1 Death on Eat Street (18 page)

Ollie hung around until after midnight, regaling us with his funny stories. He had to be doing this for Delia. Mostly, Ollie didn’t have so much to say.

I enjoyed their company. Watching the two of them together, I could see a new romance budding. I loved seeing friends find each other. It made me feel a little lonely, in this case. I knew I’d get over it, and I was happy for them.

Delia quickly burst that bubble after Ollie went back to the homeless shelter. We were talking as we got ready for bed. I teased her a little about her and Ollie.

Her pretty face became dead serious. “Women like me don’t have happily ever after, Zoe. That’s a Hollywood myth. We don’t suddenly meet good-hearted eligible bachelors who decide to marry us and take us away to a new life.”

I sat next to her on the rollaway bed while she brushed her long, dark hair. “Are you saying that you can’t fall in love with someone like Ollie?”

“I’m betting we’re only a few years apart in age, Zoe. But we’re a lifetime apart in experience.” She smiled at me a little sadly. “I’m not saying it can’t happen. They say miracles happen every day. But even men who aren’t so eligible, like Ollie, don’t want to marry women like me. I’ve got no prospects except this body and this face. It’s just a fact of life, girl. Don’t get all blue about it. I’m okay. When this is over, I’ll go back to my life. You’ll become a famous restaurant owner. It’s the way the world works.”

We finally said good night. I thought about her words for a long time after I lay down with Crème Brûlée.

I didn’t agree with her. I couldn’t agree. Dreams had to be able to come true. Delia was only saying what other people had said to her. I decided right then and there that she would never go back to waiting tables in a smoky bar again.

Was working in a food truck any better?

I wasn’t sure. I fell asleep with the question on my mind.

• • •

The next day was Sunday. Normally, this was the day I had dinner with my family. I’d hoped that since I was supposed to be with Uncle Saul, I might get away from what was sure to be a depressing event.

No such luck.

I was cooking eggplant—cubed and fried—in a delicious caramel sauce when my mother called and requested my presence.

I guessed my father told her what happened. He wasn’t ever good at keeping things from her.

I didn’t want to go but I knew I didn’t have much choice. My father was footing the bill for Delia’s legal work, after all. I took a shower, changed clothes, and called a taxi to take me to my mother’s house on Julia Way.

The big, old-fashioned houses in this part of Mobile were wonderful examples of Southern house art, circa 1800s. Nothing was spared from the architecture and design. The houses were like elegant old ladies, dressed in their iron lace and clapboard finery. They weren’t as colorful as some of the other areas around the city. They were far too refined to be gaudy.

The house I grew up in had been in my mother’s family for generations. It was grand and elegant. The grounds took up more than an acre on Julia Way. The gardens had been featured in
Southern Living
magazine more than once. There was a private, walled courtyard, and a guesthouse in the back.

The green lawn was smooth and well kept, and the large oak trees dripped with Spanish moss. Flower beds were carefully cultivated for the season, nothing too provocative. My mother wanted a little color, but nothing that would call extra, unwanted attention to the house.

I walked up to the wraparound porch where I’d played as a child. June, my mother’s housekeeper, greeted me at the door. There was never a cobweb at the top of the twelve-foot ceilings, never a dust bunny in a corner.

It had been a fun place to grow up with all the little places to hide, and even a secret passage that came out at the triple back-to-back fireplaces. When my mother got mad because I quit violin lessons without telling her, I hid for hours in there. Uncle Saul finally found me.

Dinner was almost as much fun as going to the dentist. There were outbursts followed by long moments of icy silence between courses.

I applauded my mother’s chef, Wesley, on his choice of rhubarb and pork ragout. It was inspired.

He bowed his head and thanked me. “Do you catch a hint of something different?”

I closed my eyes. “Nutmeg?”

He had a satisfied expression on his face when he left the room. It was always wonderful to talk to someone who loved food as much as I did.

I followed Uncle Saul’s advice and stood my ground through the arugula salad with caramelized onions and goat cheese. I wasn’t going to marry Tommy Lee, and I wasn’t giving up my food truck.

“Reason with her,” my mother demanded of my father while we ate bisque of tomato soup made from fresh tomatoes.

“What am I supposed to say? She sounds like she’s made up her mind, Anabelle.”

I’d pretty much been a disappointment all my life, except for a few brief years after college. Why change now?

My mother even pretended to cry as I enjoyed my lemon sponge cake. I’d never seen her actually shed a tear—talk about steel magnolias. When she went through the effort to appear as though she was crying, I knew how serious the matter was.

Of course, the botched kidnapping attempt should’ve given me a heads-up. I guess I was too wrapped up in everything else that was happening to really take offense at it.

My father, bless his heart, kept trying to find a compromise, smooth the way, as he always did. It seemed as though we were too far apart on this one. I was refusing to give up my dream, and they were adamant that it had no place in my life.

After a few painful hours of being together, I said good night and left the house.

It was pleasant to draw my first deep breath since I’d arrived there as I waited for the taxi I called. I was glad that ordeal was over.

I heard a footstep in the darkness, and had turned to see if it was my father, when someone dropped a smelly cloth bag over my head, picked me up, and put me roughly into the back of a car.

Again.

I couldn’t believe it. Were my parents so desperate that they’d try the same thing
twice
?

I could only assume my kidnapper wasn’t Uncle Saul this time. I felt sure they’d learned their lesson about using friendly relatives to get the job done.

It scared me a little, even though I knew they wouldn’t let someone hurt me in the process of trying to change my mind. Had they hired a mercenary, or some professional brainwasher, to get me to give up my dream?

The car started moving. The interior smelled like those big, stinky cigars, brandy, and expensive leather.

I tried to get my thoughts together. The best way to combat this was to demand to be released—and to offer more money to my abductor than my parents had offered.

The hood was snatched off my head. At that point, I didn’t even care how badly my curls were mangled. I put on an angry, defiant face as my eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior of a limousine.

What?

They’d hired a really expensive kidnapper who apparently provided limousine service. That took me back an instant. Who drives a limousine and kidnaps young women who disagree with their parents? The trade must be very lucrative.

“Good evening, Miss Chase.”

I focused on the cultured, very Old-South voice. I looked across and saw the face of my abductor.

“Chef Art?”

I would’ve known that face anywhere. He was like Colonel Sanders and Emeril rolled into one—my first cooking idol.

Art Arrington was a big man, not so tall, it seemed, as very round. His gray beard was closely clipped on his large face. His hair was a snowy wreath around his head. He wore a white linen suit and a red string tie.

This was the face of restaurant success to me. If I hadn’t been so angry, I would’ve asked for his autograph. He was more myth than man. What I wouldn’t have given to be able to stand side by side cooking
anything
with him.

It was hard, but I had to put aside all that hero worship. The man had abducted me and was driving me around in his limousine—I had no idea where. I was pretty sure I knew why.

“I’m glad to see you recognize me.” Chef Art smiled and offered me a glass of wine. “I have some lovely chocolates that pair delightfully with this vintage. Would you care to try some?”

“I don’t think so. Thanks.” It was all I could do to keep from grinning at him like a kid. “Why am I here?”

“I think you probably know the answer to that, Miss Chase. May I call you Zoe?”

“No, you may not. Don’t play games with me. Tell me what you want.”

He sighed heavily, as though his words were a burden on him. “I want what every man wants. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That doesn’t seem like too much to ask, does it?”

“Not to mention the handwritten copy of a recipe for crème brûlée that Thomas Jefferson brought to this country in the 1700s.”

Smiling like a possum caught in the trash can, Chef Art agreed. “Why, yes. What an astute young woman you are.”

“Thanks.” I wasn’t sure where this conversation was leading. The limousine kept driving through the dark streets. I realized this could get ugly if Chef Art thought I was standing between him and the Jefferson recipe.

I waited, heart pounding, for him to make the next move.

“Did Terry Bannister give you the recipe?”

“I barely knew him. Why would he give me anything?”

“Good point.” He made a pyramid of his fingers and studied me across them. “Now that I have a good look at you, I don’t think you killed anyone. You’re from a good family, with deep roots in the community. You’ve lived an ordinary life—until recently. What was that all about? I confess that I originally thought you had to know about the recipe, and that’s why you’d quit your job.”

Though the first part of his assessment was true, it was also irritating. How many people were going to tell me that I had lived a very ordinary life?

The last part was so far from what was happening that I thought he must be delusional. “And now?”

“Now that I see what you’re doing—the food truck and that terrible greasy spoon—I realize you’ve simply made a mistake in your life track. It happens all the time. You’ll do a course correction, and go back to your trivial life again soon. Don’t worry.”

“Thanks for that. I don’t see this as being a mistake. I can’t believe
you
do.” I glared at him even though it may have been lost in the dim lighting.

“All of my life, you’ve been my idol. I’ve always wanted to be like you. You loved food before it was fashionable. You took big chances, like opening the Carriage House restaurant in New York. I thought for sure, if anyone would understand, it would be you.”

He smiled. “Flattery will get you everywhere. Would you like my autograph?”

I crossed my arms against my chest. “No. You said terrible things about me and my dream of opening a successful restaurant. You thought I killed Terry for the recipe. You’re not who I thought you were.”

An expression crossed his broad face that I can only explain as regret.
Probably nothing to do with me.
I had convinced him that I didn’t have the recipe. I’d interfered with his dream.

“I’m truly sorry, Miss Chase.”

I wasn’t about to give in that easily. I glared back at him, my breath coming fast.

“How can I make it up to you?” His eyes roamed the interior of the car as though it would give him inspiration. “I could make a public appearance at your food truck. Would that help?”

I was a little excited about that idea, if the offer was real. Chef Art’s personality still meant a lot to the people of Mobile. I might get some TV or radio coverage from it.

When I didn’t answer right away, he said, “How about if I invite you to one of the benefit dinners at my home
and
make a public appearance at your food truck?”

That was even more exciting.

Chef Art’s benefit dinners were famous. People came from around the world to eat the food he, and his guest chefs, had created. They paid a hefty price for the meal and the chance to mingle with celebrities. I could never hope to get into one of those dinners on my own.

Along with the public appearance, I was pretty sure I could forgive him almost anything. “Deal. You invite me to the dinner, and make an appearance at my food truck, and I’ll forget this ever happened.”

He stuck his hand toward me, gaudy rings on every finger. “You drive a hard bargain. I may be wrong about your potential. Forgive me for thinking you had the Jefferson recipe.”

“That’s quite all right. How about Wednesday at noon for the appearance? I don’t know why, but Wednesday is always a big lunch day.”

“Wednesday is hump day. People want to think about the coming weekend and eat well for a change,” he explained. “Wednesday it is. Where will your food truck be?”

“I’m working the parking lot outside police headquarters on Government Street. You can’t miss my food truck. It’s the only one with the spinning biscuit on top.”

He laughed loud and long. “Brilliant! I’ll be there. I’ll have my social secretary get in touch with you about the benefit dinner. It was wonderful meeting you, Zoe Chase.”

The driver had already stopped the limousine and was opening the door for me. We were parked outside the diner. I hadn’t even thought to look out.

I thanked Chef Art—even though he’d kidnapped me. My disrupted ride home in a taxi was nothing compared to what he’d promised.

Hundreds of ideas ran through my mind as the limousine pulled out of the parking lot and I went into the diner. I’d spoken to the woman on the local radio station that did food truck announcements during the week. I couldn’t remember her name, but I knew her business card had to be in the diner somewhere. I could tell her about Chef Art’s appearance.

I told Delia about what had happened. She wasn’t as impressed as I was with the unexpected turn of events.

“Zoe, if Chef Art thought you had the recipe, so do other people.”

“I know. But he’s going to make a personal appearance at my food truck Wednesday, and he invited me to his benefit dinner! This is much bigger news. We already knew people think one of us has the recipe.”

She took my hand as though she wanted to say something. I waited and let her gather her thoughts.

“I hadn’t realized Chef Art was involved in all of the things that are going on right now.” Delia frowned and her bottom lip trembled. “He was my date the night Terry was killed.”

“What are you saying?” I thought back to that night. I remembered the big green Lincoln that had picked her up at the corner. The car had come from the back of the parking lot. “You think Chef Art killed Terry?”

Delia shushed me as though someone else was in the next room spying on us. “I’ve kept it a secret this whole time because I know he’s a wealthy and powerful man. I didn’t want to say anything. Terry’s dead. I’d like to stay alive a little longer.”

I sat down on one of the stools at the counter. All of my exciting new dreams were starting to crash. I couldn’t believe Chef Art would kill Terry for the Jefferson recipe. But then, I couldn’t believe
anyone
would kill Terry for it.

I had to consider that Chef Art had been desperate enough to risk kidnapping me to ask if I had the recipe. He could’ve been motivated enough to kill Terry.

“This is terrible,” I whispered back. “He could change everything for me. Just him being at the food truck could get a lot of publicity. It would be like the seal of approval from a man everyone here knows and loves.”

“You should keep it that way,” Delia said. “Let’s get through this in one piece, Zoe. Let the police handle it. If they catch him, fine. If not, oh well. I’m not testifying against him in court. I don’t want the police to know what I just told you.”

I stared at her beautiful face, which I had envied since I’d first seen her. “We have to tell Detective Latoure. What if he killed Terry for the recipe? He could kill someone else.”

“That’s
their
problem. I’m not repeating what I told you. You can go to the police if you want to, but I’m not going to be part of it.”

“You could go to jail for killing Terry. Surely it’s worth that much of your life to turn Chef Art in to the police.”

She shook her head. “From what Miguel told me, the police are looking in another direction now. It may be that they’re looking at Chef Art, for all we know. Anyway, I don’t think they’re gonna want me for much longer. I’m going to keep my mouth shut and ride this storm out. You’d be smart if you did the same.”

There wasn’t much else to say on the matter. I cooked my savory biscuit bowl filling for the next day, and made my sweet fillings. Even after the setup was done, and Delia and I were in bed for the night, I still thought about what she’d told me.

I couldn’t prove anything if she wouldn’t cooperate. It would be my word against hers—and hearsay at that. I knew enough about the law from my mother to know that it was less than useless.

I couldn’t say it to anyone else, but I whispered my fears and misgivings to Crème Brûlée that night. He seemed to understand. He bit my finger as I stroked his soft fur—then he licked my whole hand. It seemed to make us both feel better.

• • •

The alarm clock went off early the next morning. I dragged myself out of bed without my usual enthusiasm. Ollie was knocking on the door before I finished dressing. Together, he, Delia, and I got everything out to the food truck and set up for what I hoped would be a busy day. I put Crème Brûlée in his bed last after he’d finished eating.

Ollie sat beside me as we drove to police headquarters. Delia rode in the back. I thought about telling Ollie what Delia had told me last night. I wanted someone to convince Delia to tell the police about Chef Art.

Ollie clearly wasn’t the best choice for this. He talked about how wonderful Delia was almost nonstop. The rest of the time, he was asking me questions about her. He wouldn’t be objective. With his major crush on Delia, it seemed unlikely that he’d take my side in the matter. I didn’t say anything to him about my meeting with Chef Art or my talk with Delia.

I wished Miguel were there. He might be able to convince Delia to help the police. I knew he wouldn’t like it that I was trying to interfere again, but Chef Art had been the one who’d come to me. Why wouldn’t Delia tell Patti Latoure about him?

The parking area at police headquarters was quiet and empty when we reached it. I claimed my spot and prayed for good weather. The weatherman was calling for sunshine and moderate temperatures. It was a perfect day to grab lunch outside and enjoy the sun.

Ollie set up the tables and chairs. He swung open the doors and erased Friday’s menu from the chalkboard. “Are we selling eggs again today?”

“No.” I was trying to get things set up inside. “Spicy sausage gravy in a biscuit bowl for breakfast. The savory filling is pimento macaroni and cheese. Sweet filling is a choice of cinnamon apple with a slice of cheddar, or custard with nutmeg.”

“Okay.”

Delia stopped me as I was getting ready to deep-fry the first load of biscuits. “You didn’t say anything to Ollie, did you?”