by J. J. Cook
He patted my hand. “I think maybe I have an idea. At least we might be able to get a few more answers about this recipe thing. I don’t know if it will be what you need, Zoe, but we can try my idea and find out.”
I hugged his neck. “Thank you. Whatever you have in mind is worth trying. Let me get dressed.”
Delia was still asleep and had left a “do not disturb” sign on her door. I wasn’t sure how she’d managed to get herself completely into the closet, but I admired her tenacity.
After putting on some jeans and a top, I asked Ollie to keep an eye on the diner. The broken window was an open invitation. I didn’t want to share everything I had with the people who lived around me.
“Do you need to close your cat in a closet or something so he doesn’t get out of the diner?” Ollie asked as he agreed to keep watch.
“I think he’ll be fine. He probably won’t even notice the window is open. He usually doesn’t walk that far from the bedroom. Thank you so much for doing this. I’ll let you know what we find out.”
Uncle Saul had many contacts from his former life in Mobile. He explained his plan as we drove his old, wood-paneled station wagon through town.
“I figure some of my friends who are in the antique business might know more than your Internet about the Jefferson recipe. They won’t only spout facts at us—they’ll know the gossip, too.”
“What a great idea!”
“Thanks. You know, my brother didn’t get all the smarts in the family.”
“I never thought he did.”
We got to the first antique store on South Water Street. The neighborhood was old, full of iron lace balconies and window treatments. Mobile was famous for its elaborate scrollwork, like its sister city, Charleston, South Carolina.
Most of the old work was gone, lost to time, and even being used to support the city. Mobile had sold off a ton of iron during the bad years after the Civil War.
It was Saturday, and the weather was fine. The rain had cleared out all the humidity and left behind some sweet breezes. Uncle Saul’s friend, Ben Weathers, was stacking furniture and knickknacks on the sidewalk for folks to admire as they waited to catch a cruise ship.
Uncle Saul and Ben shook hands.
“It’s been a dog’s age since I’ve seen you, buddy,” Ben said with a wide grin.
Ben Weathers was a short, thin man with a crown of white hair fluttering around his pink face. His keen blue eyes were mostly hidden behind glasses—when those weren’t perched on the tip of his nose.
“You don’t make it out to the swamp very often,” Uncle Saul chided him.
“Man, you ain’t got no tourists out there. I get ’em coming and going off the cruise ships every day. I don’t have to wait for Mardi Gras or the Azalea Festival anymore.”
Both men laughed at that. Uncle Saul introduced me. Ben shook my hand and told me I was welcome to park my food truck at his place anytime.
We went inside the small shop together. There was so much merchandise packed in there, I could hardly tell one thing from the other. There were old grandfather clocks, desks, rocking chairs, and thousands of smaller items.
Ben tried to sell me some antique kitchen utensils. I refused, telling him I was just getting started. He gave me an old silver spoon, black with tarnish, for good luck.
Uncle Saul finally explained why we’d come, and asked Ben if he’d heard any rumors about the Jefferson recipe.
Ben invited us to sit down on some furniture he said had been salvaged from the Southern White House during the Civil War. It was in pretty good condition, though I suspected the velvet was new.
“Rumors? Saul, there’s a full-blown hurricane of innuendoes and dark intentions about that thing. I wish I had it. I could probably get at least a million and a half for it.”
“Any ideas on who might’ve taken it?” Uncle Saul asked.
“I’ve heard a few names mentioned. You’re probably thinking someone close to home. That would be Art Arrington.”
“Chef Art from the old Carriage House Restaurant?” Uncle Saul looked surprised to hear that name. He explained to me, “Chef Art had a great little place over on South Royal Street. They said the governor used to come and eat there every weekend. Anybody who was anybody liked to be seen there.”
“Was the food good?” I asked.
“Good?” Ben kissed his fingers. “It was like the angels themselves brought the food to Chef Art fresh every day. The man was a genius!”
“What happened to him and the Carriage House?” I wanted to hear the whole story. Of course I knew who Chef Art was. He was part of Mobile history.
“He got too big for his britches,” Uncle Saul said. “Some men from New York City came and offered him a deal to open a restaurant there. He did, and it did real well for a while. He tried to keep the original open, too. That didn’t work out so well.”
“Then the Carriage House in New York closed. By that time, Chef Art had lost his place here, too,” Ben supplied. “Still, he came back home with a pile of money. Bought that old mansion, over on Spring Street, I think.”
“You think he could be involved?” Uncle Saul asked Ben.
Ben put his head close to Uncle Saul’s. “Chef Art has his fingers in a lot of different pies. There’s been some talk that he tried to get that Jefferson recipe at an auction before it went to the Smithsonian. A friend of mine said Chef Art probably hired someone to steal it when he had the chance.”
I had to admit, I’d been reluctant to believe that a recipe could be worth that much money. The way Ben explained it made a believer out of me. By the time Uncle Saul and I left the antique store, I was ready to go and ask Chef Art for it.
“I don’t think it’s going to be as easy as all that,” Uncle Saul cautioned as we climbed back into his station wagon.
“We could at least tell Detective Latoure about the recipe and Chef Art. Maybe she could take it from there.”
“Maybe. I don’t have much faith in the police.”
“Or the government. Or any other institution.” I’d heard his opinions many times on those matters. “That’s why you went to live in the swamp.”
He pinched my cheek. “You’re getting a smart mouth on you, girl. I have one more stop I’d like to make. I’d like to get a second opinion, so to speak.”
Since I’d confined my food truck business to downtown, five days a week, and the occasional weekend festival, I had nothing better to do than hang out with my uncle. Trying to figure out whatever we could about the stolen recipe could be worthwhile.
We drove toward Mobile Bay and met up with another antique dealer who was an old friend of Uncle Saul’s. Danny Butcher was sitting at an outdoor antique festival. His tables were packed full of the odd and unusual.
Danny was a little odd and unusual himself. He was dressed like a pirate from his tricorn hat to his knee-high boots. He looked like Captain Hook from the old Peter Pan movie.
He laughed when I took several pictures of him with my cell phone. “Us pirates don’t like having our pictures taken, even by a bonny lass such as yourself. Makes it too easy to create wanted posters.”
He growled at me, and I took another picture. “I promise not to help the authorities catch you.”
“Nice getup,” Uncle Saul said. “You’ve come up in the world since I saw you last, Danny.”
“And I heard you’ve been sinking out there in the swamp,” Danny retorted. “What brings you away from the gators and snakes?”
Uncle Saul explained that we were looking for the person who’d stolen Jefferson’s recipe. “Any ideas?”
“Not really. A man came by a couple of weekends ago. He said he had the recipe and wanted to know if I’d buy it from him. I figured either it wasn’t real, or he was crazy. You can clearly see I don’t have that kind of money.”
“What did he look like?” I asked him.
“Kind of tall, greasy red hair, wearing a hat that said Tacky Tacos,” he supplied. “Sound like your man
?”
It sounded exactly like Terry. “Did you see the recipe?”
“Nah. He told me he had it on him and kept fiddling with something in his pocket.” Danny laughed. “If it was the real recipe, you’d have to take some money off for mistreatment. An old document of that sort needs to be preserved and cared for. You can’t shove something like that into your jeans and take it around town trying to sell it.”
Uncle Saul nudged me. “Danny was a museum curator when we were young. He gave it all up for this sweet business he has going here. Good choice, huh?”
“Arhh. Ye better be careful how you speak of me youth.” Danny closed one eye and put his hand on the pommel of his sword. “You know I had reason to get out of that business.”
“Yes, you did.” Uncle Saul turned to me. “The museum accused Danny of trying to steal an artifact. What was that again?”
“Nothin’ you need worry about,” Danny said. “I was cleared, anyway.”
“But they never found the artifact, did they?” Uncle Saul seemed to be joking. I wasn’t completely sure about that. Who knew he had such disreputable friends?
“Can you think of anyone with the kind of money it would take to buy Jefferson’s recipe? It would have to be a collector, right?” I asked.
“I can think of a half-dozen people who’d covet that kind of thing.” Danny squinted at me. “You mean to tell me you think that was the real deal? Where would someone like your taco friend get a valuable, historic recipe?”
“I’m not sure yet. Thanks for the information. Could you write down the names of those people you think might want the recipe?”
“Don’t need a list. Only one man would have the money for something like that—and be willing to pay it—Chef Art Arrington.”
We had to move away from the tables full of antiques as a large group of tourists descended on Danny’s wares. Uncle Saul and I went back to the station wagon.
“Looks like Chef Art is our man,” he said.
“Maybe we should pay him a call.”
“Maybe not. At least you shouldn’t see him with me, honey. Art and I go back a long way—none of it good. It would be best for you to take Ollie or Miguel out there. Better think of a good story, though. You can’t go up to a man like that and flat out ask him if he has the recipe.”
On the way back to the diner, I tried to think of a good excuse to put Chef Art at ease. It didn’t come right away. I wasn’t even sure I could get Miguel or Ollie to go with me.
We made a detour so that Uncle Saul could visit another old friend while he was in town. This stop came with lunch in the kitchen of one of the most popular restaurants in Mobile. I wasn’t complaining.
The Laughing Goat was housed in a two-story, redbrick, Queen Anne–style commercial building. A plaque on the outside said it was on the Historic Register and had been built in 1891.
The inside was classic, with hardwood floors and white linen tablecloths. There were colorful flowers everywhere. Large ceiling fans gracefully kept the air circulating, probably the same way they had for the last hundred years.
Chef Paul Dismukes was a jolly, bearded man with a broad chest and broader belly. He was tall and strong, almost lifting Uncle Saul off the floor with his bear hug.
“Saul, you old devil! You must be looking for lunch. Sit down and let me feed you.” Chef Paul caught sight of me and kissed my hand. “And who is this lovely creature? Are you married again and hiding her out in the swamp?”
“No, you fool.” Uncle Saul laughed. “This is my niece, Zoe. You remember her. She was a mite scrawnier back then. She was always eating at my place.”
“Of course! I remember.” Chef Paul moved in to give me a bear hug.
I was pretty sure a few of my ribs were cracked when it was over. He’d also managed to give me a pat on the butt. No more close contact for him.
“As a matter of fact, I have your brother and his . . . er . . . lovely ex-wife eating here right now,” Chef Paul said. “Let me go find them.”
“No! I mean . . . not right now.” I really didn’t want to see my parents. I was glad they had a good relationship after the divorce. It made things easier for me. But I didn’t want to be part of that right now.
“Okay.” Chef Paul shrugged. “Well, sit down, you two. I’ll have someone bring you something.”
The large kitchen was covered in stainless steel appliances and counters. Dozens of fast-moving servers and cooks jumped at Chef Paul’s commands. Fresh herbs were growing in pots everywhere with special lights, or in windows. The aromas coming from the big pots and skillets on the massive stoves were enough to set my mouth watering.
Being a guest of a chef, and eating in his kitchen, was a high honor. We were seated at a small table in a corner. One of the servers laid a white linen tablecloth for us, and a small pot of rosemary was placed in the center of the table with a lighted candle.
“You’re gonna love this, Zoe.” Uncle Saul tucked his napkin in under his chin and picked up his fork as the first course arrived.
We had salmon cakes and wild greens, which included dandelion leaves. They were tender and delicious. The salad dressing was a house secret, but I tasted a hint of honey in it.
Next came black-eyed peas, cooked until they were firm, but soft. There were shallots with them, and fresh mushrooms.
After that, we had macaroni and cheese with spicy pimento cheese instead of the regular cheese variety. Right after came brown sugar–glazed pork roast that was melt-in-your-mouth good. It was followed immediately by hush puppies, shaped like dolphins, that contained hot peppers.
Dessert was mango pie, the restaurant’s signature dessert. Chef Paul sat down with us for this last course, slurping coffee from a big mug as we finished eating.
I was so stuffed, I felt like I was going to pop. I had plenty of good ideas for the Biscuit Bowl tucked away for the future, too.
“What did you think?” Chef Paul asked us.
Uncle Saul wiped his mouth with his napkin. His eyes narrowed. “The salmon cakes were a little dry. The macaroni and cheese was a little too spicy. The pork roast was cooked too much. The pie was excellent, if you don’t count the crust.”
The two men faced each other. Chef Paul’s face was a blend of horror and amazement. The servers and cooks in the kitchen stopped running back and forth. They appeared to be holding their breaths as they waited for Chef Paul’s response.
“I can’t believe you liked the black-eyed peas.” Chef Paul started laughing and the tension broke. “You’re an old buzzard, Saul. Lucky for you, your place is closed so I can’t come and say what I think about your food.”
Uncle Saul laughed, too. “You did that plenty of times before I closed. And you stole that brown sugar glaze from me, Paul. You better be giving me credit on the menu for it.”
Both men laughed so hard that tears were rolling down their cheeks. Activity in the kitchen picked up again—so much so that no one noticed when one of the guests from the dining room came into the kitchen to say hello.
“Zoe? Saul?” My father’s face was distressed. “What the hell are you doing here?”
SEVENTEEN
Chef Paul scurried away like one of his cooks, supervising a big pot of dumpling soup being made on the stove.
“You said you’d take her out of town.” Daddy faced Uncle Saul.
This was the only time—when the two of them were close together—that I could see the family resemblance between the two brothers.
Uncle Saul was the eldest. He’d long ago given up any idea of trying to tame the Chase family curly hair. It looked like a bird’s nest sitting on his head. His idea of good grooming was to smell a shirt he’d worn the day before to see if he could wear it again.
My father never let h is hair get more than an eighth of an inch long. That disguised his curls and kept them under control. I was pretty sure he dyed his hair, too. Usually people with truly black hair start getting gray early.
I knew that was true. I had m
y first gray hair when I was eighteen!
Daddy’s blue suit was impeccable. He worked out regularly and had the polished air of a successful businessman.
“I got her out of the hospital,” Uncle Saul said, defending himself. “She’s not in any danger now that we know about the Jefferson recipe.”
“Danger? What are you talking about?” Daddy ran his manicured hand through his crisp hair. “Anabelle wants her out of this food truck business. She wants Zoe back at the bank and married to Tommy Lee. What part of that didn’t you understand in the kidnapping plan?”
“Daddy, I’m not giving up my business.”
“Hush, Zoe. You don’t have a say in this. It’s all about what your mother needs you to do. You’re lucky she didn’t come back with me to see Paul. Neither one of us would ever hear the end of it.”
My father and Uncle Saul argued a little more before Chef Paul threw them out of his kitchen. We went out the back door, the way we’d come in. My father went out front to lie to my mother, no doubt. I felt sure he wasn’t going to tell her that he’d seen us in the kitchen.
Uncle Saul started the old station wagon. “Zoe Chase, you’re gonna have to learn to stand up to that woman.”
“I thought I was doing that already. How many ways can I say, ‘I want this business’ and ‘I’m not marrying Tommy Lee’?”
“I don’t know, but next time, your parents might hire a real kidnapper who’ll take you to one of those camps up in Birmingham where they brainwash you. You better make peace with your mother fast.”
I agreed with him but didn’t know what else to say or do. “Maybe I should go ahead and move to Birmingham and change my name. They have a good food truck business going up there.”
“You have to take a stand in a seriouslike manner,” he explained as he started back to the diner. “You want to be your own woman? You gotta stop being their little girl.”
“How do I do that?”
“Search me. I’ve never been anyone’s baby. You better find out fast if you ever want to have your own life.”
