by J. J. Cook
NINETEEN
Crème Brûlée wasn’t ready to settle down. I took him for a walk. We played with his favorite squeaky toy. Every time I was almost asleep he crept across the seat and batted at my face with his paws. I guess he’d slept so much during the day that he didn’t want to sleep when I did.
I could hear other voices in the parking lot and the sounds of people getting their food trucks ready for the next day. The generator was a steady humming beside the Biscuit Bowl. All the sounds and smells were different than I was used to—even in the diner.
It was two A.M. and I needed to use the portable toilet. I got out of the front seat of the food truck hoping Crème Brûlée would settle down while I was gone.
It was very lonely in the parking lot. The overhead lights left deep shadows among the trees that surrounded the area. The wind whispered through the leaves.
Most of the food trucks were dark or only showed light from a television or a laptop inside. Music was still playing, and distant laughter echoed down the street in front of the parking lot.
It was eerie walking to the portable toilet, but I didn’t have much choice. There was certainly no room in the kitchen for a makeshift toilet. I knew I was lucky to have one so close to the food truck.
All I could think about as I crossed the pavement was finding Jordan the night of the masquerade, how he’d looked in the dark garden dressed as Death. Not great thoughts when I was nervous already. I believed he’d been posed on that bench waiting for someone to find him.
I thought about the newspaper he’d had clutched in his hand. Now that I knew he was a reporter, it made sense. He was probably working on a story—but what story? And was it worth his life to write it?
There were many gruesome ghost stories in Mobile. I hadn’t thought of them in years, but I thought of them then. Every rustle of the leaves made me wonder if Jordan was resting in peace. Was his ghost haunting the walled garden where he’d died?
I remembered being fascinated by those stories when I was a child. There was the old French woman who walked through the graveyard behind the main branch of the library. People said she begged for alms to save her dying child. There were ghostly sailors who’d drowned in Mobile Bay and who came into the city on some nights during the full moon. People said Dauphin Island was haunted by a restless Native American tribe that had been killed by the Spaniards.
When I was a child, I’d believed every ghost story I’d ever heard. It infuriated my mother, who said she’d never believed in ghosts. Not Daddy, though. He knew some great old stories.
In time, I’d grown out of them. I’d never seen a ghost, so I just came to the conclusion that they weren’t real after all.
On a night like this, with the sound of partying still going on in the distance and a church bell tolling the hour, I remembered all of them, and they seemed real again. A sleepy owl called out from under the eaves of the old municipal building that was being converted to a museum.
It was a night full of ghosts that flitted through the streets during carnival.
I ducked into the portable toilet and locked the door behind me. Even though it wasn’t someplace I’d normally want to be, I was grateful for the shelter. I lingered longer than I normally would have but finally stepped back outside. I could only hold my breath for so long!
There was a lazy Alabama moon drifting through some clouds above me. I told myself not to look around. Just go straight to the Biscuit Bowl, get inside, and go to sleep. Enough thinking about ghosts and other creatures of the night. I’d be sorry in the morning if I didn’t get some rest.
I started whistling. Hadn’t I heard somewhere that it kept ghosts away? Maybe it only boosted a person’s confidence to hear the sound. I started planning my meals for the next few days in my head as I walked. That was a sure way to feel better.
I was so close to reaching the door to the food truck. There were only a few steps between me and the door handle. I started walking faster, like those women I’d seen in horror movies, glancing back over my shoulder in case someone was coming up from behind.
I heard a sound—the breaking of a twig on the pavement—and faced forward.
There was the ghost of Old Slac.
He was every inch the same as pictures I’d seen of Chief Slacabamorinico. Tall. Skeletal. A feathered headdress and buckskins. His eyes were glowing as he lifted one arm and pointed at me. “Zoe Elizabeth Chase!”
I almost dropped to the pavement in fear. He knows my name. That can’t be good.
“What do you want?” I demanded in a quavering voice.
Three other people, tall and broad shouldered, probably men, came out of the darkness around him. They wore black robes and masks, and they stared at me, too.
Great! Now they’re a band instead of a solo act.
“Zoe Chase,” one of them said in a deep voice. “Have you betrayed the secrets of the Mistics of Time?”
“What?” So they were with the Mistics. “I haven’t betrayed anything. I don’t know any of your secrets. I’m not even a member.”
“But your father is a member, and so is your uncle. Have you betrayed them?”
“I think you should go home now.” I was starting to be more angry than scared. “It’s getting late.”
“Yea or nay?” Old Slac demanded.
“Nay.” I stood my ground with my chin held high. “I haven’t betrayed my father or my uncle. What’s this about, anyway?”
I was sure one of them was Commissioner Sloane. He was trying to scare me into saying something I’d regret later.
The four members of the Mistics whispered amongst one another before coming to a decision.
“Remember your vow to keep our society secret,” one of them said. “Your life may depend on it!”
They slowly backed away into the shadows they’d come from.
“Seriously?” I called out.
Only the old owl answered my question.
What was that all about?
- - - - - - -
I started the engine and turned on the high beams to make sure I was alone. I honked the horn a few times, just to let them know I was wise to their games.
Someone knocked hard on the window next to me, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.
I closed my eyes and hoped Old Slac couldn’t get in.
“Zoe?”
“Go away!”
“Zoe! Open the door. What’s wrong?”
I knew that voice. It wasn’t Old Slac. It was Miguel. He’d said he was going to stay out there with me that night after he got home from his meeting and changed clothes.
I opened my eyes. Miguel’s handsome, concerned face was on the other side of the window. I rolled down the glass. “Old Slac and members of the Mistics of Time.”
“What?” He glanced around.
“Right in front of the Biscuit Bowl.” I dared a peek in that direction.
There was nothing there. Miguel walked to the front of the Airstream. He shrugged as he looked around and then came to the passenger side of the vehicle. I opened the door, moving Crème Brûlée quickly out of the way.
“Hurry! Get in.”
He opened the door and got in, locking it after him. “I didn’t see anything out there. Are you okay?”
“I saw them, Miguel. They were right there in the moonlight, pointing at me and asking if I’d betrayed them. I’m never going to another secret society ball again!”
“Let’s calm down for a minute. Take a deep breath. Where did you see the ghost of Old Slac?”
“Right there in front of the Biscuit Bowl.” I pointed and finally had enough courage to look at the spot again. “He’s not there. Where did he go?”
“I didn’t see him. I think you imagined him. Between the stress of getting ready for the food truck rally and finding a dead man at the masquerade—anythin
g is possible, Zoe.”
His voice was so kind and understanding.
It really made me mad.
I jumped out of the truck again, slamming the door closed, forgetting the relative safety I’d been so eager for just a few moments before. But there was no denying that the only thing in the headlights’ beam was the pavement and the portable toilet.
Miguel followed me. “Nothing’s here.”
“Something was here. Maybe not a ghost, but someone who wanted me to think it was a ghost.”
“Zoe—”
“I know what I saw. It’s not like I could make up something like that. He was standing right here.”
“Why don’t you go back to your father’s apartment and get a good night’s sleep? I’ll stay here with the food truck. That’s what I should’ve done to begin with. You shouldn’t be out here at night by yourself.”
“I’m not falling apart, Miguel. I can handle this. You know something is going on—we all do. Someone wants to make sure I don’t look into Jordan’s death.”
“I’m not saying you can’t handle it.”
“I’m not giving up trying to figure out what happened to Jordan.” I said it the first time in a normal voice. I shouted it a second time for my own satisfaction.
Several food truck drivers who were also spending the night with their rigs looked out of doors and windows to yell at me to shut up. The few that had dogs with them got especially angry, since their dogs started barking.
“Sorry. That’s it,” I yelled back. “I’m finished. Go back to sleep. Early morning tomorrow.”
I crept back to the front seat of the food truck with Miguel. As soon as I got behind the wheel, I took out my cell phone and called Patti Latoure.
“Zoe?” she answered. “Do you know what time it is?”
“Yes, Patti, I’m sorry. But things keep happening to me, and I think they’re part of Jordan Phillips’s death.”
“What kind of things?”
“Crazy things.” I told her about Old Slac and the Mistics. “I think they’re trying to scare me off.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Zoe. I got my butt severely chewed by Commissioner Sloane. And he was right. This is Dan Frolick’s case. I’m not supposed to spend time on someone else’s cases. You need to tell Frolick everything you’ve told me. I’m sure he’ll be a big help.”
In the background, I heard Patti’s husband wanting to know who was calling her in the middle of the night. She told him it was nothing and that he should go back to sleep.
“Patti, I think Frolick is in on it. He hasn’t spoken up about being there with me in the garden where I found Jordan’s body. How can I trust him?”
“I don’t know. You just have to. Good night, Zoe.”
The phone went dead, leaving my screen with only a picture I’d taken of Patti eating a biscuit bowl in front of police headquarters.
“She doesn’t want to hear it?” Miguel guessed.
“Worse. She wants me to talk to Frolick.” I put my phone away and stared out the front window. Crème Brûlée was snoring on the seat between us. He didn’t care what was going on.
“I can’t forget what I saw,” I told Miguel. “I know they’re lying to protect their secret society. They don’t care if they find Jordan’s killer as long as they’re safe.”
He put his arm around me. “You don’t know that. Maybe the police are covering up where they found Phillips for another reason. At least give them some time to work it out.”
“Maybe you’re right.” I closed my eyes as I leaned my head against him. Crème Brûlée sleepily batted at us with his paw and then turned over. “Maybe if I act like it’s over for me, they’ll leave us alone.”
He kissed me slowly. “At least for a few days. Let’s see what happens.”
TWENTY
So I worked the food truck rally for the next five days. Morning and night blurred together as the nonstop celebrations and parades brought in thousands of customers.
I baked biscuits. Uncle Saul and Ollie helped me make tons of sweet and savory foods to fill them. Chef Art donated some throws for us to give away with each meal after my plastic cups were gone. Miguel barely got the Coke barrel filled with ice and drinks before he had to fill it up again.
The weather was good—sunny and warm during the day, cool at night. We took turns staying with the Biscuit Bowl at night. There were a few break-ins at some of the other food trucks where no one was attending them. Probably most of it was crazy, excited teenagers, but losing food was difficult to make up.
My father was back on his feet quickly. He came to visit me early one morning with a pretty young woman on his arm. I actually sighed with relief to see that whatever insanity had gripped my parents at the house was over.
Nothing else happened out of the ordinary. No visits from people dressed like Death or the ghost of Old Slac. I didn’t hear anything else about Jordan’s death on the news. I also didn’t hear anything from his grandfather or Chef Art.
We were sitting outside at a picnic table sharing breakfast one week after Jordan had been killed. Uncle Saul had made some beignets and coffee—the beignets at the restaurant were nothing compared to his. He’d also brought some orange juice and a newspaper. We’d been checking for any news of Jordan each day.
Delia was asleep in the food truck with Crème Brûlée. Ollie was sleeping with his head cradled on his arms on the picnic table. Miguel was gone after spending the night at the truck with me. He had to meet with some clients.
Some of the other foodies were up and getting ready for the new day. There was a rhythm to the tides of people who showed up. The breakfast crowd went from around seven thirty to ten thirty with the largest number of people at nine A.M. The lunch crowd came in around ten thirty and lasted until three P.M. with the busiest time from noon until two P.M. Dinner lasted from six until midnight.
That gave me time in the afternoon to make food and freeze it for the next day. I baked biscuits twice a day, but in huge quantities. It made me wince to hand out the last biscuit bowls. They weren’t as good as they could be, but we hadn’t had any complaints.
“What day is it?” Ollie moaned without lifting his head.
“It’s Saturday,” Uncle Saul told him. “Drink some coffee and orange juice. You’ll feel better.”
Ollie sniffed. “Is that beignets I smell?”
“And eat one of these.” Uncle Saul laughed as he put the pastry near Ollie’s arm.
“I never knew making food could be so hard.” Ollie yawned and lifted his head. “I feel like I’m on a never-ending road trip.”
“It’s halfway over,” Uncle Saul said. “We’ve had most of the big krewes’ parades.”
“What about the Order of Inca?” Ollie asked. “There’s still the Order of Athena, Neptune’s Daughters, and the Crewe of Columbus.”
“Eat,” I said. “You’ll feel better. I’m going to get Delia.”
There had been no friction between Ollie and Delia in the kitchen. I was so thankful but felt like I couldn’t say anything until it was over. It was a sure way to jinx our good luck so far.
Delia was already awake when I reached the food truck. “I’m going to run home and take a shower, Zoe. You want to come with me? Do you need anything?”
“I’m fine, thanks. I’ve been showering at the diner in the afternoon while the biscuits are baking. It gives me a little break from here, too.”
I put Crème Brûlée’s harness on and lifted him carefully. I kissed him and explained that he needed to get some exercise in the grass. He’d been such a little trooper, too. I promised him salmon when it was over. He licked my nose without biting it. I took him back to the food truck and fed him.
Delia was gone. Uncle Saul and Ollie were still sitting at the table with the weirdest expressions on their faces.
�
�What?” I smiled and grabbed a beignet. “What’s up with you two?”
“You should tell her.” Ollie shook his head. “She’s gonna find out one way or another.”
“Didn’t I say we weren’t doing that?” Uncle Saul hissed.
“Does the Biscuit Bowl have a flat tire or something?” I looked at my food truck. Everything seemed okay from the outside. “Tell me.”
Uncle Saul slid his copy of the Mobile Times across the table top. “You aren’t going to like this, Zoe. Try to be calm.”
I read the article on the front page. The byline was Bennett Phillips. It was a short piece about the medical examiner declaring that Jordan’s death was a suicide.
“What?” I pulled my cell phone from the pocket of my jeans. “How can they say that?”
“It’s what the man said,” Uncle Saul reminded me. “And just because you saw Jordan and he’d been shot doesn’t mean he didn’t shoot himself.”
“No. I don’t believe it. There was no note.”
“Finish reading the article,” Ollie suggested. “The police found one at his apartment.”
I finished punching in Bennett’s number. There was no answer—it went right to voice mail. I tried Tucker’s number. It did the same.
“That poor family. Now they have to live with the idea that Jordan killed himself, which we all know isn’t true.”
“We don’t know that,” Uncle Saul persuaded. “You didn’t even know this young man. He may have been suicidal his whole life.”
“Why wouldn’t Bennett and Tucker have mentioned that when we talked about him? And why would he have killed himself at the masquerade ball? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“What doesn’t make any sense, Miss Chase?” Detective Frolick had sneaked up on us while we’d been talking. “I had a feeling you wouldn’t agree with the ME’s verdict. That’s why I decided to pay you a visit. Consider it a courtesy call from the commissioner to your family.”
