by J. J. Cook
“Not from you.” Miguel backed out of the parking space. “I think she made that very clear.”
I shrugged. “I guess we heard two different things.”
“Zoe, I don’t want you to be on my client list again. Trust me on this. You’ll only get hurt if you get involved any further.”
“I won’t do anything illegal,” I promised. “I’d like to see that recipe, wouldn’t you? And like Patti said, having the recipe in police hands would mean that I’d be safer. Delia, too. The killer won’t have to go after us anymore.”
“I want to go on record as being against this idea.”
It was very formal, but he was a lawyer, after all. They tended to be a little formal—at least the ones I’d met. Believe me, my mother had thrown enough of them my way to see if any of them were marriage material.
I realized that was the downside of breaking up with Tommy Lee, too. Once I was on the market again, I’d be fair game for every relative and friend who had a single man in mind for me.
“I appreciate your help, Miguel.”
“But you won’t leave it alone, will you?”
“I guess we’ll see. Right now, I don’t have any idea how to pursue this. If something comes up . . .”
Traffic had been light on the roads back from police headquarters. We’d made the drive very quickly. Miguel parked his car outside the diner. I was ready to say good-bye and go inside. It seemed obvious to me that my romantic notions about him were only fancy.
“Zoe, anything you do could put you back on the killer’s radar,” Miguel argued. “If you find out anything, promise me you’ll give the information to the police.”
“I will.”
He didn’t look like he believed me. “Be careful.”
I got out of the car and went around to the driver’s side. I could see, through the new plate glass, that Delia and Ollie were cooking something. I thought I might as well ask Miguel if he wanted to stay and eat.
He didn’t seem to even think about the question before answering. “I’d love to, but I have a desk full of paperwork that needs to be done. I’ll talk to you later, Zoe.”
I watched the Mercedes pull back out into traffic, feeling properly rebuffed. Maybe I thought Miguel was cute, but I was beginning to feel that he didn’t share my view of a possible relationship between us.
Maybe what people had said about him—that he was still grieving for his wife—was true. It was depressing thinking about it. Since I didn’t want to share those feelings with Delia and Ollie, I put on a big smile and went into the diner.
The aromas from the cooking food were heavenly. Delia and Ollie suddenly seemed to be very close. They were laughing and working on dinner. Ollie snaked one long arm around Delia, supposedly to get the cayenne. I’m sure Delia and I both knew better.
“Zoe!” Ollie finally noticed me. “We thought we’d start dinner. I hope that’s okay. Delia is a wonderful cook.”
“That’s fine,” I told him brightly. “What is it? It smells great.”
Delia’s face was flushed from the heat of the stove. I thought she’d never looked prettier, even without all the makeup she wore when she was working at the bar.
“It’s an old recipe my granny used to make,” she explained. “You had all the ingredients. I wanted to do something for you. You’ve been so kind to me. I didn’t expect you back for dinner, but that’s okay.”
“I can’t wait to try it. I’m going to change clothes. I’ll be right back.”
I felt a little out of place. I could hear Ollie and Delia laughing and talking while I was in the bathroom putting on jeans and a blue tank top. Clearly, they were interested in each other. I didn’t want to intrude.
On the other hand, it wasn’t like I had someplace else to go. I was happy for them. I let go of my disappointment with Miguel and joined them.
By the time I’d fed Crème Brûlée, dinner was sizzling on the plates. We sat down to eat together. Delia and Ollie asked what I’d learned from the police.
“It wasn’t exactly a give-and-take of ideas,” I explained.
Delia nudged Ollie with her elbow. “You can tell she hasn’t spent much time with law enforcement. It’s never a give-and-take with them, Zoe. They pump you for information and then send you on your way.”
Ollie agreed. “It’s the nature of the beast. They don’t want you to know what they’re doing. You’re supposed to tell them everything you’re doing.”
I chewed and swallowed some of the spicy peppers, sausage, and onions. “At least I know that what my uncle’s friends told him was true. There is a stolen Jefferson recipe, and it’s valuable enough to make someone kill for it.”
“What’s it for, the recipe?” Delia asked.
“Crème brûlée,” I explained. “It seems that Jefferson brought that recipe, and others, back from France when he went there in 1784. The recipe is written in his own hand.”
“And that’s what makes it valuable,” Ollie said. “Valuable to some people, anyway. Collectors, I imagine.”
I told them what Uncle Saul’s friend had estimated the value of the recipe to be. Ollie let out a long, low whistle. Delia smiled and shook her head.
“I’m not sure exactly where to go from here.” I explained about Chef Art Arrington. “I was thinking I could go out there and ask him, see what his response would be.”
“No!” Delia said loudly.
Ollie also disagreed. “I remember him. He sounds like bad news to me, young ’un. Let the police take the risks. That’s what they get paid for. Besides, they know what they’re doing. You stick to making food.”
I was surprised that they didn’t think it was a good idea to circumvent the system. After all, they had both lived outside the system for a long time. Their responses made me rethink a plan to get in to see Chef Art.
Ollie hung around until after midnight, regaling us with his funny stories. He had to be doing this for Delia. Mostly, Ollie didn’t have so much to say.
I enjoyed their company. Watching the two of them together, I could see a new romance budding. I loved seeing friends find each other. It made me feel a little lonely, in this case. I knew I’d get over it, and I was happy for them.
Delia quickly burst that bubble after Ollie went back to the homeless shelter. We were talking as we got ready for bed. I teased her a little about her and Ollie.
Her pretty face became dead serious. “Women like me don’t have happily ever after, Zoe. That’s a Hollywood myth. We don’t suddenly meet good-hearted eligible bachelors who decide to marry us and take us away to a new life.”
I sat next to her on the rollaway bed while she brushed her long, dark hair. “Are you saying that you can’t fall in love with someone like Ollie?”
“I’m betting we’re only a few years apart in age, Zoe. But we’re a lifetime apart in experience.” She smiled at me a little sadly. “I’m not saying it can’t happen. They say miracles happen every day. But even men who aren’t so eligible, like Ollie, don’t want to marry women like me. I’ve got no prospects except this body and this face. It’s just a fact of life, girl. Don’t get all blue about it. I’m okay. When this is over, I’ll go back to my life. You’ll become a famous restaurant owner. It’s the way the world works.”
We finally said good night. I thought about her words for a long time after I lay down with Crème Brûlée.
I didn’t agree with her. I couldn’t agree. Dreams had to be able to come true. Delia was only saying what other people had said to her. I decided right then and there that she would never go back to waiting tables in a smoky bar again.
Was working in a food truck any better?
I wasn’t sure. I fell asleep with the question on my mind.
• • •
The next day was Sunday. Normally, this was the day I had dinner with my family. I’d hoped that since I was supposed to be with Uncle Saul, I might get away from what was sure to be a depressing event.
No such luck.
I was cooking eggplant—cubed and fried—in a delicious caramel sauce when my mother called and requested my presence.
I guessed my father told her what happened. He wasn’t ever good at keeping things from her.
I didn’t want to go but I knew I didn’t have much choice. My father was footing the bill for Delia’s legal work, after all. I took a shower, changed clothes, and called a taxi to take me to my mother’s house on Julia Way.
The big, old-fashioned houses in this part of Mobile were wonderful examples of Southern house art, circa 1800s. Nothing was spared from the architecture and design. The houses were like elegant old ladies, dressed in their iron lace and clapboard finery. They weren’t as colorful as some of the other areas around the city. They were far too refined to be gaudy.
The house I grew up in had been in my mother’s family for generations. It was grand and elegant. The grounds took up more than an acre on Julia Way. The gardens had been featured in Southern Living magazine more than once. There was a private, walled courtyard, and a guesthouse in the back.
The green lawn was smooth and well kept, and the large oak trees dripped with Spanish moss. Flower beds were carefully cultivated for the season, nothing too provocative. My mother wanted a little color, but nothing that would call extra, unwanted attention to the house.
I walked up to the wraparound porch where I’d played as a child. June, my mother’s housekeeper, greeted me at the door. There was never a cobweb at the top of the twelve-foot ceilings, never a dust bunny in a corner.
It had been a fun place to grow up with all the little places to hide, and even a secret passage that came out at the triple back-to-back fireplaces. When my mother got mad because I quit violin lessons without telling her, I hid for hours in there. Uncle Saul finally found me.
Dinner was almost as much fun as going to the dentist. There were outbursts followed by long moments of icy silence between courses.
I applauded my mother’s chef, Wesley, on his choice of rhubarb and pork ragout. It was inspired.
He bowed his head and thanked me. “Do you catch a hint of something different?”
I closed my eyes. “Nutmeg?”
He had a satisfied expression on his face when he left the room. It was always wonderful to talk to someone who loved food as much as I did.
I followed Uncle Saul’s advice and stood my ground through the arugula salad with caramelized onions and goat cheese. I wasn’t going to marry Tommy Lee, and I wasn’t giving up my food truck.
“Reason with her,” my mother demanded of my father while we ate bisque of tomato soup made from fresh tomatoes.
“What am I supposed to say? She sounds like she’s made up her mind, Anabelle.”
I’d pretty much been a disappointment all my life, except for a few brief years after college. Why change now?
My mother even pretended to cry as I enjoyed my lemon sponge cake. I’d never seen her actually shed a tear—talk about steel magnolias. When she went through the effort to appear as though she was crying, I knew how serious the matter was.
Of course, the botched kidnapping attempt should’ve given me a heads-up. I guess I was too wrapped up in everything else that was happening to really take offense at it.
My father, bless his heart, kept trying to find a compromise, smooth the way, as he always did. It seemed as though we were too far apart on this one. I was refusing to give up my dream, and they were adamant that it had no place in my life.
After a few painful hours of being together, I said good night and left the house.
It was pleasant to draw my first deep breath since I’d arrived there as I waited for the taxi I called. I was glad that ordeal was over.
I heard a footstep in the darkness, and had turned to see if it was my father, when someone dropped a smelly cloth bag over my head, picked me up, and put me roughly into the back of a car.
Again.
NINETEEN
I couldn’t believe it. Were my parents so desperate that they’d try the same thing twice?
I could only assume my kidnapper wasn’t Uncle Saul this time. I felt sure they’d learned their lesson about using friendly relatives to get the job done.
It scared me a little, even though I knew they wouldn’t let someone hurt me in the process of trying to change my mind. Had they hired a mercenary, or some professional brainwasher, to get me to give up my dream?
The car started moving. The interior smelled like those big, stinky cigars, brandy, and expensive leather.
I tried to get my thoughts together. The best way to combat this was to demand to be released—and to offer more money to my abductor than my parents had offered.
The hood was snatched off my head. At that point, I didn’t even care how badly my curls were mangled. I put on an angry, defiant face as my eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior of a limousine.
What?
They’d hired a really expensive kidnapper who apparently provided limousine service. That took me back an instant. Who drives a limousine and kidnaps young women who disagree with their parents? The trade must be very lucrative.
“Good evening, Miss Chase.”
I focused on the cultured, very Old-South voice. I looked across and saw the face of my abductor.
“Chef Art?”
I would’ve known that face anywhere. He was like Colonel Sanders and Emeril rolled into one—my first cooking idol.
Art Arrington was a big man, not so tall, it seemed, as very round. His gray beard was closely clipped on his large face. His hair was a snowy wreath around his head. He wore a white linen suit and a red string tie.
This was the face of restaurant success to me. If I hadn’t been so angry, I would’ve asked for his autograph. He was more myth than man. What I wouldn’t have given to be able to stand side by side cooking anything with him.
It was hard, but I had to put aside all that hero worship. The man had abducted me and was driving me around in his limousine—I had no idea where. I was pretty sure I knew why.
“I’m glad to see you recognize me.” Chef Art smiled and offered me a glass of wine. “I have some lovely chocolates that pair delightfully with this vintage. Would you care to try some?”
“I don’t think so. Thanks.” It was all I could do to keep from grinning at him like a kid. “Why am I here?”
“I think you probably know the answer to that, Miss Chase. May I call you Zoe?”
“No, you may not. Don’t play games with me. Tell me what you want.”
He sighed heavily, as though his words were a burden on him. “I want what every man wants. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That doesn’t seem like too much to ask, does it?”
“Not to mention the handwritten copy of a recipe for crème brûlée that Thomas Jefferson brought to this country in the 1700s.”
Smiling like a possum caught in the trash can, Chef Art agreed. “Why, yes. What an astute young woman you are.”
“Thanks.” I wasn’t sure where this conversation was leading. The limousine kept driving through the dark streets. I realized this could get ugly if Chef Art thought I was standing between him and the Jefferson recipe.
I waited, heart pounding, for him to make the next move.
“Did Terry Bannister give you the recipe?”
“I barely knew him. Why would he give me anything?”
“Good point.” He made a pyramid of his fingers and studied me across them. “Now that I have a good look at you, I don’t think you killed anyone. You’re from a good family, with deep roots in the community. You’ve lived an ordinary life—until recently. What was that all about? I confess that I originally thought you had to know about the recipe, and that’s why you’d quit your job.”
Though the first part of his assessment was true, it was also irritating. How many people were going to tell me that I had lived a very ordinary life?
The last part was so far from what was happening that I thought he must be delusional. “And now?”
<
br /> “Now that I see what you’re doing—the food truck and that terrible greasy spoon—I realize you’ve simply made a mistake in your life track. It happens all the time. You’ll do a course correction, and go back to your trivial life again soon. Don’t worry.”
“Thanks for that. I don’t see this as being a mistake. I can’t believe you do.” I glared at him even though it may have been lost in the dim lighting.
“All of my life, you’ve been my idol. I’ve always wanted to be like you. You loved food before it was fashionable. You took big chances, like opening the Carriage House restaurant in New York. I thought for sure, if anyone would understand, it would be you.”
He smiled. “Flattery will get you everywhere. Would you like my autograph?”
I crossed my arms against my chest. “No. You said terrible things about me and my dream of opening a successful restaurant. You thought I killed Terry for the recipe. You’re not who I thought you were.”
An expression crossed his broad face that I can only explain as regret. Probably nothing to do with me. I had convinced him that I didn’t have the recipe. I’d interfered with his dream.
“I’m truly sorry, Miss Chase.”
I wasn’t about to give in that easily. I glared back at him, my breath coming fast.
“How can I make it up to you?” His eyes roamed the interior of the car as though it would give him inspiration. “I could make a public appearance at your food truck. Would that help?”
I was a little excited about that idea, if the offer was real. Chef Art’s personality still meant a lot to the people of Mobile. I might get some TV or radio coverage from it.
When I didn’t answer right away, he said, “How about if I invite you to one of the benefit dinners at my home and make a public appearance at your food truck?”
That was even more exciting.
Chef Art’s benefit dinners were famous. People came from around the world to eat the food he, and his guest chefs, had created. They paid a hefty price for the meal and the chance to mingle with celebrities. I could never hope to get into one of those dinners on my own.
