Death on Eat Street

by J. J. Cook

  “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?”

  “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.

  Along with the public appearance, I was pretty sure I could forgive him almost anything. “Deal. You invite me to the dinner, and make an appearance at my food truck, and I’ll forget this ever happened.”

  He stuck his hand toward me, gaudy rings on every finger. “You drive a hard bargain. I may be wrong about your potential. Forgive me for thinking you had the Jefferson recipe.”

  “That’s quite all right. How about Wednesday at noon for the appearance? I don’t know why, but Wednesday is always a big lunch day.”

  “Wednesday is hump day. People want to think about the coming weekend and eat well for a change,” he explained. “Wednesday it is. Where will your food truck be?”

  “I’m working the parking lot outside police headquarters on Government Street. You can’t miss my food truck. It’s the only one with the spinning biscuit on top.”

  He laughed loud and long. “Brilliant! I’ll be there. I’ll have my social secretary get in touch with you about the benefit dinner. It was wonderful meeting you, Zoe Chase.”

  The driver had already stopped the limousine and was opening the door for me. We were parked outside the diner. I hadn’t even thought to look out.

  I thanked Chef Art—even though he’d kidnapped me. My disrupted ride home in a taxi was nothing compared to what he’d promised.

  Hundreds of ideas ran through my mind as the limousine pulled out of the parking lot and I went into the diner. I’d spoken to the woman on the local radio station that did food truck announcements during the week. I couldn’t remember her name, but I knew her business card had to be in the diner somewhere. I could tell her about Chef Art’s appearance.

  I told Delia about what had happened. She wasn’t as impressed as I was with the unexpected turn of events.

  “Zoe, if Chef Art thought you had the recipe, so do other people.”

  “I know. But he’s going to make a personal appearance at my food truck Wednesday, and he invited me to his benefit dinner! This is much bigger news. We already knew people think one of us has the recipe.”

  She took my hand as though she wanted to say something. I waited and let her gather her thoughts.

  “I hadn’t realized Chef Art was involved in all of the things that are going on right now.” Delia frowned and her bottom lip trembled. “He was my date the night Terry was killed.”

  “What are you saying?” I thought back to that night. I remembered the big green Lincoln that had picked her up at the corner. The car had come from the back of the parking lot. “You think Chef Art killed Terry?”

  Delia shushed me as though someone else was in the next room spying on us. “I’ve kept it a secret this whole time because I know he’s a wealthy and powerful man. I didn’t want to say anything. Terry’s dead. I’d like to stay alive a little longer.”

  I sat down on one of the stools at the c
ounter. All of my exciting new dreams were starting to crash. I couldn’t believe Chef Art would kill Terry for the Jefferson recipe. But then, I couldn’t believe anyone would kill Terry for it.

  I had to consider that Chef Art had been desperate enough to risk kidnapping me to ask if I had the recipe. He could’ve been motivated enough to kill Terry.

  “This is terrible,” I whispered back. “He could change everything for me. Just him being at the food truck could get a lot of publicity. It would be like the seal of approval from a man everyone here knows and loves.”

  “You should keep it that way,” Delia said. “Let’s get through this in one piece, Zoe. Let the police handle it. If they catch him, fine. If not, oh well. I’m not testifying against him in court. I don’t want the police to know what I just told you.”

  I stared at her beautiful face, which I had envied since I’d first seen her. “We have to tell Detective Latoure. What if he killed Terry for the recipe? He could kill someone else.”

  “That’s their problem. I’m not repeating what I told you. You can go to the police if you want to, but I’m not going to be part of it.”

  “You could go to jail for killing Terry. Surely it’s worth that much of your life to turn Chef Art in to the police.”

  She shook her head. “From what Miguel told me, the police are looking in another direction now. It may be that they’re looking at Chef Art, for all we know. Anyway, I don’t think they’re gonna want me for much longer. I’m going to keep my mouth shut and ride this storm out. You’d be smart if you did the same.”

  There wasn’t much else to say on the matter. I cooked my savory biscuit bowl filling for the next day, and made my sweet fillings. Even after the setup was done, and Delia and I were in bed for the night, I still thought about what she’d told me.

  I couldn’t prove anything if she wouldn’t cooperate. It would be my word against hers—and hearsay at that. I knew enough about the law from my mother to know that it was less than useless.

  I couldn’t say it to anyone else, but I whispered my fears and misgivings to Crème Brûlée that night. He seemed to understand. He bit my finger as I stroked his soft fur—then he licked my whole hand. It seemed to make us both feel better.

  • • •

  The alarm clock went off early the next morning. I dragged myself out of bed without my usual enthusiasm. Ollie was knocking on the door before I finished dressing. Together, he, Delia, and I got everything out to the food truck and set up for what I hoped would be a busy day. I put Crème Brûlée in his bed last after he’d finished eating.

  Ollie sat beside me as we drove to police headquarters. Delia rode in the back. I thought about telling Ollie what Delia had told me last night. I wanted someone to convince Delia to tell the police about Chef Art.

  Ollie clearly wasn’t the best choice for this. He talked about how wonderful Delia was almost nonstop. The rest of the time, he was asking me questions about her. He wouldn’t be objective. With his major crush on Delia, it seemed unlikely that he’d take my side in the matter. I didn’t say anything to him about my meeting with Chef Art or my talk with Delia.

  I wished Miguel were there. He might be able to convince Delia to help the police. I knew he wouldn’t like it that I was trying to interfere again, but Chef Art had been the one who’d come to me. Why wouldn’t Delia tell Patti Latoure about him?

  The parking area at police headquarters was quiet and empty when we reached it. I claimed my spot and prayed for good weather. The weatherman was calling for sunshine and moderate temperatures. It was a perfect day to grab lunch outside and enjoy the sun.

  Ollie set up the tables and chairs. He swung open the doors and erased Friday’s menu from the chalkboard. “Are we selling eggs again today?”

  “No.” I was trying to get things set up inside. “Spicy sausage gravy in a biscuit bowl for breakfast. The savory filling is pimento macaroni and cheese. Sweet filling is a choice of cinnamon apple with a slice of cheddar, or custard with nutmeg.”

  “Okay.”

  Delia stopped me as I was getting ready to deep-fry the first load of biscuits. “You didn’t say anything to Ollie, did you?”

  She looked worried. I felt bad for even thinking of telling him. “No. I won’t say anything to Ollie.”

  “Thanks, Zoe.” Delia seemed relieved. She started right in by taking out the apples and slicing the cheese.

  Outside, our first customers of the day were ready for biscuit bowls with sausage gravy. I’d put a little extra cayenne into the gravy. One man was surprised when he tasted it, raising his eyebrows and fanning his mouth with his hand.

  “Hot!” He bought two more to take upstairs with him. He told Delia that he was a lawyer representing a man the police were questioning for robbery that day.

  “Well, you’ll need all the extra spice you can get then, won’t you?” She smiled and winked at him as she gave him his biscuits. “Don’t forget to stop by for lunch. We have some really good pimento cheese and macaroni.”

  “Will do. Thanks.”

  “Don’t forget to say thank you,” I murmured after he was gone.

  “Sorry. I felt like we had a connection. I didn’t want to waste it. I’ll say thank you from now on.”

  The rest of the day was a repeat performance of the early morning. We were swamped with customers until about ten. That slowdown gave us enough time to get ready for the eleven-thirty crowd.

  The Dog House was there again, late. I wasn’t giving up my prime spot today. Suzette’s Crepes was missing, but Charlie’s Tuna Shack showed up. There was also a food truck I hadn’t seen—Yolanda’s Yummy Yogurt. Yolanda offered fresh fruit mixed into homemade yogurt. I saw people walking over there after leaving our food truck. Some went straight for the yogurt.

  Yolanda’s food truck was decorated with fruits that hung from the sides like fish in nets. They also played Bob Marley music to attract customers.

  “Maybe we should play music,” I suggested.

  “Nah.” Ollie didn’t like that idea. “It would probably throw off as many people as you’d get from it, Zoe.”

  “I don’t know,” Delia said. “Maybe something jazzy and cool might be good.”

  I tabled all of the music ideas as the lunch crowd got busy. It was all we could do to keep up with the customers waiting at the window. I was seriously worried about running out of macaroni and cheese. The food was bulky in the small container I had for it. The soupier savories went further.

  Around twelve thirty, I took out my last bowl of macaroni and cheese. There were plenty of biscuits today. It was hard getting the exact number right without knowing how many people would show up. If I made too much of any food, it could go to waste and cut into my budget. If I didn’t make enough, my customers would go somewhere else.

  Things started slacking off again at about one thirty. Good thing, too, because I saw my mother seated at one of the café tables. She was staring at the food truck with an occasional angry glare at the spinning biscuit on top.

  “I think that woman out there may be an unhappy customer.” Delia pointed to her. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was giving us the evil eye.”

  I took off my apron. “That’s my mother. The only thing she can do is stare at us until we catch fire. Could you two handle the truck for a few minutes?”

  “Sure,” Ollie said. “Take all the time you need. I’d feel better if you sit so she can’t see us.”

  I laughed at that. That stare my mother was giving us was a winning technique for her in the courtroom. She was famous for it, but I hadn’t been afraid of it for a very long time.

  TWENTY

  “Mother.” I sat opposite her with my back to the food truck to hide Delia and Ollie from her angry eyes.

  “Zoe.”

  “Nice day, huh?” I looked around at the sunshine and the blue sky above us.
“If you’re hungry—”

  “Do you really think I’d eat food from a truck in a parking lot?”

  “It’s my truck,” I reminded her. “I made the food.”

  “That doesn’t change my feelings on the matter.”

  I tried not to get angry or offended by her attitude. Sometimes it was hard.

  “Then why are you here?”

  She took a deep breath. “I wanted to talk to you, alone—without your father. I was really hurt when you sneaked out of the restaurant and left us there with Tommy Lee and your engagement ring.”

  “I was very hurt that you thought Uncle Saul should kidnap me and drag me into the swamp with him so I’d lose my business.”

  “I don’t think that’s the same thing at all. I’m talking about family. You still remember that word, don’t you? You’re talking about this crazy thing that you’re doing that’s ruining your life.”

  “I won’t ever forget that you’re my family. I love you and Daddy. But you can’t tell me how to live my life anymore. I love my business, too, and I’m starting to be successful at it.”

  She made a hissing noise, not unlike the one Crème Brûlée makes right before he bites. I’d never noticed the similarities before.

  “You’re selling greasy food that you make in an old diner, out of a motor home that scares me when I look at it. Why would you consider this to be successful?”

  I knew I could never explain it to her. I wasn’t even going to try anymore. When she was standing in line outside my fabulously famous restaurant, hoping to get a table, she’d understand. Maybe.

  “And I’m not marrying Tommy Lee. I know you love him. I know his parents love me. We’re not right for each other.”

  “If it’s about that girl from the bank, men sometimes lose their way, Zoe. We have to make allowances for them.”

  “Seriously? Did Daddy—?”

  Her normally pale face turned a little red. She glanced away, as though she didn’t want to meet my eyes.