimed to have. “I don't know what to look for, but there may be information here that has something to do with Jordan Phillips's death, too.”

“I'll look around. And don't talk to anyone about it, okay?”

Miguel nodded, and we walked back out to the Mercedes.

“I should have come to look for him right away.”

“You couldn't have known.” He opened the car doors and we got inside.

Daylight was peeking over the horizon. Another day of carnival was on the way. Yet I had never felt less like celebrating. I didn't even want to cook anything.

Miguel drove back to the diner and made breakfast for us both. I could barely do more than push the eggs around on my plate. Crème Brûlée ate and went into the office to sleep again. I didn't even want to play with him.

Ollie showed up a few minutes later, right after Uncle Saul and Cole had arrived. Miguel told them what had happened. We didn't have much time to dwell on it—the Biscuit Bowl needed food.

For once I didn't even notice what was made for the savory and the sweet biscuit bowls. I felt like a zombie going through the motions, trying to keep moving when I felt like falling on the floor and crying.

Whoever had done this to Jordan and Dylan—I was convinced even more now that Jordan had been murdered—was a monster. Someone had to catch him before it was all over and the killer was free of any responsibility.

We headed for the Biscuit Bowl when the food was ready and the car and taxi were loaded.

It was no easy task. People were crammed together in the parking lot and not happy about it. The lines to the various trucks were filled with hundreds of customers. It was a food truck owner's dream but a customer nightmare.

“Why is it like this?” I asked as we grabbed what we
could and headed through the food trucks. “It's not even eight
A.M.
yet.”

“It's the food eating contest,” Delia reminded me as she met us right outside the Biscuit Bowl. “They've already been at it for an hour. I gave them what we had to add to the contest.”

“I completely forgot! How did you know?”

She held out a sheet of paper with a reminder about the contest. “I came in early in case you needed help. No one was here so I just got it going.”

I hugged her. ‘Thank you so much.”

“It's okay,” she said when I started to cry on her shoulder. “Zoe, what's wrong?”

“She's gonna have to tell you later when we come up for air,” Ollie said. “We need her hands, not her mouth.”

I put on an apron and scooted past Miguel and Delia to reach the fryer. I was in my element and tried hard to concentrate on what I was doing and not on what had happened. Ollie was calling out orders again. I had to remind him to print them on paper.

We could see the contestants sitting at picnic tables. They were putting as much food as they could into their mouths as their times were called out. Men and women were stuffing in hot dogs, biscuit bowls, and kabobs as they went against the clock for a new winner in each round.

“We're almost out of paper plates,” Miguel said.

“Just give them napkins for now,” I answered. “How are you doing, Delia?”

“We have plenty of sweet filling, but we're out of icing,” she advised.

“Use the powdered sugar. There's a shaker of it right above your head.”

“Thanks, Zoe.”

The remainder of the morning went the same way. I updated Delia on things that had happened. I glanced out the
customer window. There was still a long line outside. Miguel was refilling the Coke bucket. Ollie was trying to cash a hundred-dollar bill despite the sign on the window that said we didn't take bills that size.

“Give it back,” I told him. “We can't take bigger than a twenty.”

“We'll lose the sale,” Ollie said.

“I don't care. No hundreds.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Miguel came back. “That's the last of the Cokes, and the ice is almost gone.”

I glanced up at the clock. “We should be reaching a slowdown point soon. We can't worry about it right now. If we run out, we run out.”

That was ten thirty. The crowds lingered until after lunch. The food held up until the contest was over and the customers had thinned out. I felt successful but so tired I wanted to fall on the floor and sleep.

Delia went home, dragging herself out the back door. Miguel, Ollie, and Uncle Saul helped finish cleaning up.

Uncle Saul was still sniffling but said he'd stay at the Biscuit Bowl until we could get back with the dinner menu. He didn't feel much like cooking. “Zoe, honey, I'm sorry it turned out this way. I wish you could've helped Jordan and Dylan. But sometimes there's just nothing you can do.”

I was working on a shopping list for Miguel. The words kept fading in and out on the page as I wrote. “I think I handled it wrong.”

“You aren't trained for that type of work, like I said before,” Uncle Saul continued. “You have to take that into consideration before you beat yourself up. You hear me?”

“I do.” I looked up and smiled. “This couldn't have happened at a worse time, either, with all this extra work. I'm
sorry I signed up for the Mardi Gras rally now. Everyone is so tired. People have died. It's horrible.”

Ollie came running inside. “Zoe—Frank the gator man just pointed a local news crew our way. They're coming with cameras and reporters. Now's your chance to shine!”

We went through the kitchen like human tornadoes, looking for flyers and scrounging up a few biscuit bowls to impress the TV news team. I put on some makeup and forced my hair under an old Biscuit Bowl ball cap. I'd be sorry later, but there wasn't time for anything else.

The reporter knocked on the door and then entered with his crew right behind him. “I hear you make the best biscuits in the world, Zoe Chase,” he said. “I hope you have one for me to try.”

We talked about my biscuit bowls and how I'd come to make them. I wished I had fresh biscuits for the reporter and his crew, but after going through the rush, I was lucky to have any food at all.

“I love this filling!” the reporter said. “What do you call it?”

Ollie stepped in to cover for me. “I call it Stoke's Pie after my Granddaddy Stokes. It's rutabagas and potatoes in a secret sauce and mixed with fried pork.”

“Rutabagas?” The reporter frowned and looked at the biscuit bowl again. “Well, it's good, anyway!”

They ate the last sweet biscuit bowls—berries with custard. We talked about my plans for the future and how I came up with my ideas. It really was a moment in the sun—exciting but fleeting. Maybe it was worth being there. I wasn't sure.

As soon as they left the kitchen to interview someone else, I took Crème Brûlée outside for some fresh air. He was feeling playful after being cooped up most of the day in the front seat. He rolled in the grass and wanted me to pet his tummy. He swatted at bugs and a dandelion he'd found
growing there. I held him in my arms and snuggled my face against him, hoping he could make me feel better. As I turned to go back to the Biscuit Bowl, Detective Frolick was there, with a deep scowl on his face.

I held Crème Brûlée a little tighter for my own benefit and reminded myself that it could've been the ghost of Old Slac. Even Detective Frolick's frown was better than that.

“Miss Chase.” There was exasperation and impatience in his tone.

“Detective. What can I do for you?”

“Why are you still involved in Jordan Phillips's death? I thought we had an understanding.” He glanced around as though he was worried about being seen there.

“I'm not. I know you're talking about Dylan's death. I'd give anything not to have seen that—believe me. He called me. I didn't know what was going on.”

“And you couldn't pass that on to me instead of trying to do it yourself?”

“I operate a food truck. I didn't want any part in this at all. If you would've just told the truth from the beginning—”

“The truth can be subjective and in this case would've caused difficulties that you don't comprehend.”

“Maybe so, but you still only have yourself to blame.”

I started to walk past him. He didn't budge.

“Excuse me. I have to get back to the diner so I can cook for dinner.”

“Sometimes bad things happen to little girls who like to play games.” The words were rough and mean.

“Stay away from me or I'll file a stalking charge against you to add to the rest of your problems.” I could hear my voice wavering. I knew he could hear it, too.

He stepped to one side. “The answers you're looking for might not be good for your family, either, Miss Chase. Have you thought about that?”

I calmly took Crème Brûlée back to the truck. Detective Frolick got into his vehicle and left the parking lot, burning rubber.

I let out a pent-up breath and buried my face in Crème Brûlée's fur. “I don't like that man. What is he trying to hide, anyway? Did he kill Jordan? He acts like he did.”

Crème Brûlée's answer was a loud snore.

“How can you be tired? You slept all night. I need some comfort. You're supposed to be here for me.”

He flipped on his side away from me as though I'd been bothering him.

“Fine. Next time you want a special treat at the store, I'll remember this moment.”

The passenger side door opened. I threw my arms around Miguel, and my story about Detective Frolick came out in a nervous rush.

“I don't understand why that man keeps coming to see you,” Miguel said. “What does he think you know?”

I held him tight. “I wish I could go back in time and not find Jordan's body.”

“I know.” He kissed me. “I'm sorry.”

“I don't understand what they're covering up.”

Uncle Saul stalked up to the cab of the truck. “Better get a move on it. Dinner won't cook itself, and we're completely out of food!”

“Thanks for the kick in the butt.” I sighed, not wanting to go. “I'm leaving Crème Brûlée here while I'm gone. He should be fine. I just walked him.”

“I can handle that. I'll see you later.”

Ollie climbed into the back of the car with all the hot bags on his lap. “So what are we cooking this time?”

“Stoke's Pie?” I asked him with a smile.

“It was the best I could come up with at the time.”

“Thanks for that. My mind was a complete blank.”

“You're stressed.” He shrugged. “You shouldn't have to think.”

“I appreciate that, but I have to think now. What are we eating the rest of the day?”

When we reached the diner, we peered through the freezer for possible savory and sweet foods while Miguel took out bags of plates, napkins, and forks to restock the food truck.

Ollie laughed as he took out a large package of bacon. “Black eyed peas and bacon sounds good.” He handed me the frozen peas I'd already cooked and seasoned last summer before I froze them.

The door to the diner chimed. Chef Art strode in with a grin on his face. His RV was parked in front. “Good afternoon, lady and gents. If that's coffee I smell, I'll have a cup or two.” He planted himself on one of the stools at the counter.

I had just started the biscuit dough. “How's Tucker doing? I looked through Jordan's phone. Can you tell if someone is suicidal from reading what they write on their phone?”

“You never know,” Ollie said. “How much bacon do you want in the beans?”

“You can't have too much bacon,” Chef Art said. “Question is how hot do you make it?”

Ollie laughed. “Can't be too hot, either.”

Chef Art smacked his lips at the prospect. “Zoe Chase, you were wasted at that bank, girl. Your food is to die for.”

I grinned. “Would you mind putting your face and those words on every billboard in Mobile?”

“Maybe one day.”

I hoped that day would be the opening day of my restaurant. I knew Chef Art liked me and enjoyed my cooking. I didn't want that endorsement for my food truck. There was only so much I could do with the Biscuit Bowl. But later his words could be helpful.