Fat Tuesday Fricassee

by J. J. Cook

  “You and I both know someone killed Jordan.” I stared him down. “Don’t bother denying it.”

  “I admit that’s the way it looked when we found him.”

  “At the masquerade ball—or in the alley?”

  He grabbed my elbow. “Let’s take a walk, shall we?”

  Uncle Saul and Ollie were on their feet next to us faster than I would’ve imagined possible. They both stood a head taller than Frolick, and Ollie was wearing his mean look.

  “She’s not going anywhere alone with you,” Uncle Saul said. “Anything you have to say to her you can say in front of us, too. We know the whole story. Don’t bother trying to cover it up.”

  Detective Frolick removed his hand from my arm. “Take it easy, gents. No harm, no foul. I just thought it would be better talking about this sensitive subject in private.”

  Ollie flung open the back door to the Biscuit Bowl. “In here. This is about as private as you get with her today.”

  Frolick shrugged, holding up his hands as though he was surrendering, and we all went into the kitchen. Ollie closed the back door behind us.

  “Nice place.” He looked around. “I always wondered what the inside of one of these things looked like.”

  “Get to the point,” Uncle Saul said before I could. “Okay—but this is for your consumption only. I guess your father is good friends with the commissioner so it’s okay to tell you this.” He stared at Ollie and Uncle Saul. “You couldn’t tell in the garden what had happened to the Phillips’s kid. Hell, I couldn’t tell, either—not for sure. Then his girlfriend found the note he left. It clarified a lot of things.”

  “Like what?” I crossed my arms over my chest.

  “The ME found gunshot residue on Jordan’s right hand and the wound. That meant he was holding the gun when it went off. The GSR was on the wound because the gun was close to it.”

  “So whoever killed him made it look that way. Or he was struggling with someone,” I argued. “Jordan doesn’t strike me as the kind of person to kill himself.”

  “We all do crazy things when we’re in love,” Frolick said. “We know his girlfriend had broken up with him. We’ve seen hundreds of texts on her phone from him, begging her to come back to him and threatening to kill himself if she didn’t.”

  I thought about Tiffany. Was he talking about her or Lisa Rakin?

  Frolick didn’t know that I knew about Tiffany. To say something would give it away.

  Lisa, on the other hand, had only been dating Jordan a short time. How much could she have known about him? And didn’t Tucker say that Jordan was too involved in his work to give any woman much attention—thus the short relationships?

  When I didn’t say anything, Frolick frowned and scratched his neck. “I’m gonna tell you something that only a few people know—Phillips was engaged to the commissioner’s daughter. She’s the one who found the note for us. She’s cooperated completely during this terrible tragedy. We now believe that Phillips was at the masquerade to do her harm. The gun he was shot with was his own. We think that he meant to kill her, and maybe the commissioner, but he lost his nerve.”

  I’m afraid my mouth dropped open by the time he’d finished. It explained everything so perfectly. How could anyone hear it and still have doubts?

  But I did.

  “It’s the truth, Miss Chase. If you don’t believe me, you’re welcome to come back to police headquarters and look at the file. We didn’t release the information about where Phillips was found to the media, but our files reflect what actually happened.”

  “He’s right, Zoe,” Uncle Saul said. “It makes sense. Telling everyone where Jordan was found wasn’t necessary. The media had to piece it together.”

  “And it would’ve been an embarrassment to the commissioner and his daughter, not to mention the Mistics of Time, for anyone to know Phillips’s true motive and where he was found.” Frolick watched me intently, waiting for me to acknowledge that what he said was true.

  “What about my father and everything that’s happened to me?”

  “I don’t know what’s happened to you, Miss Chase, but I’ll be glad to take a report on any incidents. As for your father, there’s no reason to think his injuries were due to anything but a drunken street brawl. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how many of those happen during carnival.”

  He was right. Uncle Saul was right. It all made sense. There was no point in butting my head against a wall trying to make something out of nothing more than a tragic incident. Jordan’s death still bothered me, but I had to admit that any death where I’d found the dead person was bound to personally affect me.

  I managed to smile at Detective Frolick and shake his hand. “Thanks for telling me. It was a terrible thing. It seemed like Jordan had so much to live for.”

  “We just don’t know what’s going on in someone else’s life. Maybe if Phillips had been able to move on after his breakup with the commissioner’s daughter . . .” He spread his hands and shrugged. “But who knows? If you have any other questions, please let me know. Thanks for your concern.”

  Ollie let him out of the food truck. I sat on the counter thinking about all of it. The one thing that didn’t seem to make sense was that Jordan had moved on after Tiffany—with Lisa—or at least it seemed that way.

  I ran my thoughts past Ollie and Uncle Saul.

  “Maybe his family didn’t know who he was dating,” Ollie said. “After all, he was a grown man. Maybe he lied to them.”

  “Or even made up this other girl so they wouldn’t know he was obsessed with the commissioner’s daughter,” Uncle Saul suggested.

  “I suppose that’s possible.” I glanced at my watch. It was time for me to bake biscuits. “I’ll take Ollie back to the diner with me if you can handle the food truck for a couple hours.”

  Uncle Saul nodded. “Please. And make sure he takes a shower and changes clothes.”

  Ollie sniffed himself. “I don’t smell that bad.”

  I laughed. “We’ll be back as soon as we can. Thanks.”

  “It’s gonna be good to get home to the swamp and do nothing for a while after this.” Uncle Saul smiled. “Hurry back. I’ll hold down the fort.”

  Cole came to pick us up a few minutes later. The city was mostly asleep, recovering from the exciting night before. The streets were covered in throws and leftover food. I didn’t envy the cleanup crew who came out every day and made things look like new again.

  “I saw the article about that poor boy from the newspaper this morning,” Cole said as we drove quickly down the empty streets toward the diner. “That was a terrible way to die. He never hardly had a chance to live. I feel for his parents.”

  “Me, too.” We had arrived at the diner. Cole wouldn’t take any money. He was always so stubborn about it. “I have to pay you. What will happen if you go out of business because people stop paying you?”

  He laughed. “If I go out of business because you stop paying me, I must deserve it. Make me some food, Zoe. Your money’s no good with me.”

  I thanked him and added another plate or two to what I owed him. I’d have to find some other way to say thank you as well.

  Ollie turned to walk to the shelter. “I’ll be back in a bit. I’m glad the shelter director has let me have a few nights off to help with the Biscuit Bowl. That was decent of him.”

  “And I don’t know what I’d do without you. Tell him I’ll be glad to make him some food for his trouble.”

  “Nah.” Ollie shook his head. “He’s not that great!”

  I let myself into the diner and mixed up the biscuit dough as I thought about Jordan.

  Now that I knew that Tiffany had been dating Jordan, it was also apparent that she was at the masquerade ball with her father. If Jordan had meant to hurt her, he would’ve made sure of it. I suppose that also answered my question about
why he was there dressed as Death.

  I put in the first tray of biscuits, showered, and changed clothes.

  All the while I kept reminding myself that I didn’t know Jordan Phillips at all. I had no idea what he was like, if he was suicidal, how he felt about Tiffany. Everything I knew about him was secondhand knowledge—mostly from the people who’d loved him.

  It was only because I’d found him and felt sorry for him that my mind kept insisting that his suicide couldn’t be true.

  I smacked myself in the head as I dried my hair and tried to get it into some order. The curls were running rampant. I didn’t want to use gel on them because it wore off in the heat of the kitchen. Instead I used a colorful scarf to tie them back from my face. They didn’t like it and promised revenge when I least expected it. I fluffed them back and added some lip gloss.

  “You have to get a grip,” I impatiently told my image in the mirror. “Quit daydreaming about his death and face the facts. Detective Frolick probably knew Jordan better than you! The cover-up thing was because of where it happened and who was involved. You might not like it, but you understand it. That doesn’t make it murder!”

  Ollie was back by then in clean jeans and a Mardi Gras T-shirt from 1995.

  The talk I’d had with myself had done me good. I felt calmer and more rational about the whole thing. It was good to be free of the responsibility I felt I’d owed Jordan for finding him.

  Ollie pilfered the pantry and the freezer as we talked about what we could make for the biscuit bowls today. “What about sauerkraut and sausage in a biscuit bowl?” he asked.

  “I know I have some sauerkraut, but in a biscuit bowl? Really?”

  “You gotta be open to new ideas, young’un.” He held up a can of sauerkraut and grinned at me. “How about it?”

  My stomach twisted at the idea. It was a little too revolutionary. “How about sausage gravy? We could cut up the sausages and pan fry them to mix with thick milk gravy. It would go a long way.”

  “That’s true,” he admitted. “We can jazz it up with some peppers, too. Doesn’t mean it has to be bland.”

  “I can live with that.” I laughed at his crazy face. “You’re something else!”

  “Always have been.” He looked at more frozen bags. “Hey! Plums! That sounds good. What could we do with plums?”

  “Plum pudding?”

  He hit himself in the head with his open hand. “Plum clafouti! Why didn’t I think of it? My French grandmother used to make it all the time when I was growing up. All we need is some almonds, milk, amaretto—where’s the amaretto?”

  “I don’t have any.” I moved two trays of biscuits. “Would brandy do?”

  “Don’t be silly!” he scowled. “You could add brandy to it, too, but you have to have amaretto!”

  “Ollie—”

  “The liquor store around the corner is open. I have ten dollars. I’ll be right back.”

  “I can give you money for it, but—”

  He took my chin in his fingers and grinned. “Plum clafouti could be what makes your name, little girl! Just wait and see!”

  “All right.” I gave in with a smile. “But let me pay for it.” I grabbed my bag from under the counter.

  “You have visitors.” Ollie pointed to the parking lot.

  “Not Mr. Carruthers!” I whispered, hoping I was wrong.

  “Tucker and some young chick. I hope he isn’t here to announce his engagement!”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Tucker was pale with deep, dark circles under his eyes. I could see the misery in his face. I went to him and threw my arms around him. “I’m so sorry.”

  He sniffed a few times and wiped tears impatiently from his eyes. “It doesn’t matter what they say. My grandson didn’t kill himself. The whole idea that he would is ludicrous.”

  I gazed at the slight woman to his right. Her limpid blue eyes were fastened on me like I could save her from the storm. “You must be Lisa.”

  “I am.” She shook my hand. Her eyes were very red and puffy. “And you’re Zoe?”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. Of course. I’m Zoe Chase.”

  “I brought Lisa here because she can refute everything the police are saying about Jordan.” Tucker frowned as he spoke. “They didn’t even talk to her.”

  “Excuse me.” I tried to gather my thoughts that had been so calm and rational. “I have to cook while we talk. I hope that’s okay.”

  I started cooking the sausage. There was a lot of it—good thing. I added some onions to it and decided to wait and let Ollie add the spices when he got back from the liquor store. He’d left as Tucker had come in with Lisa.

  I took my time even though it seemed rude to keep them waiting for a response. What could I say? Why had they brought this to me? It wasn’t like I’d been able to help with the other information they’d given me.

  When I’d waited as long as I could, I turned back to them. “I know this is a terrible loss for both of you and it must seem very unfair. I didn’t know Jordan, but he seemed like a wonderful young man. I just don’t see what I can do to help you.”

  Tucker looked around. “Isn’t your mother here yet? She said she’d meet us here.”

  Oh. That’s it.

  My mother’s car pulled up outside. At least I understood why they were there.

  - - - - - - -

  Chef Art arrived soon after my mother. The four of them sat at one of the lumpy booths and drank up an entire pot of coffee while I got food ready for the Biscuit Bowl.

  Ollie was back with the amaretto. The plums were simmering in the pot.

  Chef Art had known exactly what Ollie was talking about when he said plum clafouti. He kissed his fingers to the idea and called it a masterful stroke.

  I was glad he’d heard of the dish, anyway. The almonds were defrosting, and custard was in the double boiler on the stove.

  I knew Tucker and Lisa were grieving. My mother? I wasn’t sure why she was involved except that she admired Chef Art. Maybe she saw some way to help her political ambitions with them. Chef Art was there for his friend.

  I just couldn’t figure out why they hadn’t met at a real café so they could’ve had a waitress bring them coffee and serve them breakfast. I didn’t mind them being there, exactly. It made me feel like my diner was a real place to eat.

  But on the other hand, I had so much to do and only so much time to do it.

  Ollie was getting the sausage gravy ready, no doubt spicing it up more than I ever would. He loved hot food and frequently accused me of being scared of spices, which wasn’t true at all.

  He glanced at the group huddled over the table. “I don’t understand why your mother is here again, Zoe.”

  “Me, either.” I packed the last tray of biscuits into a warming bag like they use to deliver pizza. The bag kept the biscuits fresh and warm until lunchtime. “They’re going at it, though, aren’t they?”

  “Why aren’t you over there, too? I thought you wanted to help.”

  “I did until I heard all Detective Frolick’s information.” I glanced at the booth. Lisa was crying again. “I feel bad for Tucker and Lisa, but they have all that proof. What more can anyone do?”

  “I don’t believe the cops, anyway.” He stirred a little more cayenne into the sausage gravy. “Probably just covering their own butts.”

  “I’ve got the biscuits ready. How’s the savory coming?” I thought changing the subject was the best way to go.

  “We’re ready here. I need a few more minutes with the custard and then the clafouti will be ready, too.”

  “I guess that’s it.” I glanced at the table again. “I hate to kick them out, but they really need to go someplace else.”

  I took a deep breath and told my nonpaying customers that I had to leave. They looked surprised that I was trying to get them to go, too. />
  “Just leave the keys, Zoe,” my mother said. “I’ll lock up before we go.”

  I wasn’t comfortable with that. My mother tended to underestimate the importance of the diner to my business. It didn’t matter at her house if she didn’t lock up because Martha took care of things. My mother had plenty of people to take care of things for her.

  I only had myself.

  “I’m sorry. I’m going to have to ask you to leave. There must be somewhere else you could talk that would be better than this.”

  She looked around. “This is the best place. No one would think to look for me in this old place.”

  That was it. “Really? You need to go. Ollie and I are taking the food to the Biscuit Bowl. I need you to leave now.”

  There was a lot of grumbling—mostly from my mother. Chef Art understood. Lisa and Tucker were too devastated to really care.

  Chef Art was the last to go. He gave me a hundred-dollar bill. “Thanks for putting up with us. How’s the food truck rally going?”

  “It’s been really busy, but I figured out how to keep the food longer and plan better.”

  “My food truck will be in the parade today. It’s a shame I couldn’t have managed to get yours in, too, Zoe. I’ll talk to you later. Sorry for the inconvenience this morning.”

  Chef Art’s food truck was a full-size RV with his face painted on both sides. It had all the comforts of home, including a double gas oven. He really didn’t use it as a food truck, but he sometimes took it out for demonstrations and to create a spectacle in parades.

  Someday I wanted one just like it—except not with my picture painted on it.

  “That was nice of him to give you money,” Ollie said when we were alone again. “So you don’t think there’s anything to what Lisa and Tucker were saying about Jordan not killing himself over his fiancé?”

  I put the hundred-dollar bill in my pocket. I’d use it to pay Ollie and Delia. I’d wrapped five plates of food for Cole. I’d have to figure out later what I’d give Miguel and Uncle Saul for their help.