Fat Tuesday Fricassee

by J. J. Cook

  It was someone dressed as Folly, Death’s partner during the Mardi Gras revels. He was wearing gold and red, his costume a little like the Renaissance fools that hammed it up for kings and queens.

  He was slight, thin, and didn’t appear to be much of a threat. His gold mask covered his face. All I could make out were the eyes and mouth behind it.

  “You’re not Jordan,” he said in a muffled voice. “Are you with the police? Is he really dead?”

  “Yes. I’m Zoe Chase. I found him—dressed as Death. He’d been shot. Do you have any idea who would want to hurt him?”

  “They said in the paper that he killed himself,” Dylan reminded me. “I knew it wasn’t true. That’s why I was hoping—” He started to turn away.

  I grabbed his arm. “You know what Jordan was working on, Dylan. You were helping him, weren’t you?”

  “I was. I didn’t know what was going on when I told him about the story. I overheard someone at the office talking about a threat to the commissioner. I didn’t even know if it was real. I was just looking for someone to take me seriously. I wanted to write about the good stuff, not gardening, you know? I’m sorry I did it now. I didn’t mean for Jordan to get hurt.”

  “What did you give him, Dylan?”

  At that moment the party inside the museum began to let out. At least a hundred people spilled into the street with cars coming to pick them up at the curb. The smell of alcohol was strong, mingling with perfume and cigar smoke.

  The rush of people separated us. Dylan backed away as the golden light from inside spilled out into the darkness.

  “Dylan!” I called out. “Please talk to me.”

  “Meet me at Clawfoot,” he answered. “Twenty minutes. I’ll get what I have from my apartment and show you. I’m leaving Mobile. Maybe you can do something with it.”

  “Twenty minutes,” I agreed. “I’ll be there!”

  “What happened?” Miguel asked when I hurried back away from the crowd still spewing out.

  “He panicked when everyone came out of the party, but I think he’s going to help. He said to meet him at Clawfoot. I’ll buy him a few drinks. He said he has information he can give me. This might be it.”

  Miguel grumbled, and Ollie shook his head as we got back in the car.

  “It’s a wild-goose chase, Zoe,” Miguel said. “He doesn’t have anything or he would’ve given it to the police.”

  “I agree with Miguel this time,” Ollie muttered. “If he really had something, he would’ve spoken up before now.”

  “He read in the paper that Jordan had killed himself,” I reminded them. “He wasn’t even sure if it was true. I think he just needs someone to talk to, maybe even confess to.”

  “All right.” Miguel put the Mercedes into the heavy traffic at the museum. “Let’s see what he has. At least he didn’t sound dangerous.”

  “I think he’s just a scared young man,” I said. “He’s afraid of the police. It has something to do with what he gave Jordan. He wanted to work with him on the story—whatever it was. We’re close now. Dylan has the answers. I’m sure of it.”

  We drove across town to Clawfoot. I had no idea where it got its name. I’d thought it was a newspaper term. But there was a large mummified animal foot with claws near the door on the inside. Clawfoot.

  I waited alone at a table in the noisy, crowded bar while Miguel and Ollie sat close by. I was afraid if we sat together at the table that Dylan might be scared away.

  My foot tapped impatiently on the old wood floor as dozens of parade-goers in costume and makeup came in for a drink. I had to fend off several men who wanted to buy me a drink or sit with me. Most of them were too drunk to do more than mumble their request.

  Not very attractive.

  It was two A.M. before we finally gave up. I was worried about Crème Brûlée out in the food truck alone. I knew he couldn’t get out or hurt himself, but it still made me nervous. I needed to check on him and maintain some kind of presence at the Biscuit Bowl as we had since we’d started the rally. It was an awkward situation.

  I had to face that Dylan wasn’t coming to meet me. He was scared and had probably left town when Jordan didn’t show up at the museum. I wished I knew his last name so I could find him.

  Miguel and I dropped Ollie off at the shelter and then headed back to the food truck. Crème Brûlée was sleeping peacefully in the front seat where I’d left him. He probably hadn’t even noticed I was gone. I took him for a short walk and then climbed wearily into the truck with him and Miguel.

  Miguel took my hand. “You did what you could, Zoe. That’s all you could do.”

  “I know. I just feel like I botched it, you know? I wasn’t prepared.”

  “You should have seduced him?” He smiled.

  I laughed at that. “You should’ve seen Ollie telling me how to do it. I wish I would’ve recorded it. I could’ve had a million hits on YouTube.”

  “I wish I’d seen that, too,” he agreed. “Good night, Zoe.”

  But I couldn’t go to sleep. I was so tired I could barely see straight, but my mind kept working over everything Dylan and I had said to each other—admittedly not much.

  Then it hit me—he wrote the garden columns for the paper! All I had to do was look that up and I could find him.

  I found the Mobile Times website on my cell phone. Miguel was asleep. The light didn’t seem to bother him. There it was—Garden Column by Dylan Medlin, staff reporter.

  It was easy to find his address in the white pages online. I could find him, talk to him. Convince him to give me the information he said he had.

  I didn’t want to wake Miguel, but it was too far to walk. What if Dylan left town before morning?

  I thought about taking Miguel’s car keys and sneaking out. Really, I had no idea how sound a sleeper he was. I’d seen him put his keys with his wallet on the dash as he was settling down for what was left of the night. If I could reach them, I could sneak out and find Dylan.

  Crème Brûlée was snoring. He rolled restlessly on his side. I reached across him and felt around on the dash for the keys. My hand hit the wallet, and I knew I was going in the right direction.

  “Looking for something?” Miguel’s voice was husky with sleep.

  “I had an idea about Dylan. Sorry I woke you. Can I borrow your car?”

  He glanced at the clock on the dash. “Zoe, it’s almost four A.M. You have to be up in another two hours to make biscuits.”

  “I know. And I’m sorry. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  He sighed. “I’ll go with you.”

  “You don’t trust me to drive your car?”

  “I do. I just don’t want you to be out there alone.”

  “Thanks.” I kissed his cheek.

  We were both already dressed—I longed for a shower, but that would have to wait until morning. We crept out of the sleeping food truck rally. This time I brought Crème Brûlée with me. I put him in his car seat in back and read Dylan’s address to Miguel.

  There were still people out celebrating. Drums were beating in the night, and fireworks lit up the sky. We passed what looked like a bikini beauty pageant on one corner and a dog show on another.

  “This town doesn’t sleep during carnival,” I said. “You were right.”

  “People barely work. I’ve had five appointments cancel in the last week.”

  “Sometimes I forget what a big deal it is until I’m in the middle of it again.” I grinned as I saw the lights on the bay. “I really love this place.”

  “Me, too.” He squeezed my hand. “I love you, too, Zoe.”

  I swallowed hard. I wasn’t expecting this. We’d never talked about love. Here it was as big as the blue lights that had just sparkled across the sky. We had a good relationship. We enjoyed each other’s company. But love—that took me by surprise
. I’d hoped that one day he’d be ready to love again. I didn’t plan to rush him.

  My response was easy, though. “I love you, too, Miguel.” I kissed his lean, shadowed cheek.

  We kissed at the next stoplight until it had turned green and then red again. I was smiling like a crazy person as I looked into his eyes.

  “Now let’s find Dylan,” he said. “I’m looking forward to some scrambled eggs for breakfast this morning. I’m cooking!”

  - - - - - - -

  It wasn’t hard finding Dylan’s small apartment. It was close to the newspaper. I could imagine that he walked to work each day. The neighborhood was quiet, which was surprising—no music or other festivities. Maybe it was just that it was so early—or late.

  I yawned as we parked the car. I was so tired. I knew I’d be falling over tomorrow.

  “None of that,” Miguel said. “We might need more than one pot of coffee this morning.”

  “It says 1A,” I read from my cell phone. “That’s three over there. At least it’s on the ground floor.”

  “I see it.”

  We walked up to the door. There was a tiny dying azalea in a pot on a garden chair with a red ribbon tied around it. He really didn’t like gardening.

  Miguel quietly knocked. “No point in waking the whole building.” But the door swung open when his hand hit it. “Should we go in?”

  “We’ve come this far.”

  He took out a handkerchief and pushed the door open the rest of the way. “Call him so he knows it’s you and he’s not afraid.”

  “Dylan?” I walked into a very plain living room that barely had any signs of personality. It could have been a motel room. “Are you here? It’s Zoe Chase, Jordan’s friend.”

  “Maybe he’s already gone.” Miguel looked around. He pushed open the bedroom door and quickly stepped back, grabbing my arm as I would have walked in beside him. “No! Don’t go in there, Zoe.”

  I caught a glimpse of a chair kicked over beside an unmade bed and caught my breath.

  Still in his Folly costume, Dylan was hanging from the ceiling.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  It was time to call Patti Latoure.

  The ambulance arrived in five minutes and pronounced Dylan dead. Patti was there twenty minutes later with five officers and a crime scene team.

  “What are you two doing here?” she asked me and Miguel.

  “It’s a long story,” he said.

  “I’ve got time.”

  I explained as well as I could. It wasn’t easy, since I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach. I didn’t know Dylan, but I had just met him last night. I couldn’t even see his face. He was still wearing the mask he’d had on at the museum.

  “Two suicides over this thing, Patti? Really?” My head ached and my eyes were burning.

  “We don’t know what this is yet, Zoe. Go on back to the Biscuit Bowl and cook something. Come in later and give us your statements. I should know more by then.”

  “All right.” I was thinking about the information Dylan had claimed to have. “I don’t know what to look for, but there may be information here that has something to do with Jordan Phillips’s death, too.”

  “I’ll look around. And don’t talk to anyone about it, okay?”

  Miguel nodded, and we walked back out to the Mercedes.

  “I should have come to look for him right away.”

  “You couldn’t have known.” He opened the car doors and we got inside.

  Daylight was peeking over the horizon. Another day of carnival was on the way. Yet I had never felt less like celebrating. I didn’t even want to cook anything.

  Miguel drove back to the diner and made breakfast for us both. I could barely do more than push the eggs around on my plate. Crème Brûlée ate and went into the office to sleep again. I didn’t even want to play with him.

  Ollie showed up a few minutes later, right after Uncle Saul and Cole had arrived. Miguel told them what had happened. We didn’t have much time to dwell on it—the Biscuit Bowl needed food.

  For once I didn’t even notice what was made for the savory and the sweet biscuit bowls. I felt like a zombie going through the motions, trying to keep moving when I felt like falling on the floor and crying.

  Whoever had done this to Jordan and Dylan—I was convinced even more now that Jordan had been murdered—was a monster. Someone had to catch him before it was all over and the killer was free of any responsibility.

  We headed for the Biscuit Bowl when the food was ready and the car and taxi were loaded.

  It was no easy task. People were crammed together in the parking lot and not happy about it. The lines to the various trucks were filled with hundreds of customers. It was a food truck owner’s dream but a customer nightmare.

  “Why is it like this?” I asked as we grabbed what we could and headed through the food trucks. “It’s not even eight A.M. yet.”

  “It’s the food eating contest,” Delia reminded me as she met us right outside the Biscuit Bowl. “They’ve already been at it for an hour. I gave them what we had to add to the contest.”

  “I completely forgot! How did you know?”

  She held out a sheet of paper with a reminder about the contest. “I came in early in case you needed help. No one was here so I just got it going.”

  I hugged her. ‘Thank you so much.”

  “It’s okay,” she said when I started to cry on her shoulder. “Zoe, what’s wrong?”

  “She’s gonna have to tell you later when we come up for air,” Ollie said. “We need her hands, not her mouth.”

  I put on an apron and scooted past Miguel and Delia to reach the fryer. I was in my element and tried hard to concentrate on what I was doing and not on what had happened. Ollie was calling out orders again. I had to remind him to print them on paper.

  We could see the contestants sitting at picnic tables. They were putting as much food as they could into their mouths as their times were called out. Men and women were stuffing in hot dogs, biscuit bowls, and kabobs as they went against the clock for a new winner in each round.

  “We’re almost out of paper plates,” Miguel said.

  “Just give them napkins for now,” I answered. “How are you doing, Delia?”

  “We have plenty of sweet filling, but we’re out of icing,” she advised.

  “Use the powdered sugar. There’s a shaker of it right above your head.”

  “Thanks, Zoe.”

  The remainder of the morning went the same way. I updated Delia on things that had happened. I glanced out the customer window. There was still a long line outside. Miguel was refilling the Coke bucket. Ollie was trying to cash a hundred-dollar bill despite the sign on the window that said we didn’t take bills that size.

  “Give it back,” I told him. “We can’t take bigger than a twenty.”

  “We’ll lose the sale,” Ollie said.

  “I don’t care. No hundreds.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Miguel came back. “That’s the last of the Cokes, and the ice is almost gone.”

  I glanced up at the clock. “We should be reaching a slowdown point soon. We can’t worry about it right now. If we run out, we run out.”

  That was ten thirty. The crowds lingered until after lunch. The food held up until the contest was over and the customers had thinned out. I felt successful but so tired I wanted to fall on the floor and sleep.

  Delia went home, dragging herself out the back door. Miguel, Ollie, and Uncle Saul helped finish cleaning up.

  Uncle Saul was still sniffling but said he’d stay at the Biscuit Bowl until we could get back with the dinner menu. He didn’t feel much like cooking. “Zoe, honey, I’m sorry it turned out this way. I wish you could’ve helped Jordan and Dylan. But sometimes there’s just nothing you can do.”

 
I was working on a shopping list for Miguel. The words kept fading in and out on the page as I wrote. “I think I handled it wrong.”

  “You aren’t trained for that type of work, like I said before,” Uncle Saul continued. “You have to take that into consideration before you beat yourself up. You hear me?”

  “I do.” I looked up and smiled. “This couldn’t have happened at a worse time, either, with all this extra work. I’m sorry I signed up for the Mardi Gras rally now. Everyone is so tired. People have died. It’s horrible.”

  Ollie came running inside. “Zoe—Frank the gator man just pointed a local news crew our way. They’re coming with cameras and reporters. Now’s your chance to shine!”

  We went through the kitchen like human tornadoes, looking for flyers and scrounging up a few biscuit bowls to impress the TV news team. I put on some makeup and forced my hair under an old Biscuit Bowl ball cap. I’d be sorry later, but there wasn’t time for anything else.

  The reporter knocked on the door and then entered with his crew right behind him. “I hear you make the best biscuits in the world, Zoe Chase,” he said. “I hope you have one for me to try.”

  We talked about my biscuit bowls and how I’d come to make them. I wished I had fresh biscuits for the reporter and his crew, but after going through the rush, I was lucky to have any food at all.

  “I love this filling!” the reporter said. “What do you call it?”

  Ollie stepped in to cover for me. “I call it Stoke’s Pie after my Granddaddy Stokes. It’s rutabagas and potatoes in a secret sauce and mixed with fried pork.”

  “Rutabagas?” The reporter frowned and looked at the biscuit bowl again. “Well, it’s good, anyway!”

  They ate the last sweet biscuit bowls—berries with custard. We talked about my plans for the future and how I came up with my ideas. It really was a moment in the sun—exciting but fleeting. Maybe it was worth being there. I wasn’t sure.

  As soon as they left the kitchen to interview someone else, I took Crème Brûlée outside for some fresh air. He was feeling playful after being cooped up most of the day in the front seat. He rolled in the grass and wanted me to pet his tummy. He swatted at bugs and a dandelion he’d found growing there. I held him in my arms and snuggled my face against him, hoping he could make me feel better. As I turned to go back to the Biscuit Bowl, Detective Frolick was there, with a deep scowl on his face.