The Cornbread Killer

by Lou Jane Temple

  Sal glanced across the street via the mirror and shook his head. “So you think you can get out of telling us about this Evelyn gal by changing the subject to a stray, do ya? Every cat in Kansas City that no one wants ends up here on Thirty-ninth Street. There must be a sign somewhere: ‘Leave all unwanted cats on Thirty-ninth Street, because Mona is a soft touch.’ “

  Heaven got up and patted Sal on his bald head. “You must be bored today. You’re trying to start trouble.”

  “I don’t see a cat blocking the entrance to your place of business, Mr. d’Giovanni,” Mona sniped.

  Heaven put her arm around her friend and headed toward the door. “We’d better get back to work so we can go to the meeting. Do you want to ride downtown together? The meeting is at six, so I’ll have to come back to the restaurant anyway. You can leave your car behind the shop.”

  Mona smiled. “I’d like that, but you’re always late and we have to leave on time, have to, have to. We have lots of ground to cover tonight. I’ll come over and get you. Be ready at five-forty.” The two women waved to Sal in the mirror and went across the street.

  Sal surprised them both by sticking his head out the door of the barbershop. “Heaven,” he called across the street. She turned toward him with a question in her look. “It wouldn’t hurt you to take a night off, you know. You work too much.”

  Heaven rolled her eyes. “Coming from you, that’s a compliment,” she said, and blew him a kiss.

  The truth was, Heaven didn’t want a night off. Hank was in Houston for two months and Heaven was lonely.

  She hadn’t planned it this way, but most of her life had been spent in tandem with a man. It certainly hadn’t been traditional, one man for life. But when one relationship had gone wrong, another had rapidly taken its place. Years ago she’d walked out on her first husband and childhood sweetheart, Sandy Martin, after a miscarriage left her anxious and skittish. She married her second husband, rock musician Dennis McGuinne, before she realized how impossible it would be to live that lifestyle. In a year she was divorced and back in Kansas City with a baby daughter, Iris. Iris was going to college in England now, spending time with her father. She was the light of Heaven’s life always.

  But Heaven hadn’t stopped needing a man in her life just because she had a daughter. Ian Wolff, the painter, had been the next husband. When he broke Heaven’s heart, she found a wonderful man, Sol Steinberg, a uniform manufacturer, to replace him. When Sol died suddenly of a heart attack soon after they were married, designer Jason Kelly came knocking at her door. Then Heaven opened Cafe Heaven, and Jason quickly tired of her late hours and her preoccupation with business. Heaven and Jason divorced, and because of her hours, she was sure that—barring falling in love with the man who serviced the dishwasher and was around far too often—she was through with men.

  She was going to concentrate on making money for a change.

  But this guy from her neighborhood—he was just a kid, really—wouldn’t stop coming around. He was a young doctor in his last year of residency, and he was handsome and funny and wise beyond his years. Huy Wing was his real name, even though most of his American friends called him Hank. His father had been killed execution-style during the fall of Saigon because he worked for the United States. Hank and his mother and sister had been on one of the last planes to leave for the United States and had been sponsored by a Catholic church in Kansas City. Hank had been four when they arrived at their new home. In Heaven’s mind, Hank deserved a storybook family that would somehow make up for the heartbreak of his childhood, not a love affair with an older woman.

  Heaven told herself this kid would get over his crush. In the meantime he spent more nights at her house than at his own. Hank was very comfortable with their relationship, even though Heaven was always telling him how he would grow up and move on. Hank said that losing his father and his country had given him an understanding of how the world really worked. He lived in the moment better than anyone Heaven had ever known. She was always letting her fear of the future get in the way of their time together; he was always bringing her back to the present.

  But this current separation, only ten days old, was giving Heaven time to stew about how she had allowed this guy, who she was positive should be dating someone his own age, to become so important to her. She was glad the Eighteenth and Vine event needed her attention right now. She could certainly use the distraction.

  Heaven headed down the alley to the back door of her cafe and opened the kitchen door just in time to put out a spectacular oven fire.

  The filling from Pauline’s plum tarts had run over, and the sugar and fruit syrup had found some grease that had spilled the night before from the lamb shanks. The result was a mini bonfire that was fed by the oxygen that rushed in when Pauline opened the oven door. She yelped and looked around for the baking soda, which was across the room. Heaven was closest to the baking station. She grabbed the box of baking soda and emptied the contents on the bottom of the oven.

  “Thanks, boss,” Pauline muttered as she pulled out her tarts. They were fine, golden brown, the bottom of the pan the only thing blackened from the flames. Heaven thought she recognized a plum in the mess below. “This is such a drag,” Pauline whined. “Now I have to let the oven cool down so I can clean it out, then heat it up again. I have flan and bread pudding yet to do, and I know Brian will need the ovens for something.”

  Both Brian Hoffman, the day chef, and Robbie Lunstrum were suddenly very busy on the other side of the kitchen. They were fighting back smiles. It wasn’t that they wished Pauline ill, it was just the usual competition of any professional kitchen. When someone was really in the weeds, they usually got help, but not until they’d been teased about it.

  “Guess you filled those tart pans too full, eh, Pauline?” Brian quipped. Heaven cleared her throat loudly to warn him he better shut up. The look on Pauline’s face was somewhere between despair and rage.

  Robbie Lunstrum saved the day, something he was famous for. Robbie was a sixty-something elf, a recovering alcoholic who relished every day of his sober life. He was the day dish washer, shrimp peeler, and handyman. Cafe Heaven couldn’t open the doors without him. “Let me handle the cleanup, Pauline. I have asbestos hands. I’ll be able to wipe that mess out in ten minutes or so. You do something else,” Robbie said.

  Pauline smiled. “Thanks, Robbie, I’ll fill the flan pans. Heaven, will you please call the produce guy? He wants to know what you need for tomorrow.”

  Heaven called the organic produce supplier, Max Mossman. Then she made salad dressing, cleaned a crate of spinach, caramelized twenty pounds of onions, and prepped fifteen chickens and stuck them in the oven. Suddenly Mona was at the pass-through window, sticking her head all the way into the kitchen. “Heaven, I knew you wouldn’t be ready,” Mona fussed, her finger wagging. “Put that down right now and wash your hands. We cannot be late to this meeting.”

  The whole kitchen staff grinned involuntarily. It was rare to hear someone boss the boss around.

  To everyone’s surprise, Heaven obeyed without argument. “I’ll be right there, Mona.” Heaven washed her hands and stepped into the kitchen bathroom. When she emerged she had taken off her baseball cap, fluffed her short red hair into some semblance of order, and applied lipstick, hot pink. She hung her chef’s jacket on a peg and slipped on a black linen jacket in its place. “Let’s go. The van is out here.”

  “Heaven, you always have to drive. I’m driving tonight.”

  Heaven nodded distractedly. “Whatever you say.”

  When the two women got into Mona’s car, Mona dangled the keys in front of Heaven’s nose, then threw them out the open car window on the passenger’s side.

  “What are you doing?” Heaven asked, getting out of the car and picking up Mona’s keys. “You’ve gone mad. I thought you said we had to be on time, then you pitch the keys out the window,” she snapped as she got back into the car.

  Mona calmly took the keys from Heaven and s
tarted the car, pulling out of her parking space behind the cat shop.

  “You’ve been so obedient and docile I thought the real you was gone and you’d been replaced by the pod people. I was just checking.”

  Heaven grinned. “I’m just getting ready for the meeting, putting myself in a Zen trance.”

  Mona nodded. “That would help. You’re generally the calm one at these meetings. I tell you, I’m certainly not going to be calm tonight.”

  “When are you going to tell me what Evelyn is up to?”

  “When we come face-to-face with her and the rest of the committee,” Mona said determinedly as they pulled out of the alley and headed downtown.

  Escargot with Pernod

  4 T. butter

  36–40 canned snails

  3 cloves garlic, sliced

  1 cup tomato concentrate, recipe below

  Pernod

  Melt the butter in a heavy sauté pan. Add the garlic. Rinse the snails and sauté for 5 minutes. Add the tomatoes and sauté another 5 minutes. Remove from heat and sprinkle with Pernod, between 1 T. and ¼ cup, depending on how you like the licorice taste. Serve with toast or good French bread.

  Tomato Concentrate

  4 lbs. peeled, seeded, and chopped tomatoes, or a 28 oz. can of good-quality canned tomatoes

  2 bay leaves

  8–10 stalks fresh herbs—thyme, oregano, tarragon, marjoram, any or all

  1 T. sugar

  1 T. kosher salt

  Combine all these ingredients in a baking dish and bake in a slow oven, about 300 degrees, for at least 30 minutes and up to 2 hours, until the moisture is completely gone. Remove aromatics, cool, and store. This is a very good way to add tomato flavor to sauces and recipes that call for sundried tomatoes.

  Two

  Jim Dittmar sat outside on a bus stop bench looking over at the Ruby Theater. Spring was his favorite season in Kansas City. Of course, spring hadn’t been too shabby in Paris, either. But all in all, Jim was glad to be back home. Two years of bouncing around Europe was a long time.

  What a time to be a jazz player in his hometown, what with this Eighteenth and Vine renovation. Maybe now players wouldn’t have to leave Kansas City to make a living. Leave town or live off their wives and girlfriends. Of course, that can’t last forever. In his case, Teresa had a good job at Hallmark, but she got sick of carrying the load after seven years. Jim always said he got kicked out. Teresa always said that she’d asked Jim to get a real career, something he thought he already had.

  Tomorrow, first thing, he had to call Teresa. He’d been home three days now, staying at his parents’. Last night he’d played at a jam session and lots of friends who knew both him and his ex-wife had seen him. If he didn’t call her tomorrow he would be in more trouble than he already was. Even before he came home, Teresa was pissed at him. His folks had confirmed that. He had missed a few months of his child support payments. His parents finally kicked in five hundred dollars, just to keep Teresa from calling in Family Services.

  Jim needed to see Josh as soon as possible. He was sure Josh was pissed, too. He did pretty well for the first year, calling Josh every week, coming home three times for special occasions like Josh’s birthday. The second year he lapsed. But now, now he better take Josh to a Royals game and make plans for them to take a trip this summer, just the two of them.

  He would pay everyone this week. He would repay his folks the five hundred and Teresa the four months he owed her. She could have the extra five hundred for the aggravation. When he rented an apartment and bought a secondhand car, he would be lucky to have a few thousand left. But that’s what money was for, wasn’t it, to spend?

  He’d had some good gigs just as he was leaving Paris. He’d decided to have a great meal at Restaurant Alain Ducasse and come home. He would miss the food in Paris, especially those snails with the Pernod they made at that little bistro around the corner from his apartment in the Marais. And the cheeses. And the pâtés. You just couldn’t get that stuff in the States, at least not that tasted so good. But they didn’t have good fried chicken in Paris, either. Everything in life was a trade-off of some kind.

  Jim watched the workmen on the scaffolding and saw trucks bringing deliveries of boxes and crates to the museum building. Maybe this was really going to change things for jazz in Kansas City. The jam last night down in the River Market had been crowded and it was only the beginning of the week. Maybe this Eighteenth and Vine redo made people want to hear music again. A couple of the players last night had promised to check out some possible gigs for him. He’d follow up with some phone calls. If things went right, he could be playing by next weekend.

  A cool breeze ran down the street, stirring up the trash in the gutter as it traveled east. A spring rainstorm during the night had brought the temperature down into the low sixties.

  The air was full of ozone and promise and danger.

  Jim stuck his hand into his jeans pocket and pulled out a loose diamond, a big one, eight carats at least. His lucky diamond. He loved the thrill of having a loose stone worth thousands just stuck in his jeans. He tossed it up and caught it with one hand, stuck it back in his pocket. Then he checked his watch. He’d just sit here and watch another ten minutes, then maybe mosey over to the Ruby.

  He wanted to see what they’d done to the old place. And he did have some work to do.

  “I think’s it’s interesting we don’t have one musician on the committee for this big weekend. The city of Kansas City is dedicating a whole district to the memory of its long lost fame in the music world, and we don’t have a single musician on the planning committee,” Heaven said.

  “I agree one hundred percent, Heaven. But before you came on board Evelyn Edwards had already chased off the one musician on the committee. She said she would be the one to interface with the music community.”

  Heaven wrinkled her nose. “Interface?”

  “Some techno biz term for ‘work with,’” Mona said. “I understand the need for event planners in principle, just like I understand the need for interior decorators. But a bad one can ruin your life. Dealing with the musicians herself is just another one of Evelyn’s scams, I bet.”

  “What got you sucked into the project, Mona?”

  Mona turned the car east on Eighteenth Street, toward the new historic district. “Samantha Scott,” she said.

  Heaven was surprised. “The jazz singer? What about her?”

  “We were best friends all through high school in Saint Joseph, Missouri,” Mona said with regret in her voice.

  “You’re kidding. Are you the one who got her to come for the opening?”

  “No, we don’t speak.”

  Heaven turned and looked at her friend. “Let me get this straight. You and Samantha . . . Did you call her Sam, like they do now?”

  “Yes, she’s always been Sam.”

  “You and Sam Scott were friends and then you had a falling-out and then you found out she was coming to the dedication and you decided to volunteer?”

  “I only knew that her husband, Lefty Stuart, was one of the first baseball players they asked to be a part of the dedication of the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum. I hoped she’d come along, what with the jazz connection and all,” Mona said.

  “Why?”

  “I did something terrible and I’ve been too embarrassed to try to fix it and all this time has gone by and I hope I can apologize now.”

  Mona sure seemed full of secrets tonight. Heaven was dying to ask what the fight with Sam Scott was about, but she was sure Mona wouldn’t tell her, not yet. She seemed torn up about it, whatever it was. Heaven would have to ease her into telling her everything by acting uninterested. She’d start that play in a minute. “Have you seen her in the last twenty-five years, I mean except for on television?”

  Mona shook her head. “I last saw her the summer after we graduated from high school. I went off to college and Sam was already singing with a big band. She never came to visit her folks at the same tim
e I was home visiting my folks. I got married, moved here to Kansas City, and my folks mostly came down here to visit Carl and me because my mom always wanted to go shopping, rest her soul. All of a sudden it’s twenty-five years later.” Mona pulled into a parking space in front of the Ruby Theater. The crew was still clambering on the scaffolding even though it was evening.

  The two women got out and walked toward the main entrance. “This is so exciting. This time it’s you instead of me having a run-in with the past. A real-life personal drama to accompany all the historical fanfare,” Heaven said.

  Mona tried to smile but she looked worried. “I’ll be glad when the whole kit and kaboodle is over. I hope Sam will . . .” Mona’s voice trailed off, and Heaven let her have her private thoughts for a minute.

  But there was only a minute for reflection.

  The fighting had already begun. They could hear it as they approached the conference room. The door opened violently, almost knocking Heaven down. “Whoa,” both women said at once.

  Nolan Wilkins, the mayor’s top aide, was making a rapid exit. Nolan, a handsome black man, was almost beet red. “So sorry, Heaven: Something’s come up. I’ll be back,” he muttered as he strode down the hall.

  Inside, everyone was talking at once. Mona looked triumphant. “I guess Nolan already told them.”

  “Slow down a minute and catch me up,” Heaven demanded, holding on to her friend’s arm so she couldn’t escape.

  Mona looked like she was considering making a break, but she knew Heaven wouldn’t stop bulging her.

  “Evelyn Edwards came into the shop and said she needed a new florist for the Eighteenth and Vine gala,” Mona said.

  “Into the City Cat? Boy, was she in the wrong place,” Heaven said, knowing that wasn’t what Mona meant.

  “No, into that nice young man down on Westport Road’s flower shop. When I came in about twenty minutes later I heard him on the phone to another florist. They both had the same tale to tell.”