1 Death on Eat Street (15 page)

My new day began with flashing lights on a police car, and the sure knowledge that someone was sending me another warning.

Officers Schmidt and Gayner were at the scene again. I gave them coffee and some biscuit bowls while we talked. They took our statements, both of which kind of went, “We were asleep and suddenly heard the glass break in the front of the diner.”

Delia didn’t hear a thing until we woke her.

What else could we say? Everything else was speculation, even though Marty and Ollie both came outside to see what was going on. There was poor Marty with the cut on his head from the previous attempt to get my attention.

Marty had made it very clear that he didn’t want to involve the police in his assault. Like everyone else at the shelter, it seemed he had a past he didn’t want to explore with law enforcement.

I was thankful that the block hadn’t come in through the window near where Uncle Saul had been sleeping. It could’ve been much worse. That made at least two people I knew who could have been, or had been, hurt by my stubborn refusal to close the business and leave town.

Oh, but I hated the idea of giving up. My parents would gloat because they’d feel sure they were right. Tommy Lee would no doubt tell Betty at the bank.

It was more than that, of course. I was terrified of losing everything and having to go back to the bank with my tail tucked between my legs to ask for my job back. The chances were I would never build up the courage to pursue my dream again.

On the other hand, I didn’t want my friends and relatives hurt, either. How could something like this happen to me now, of all times?

I took the official police report from Officer Schmidt, who thanked me for the coffee and biscuits. He warned me to be careful. “It’s a tough neighborhood.”

He had no idea.

After the police had gone and Uncle Saul was making eggs and pan toast, I called the insurance company and made a claim for the window.

“They said someone should be out later today to repair it.” I yawned after I’d hung up and poured more coffee.

“That’s good for today, honey. What about tomorrow, and the next day? If this person is determined to get this recipe, the harassment could go on for a long time. Or tomorrow, he might decide to personally try to get the information from you. Do you know what I’m saying?”

I did. It was depressing.

We sat at the counter together. He ate his food with gusto. I pushed mine around on my plate. I drank some coffee, and he finally ate what I’d left behind.

“What can I do, Uncle Saul?” I appealed to him. “I can’t just leave. You know that. There has to be another answer.”

He patted my hand. “I think maybe I have an idea. At least we might be able to get a few more answers about this recipe thing. I don’t know if it will be what you need, Zoe, but we can try my idea and find out.”

I hugged his neck. “Thank you. Whatever you have in mind is worth trying. Let me get dressed.”

Delia was still asleep and had left a “do not disturb” sign on her door. I wasn’t sure how she’d managed to get herself completely into the closet, but I admired her tenacity.

After putting on some jeans and a top, I asked Ollie to keep an eye on the diner. The broken window was an open invitation. I didn’t want to share everything I had with the people who lived around me.

“Do you need to close your cat in a closet or something so he doesn’t get out of the diner?” Ollie asked as he agreed to keep watch.

“I think he’ll be fine. He probably won’t even notice the window is open. He usually doesn’t walk that far from the bedroom. Thank you so much for doing this. I’ll let you know what we find out.”

Uncle Saul had many contacts from his former life in Mobile. He explained his plan as we drove his old, wood-paneled station wagon through town.

“I figure some of my friends who are in the antique business might know more than your Internet about the Jefferson recipe. They won’t only spout facts at us—they’ll know the gossip, too.”

“What a great idea!”

“Thanks. You know, my brother didn’t get
all
the smarts in the family.”

“I never thought he did.”

We got to the first antique store on South Water Street. The neighborhood was old, full of iron lace balconies and window treatments. Mobile was famous for its elaborate scrollwork, like its sister city, Charleston, South Carolina.

Most of the old work was gone, lost to time, and even being used to support the city. Mobile had sold off a ton of iron during the bad years after the Civil War.

It was Saturday, and the weather was fine. The rain had cleared out all the humidity and left behind some sweet breezes. Uncle Saul’s friend, Ben Weathers, was stacking furniture and knickknacks on the sidewalk for folks to admire as they waited to catch a cruise ship.

Uncle Saul and Ben shook hands.

“It’s been a dog’s age since I’ve seen you, buddy,” Ben said with a wide grin.

Ben Weathers was a short, thin man with a crown of white hair fluttering around his pink face. His keen blue eyes were mostly hidden behind glasses—when those weren’t perched on the tip of his nose.

“You don’t make it out to the swamp very often,” Uncle Saul chided him.

“Man, you ain’t got no tourists out there. I get ’em coming and going off the cruise ships every day. I don’t have to wait for Mardi Gras or the Azalea Festival anymore.”

Both men laughed at that. Uncle Saul introduced me. Ben shook my hand and told me I was welcome to park my food truck at his place anytime.

We went inside the small shop together. There was so much merchandise packed in there, I could hardly tell one thing from the other. There were old grandfather clocks, desks, rocking chairs, and thousands of smaller items.

Ben tried to sell me some antique kitchen utensils. I refused, telling him I was just getting started. He gave me an old silver spoon, black with tarnish, for good luck.

Uncle Saul finally explained why we’d come, and asked Ben if he’d heard any rumors about the Jefferson recipe.

Ben invited us to sit down on some furniture he said had been salvaged from the Southern White House during the Civil War. It was in pretty good condition, though I suspected the velvet was new.

“Rumors? Saul, there’s a full-blown hurricane of innuendoes and dark intentions about that thing. I wish I had it. I could probably get at least a million and a half for it.”

“Any ideas on who might’ve taken it?” Uncle Saul asked.

“I’ve heard a few names mentioned. You’re probably thinking someone close to home. That would be Art Arrington.”

“Chef Art from the old Carriage House Restaurant?” Uncle Saul looked surprised to hear that name. He explained to me, “Chef Art had a great little place over on South Royal Street. They said the governor used to come and eat there every weekend. Anybody who was anybody liked to be seen there.”

“Was the food good?” I asked.

“Good?” Ben kissed his fingers. “It was like the angels themselves brought the food to Chef Art fresh every day. The man was a genius!”

“What happened to him and the Carriage House?” I wanted to hear the whole story. Of course I knew who Chef Art was. He was part of Mobile history.

“He got too big for his britches,” Uncle Saul said. “Some men from New York City came and offered him a deal to open a restaurant there. He did, and it did real well for a while. He tried to keep the original open, too. That didn’t work out so well.”

“Then the Carriage House in New York closed. By that time, Chef Art had lost his place here, too,” Ben supplied. “Still, he came back home with a pile of money. Bought that old mansion, over on Spring Street, I think.”

“You think he could be involved?” Uncle Saul asked Ben.

Ben put his head close to Uncle Saul’s. “Chef Art has his fingers in a lot of different pies. There’s been some talk that he tried to get that Jefferson recipe at an auction before it went to the Smithsonian. A friend of mine said Chef Art probably hired someone to steal it when he had the chance.”

I had to admit, I’d been reluctant to believe that a recipe could be worth that much money. The way Ben explained it made a believer out of me. By the time Uncle Saul and I left the antique store, I was ready to go and ask Chef Art for it.

“I don’t think it’s going to be as easy as all that,” Uncle Saul cautioned as we climbed back into his station wagon.

“We could at least tell Detective Latoure about the recipe and Chef Art. Maybe she could take it from there.”

“Maybe. I don’t have much faith in the police.”

“Or the government. Or any other institution.” I’d heard his opinions many times on those matters. “That’s why you went to live in the swamp.”

He pinched my cheek. “You’re getting a smart mouth on you, girl. I have one more stop I’d like to make. I’d like to get a second opinion, so to speak.”

Since I’d confined my food truck business to downtown, five days a week, and the occasional weekend festival, I had nothing better to do than hang out with my uncle. Trying to figure out whatever we could about the stolen recipe could be worthwhile.

We drove toward Mobile Bay and met up with another antique dealer who was an old friend of Uncle Saul’s. Danny Butcher was sitting at an outdoor antique festival. His tables were packed full of the odd and unusual.

Danny was a little odd and unusual himself. He was dressed like a pirate from his tricorn hat to his knee-high boots. He looked like Captain Hook from the old Peter Pan movie.

He laughed when I took several pictures of him with my cell phone. “Us pirates don’t like having our pictures taken, even by a bonny lass such as yourself. Makes it too easy to create wanted posters.”

He growled at me, and I took another picture. “I promise not to help the authorities catch you.”

“Nice getup,” Uncle Saul said. “You’ve come up in the world since I saw you last, Danny.”

“And I heard you’ve been sinking out there in the swamp,” Danny retorted. “What brings you away from the gators and snakes?”

Uncle Saul explained that we were looking for the person who’d stolen Jefferson’s recipe. “Any ideas?”

“Not really. A man came by a couple of weekends ago. He said he had the recipe and wanted to know if I’d buy it from him. I figured either it wasn’t real, or he was crazy. You can clearly see I don’t have that kind of money.”

“What did he look like?” I asked him.

“Kind of tall, greasy red hair, wearing a hat that said Tacky Tacos,” he supplied. “Sound like your man?”

It sounded exactly like Terry. “Did you see the recipe?”

“Nah. He told me he had it on him and kept fiddling with something in his pocket.” Danny laughed. “If it was the real recipe, you’d have to take some money off for mistreatment. An old document of that sort needs to be preserved and cared for. You can’t shove something like that into your jeans and take it around town trying to sell it.”

Uncle Saul nudged me. “Danny was a museum curator when we were young. He gave it all up for this sweet business he has going here. Good choice, huh?”

“
Arhh
. Ye better be careful how you speak of me youth.” Danny closed one eye and put his hand on the pommel of his sword. “You know I had reason to get out of that business.”

“Yes, you did.” Uncle Saul turned to me. “The museum accused Danny of trying to steal an artifact. What was that again?”

“Nothin’ you need worry about,” Danny said. “I was cleared, anyway.”

“But they never found the artifact, did they?” Uncle Saul seemed to be joking. I wasn’t completely sure about that. Who knew he had such disreputable friends?

“Can you think of anyone with the kind of money it would take to buy Jefferson’s recipe? It would have to be a collector, right?” I asked.

“I can think of a half-dozen people who’d covet that kind of thing.” Danny squinted at me. “You mean to tell me you think that was the
real
deal? Where would someone like your taco friend get a valuable, historic recipe?”

“I’m not sure yet. Thanks for the information. Could you write down the names of those people you think might want the recipe?”

“Don’t need a list. Only one man would have the money for something like that—and be willing to pay it—Chef Art Arrington.”

We had to move away from the tables full of antiques as a large group of tourists descended on Danny’s wares. Uncle Saul and I went back to the station wagon.

“Looks like Chef Art is our man,” he said.

“Maybe we should pay him a call.”

“Maybe not. At least you shouldn’t see him with me, honey. Art and I go back a long way—none of it good. It would be best for you to take Ollie or Miguel out there. Better think of a good story, though. You can’t go up to a man like that and flat out ask him if he has the recipe.”

On the way back to the diner, I tried to think of a good excuse to put Chef Art at ease. It didn’t come right away. I wasn’t even sure I could get Miguel or Ollie to go with me.

We made a detour so that Uncle Saul could visit another old friend while he was in town. This stop came with lunch in the kitchen of one of the most popular restaurants in Mobile. I wasn’t complaining.

The Laughing Goat was housed in a two-story, redbrick, Queen Anne–style commercial building. A plaque on the outside said it was on the Historic Register and had been built in 1891.