by J. J. Cook
“Maybe he wasn’t dead. Maybe he’d been out partying and passed out. He woke up and left before you got back.”
It was a plausible suggestion for what had happened. I didn’t believe it entirely, but I went with it. I didn’t have much choice.
Part of me was slightly worried that it could be a warning. It was too close to what had happened at the masquerade for me not to feel rattled by it.
Mr. Sullivan ducked his head into the kitchen. “Zoe? Are you ready for me?”
Miguel kissed my cheek and went back to his car to sit with Crème Brûlée.
It only took my old inspector a moment to check the mini-fridge. It was fine.
“I’m sorry you’re having problems with Mr. Carruthers. Would you like me to speak to him on your behalf?” Mr. Sullivan asked as he gave me a new certification.
“No. I’ll figure it out. Having you talk to him might make it worse. Thank you for offering.”
He shook my hand, his gaze roaming the kitchen. “You’ve come a long way, Zoe. Imagine your food truck being part of the celebration. Got to be exciting!”
“You know it,” I agreed with a grin.
I put the inspection sign up near the window where my previous inspection sign had been. I looked around the kitchen again, ill at ease in a way that I never was when I was working.
There was no chalk outline where the body had been a short while before, but I could trace it with my gaze. Everything was as I had left it for the inspection. Whoever it was had come and gone cleanly.
The whole thing had probably happened because I’d left my back door unlocked. It was a prank or a drunk, like the police officer had said. It was easy to get more upset about it than normal because I’d found the dead reporter.
“Well, no one is in here now,” I said with my hands on my hips. “I have too much to do to stand around thinking about this.”
I worked as quickly as I could to make sure everything was ready and then locked the kitchen up tight. The generator outside was running to keep the fridge going. It looked like I was set for the start of carnival.
I hurried back to Miguel’s car. I knew being trapped in a car with Crème Brûlée could be a difficult experience. I wasn’t sure what we could do with him while Miguel and I had lunch. The weather was cool, but I didn’t feel safe leaving him at the diner or in the Biscuit Bowl.
Miguel had already thought about the problem—no doubt inspired by time spent with my cat. “What about eating lunch at Lavender’s café? They have those outside tables on the sidewalk. You can hold Crème Brûlée on his leash while we eat.”
“What a great idea!” I kissed him. “That’s perfect.”
We drove across town, taking side streets since most of the main streets were already filled with revelers.
My friend Lavender Blue was too busy to talk. The café was busy, but not many people were sitting outside. Miguel and I sat at one of the cute iron lace tables while Crème Brûlée explored the limits of his leash and harness. We ordered lunch and then sat back to watch the impromptu parade that had started down the street.
It was mostly made up of kids with musical instruments. Some of the instruments were handmade or created from whatever they could scrounge together. They played on glass bottles with sticks and banged pots and pans. There were a few washboard players and even one older man who played the handsaw.
Those sounds were mingled with trumpets and a trombone. There were several banjo players who smiled and nodded as they passed us. One little boy pulled a puppy in a red wagon. Several young women were dancing along with them and handing out candy as throws.
“You never know where the party is going to be.” Miguel grinned at me. “That’s what I love about this time of year.”
“Me, too!” I toasted him with our newly arrived glasses of wine.
We ate fresh hush puppies and poke pie, wilted dandelion salad with maple mustard dressing. There was warm honey gingerbread with heavy cream in tiny purple, green, and gold cups for dessert. It was delightful sitting in the sun with the cool breeze from the bay.
The parade was over before we’d finished eating. Crème Brûlée spent most of the time lying on his back, swatting at a piece of candy wrapped in cellophane that had been thrown our way. He was amused and not getting into trouble. I was glad for the time with Miguel.
At the end of the meal Miguel took my hand and smiled at me. “What are you doing the rest of the day?”
“Taking care of a thousand last-minute details before opening tomorrow. You?”
“I have an appointment with a new client.”
I stared into his beautiful brown eyes. “Is something wrong?”
“Just worried about you,” he admitted. “I’m sorry you were the one who found the reporter at the masquerade.”
“Me, too!”
“I hope finding another person dressed like Death in the Biscuit Bowl wasn’t some kind of warning to keep your mouth shut.”
From my mind to his lips. “I was thinking the same thing. It’s awfully coincidental.”
“We’re probably both just being paranoid.”
“Probably,” I agreed with a smile. “It’s silly, right?”
“I hope so.” He glanced at his watch. “Where do you want me to drop you off?”
“I have to pick up a few things I left at Daddy’s apartment. Then I have to get my food ready at the diner for tomorrow.”
I picked up Crème Brûlée. He walked on the leash for a few steps and then rolled over on his back to swat at it.
We got in the car, but the lighthearted mood we’d had during lunch had sobered. I knew the tension was there because of what I’d seen, not between us. Miguel kissed me before I got out of the car. I could see he really wanted to warn me about being careful again, but he refrained. That was good. I was nervous enough all by myself.
I pondered my thoughts about the whole mess as I passed through the luxurious apartment lobby, which was decorated with green, gold, and purple banners welcoming carnival. There were dozens of old photographs of floats and bands from past Mardi Gras parades on the walls. It was very festive.
I was surprised to turn the key in the lock on my father’s door and find him home. He was tossing clothes everywhere. Suitcases were piled up in every room.
“Daddy? Are you okay?”
He was pale and still dressed in his workout clothes. “Zoe! I’m glad you got my texts. I was so worried about you.” He hugged me tightly, and tears ran down his perfectly tanned face.
I pretended I knew what texts he was talking about and let Crème Brûlée off his leash. He scampered for his bed—poor darling—exhausted by his difficult day.
“What’s wrong?”
“We have to get out of town right away. I’m afraid we’re both in terrible danger.”
EIGHT
I sat on the sofa. So much for not panicking.
“What are you talking about?” I checked my phone. Sure enough, there were five texts from him. There was no real information in them about what was going on—just more ranting.
“I had a vision early this morning on my way home from the gym.” He scraped his hand across his short black hair and began pacing the room. “I saw the ghost of Chief Slacabamorinico. He was standing right in front of me. He warned me about you.”
“Old Slac?” Chief Slacabamorinico was a mythological figure from the late 1800s. He’d led the Joe Cain parade during carnival wearing a turkey feather headdress with a deer tail belt, shell necklace, kilt, long johns, and brown moccasins. Each year someone new took up the costume to lead the procession.
Legends said that Joe Cain (a real person) had wanted to revive Mardi Gras after the Civil War in 1866. He had dressed up, saying he was a Chickasaw chief named Slacabamorinico, riding in a wagon through the streets on Fat Tuesday that year. It seemed to have
done the trick.
The ghost of Old Slac was a thing to frighten children. Or at least I’d always thought so.
“Were you drinking?”
“No. I was sober—until I got home. I’ve been drinking since.” He paced the room a few more times. “I tried telling myself that everything would be okay after that reporter’s body was found in the garden. I thought it would be taken care of.”
“What do you mean? You knew that they were going to lie about where Jordan Phillips’s body was found?”
“No. Of course not. But anyone capable of putting two and two together could figure it out. They didn’t want the information about what really happened to get out.”
“What really happened?” I asked with a silent apology to Miguel for not staying out of it.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe the reporter threatened to do an exposé of some sort. That wouldn’t do. Maybe he just wasn’t supposed to be there. He probably wasn’t invited.”
“Daddy—this is wrong. Someone killed that poor man. Maybe somebody who is part of the Mistics. We have to say something.”
“That’s exactly what Old Slac told me we shouldn’t do. Neither one of us should say anything. And knowing you have a difficult time with that, Zoe, I decided we should leave Mobile for the next two weeks.”
I was offended by that. “What do you mean? I can keep a secret.”
The doorbell saved him from replying. He opened the door after peering through the keyhole. “Saul! Thank God you’re here!”
Uncle Saul looked a lot like my father. They were both about the same height—though my uncle was a bit thinner than my father. They’d both inherited the family business, the Bank of Mobile, from their father. My uncle with his wild, curly black and gray hair had gone his own way, running a restaurant in Mobile and ignoring his family name.
One day, he left that, too, and moved out to the swamp where he’d built a log cabin that he shared with an albino alligator named Alabaster.
My father hugged his brother and wept on his shoulder like a child. Uncle Saul patted his back and stared at me with a quizzical lift of his eyebrows.
“Hey, what’s this all about?” Uncle Saul stepped away from his brother. “Looks like someone died.”
“Someone died all right.” My father sniffled. “And then Zoe found his body and led me to him.”
Uncle Saul laughed. “Zoe, honey, you must be half bloodhound, girl. You’re gonna get a reputation.”
“That’s not the half of it.” My father proceeded to fill Uncle Saul in on the masquerade ball, Jordan Phillips’s death, and Old Slac.
Uncle Saul poured himself some of what my father was drinking—it smelled like old whiskey. “That’s a pickle. And you say the ghost of Old Slac warned you to get out of town, Ted?”
“That’s right. I saw him as clearly as I see you. I’m going to pack a bag and get Zoe out of here.”
“The ghost of Old Slac hasn’t been seen around here for a hundred years.” Uncle Saul downed the whiskey. “Why would he come back now?”
“To warn me! He knows what happened.”
It was nonsensical that Daddy was approached by a ghost—no doubt it was his own guilty conscience. I wouldn’t be able to convince him of that notion, but there was a lot at stake for me.
“I’m not going anywhere. The Biscuit Bowl is set up to be at all the parades for the next two weeks. I plan to make enough money to get work done at the diner and pull in a thousand new customers.”
“We’re talking about your life,” my father reminded me. “There’s always next year. Or maybe you could hire that big fella with the tattooed head to run your food truck.”
“I’m already down a worker, Daddy. I can’t run from this. And who’s to say it will be any better when I get back. It’s not like that reporter is going to come back to life. I’ll still know he was murdered at the ball. I don’t want that on my conscience, do you?”
“Zoe’s right, Ted,” Uncle Saul said. “If the Mistics are after her, they’re not gonna stop because Mardi Gras is over. We have to do something.”
“Like what?” my father demanded. “This is real, just like the ghost of Old Slac. I thought you’d understand, Saul.”
“I understand. But you can’t run forever. You shouldn’t have got yourself all involved with those Mistics fanatics.”
My father gulped down more whiskey. “Now you decide someone can’t run away from their problems? You’ve done it your whole life. First it was about Daddy and working at the bank. Then it was college. You ran away from the restaurant. You know all about running.”
Uncle Saul shot to his feet and shook my father. “That’s right. I know all about running. I’m telling you that this isn’t the answer for you and Zoe. Running is only good if you don’t plan on coming back.”
Daddy calmed down and sat on the sofa. “I don’t know what else to do to protect her. She’s all I have.”
I felt like crying when he said it. I went to his side and hugged him. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”
“As much as it pains me to say it, I think you all should go to the police with this.” Uncle Saul sat in one of the uncomfortable chairs and shook his head.
I knew that was a hard thing for him to admit. Uncle Saul hated anything to do with the establishment or any large institutions. For him to tell us we should go to the police would be like me deciding I didn’t want to make food again.
“That’s exactly what Old Slac warned me against,” Daddy said. “He said the Mistics of Time would surely have it out for us then.”
Uncle Saul stared at my father. “Don’t you think it’s more likely that someone dressed up like the ghost of Old Slac just to make you afraid, Ted?”
As my father was considering the idea, the next worst possible thing happened. The doorbell rang. I answered it without thinking.
It was my mother.
She was wearing one of her pale pink power suits with a matching bag and heels. Her short blond hair was perfect—as always. I’d been dyeing the gray out of my black hair since I was eighteen. Sometimes I “accidentally” allow a silver streak to show.
Not my mother. Her blond hair was always exactly the same shade as it had been when I was a child. Her blue eyes were keen, taking in the two men. She entered the room like a force of nature. That’s why she always won when she went to court. I could only imagine the fear in someone’s eyes when they faced her across the bench when she became a judge.
There was no doubt in my mind that she’d win the election.
“What’s going on, Ted?” She didn’t even acknowledge Uncle Saul.
I knew they had been a couple before she and my father were married. But that was a long time ago.
My father, being the man he was, spilled everything to her in a matter of seconds. They didn’t get divorced because he wasn’t willing to do whatever she told him. It was more a matter of the things she didn’t tell him to do—including other women he enjoyed being with outside their marriage.
Uncle Saul rolled his eyes and got another drink.
“I knew all that secret society and krewe nonsense was nothing but trouble.” My mother summed up her beliefs on the subject.
“Anabelle, that isn’t true,” Daddy defended. “They do a lot of good in this city. This was just a mistake.”
“A mistake that could cost our daughter her life!” My mother snarled like a tigress defending her cub. “We have to get Zoe out of town.”
“See?” Daddy laughed at Uncle Saul. “That’s exactly what I said after I saw the ghost of Old Slac this morning.”
“What are you talking about, Ted?” my mother demanded. “How much have you had to drink?”
“Not enough,” he drawled.
“Running away won’t help this situation, Bella.” Uncle Saul tried to reason with h
er.
I’d never heard him call her by that name before. I’d never heard anyone call her by that name.
She ignored his lapse in judgment. “Go home to your gator, Saul. I think Ted and I know what’s best for our daughter.”
I was tired of listening to everyone talk about me like I wasn’t there. “I’m not going anywhere, Mom. I’m working the next two weeks. Do you know what an opportunity it is to be part of carnival?”
“Quiet, Zoe. Go pack a bag.” My mother took out her cell phone—pink like her suit. “I’ll arrange for a private plane to take her to New York. She’ll be fine there for a few weeks.”
“I need to go,” Daddy said. “Old Slac said I’m in danger, too.”
“Anabelle, Ted, just listen for a minute.” Uncle Saul tried to reason with them.
As their arguments grew louder, I kissed Crème Brûlée’s nose and told him to be a good boy. “Let’s go before this gets any uglier.”
He bit my nose a little and licked it before I picked him up in my arms. It was as though he completely understood what I was saying. He’s such a smart kitty.
I grabbed my bag, too, and said good-bye to my relatives. As I walked out the door, I heard my mother yell, “She’s leaving! Someone do something!”
Her words only brought on more arguing. I closed the door to the apartment and pressed the button for the elevator. It was blessedly quiet on the trip downstairs. Not so much when I walked outside, as a large high school band was marching down the middle of the street.
Two makeshift floats followed them. The street was already littered with beads and tiny toys. Everyone stood on the sidewalk, watching and waving. There was no way to leave the immediate area, but I didn’t see anyone who seemed to mind.
“Well, Zoe Chase!” Chef Art Arrington stood before me like the life-sized model of himself that I saw almost every day on billboards around the city and on the sides of his motor home.
He was short and round with a wreath of white hair, bright blue eyes, and a closely clipped gray beard. He was as well-known to the people of Mobile as Colonel Sanders was everywhere else. He always wore a white linen suit with a black string tie like the Colonel, too.