by J. J. Cook
“So you think your people did this to you as some kind of warning to keep your mouth shut?”
“No. Of course not. I’m just saying that we take a sacred blood oath not to talk about our membership. I have to respect that.”
“Daddy, a man is dead. I don’t know if he was killed because he infiltrated your society or if it was something personal.”
“I know, honey. But—”
“Was he a member of the Mistics of Time or not?”
“He wasn’t,” he blurted. “But I don’t think he was killed because of that.” He took a breath and frowned. “I think you were channeling your mother there for a minute, Zoe. You looked and sounded just like her on a bad day.”
That made me stop and think. The one person I didn’t want to grow up to be was Anabelle Chase.
“I’m sorry, Daddy.” I hugged him.
“Mind the stitches, honey.”
Seriously? After what I saw?
“I didn’t mean to interrogate you, but I’m having some problems with Chadwick Sloane. I think he was threatening me. And I saw what looked like the Death figure, in the food truck. It was the same as finding Jordan Phillips.”
“Hush!” He put his hand over my mouth and looked around the bedroom as though he was afraid someone might hear me. “Where did you see Death?”
“In the back of my food truck. I told the police.”
“Bad idea.” He shook his head.
“I was afraid it was another dead man.”
“And you aren’t supposed to know that was Jordan Phillips in the garden,” he scolded. “All right. You already know. You have to pretend you don’t know.”
“Daddy, his father and grandfather are devastated. They want to know what happened to him. Imagine if this was me. Wouldn’t you do whatever you could to find out how I died?”
“Zoe, I’m sure Chadwick put this in blunter terms than I’m going to. These are warnings. Stay out of it. Yes, I feel terrible for the young man’s family. I wish I could help, but I can’t—and neither can you.”
His eyes were intent on my face as he spoke. I could tell he was still scared for me and him. I hugged him again and promised not to do anything else that could cause trouble.
I didn’t mean it, but I said it to keep him from worrying. I had another piece of the puzzle—Jordan wasn’t a member of the Mistics. I hoped I could take that information, scanty as it was, and find the other pieces that would lead us to his killer.
SEVENTEEN
My mother met me on the stairs going out. I was ready for whatever she wanted to say about me leaving town, forgetting about Jordan, anything. I wasn’t going to argue with her. I had to get back to the diner.
“Zoe, we need to talk.”
“Not now, Mom. I really should be baking. Daddy is sleeping. I love you both. See you later.” I thanked the housekeeper for the plastic container of cookies.
“You can’t ignore this.” She followed me to the front door. “I want to know what you’re doing to find that young man’s killer.”
I wasn’t ready for that. I gawked in surprise but managed to pull my act together. “Nothing. Daddy asked me to stay out of it. I’m too busy running the food truck to do anything.”
“Don’t lie to me, Zoe Elizabeth Chase! I know you’re probably running all over town asking questions and other crazy things. I want to help.”
“Are you a replicant or a pod person?” I touched her blond hair. “You can’t be my mother.”
“I don’t know what in the world you’re talking about. Is that some kind of street talk?” Her blue eyes bored into mine. “I knew you’d pick up some bad language out there!”
“Never mind. Why do you want to help? You wanted me to leave town and not get involved.”
“That was before someone tried to kill your father. I heard what you said to him about the police commissioner and finding one of those ridiculous people dressed in a Death costume in your food truck. I think I could be useful. I can bring a strong understanding of the law and moral fortitude to the table. You need me.”
Okay. So I was wrong about someone not listening to our conversation upstairs. “I really have to go, Mom. I’ll talk to you later.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You need a ride, don’t you? You didn’t bring that big food truck with you, did you? I hope not, for heaven’s sake. What will the neighbors think?”
“I’ll call a taxi.”
“Martha,” she yelled to the housekeeper. “Have the car brought around.”
And that was that.
I knew I was beaten. I got in my mother’s silver Lexus and we drove to the diner. I barely had a chance to breathe between her intense questioning. I was glad I’d never had to face her on the witness stand.
“So this dead man’s grandfather is meeting you at the diner with the purloined cell phone.” She nodded as she swerved crazily in and out of traffic.
I hadn’t ridden with her in a long time. Maybe this was why she usually had someone drive her places. I wished I was driving as I held on to the door handle. “Yes. But you can’t question him like he’s a suspect—like you just did me. This is a delicate situation. He just lost his grandson.”
“I know how to handle people, Zoe. Don’t you worry. I have a reputation for this kind of thing.”
That worried me a lot.
True to his word, Tucker was at the diner with Chef Art again. I was surprised to see Uncle Saul there, too. I’d wondered if he’d gone home after getting Daddy back to the house. I was happy to see him. Maybe he could help me curb my mother.
“Chef Art Arrington!” My mother parked the car and hit the pavement running. “I haven’t seen you in ages. What have you been up to?”
“Anabelle Chase!” Chef Art gave her a quick air hug and then slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. “What a terrible business this is. I am so sorry to hear about what happened to Ted. May I introduce Tucker Phillips? You probably know him from his years running the Mobile Times.”
I opened the door to the diner knowing what she was thinking: Not that rag.
“Yes, of course.” My mother lied as smooth as buttermilk pie. “We always had a subscription to your paper. I’m so sorry about the loss of your grandson.”
I’d forgotten how sweet she could be.
“What’s going on, Zoe?” Uncle Saul asked as we got inside the diner. “Why is Anabelle here—and talking that way?”
I thought about telling him what I’d seen in the blue bedroom but decided against it. My mother and father kissing had nothing to do with cooking for the food truck or with Jordan Phillips’s death. I decided to stay away from that subject. It was too distressing.
“She wants to help figure out who hurt Daddy and killed Jordan.” I shrugged as I switched on the lights. “I’m trying not to think about it. What are you doing here?”
“I called Miguel, and he said you were coming here to make biscuits. I thought you could use a hand.”
I hugged him. “I could use at least a dozen hands right now. I don’t know how to plan to make food for the next two weeks. It’s nothing like going out for a day at police headquarters with the Biscuit Bowl. We’ve already sold out twice. If I have to come back here four or five times a day to make food, it’s going to eat into my profits and drive me crazy.”
He laughed and kissed my forehead. “Why didn’t you say so? I had this problem plenty of times at the Carriage House. I know what you need to do.”
I dropped on a stool at the bar and nodded. “Please. Whatever you can tell me.”
We both looked outside where my mother was still talking to Chef Art and Tucker.
“Go ahead,” I urged. “They might be a while.”
What Uncle Saul had to say was really simple. I just hadn’t thought of it that way.
“What’s the most important
food you sell?” he asked.
“No doubt my biscuit bowls.”
“They are also the most time-consuming. And you have a problem serving them fresh, right?”
“You know I do.”
“Then you have to pay more attention to the biscuit bowls than to what’s in them. You’re not gonna like this advice, but you can make, freeze, and store what’s going in the middle. All you have to do is plan for it.”
“I don’t know. What if it tastes like it’s been frozen? I did that today and worried about it. What if the customers hate it?”
“Focus on what sells your food and what’s most important,” he said again. “If the biscuit bowl is fresh, everything else will be tasty inside it.”
I started to raise another objection. He held up one hand.
“It’s not like you have to do this all the time, Zoe. We’re talking about the next two weeks. It may be the only way you’re gonna make it through.”
I decided to think about it while I made several batches of biscuit dough. It made sense. I needed to give my time to the biscuits. I’d have to think about what I could make to go inside that would be less labor-intensive than I was used to.
It wouldn’t be easy—I was used to letting my creative cooking imagination run wild. I got up every day with a new menu in mind. But I had never run out of food before. That had been humiliating. I couldn’t closely estimate what I needed each day like I did normally.
Uncle Saul made coffee. “Don’t look now, but they’re coming in.”
The door chime rang, and my mother walked in before Tucker and Chef Art. They were talking about what had happened to Jordan. I hadn’t seen the phone in Tucker’s hand yet. I wanted to take a look at it.
The three of them sat in one of the old booths. The seats were lumpy, and the tabletop moved if you touched it. It didn’t matter, because I didn’t need them for my food truck. Once in a while some of the men from the shelter came down and ate what I had left over from the day. That was about it. Still, it was a little embarrassing. I knew all three of them were used to much better surroundings.
“Would you like some coffee?” Uncle Saul asked them. “It’s Zoe’s own concoction, but it’s pretty good.”
Chef Art and Tucker each had a cup. My mother only wanted water. I tried not to let it hurt my feelings. She normally only drank water.
With the oven full of biscuit bowls for the next few minutes, I walked around the counter to ask Tucker about Jordan’s phone.
As I did, Mr. Carruthers burst through the front door like an avenging inspector angel. “Aha! I knew there was something more going on here. You’re not supposed to have customers at the diner, Miss Chase. You’re only allowed to use the cooking facilities for your food truck.”
All conversation stopped at his entrance. Everyone stared at him.
“These aren’t customers.” I wanted to ask what was wrong with him. Was he stalking me, looking for problems with what I was doing?
“They have something to drink in their hands,” he said. “They’re seated in your diner.”
Chef Art had to nudge Tucker out of the way to get to his feet. “Do you know who I am, sir?”
Mr. Carruthers stared at him. “You’re Chef Art Arrington. I’d know you anywhere.”
“That’s right. Are you bothering my young protégé? I’ve looked after her every step of the way since she started her food truck.”
It wasn’t exactly true, but I wouldn’t argue with my famous champion.
“I had no idea, Chef Art.” Mr. Carruthers looked stricken. “I’m only doing my job.”
Tucker joined them. “My son is the editor in chief of the Mobile Times newspaper. I was in his place for almost forty years. I think it’s been a while since we did a story about health inspections in the city. I don’t recall people hiding out and watching to see if someone was doing what they were supposed to do.”
Even my mother got to her feet. “You know, I believe this card on the window says this diner passed inspection. It’s recent, too. Is that your signature, sir?”
Mr. Carruthers had gone from stricken to terrified. “You’re Anabelle Chase. You’re running to be a judge. What are you doing here?”
“Answer the question, sir, and don’t elaborate. Is this your signature on this card or not?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And did you certify that this diner has passed the inspections needed to be open?”
“Yes, ma’am, but—”
“Then I don’t understand why you’re here harassing my daughter.”
Mr. Carruthers stared at me. “You’re her daughter?”
“Yes.”
“You should have said something. I didn’t know.”
“Are you insinuating that a good review is easier to get for someone you know?” my mother demanded.
I was actually starting to feel sorry for Mr. Carruthers.
“Of course not. We have a set of standards that we use to inspect every food facility.”
“Then I suggest you go and inspect some other facility that you haven’t already inspected. This one seems to be in order.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mr. Carruthers hastily went back to his car, which was parked on the side of the building, and crept out of the parking lot. Everyone watched him go. I would’ve burned a tray of biscuits if Uncle Saul hadn’t rescued them.
I finally took a deep breath. My mother, Chef Art, and Tucker sat down. I put in two more trays of biscuits and asked about the phone again.
Tucker handed it to me. “I don’t see anything in Jordan’s notes or projects that has to do with secret societies or the Mistics of Time. Take a look, Zoe. See what you can do.”
I sat at the counter between trays of biscuits baking and glanced through Jordan’s phone. It felt weird looking at everything he had in there. I was embarrassed to search his private notes and thoughts. I had to keep reminding myself that it could help us learn who’d killed him. I’d want someone to take the time to look through my phone if something had happened to me.
I also made a mental note to take any embarrassing personal items off my phone that I didn’t want people to look at when I was dead.
“Is this Jordan’s girlfriend?” I asked Tucker.
“Yes. Lisa. She’s good-looking, isn’t she? She was one of the queens at last year’s carnival. Her family is quite prominent in the area.”
A prominent family could mean they belonged to a krewe or secret society—maybe the Mistics. Usually, the queens were chosen from families with connections to them. “What’s her name?”
“Lisa Rakin. Her father owns one of the local TV stations,” Tucker said. “Lovely girl. We were hopeful Jordan might settle down. He was starting to get a reputation as a Lothario, though it wasn’t deserved. He was infatuated with his work. That was why he went through so many young ladies.”
I kept looking through Jordan’s pictures and was surprised to find someone I recognized. “Tiffany Bryant? She’s one of the PR reps for the food truck rally.”
Tucker frowned. “I think her last name is Sloane. The commissioner’s daughter. She was a very nice girl, too. I think they dated at the end of last year.”
“The commissioner’s daughter dated Jordan? How long did they date? Why is her name different?” I asked.
“They dated a month or two. Not long. I think her mother and father are divorced. I believe she and her mother use her mother’s maiden name so as not to be tied to the commissioner. He’s a man with many enemies. Why do you ask?”
“Because the commissioner might not be covering for the Mistics. He might be covering for his daughter. He was with someone at the masquerade. It might have been Tiffany, like I was there with my father.”
“Why didn’t you think this was relevant, Tucker?” Chef Art asked. “I can’t be
lieve you didn’t put the two together!”
“How did they split up?” my mother asked. “Could she have killed him because he was too busy to pay her attention and then started dating someone else?”
“That wouldn’t explain why Jordan was at the ball,” Tucker said. “He wasn’t a member of the Mistics and hadn’t seen Tiffany since last December as far as I know.”
“But it’s a start,” I told him. “This has to be more than a coincidence.”
It could certainly explain why Commissioner Sloane had been so aggressive about people not looking into Jordan’s death too closely. Protecting the Mistics was one thing. Protecting his daughter was another story.
“If she was at the masquerade she could definitely be our suspect.” I was still gazing at her picture on Jordan’s phone.
“How will we find out?” Chef Art asked.
“I see a lot of her. Maybe I can get her to tell me if she was there—kind of woman to woman.” I realized that I was volunteering, but that was all right. This was the best breakthrough we’d had about Jordan’s murder. Tiffany might even reveal more if we talked. Maybe she’d tell me that she killed Jordan.
That was probably wishful thinking.
I took another pan of biscuits out of the oven. Miguel drove up and waved as he got out of the car.
“So we don’t think Jordan was doing some kind of exposé on the Mistics of Time, then.” Tucker nodded. “Maybe this girl killed him out of spite?”
“Perhaps.” Chef Art squeezed his friend’s hand. “I’m so sorry about this, Tucker. I hope we can find some justice for the boy.”
Tucker and Chef Art left the diner looking for Sazerac. I’d promised to let them know if I found out anything else about Tiffany attending the masquerade.
My mother had heard enough about what was going on. She had an appointment with her publicist. “You know I never cared for these krewes and such,” she said. “Maybe this will be a wake-up call for people to abandon them.”
“I don’t think anyone’s death is enough to do that,” I told her. “I’ll see you later.”
