I had plenty to do, but first I had to see what Jitty was whipping up in her latest emulative incarnation of a master chef.
I opened the door a crack. At first the room appeared empty and I thought maybe she’d returned to Zinnia. No such luck. She was sitting on the end of my bed, waiting.
“Come out, Sarah Booth.” Her voice had a long drawl, only slightly different from her normal cadence, but she had the Paula Deen haircut down to a T. Were it not for her lovely mocha skin and dark eyes, she could have passed for the cooking queen.
“What now?” I asked. Though she was pretending to be a chef, Jitty was clearly on a mission directed only at me.
“I just found a recipe for Paula Deen’s fried chicken, and it’s exactly the way Miss Alice and I made it. Fancy that. Just goes to show good things don’t change. ’Course we didn’t have ’lectric or gas stoves. We did it all on the woodstove. ‘Moderate heat’ was a little harder to judge back them.”
“You didn’t cook. And neither did Alice. Who really cooked before the war?” I was certain I’d heard talk, but I couldn’t remember.
“Lena was the head cook, back when the plantation was runnin’. Now that woman could spread a table. We had fresh vegetables, grown right there in the Dahlia House gardens, most all year round. Lots of weeks we did fine without meat of any kind. Just those tender greens and tomatoes so full of flavor you could almost taste ’em when Lena sliced ’em up.”
Jitty’s face softened, and for a moment I saw the loneliness of the passage of time. It occurred to me that perhaps Jitty had sacrificed the chance to be with Coker, her husband, in the Great Beyond so she could stay and look out for me. The thought was humbling. “Who grew the vegetables?” I asked.
“Coker did that. He had a talent for makin’ the land give up bounty. It gave him real pleasure to watch the process, to go from puttin’ a seed in rich dirt and watchin’ it grow into somethin’ to put on the table. Cotton was the money crop, but Coker’s garden kept everyone fat and full. I can almost hear him callin’ me outside to see an especially fine stand of beans or lacy mustard greens.”
For a moment both of us were pulled into the past. Jitty went to a place I’d never been, and I was at the dinner table with my parents as they chatted about their day. My mother loved working in her vegetable garden, and she too had been a talented farmer. In my memory movie, my mother served my father’s plate with fresh vegetables she’d grown, picked, and cooked. Her hand brushed across his. The look they shared was filled with happy secrets.
“Talkin’ ’bout Coker and the garden won’t solve what’s gnawin’ at you.” Jitty drew me back to the present.
“What’s wrong?” Jitty wouldn’t leave until she’d had her say.
“You are.” Jitty put it on the line, no apologies.
“What have I done now?”
“You’re stirrin’ ever’ pot in Mississippi ’cept the one that’s burnin’.”
I didn’t follow her. “I’m setting up dates for Tinkie, tending my lovelorn hound, chasing down a serial murderer, and trying to keep a young beauty contestant alive. What else do you want me to take on?” No matter what I did, Jitty was never satisfied.
“I can’t believe I’m gonna say this.”
I saw it coming then like a big train with a cowcatcher rushing down the tracks at me. “You had better not!” I pointed a finger at her. “You had better not tell me to go to Hollywood. You had better not say those words to me after all the guilt I had to carry about leaving Zinnia.”
Jitty stood. “Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble. You’d best tend to your bubblin’ pot, girlie. That’s what I’m telling you.”
“A watched pot never boils.” I could throw around a few famous axioms. “Graf doesn’t need me to watch him make a movie. He needs me to be who I am, Sarah Booth Delaney, private investigator. That’s the woman he fell in love with, not some unemployed female who could follow him around and be his shadow.” I was panting with emotion by the time I finished.
“I’m not here to devil you, I’m here to help.” Jitty reclined on my bed. “Graf loves you, Sarah Booth, but if you think he’s gonna sit on hold in a place like Los Angeles, you’re mighty wrong.”
“What are you saying, exactly?” A sick feeling stabbed my gut.
“A man needs a certain amount of your focus. Even your mama, hardheaded as she was, understood this. She didn’t leave James Franklin runnin’ loose in places like Hollywood or even Memphis. Think, girl.”
The possibility of Graf being unfaithful had never crossed my mind. I felt like a fool. But the idea I had to nursemaid him every second to keep his attention focused on me didn’t sit well, either. “If he’s so damn fickle he can’t understand what I’m going through, then—”
“Hold on there, Missy, I’m servin’ you up some good advice, not aggravation. Could be Graf sees you’ve made a choice to investigate cases and risk your life rather than be at his side. You might try walkin’ a few steps in his shoes.”
I sank into the plush chair. “And he might try walking in mine. I can’t go back to Hollywood and act right now. I’m too raw. I’m doing what I need to do to heal.”
“I’m not tryin’ to put a scare into you or make you worry or fuss at you. But Graf lost something in that cotton field, too. You weren’t the only one got hurt. And it seems to me he’s way down your priority list. Chances are, it might seem that way to him, too.”
Never in a million years would I have figured Jitty would counsel me to go to Hollywood. Never. That she did scared me badly. “Do you know something I don’t?”
“I know phone calls ain’t no substitute for a tender touch or a moment of holdin’ someone. I know the comfort two people can give each other is maybe the only thing that eases the pain of this world a tiny bit. I know if you leave that man out there too long, hurtin’ like he is, chances are good he’s gonna find comfort somewhere.”
“Is Graf . . . interested in someone else?”
“I don’t know and I wouldn’t say if I did. But he’s a man with a clear path to stardom. How many women you think want a piece of that action, even if he wasn’t handsome and well mannered. You could go a far piece and do a lot worse.”
Aunt Loulane’s words haunted me when they fell from Jitty’s lips. “I have to finish this case. I can’t just walk off and leave Tinkie with a client who may or may not end up in jail, and seven contestants, six of whom may be dead by the end of the competition. And Sweetie Pie is having some kind of crisis.” The man and the dog I loved the most were suffering and I wasn’t there for them.
Jitty shook her head. “Wrong choice.”
“I have an obligation to Tinkie. And to Hedy. And to Sweetie.”
Jitty’s lips were a thin line. “Then I’d be on the horn telling him that. I’d try a little harder to make it sound like it’s a choice you regret.” Jitty’s form vanished before the last words were spoken. Normally she did a slow fade, but this time there was a loud popping sound, and the only thing left was the smell of ozone.
Once Jitty was out of the way, I got Chief Jansen on the phone. Doc Sawyer had returned to Zinnia. Not a problem. I’d see him when I was home with Sweetie and Chablis. The thought of my loyal hound, so willing to accept me the way I was without judging me and finding me short, made me want to skip the cooking event and head to Dahlia House right now.
Not possible. I had a client to clear and a partner to back up.
Hedy had allayed some of Jansen’s suspicions, but she was still “a person of interest.” I had another couple to add to his list.
“Could you check into Anna Lock?” I asked.
“Why should I look into her?”
Coleman would have asked the same question. “She’s a person of interest for me. She’s the nanny Marcus hired to care for Hedy’s daughter.”
“The child also belongs to Marcus,” Jansen said.
“Anna Lock is a professional nanny. She worked for a prominent New Orleans famly, the Bronsills
, moved to the French Quarter, had some kind of breakdown, then disappeared for several years. Now she’s back in the nanny business. If you could do a background check on her, it would save me a lot of time.”
“I’m not making any promises.”
“I didn’t expect you would.” But I also thought if Jansen caught a whiff of anything rotten, he’d pursue it. I only had to put him downwind of Anna Lock.
“What makes you interested in this nanny?” he asked.
“She fits the description of a woman who followed Hedy and Babs from the blues club.”
“It’s your job to prove Miss Blackledge innocent, but why would a nanny for the Wellington family kill pageant contenders?”
“Hedy has a right to see her child. She sighed the papers giving Marcus total custody under duress. A sure way to keep Hedy from Vivian would be to frame her for murder and put her behind bars.” I wished Jansen and I were speaking in person. “Anna Lock has some tentative connections to a New Orleans botanica and she’s loyal to Marcus.”
“That’s a long stretch, even for a private investigator.”
“No longer than thinking Hedy would kill pageant contestants for a title and crown.”
“If you want to do Miss Blackledge a favor, tell her to stay with someone at all times. If there’s any more trouble, she’d better have an airtight alibi.”
That wasn’t bad advice. “Thanks, Chief.”
“Yeah, thank me when we have a killer behind bars.”
Tinkie wore a bejeweled slack suit and killer heels. Her feet had recovered from her walk to the barn, and while she’d bemoan her fashion choices, she wasn’t about to change her ways. As we sauntered across the street to the cooking school, where top chefs from across the nation had gathered to prepare their special dishes, I couldn’t help but admire my partner. I was tempted to tell her Oscar would soon be at her side, or even better, in her bed, but I kept mum.
She’d purchased additional lenses for her camera and was fast becoming a damn good news photographer. At the door of the cooking school, she slowed me with a hand on my forearm. “It’s hard to believe one of these young women would murder to get a title.”
Several of the participants, visible through the front window, mingled in the lobby of the school. Karrie Kompton hung on Clive’s arm, batting her eyelashes at him. To his credit, he kept as much distance as he could between them. Crystal Belle Wadell, Karrie’s former roommate, chatted with Belinda Buck. Mrs. Phelps, the pageant coordinator, flitted from one side of the room to the next, tending to last-minute details.
“Where’s Amanda?” Tinkie entered and scanned the room. “I don’t see her.”
“Hedy isn’t here, either.” Not a good thing.
Guest chefs stood behind a counter loaded with food set up in a buffet. The wonderful smells made my mouth water. Each contestant would taste a particular dish and write down the recipe deduced by taste.
“Contestants! Contestants!” Evangeline called out. “Come and draw a number for your first assigned chef. You’ll rotate clockwise and have fifteen minutes to ascertain the ingredients and cooking methods of each dish. Write them down and move on along the line. Our chefs have prepared a special treat for you.”
When the small audience applauded, Evangeline signaled for silence. “Due to the unfortunate deaths of two of our wonderful contestants and the serious illness of a third, we’ve decided to conclude the competition tomorrow evening. There will be a final event, the dessert finale, at seven o’clock. After that, the judges will retire to deliberate and the votes will be tallied. Miss Viking Range will be crowned tomorrow at nine p.m.”
I shifted at the outskirts of the crowd. Hedy was nowhere in sight, and I was worried.
Mrs. Phelps cleared her throat. “We can’t undo what’s occurred, but Chief Jansen and the Greenwood officials assure us the person responsible will be captured and punished. For the families of Brook Oniada, Janet Menton, and Babs Lafitte, we offer our deepest regrets.”
Sadness and dismay touched every face—except for that of Hedy, who was notably absent. I tugged at Tinkie’s arm to tell her I’d return to the hotel to search for Hedy when our client emerged from a door in the back to an audible “ah.”
Even I inhaled. She cut a striking figure in black, her pale skin luminous, her lips red and glossy. She’d applied heavy eyeliner and teased her dark hair into a bouffant that would have done the sixties proud. Her look was almost, but not quite, goth. John Waters would cast her immediately.
“Holy shit,” Tinkie said, a smidgen of admiration in her voice at Hedy’s chutzpah. “Why didn’t she just bring her broomstick and a cauldron?”
Her remark was a little too close to the conversation I’d had earlier with Jitty. “She demands attention. You have to give her that. But I’d like to stand her in a corner. This won’t help her cause.”
Hedy took her place in front of judge three, a portly Frenchman with a handlebar mustache that made Chief Jansen’s look anemic. His dish looked to be something with lean beef and mushrooms, but I wasn’t close enough to be certain.
“What did Mrs. Phelps say about a plan to protect the contestants tonight?” I asked Tinkie in a whisper.
“Every ingredient was purchased and brought in by Mrs. Phelps this morning. She and her staff remained in the kitchen with the chefs at all times, and she tasted every dish. She said if anything was wrong with the food, she’d get sick first.”
“That’s dedication to a pageant,” I said.
“Some would call it foolish. Mrs. Phelps could die.”
“Which may be preferable to having another contestant killed, if you’re the sponsor of this event.”
Tinkie elbowed me in the ribs. “Hush. She’s done everything possible to make this safe for everyone. She doesn’t believe the title is the motive. I talked to her about it, and she simply won’t entertain the thought. Pageant girls are not killers, is what she told me.”
“Chief Jansen is still suspicious of Hedy.” He stood in the back of the room watching Hedy’s every move. Police officers were stationed around the area, all on alert.
A silver bell chimed. Each contestant handed her written recipe to the chef and changed position.
Tinkie and I were members of an exclusive group allowed to witness the competition. Mrs. Phelps had decided to close the event to the general public. The fewer people attending, the easier it would be to keep control of things.
As the bell rang several more times, I stifled a yawn. I’d had little sleep the night before—and I certainly wasn’t complaining, because I’d enjoyed every second of Graf’s attention—and a very busy day. I also had a drive ahead of me. As much as I wanted to skip the remainder of the event, I couldn’t.
While most of the pageant competitions had been festive, this was subdued. Tinkie snapped her photos. The contestants were quiet and studious as they tasted and wrote.
To my relief, Mrs. Phelps rang the silver bell loudly to announce the conclusion of the evening.
“The judges and chefs will now analyze the written recipes. Thank you all.” The tension showed on her face, but she mustered a huge smile and waved everyone out the door.
I fell in step beside Hedy, and Tinkie caught up with us as we walked across the street to the hotel. “How’d you do?” I asked.
“I nailed it,” she said. “Easy as pie.”
“I want you to go to your room and order something from room service so you can verify your whereabouts. Then lock the door and stay there,” I told her.
Before she could answer, someone cleared a throat behind me. Chief Jansen had joined us. “No need for all of that, Miss Delaney. I’m stationing a police officer outside Miss Blackledge’s door. She’ll have an official escort at all times.”
“I think that’s a wonderful idea, Chief. Hedy is innocent, and this will prove it.”
“We could sit with her,” Tinkie offered.
I shook my head. “No, I don’t think so.”
“We
ll, we could,” Tinkie insisted. “In fact, we need to be with her every moment. We know she’s innocent—”
“Not tonight,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Why not?” She stopped at the hotel’s entrance and forced me to face her.
“Because,” I said in a huff, “I need to talk to Doc in Zinnia, and Oscar is coming here to spend some time with his wife.”
Tinkie’s eyes widened, and a classic sorority girl squeal erupted as she jumped up and down. “Oscar is coming here? Tonight? You’re taking care of Sweetie and my precious Chablis?” She retrieved her spare car keys from her purse and pressed them into my hand. “You’re such a good friend!”
My surprise was ruined, but it didn’t matter to Tinkie. Oscar was in her immediate future. And now I understood exactly what Jitty was trying to get me to comprehend.
I pulled out my cell phone and dialed. “I’m on my way home. Tinkie is all yours,” I said to Oscar.
When I hung up, I gave Tinkie a big hug. “See you tomorrow.” I jangled the keys to the Caddy. On the way home, I had a phone call to make, too. One I hoped would convey the true depth of my feelings for my fiancé.
20
The night, a soft black tunnel, glittered with stars as I drove north. Beside me, a bag of prime burgers from the Alluvian kitchen tantalized my olfactory sensors. I’d picked up a treat sure to tempt my hound’s depressed appetite. It was midnight in the Delta land, but my mind churned with much to do in so little time. The place to start was with my man.
Though it was two hours earlier in the land of celluloid dreams, Graf was obviously asleep when I called. His groggy voice gave me a mental image of him, shirtless, his wonderful hair tousled and a stubble of beard on his handsome face.
“I love you,” I said. “Don’t talk. Just listen. I’ve been wrong.” I imagined my fingers on his lips—those sexy lips that could make me weak with pleasure. “Not about what I’ve done, but the way I’ve gone about it. Graf, there is nothing more important to me than you.”
He tried to interrupt. “No, let me finish. What happened to me in that cotton field isn’t my pain alone. This is where I made a terrible mistake. I let the loss and sorrow isolate me from you, from the one person who was suffering as much as I was. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I walled you out when we both needed each other so much.”
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