by J. J. Cook
“There are two reasons I can’t do that. First, the investigation into Mr. Phillips’s death is ongoing. We don’t know who killed him or why he was killed. Second, his family is in the newspaper business. They’d be likely to report what I told them.”
“I understand what you’re saying, Commissioner. But you lied about him being found in an alley.” My voice trembled. I squared my shoulders and pretended I was my mother. Her voice wouldn’t have wavered. Neither would her resolve. “Was that to protect the killer, the investigation, or the Mistics of Time?”
“I’m not protecting anyone. I’m just trying to make sure this young man’s death gets the investigation it deserves.”
“By saying he was found in the alley instead of in the garden at the masquerade ball? Was he a member of the Mistics? Was he trying to do an article about the secret societies in Mobile?”
“You know I can’t talk about members of the order of the Mistics of Time. It’s against our rules.”
This was getting me nowhere. “What is it you want me to do, Commissioner Sloane?”
“Run your little food truck.” He smiled as he glanced around the kitchen. “Enjoy carnival. The police have this well in hand. I have an officer keeping an eye on the situation—on you, Miss Chase!”
“Did someone tell my father that before they hurt him?”
He got to his feet. “I wouldn’t know, Miss Chase. I’m sorry that happened to Ted. He’s a good man. Take care now. This can be a dangerous city.”
I sat there with my hands shaking when he was gone. He’d made it pretty clear that I should leave Jordan’s death alone. It made me angry that he’d treated me that way, and that he might even have had a hand in what had happened to a young man who was only trying to impress his father and grandfather.
I couldn’t leave the Biscuit Bowl, but I took out my laptop and started looking at stories Jordan had written just before he’d died.
He was a wonderful writer and crusader. He’d written stories exposing hospital fraud, problems with child care in the city, and senior citizens being scammed out of their retirement money.
When Ollie came back about twenty minutes later, I was reading an article about a bank taking advantage of their workers. Thankfully, it wasn’t Bank of Mobile, my father’s bank.
“Here you go.” Ollie handed me a shrimp with a piece of lime.
It really looked like a tiny ballerina. “It must take them forever to cut each shrimp this way.” I stuck it in my mouth. “But it tastes good.”
“I thought that, too, and there’s only one person working the kitchen. I don’t know if he’ll make it with any crowds. This is his first time out. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
“You mean how they chose the food trucks?”
“Exactly. Here I was thinking they chose us because we have experience and street cred. This guy doesn’t have either.”
“But he does have interesting food. Maybe Tiffany Bryant is a fan of fancy shrimp.” I glanced at the clock again. “What took you so long? Are there long lines of customers at Ducky’s Dancing Shrimp?”
“Nah. Just talking to Ducky. There aren’t any customers at any of the food trucks.”
I yawned. “We do better than this in front of police headquarters on a Monday morning. Where is everyone?”
“Maybe it’s too early for people to be out at parades. We’ll catch some later.”
“But somebody is probably making money in our usual spot.”
He shrugged and sat on the counter. “What are you reading?”
“Articles written by Jordan Phillips.”
“I thought you weren’t going to mess with that, Zoe. I’d say it could be bad for your health.”
“Commissioner Sloane paid me a visit while you were gone.” I smiled. “He was pretty convincing that I shouldn’t ask so many questions. But I don’t think we should look the other way. He was so smug about the whole thing.”
My phone rang. It was Patti Latoure. “Zoe, I may have overstepped.”
“Anything to do with the police commissioner?” I told her about him stopping by the Biscuit Bowl. “He wasn’t interested in food, either. I hope you aren’t in trouble.”
“No. I’m fine. I spoke with Dan Frolick. I thought we could do this detective to detective. I was wrong. I don’t know why he has such a problem with this. The man is annoying. I’m glad he’s not my partner.”
“Thanks for checking into it, anyway, Patti. Maybe we should both back off, huh?”
“No way. Not after what you told me. We need to know what’s going on. I’d like to say that Mobile has more secret societies than it knows what to do with, but that may not be the case. Maybe Phillips was targeted for something else and dumped at the ball for this very reason.”
“I won’t back off if you don’t.”
“That’s where the problem is. I’m a police detective. You’re a food truck operator. I’m better equipped to handle this kind of thing. Don’t be stubborn. I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks, Patti. I know you’ll do your best.” I said good-bye and ended the call.
“What was that all about?” Ollie snacked on some other food he’d brought back with him.
“Patti doesn’t think I should help her look into Jordan’s death.”
He laughed. “The Biscuit Bowl better get busy then. That’s the only way I see you staying out of it.”
We both looked out the customer window at the gray morning light. Rain began falling as we watched. Within a few seconds it was a downpour. With it came cool air from the bay sweeping the streets where people were ready to party.
“Oh brother.” Ollie slapped a hand to his head. “Go on. I’ll keep an eye out here. But you’d better watch the weather. If the sun comes out, hightail it back here.”
“Thanks.” I shut my laptop and left it there for him in case he got bored. I knew Ollie wasn’t crazy about the Internet or any other electrical devices. But I thought if he got desperate, it would be something to do, anyway.
“Where are you headed in case Miguel drops by?”
“Tell him I’m headed to the Mobile Times office. I want to talk with Jordan’s father.” I put on my rain poncho.
“You’d better not say anything about the ghost of Old Slac so you don’t scare him off, too,” he suggested. “That seems to get people right away, even if it is an old myth. I believe it. I guess other people do, too.”
I thanked him, left the kitchen, and headed out of the parking lot, my head down as the rain poured on me. Ollie was right—the only people in the parking lot were bored food truck drivers. I hoped the whole day wouldn’t go like that. I had a lot of money invested in food for the next two weeks. I expected to break even, anyway.
There were no taxis on the street. I didn’t know if it was the weather or because there were extra tourists in the city. I was standing fifty feet from a bus stop as the bus rumbled up. I ran to catch it and managed to find enough change in my bag to pay.
The bus was empty, too—unusual for this time on a weekday. I knew carnival interrupted almost everything from school to government. Maybe no one was out yet because of the rain. Later there were bound to be crowds on the street.
I got off in front of the big white Mobile Times building. It had been here for as long as I could remember. It was one of the older buildings, probably historical. Daddy had read this newspaper when I was growing up. It wasn’t as “highbrow” as some of the other newspapers in the city—his words, not mine. He also enjoyed reading about Hollywood gossip.
My mother, on the other hand, only read legal briefs and law reviews. It was no wonder they hadn’t stayed together.
I stepped inside and spoke to a young woman behind a desk in the front lobby. She called to see if Bennett Phillips had time to see me. I looked at all the old front-page stories about carnival that we
re on the walls. It was a nice way to celebrate. Some of them were from the 1800s. The floats had lanterns and candles on them. It was interesting to see all the changes that had taken place through the years.
“Mr. Phillips says he’ll see you, Miss Chase.” The girl smiled. “I know you. My fiancé and I have eaten at the Biscuit Bowl. We love your gumbo!”
“Thanks. We’re part of the food truck rally for carnival this year. You should come by and check out our homemade MoonPies.” It was nice to be known for something I did instead of someone I knew.
“Sounds great. Your biscuit bowls are delicious.”
I took a nice warm glow up on the elevator with me. It was great to meet people who loved my food. I could only imagine what it would be like to open my restaurant to hundreds of people every day. I couldn’t wait.
It was easy to find Bennett Phillips’s office. It was on the third floor—the only thing there. He had his name in bronze letters by the door with Editor in Chief right below it.
There was another woman—this one in her fifties or early sixties—seated at a desk outside the closed door. The name plate on her desk said, Belle Wood. “You’re Miss Chase?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Phillips will see you in a moment.” She didn’t look up at me. “You’ll only have about sixty seconds to talk to him. He’s squeezing you in between important matters. Have a seat over there, please.”
I sat in one of the chairs where she pointed. Obviously he knew who I was, since he’d agreed to talk to me. I tried to think of ways to say what I needed to say in sixty seconds. I tend to be a blurter, so that could work for me in this case. I hoped he hadn’t already talked to his father about me and decided that I was too frightening to be around. I only had a few questions. Maybe we could get to them before he kicked me out.
I should’ve brought a biscuit bowl filled with lemon pie. That might have gotten his attention. Food was a good distraction. I could’ve talked while he was eating.
The phone rang on the assistant’s desk. She immediately told me to go in. I thought I recognized her from somewhere but couldn’t place her.
I didn’t waste any time taking her up on the invitation.
The office inside was huge. Bennett Phillips sat with his back against three large windows. I could see the bay from here. It was gray with the rain. Very few boats out.
His desk was big, too. There were pictures of him with the mayor, with a state senator I recognized but whose name I couldn’t remember, and with his father and Jordan.
“Well?” he barked. “I assume my secretary told you I don’t have long. Get to the point.”
“I’ve been researching your son’s stories. They have a common theme of Jordan trying to bring problems with large institutions to light. Was that what he was trying to do at the Mistics of Time ball?”
FOURTEEN
The expression on his face was one of astonishment. He looked a lot like his father, except that his hair was cut short instead of a mop on his head. He was thinner than Tucker, too. At one time Tucker had probably looked a lot more like Bennett.
Jordan didn’t look like either of them. He must have taken after his mother.
“You know nothing about my son.” His words were terse, but I felt the pain behind them.
“You’re right. I never even met him. But I have to tell you that he’s had a huge impact on my life. In fact, I’m worried about that life right now. My father was attacked yesterday, and Commissioner Sloane paid me a visit this morning. I need help trying to figure this out. I don’t think that help is going to come from the police, do you?”
He reached out to his phone on the desk and pushed a button. “Alice, hold my calls.” She said something back that I couldn’t understand. “Hold him, too. I’ll see him when I’m finished with Miss Chase.”
And I didn’t have to give him a biscuit bowl at all. I was pleased and impressed.
Bennett came around to my side of his big, old desk and leaned against it. “I apologize for my hostile attitude when you came in. I read about your father—I gave the okay for the article about his attack. Darn shame. He’s a longtime subscriber and a good friend.”
“Are you a member of the Mistics of Time, too?” I thought I might as well get to the point.
He frowned. “No. Is your father a member? I saw that he was crowned as King Felix this year for carnival. I didn’t know which society he was with.”
So much for secret societies. Give me a month and a membership list, and everyone in Mobile would know which krewe or society everyone else was with. I wasn’t good with secrets.
“Are you a member of any secret society?”
“I don’t understand what that has to do with Jordan’s death.”
I blurted the entire story to him in probably less than sixty seconds. He knew everything I knew since the night of the masquerade ball. I would be a terrible spy. They wouldn’t even have to torture me to find out everything.
“Do you know what you’re saying?” His bushy brows came together in a large line across his forehead, like a gray caterpillar. “This is police misconduct, if what you’re saying is true. Can you verify any of it?”
“I don’t have pictures or documents, if that’s what you’re asking, Mr. Phillips. But I’ve been threatened and so has my father, who was the second person to see your son dead in the garden that night.”
“Are you willing to swear an affidavit to that effect? Would Ted be willing?”
“I want to help. But I don’t think that would be in my—or my father’s—best interests right now.”
“Then what? What are you offering me that I don’t already know?” he grumbled as he went back to his chair. “What can you possibly do to help find my son’s killer?”
“I’m not really sure. I thought if I could figure out what he was working on when he died that it might give me something.”
“The police already cleared out his desk. I don’t have any of his notes. I’m not sure how I can help.”
“You were his editor. Didn’t he have to talk to you about stories he was writing?”
“In a cursory kind of way, yes.” He shook his head. “Jordan had the right temperament for this game. I let him have his head. Sometimes we talked—sometimes we didn’t. He always delivered something fresh and insightful. That was what mattered.”
If there was no way to get a look at what Jordan had been writing before he died, I wasn’t sure if we could do anything. He liked to stir the pot, as Commissioner Sloane had accused me. But we needed to know which pot he was stirring.
“Did you know your father talked to me about helping him find Jordan’s killer?”
“No! Why on earth would he do that?”
“My friend, Chef Art Arrington, encouraged him. They both knew Jordan was found in the garden instead of the alley, like the police say. They know something about the Mistics, too. They were talkative until I told him that my father had seen the ghost of Old Slac.”
“That old thing.” He shook his head. “Chef Art, huh? He likes to cause trouble. He and my father go back a long way. I’ll give Dad a call and ask him what that was about.”
“I wish there was more we could do.” I thought about what had happened to Miguel with his career in the DA’s office and losing his family. I didn’t want that to happen to me. I wanted to make everyone tell the truth about Jordan, but how much was I willing to risk?
“Me, too,” he said gruffly. “But with the police covering this up, we don’t have a chance, do we?”
“I don’t know.” I got to my feet. “I’m sorry I wasted your time.”
He stood, too, and offered me his hand. “You’re a brave soul, anyway, Zoe Chase. It was a pleasure to meet you.” He scribbled a phone number on the back of a business card. “My personal line. Don’t talk to anyone else about this.”
I gave him my cell number in return. “It was nice meeting you. Maybe we can still figure this out.”
“I hope so.”
I passed Belle Wood, the slightly rude assistant outside Bennett’s door. There were also three police officers waiting, along with Detective Frolick.
Frolick stood and came over to me. “Miss Chase. What brings you here today?”
“My father was attacked, Detective. I hoped there was more news than the paper had printed. Mr. Phillips told me that was it. I guess I’ll look somewhere else.”
“Around here, we call what happened to your father a warning,” he told me. “I’d take it to heart if I were you.”
I didn’t want to antagonize the man or give anything away. I smiled, nodded, and walked quickly to the elevator. He didn’t follow me.
The elevator door opened as Frolick and the officers stepped into Bennett’s office and closed the door.
“Excuse me, Miss Chase.” Belle got up from her seat and came toward me with a worried glance over her shoulder.
She reminded me of an older, plus-size version of Delia with reddish hair. That’s when I knew who she was. “You were the Mistic’s Queen of Carnival when I was about ten, weren’t you?”
“Yes.” She seemed surprised that I recognized her. “That was a long time ago.”
“You haven’t changed that much. I remember how beautiful you were that night and what a gorgeous gown you were wearing.”
“Thank you.” She cleared her throat. “The police asked me for Jordan’s cell phone yesterday. He didn’t have it with him when they found him. I only found it this morning. He’d left it here as he was walking out. Sometimes he wrote on it while he was waiting for people. I haven’t looked at it yet. Maybe there’s something worthwhile on it.”
She held out a cell phone. It was one of the bigger ones with a wide screen.
“Why are you giving it to me?” I asked.
“I don’t think Jordan is getting a fair shake from anyone,” she whispered, her voice choked with tears. “Maybe you can help him. I don’t know what happened or why, but something isn’t right. He shouldn’t have died that way.”
