by J. J. Cook
Uncle Saul and I helped Miguel bring in the groceries. The car was stuffed full of them. He also had a large plastic barrel with Coke written all over it. It barely fit in the trunk. He explained how he’d got it free when he’d purchased a ton of soda and ice.
“This should solve your drink problem, Zoe. I hope so, anyway.”
I examined the insulated barrel. It wouldn’t fit inside the Biscuit Bowl, but we could have it right in front of the window so Ollie could keep an eye on it. “Thanks for thinking of it.”
He handed me the shopping bill. I almost collapsed on the tile floor. I was putting out a lot of money with no guarantee I could make it back.
But hadn’t that been what it was like from the beginning? These next two weeks could make or break my business. I started cooking with Uncle Saul’s suggestions in mind. There’s nothing like cooking in mass quantities to relieve anxiety.
I wondered what I could say to Tiffany to get her to tell me that she’d killed Jordan out of jealousy. We didn’t exactly get along.
And there was that pesky problem of why Jordan had been at the masquerade. Obviously he’d sneaked in, but why? If he’d broken up with Tiffany in December, I doubted that he was stalking her or even wanted to see her.
Had Tiffany done the famous I just want to see you one last time routine? Would Jordan have fallen for that and gone to the masquerade?
It was possible, I supposed. People in love did silly things.
EIGHTEEN
We got the groceries put away—mostly on the counter, since I was going to use them right away. Uncle Saul started a large pot of pork fricassee—with apologies to Ollie. I hoped he wouldn’t be upset because we’d made it without him.
I took the last two sheets of biscuits out of the oven and glanced at the biscuit clock. We had to get moving.
“I guess we’ll make everything we bought today and hope we have enough to get through dinner.” I shrugged at Uncle Saul. “It looks like it would feed hundreds of people. I hope we have that many customers.”
“You may have to consider portion control,” Uncle Saul said. “Have you ever measured how much fits into a biscuit bowl and how much fills it? Every extra ounce cuts into your profits if it’s not needed.”
“I wouldn’t even know how to do that. We fill them to the top of the biscuit bowl. I can’t see any other way to do it.”
He had the pork sizzling when he came over to me and took out a one quarter cup measuring spoon. “Let’s try this and then we’ll know. You could use a measuring cup so you’ll know what’s going into the biscuit bowl.”
“I don’t know. Using frozen food and cutting portions? I feel like a fast food joint.”
“They’re the best at knowing what makes their customers come back without using more than they need.” He hypothetically filled a biscuit bowl with one quarter cup of rice. It came to just below the top.
“I can’t do that right now. I appreciate your advice, Uncle Saul, but I can’t look at it like this.”
“You might have to—at least for the next two weeks. Survival is what’s important here, Zoe. Don’t forget that.”
I didn’t want to forget it, but I didn’t want to shortchange my customers, either. I wanted them to go away full and happy so they would tell other people how good my food was. If I lost that, I lost everything.
I chopped oranges for my orange-raisin sweet biscuit bowl. Oranges were cheap and plentiful this time of year. I also made more icing to drizzle over them. This was good and fresh. It would yield enough to feed a few hundred people. I hoped it was all that I’d need.
After I’d finished with the oranges, I started on vegetables for the fricassee. I told Miguel what we’d learned regarding Jordan’s death. He’d met Tiffany when I received my invitation to the food truck rally.
“If this was revenge, she took her time,” he remarked. “Most rejected lovers strike right away. She would’ve been sitting on this for a while.”
“I know, but it makes sense, too. Commissioner Sloane is personally overseeing this investigation. If Tiffany is involved, he’d be extra careful.”
“True.”
“Again, though,” Uncle Saul said, “you have the issue with how she got him there. Did she lure him there with something? What could she have used to entice a man who was done with her?”
“An insider’s view of the Mistics?” I suggested. “If she knew him at all, she knew his career meant everything to him.”
“Maybe.” Miguel nodded. “It would make a good article for the paper, I suppose.”
“And he liked exposés,” I said.
“Did you look at his texts while you had the phone here?” Miguel asked. “That could be the answer.”
“No. I didn’t think about it. I should have, but there were interruptions.” I chopped a bunch of onions holding a wood matchstick in my mouth. It was hard to talk around it.
“What’s with the matchstick?” Miguel asked. “I’ve seen you do that before. Is that some cooking mojo?”
Uncle Saul laughed. “I taught her that. The sulfur in the matchstick keeps the onion fumes from making you cry. I guess that’s my contribution to the world.”
I removed the matchstick from my mouth. “How can you say that? You’ve done wonderful things for the world.”
He stirred the onions I’d already chopped into the fricassee. The aroma was starting to fill the diner. “I’m going to be sixty later this year, Zoe. A man starts to think about what he’s done with his life at my age.”
As someone who had recently turned thirty, I could relate to that. It was one of the big reasons I’d quit my job at the bank and started the food truck. “You’ve done so much already. You’ve had your own restaurant. You built a log cabin. You saved Alabaster. You’ve done a lot.”
“But I’m not leaving anything behind—no kids, no lasting accomplishments. When I die, everything I’ve done will go with me.”
I didn’t know what to say. His words, and Jordan’s death, had lent a somber air to what should have been a fun-filled carnival atmosphere. I sighed and finished chopping a mountain of vegetables.
My phone rang. It was Delia. Things were starting to pick up at the Biscuit Bowl again. She was almost out of food.
“We shouldn’t be long now. Hold on,” I told her.
“Considering this fricassee is gonna sit around in a warming tray for a while, I’d say it’s in good shape,” Uncle Saul said. “Why don’t you and Miguel go back to the food truck rally with the biscuits and the sweet orange filling? I’ll bring the fricassee along in a bit.”
“Thank you.” I hugged him. “I’ll never forget you. You’ve always made a difference in my life.”
“You’re sweet, Zoe girl. I love you, too. Now scoot. We don’t want to go back to an empty food truck again.”
“That’s for sure.” Miguel shuddered. “I never knew hungry people could get so ugly.”
“I hear you.” Uncle Saul laughed. “I used to dread lunch on Sundays at the Carriage House. Those people coming in after hours of preaching could get downright scary.”
Uncle Saul helped me get the orange-raisin filling packed up. I also brought the white icing and biscuit bowls with me. We took everything out to Miguel’s car and planned to stop for ice for the Cokes on the way.
There was no way to plan for the children’s parade along our route to the food truck rally. Hundreds of children of all ages marched down the middle of the streets. Some played homemade instruments. Some sang at the top of their lungs. There were children in wheelchairs and those with hairless heads from chemotherapy.
It made me cry watching them. Miguel handed me his handkerchief. “I don’t know what it is. When I see a children’s parade during carnival, I cry.”
“It’s okay. Everyone has their soft spots.”
I handed him back his handkerc
hief. “Thanks. What’s your soft spot?”
“People who get in trouble and can’t get out by themselves. That’s why I do what I do. I realized when the DA framed me for falsifying evidence that sometimes people need others to stop and listen to them. I like helping those people.”
I hugged and kissed him—maybe a little longer than I’d planned. The parade had gone around a corner, and the driver behind us started honking his horn. “You don’t have to worry about the legacy you leave behind, either, Miguel.”
He started forward again, squeezing my hand. “Let’s talk about that again when I’m sixty.”
That was a tender moment.
But as we sat a few blocks down watching the pet parade go by, we were a little more impatient. Delia had called again, agitated by only having one biscuit bowl left. All I could tell her was that we were on the way.
“How do you plan to find what you need to know from Tiffany when you see her again?” Miguel asked as we waited.
I laughed at a huge Great Dane that was wearing a costume that included boots. “I don’t know. We don’t exactly get along, but I thought if she went to the masquerade with her father like I did with mine, it would give us a common point of reference. We could talk about our dresses and where we go to get our hair done. That kind of thing.”
“And you’ll suddenly question if she killed Jordan?”
“Not suddenly. I can be subtle. I’ll hint around about it.”
He pointed at a star-studded Pomeranian. “Look at that!”
The driver behind us, the same one that had been following us since the children’s parade, impatiently honked his horn again. He obviously wasn’t from Mobile. There was nothing we could do about the parade. It would be this way for the next two weeks. He might as well get used to it.
The pet parade ended abruptly with a cat being pulled in a red wagon by an adorable child in a matching costume.
We finally reached the food truck rally in the municipal parking lot. I was amazed to see two of the food trucks missing. When Miguel and I started taking supplies to the Biscuit Bowl, I asked Delia if she’d seen them leave.
“I talked to two of them—the woman with the blossoming onions and the man with the dancing shrimp.” She shrugged. “They both ran out of food. They couldn’t get anything back fast enough and had to shut down. That little witch who runs the rally told them to leave.”
“You mean Tiffany Bryant?”
“That’s her. She stopped and asked me if we had enough food for the dinner crowd. I lied and said we did. She kind of acted like she was disappointed.”
I couldn’t believe it. I needed to be on her good side. She was probably just stressed. I had to figure out a way that I could help her with her job so she’d feel compelled to be nice to me.
It was the start of my plan to get her to confess.
I was glad for my team of friends and relatives who were helping me survive this. I wouldn’t have made it without them. We got the supplies unloaded, including the plastic barrel that would hold the Cokes, but we’d forgotten the ice. Miguel went back out for that.
I took Crème Brûlée for a walk in the grass. He looked up at me so cute that I had to pick him up and cuddle him. He bit my nose and finger, just love bites, and then licked me. I gave him some extra snacks for being such a sweetie.
With the orange-raisin filling in the mini fridge and the biscuits ready to sell, Delia carefully asked about Ollie. “Is he going to work at different times than me, Zoe? I know he must hate me now.”
“I don’t think he hates you. He’s angry and upset, but he’ll get over it. Breakups are hard. Some more than others. I’m sure the two of you will be okay again. This is a very small kitchen. Any hostility is too much.”
“Don’t I know it?” She frowned. “I never meant to hurt Ollie. He just doesn’t want what I want. He’s happy living at the shelter. I can’t let myself think that way. I’ve had to fight too hard to get where I am. I want better than a cot at a shelter, you know?”
I hugged her, understanding what she was saying. Not everyone could share Ollie’s philosophy about life.
Two people walked up to ask for biscuit bowls. I was glad they wanted the sweet bowl. They also wanted one chicken stew bowl. That made us officially out of stew. I took their money and called Uncle Saul. We really needed that fricassee.
Miguel set up the barrel of Cokes right outside the window. I knew we could have some loss from that—someone couldn’t constantly watch to make sure no one took one without paying. But we’d be okay.
Miguel came in to ask if there was anything else he could do before he had to leave again. “I have an appointment this evening. I’ll check on you later.” He kissed me good-bye.
Delia sighed as he left. “You better hang on to that one, Zoe. He’s a prize. If I’d known he was free when he represented me, I would’ve snatched him up.”
Two more customers came up and wanted savory bowls. We had to turn them away. One of them took a sweet orange biscuit bowl instead.
I remembered what Uncle Saul had said about putting in too much filling. Was he right about that? I didn’t want to lose money from being naive about what I should do, but putting the customer first was important, too.
There was a knock on the back door. Tiffany peeked around the corner. “Zoe? I’m so glad to see you here. Is everything okay?”
Facing her made me gulp. This was my chance to talk to her woman to woman, and I couldn’t think of a single clever thing to say. “Everything is fine. I had to get supplies, but we’re ready for supper.”
“Great! I may not have gone over this when we went through the rules for the rally.” She took out a long sheet of paper. “The owner or manager of the food truck must be on hand during all hours of operation.”
“Okay. Thanks for telling me.” I was sure I hadn’t heard that rule before. Come on! Think of something to bond with her. Quit stalling.
“Do you have a designated manager who can be here when you’re not?”
“Yes.” I glanced at Delia. “This is Delia Vann. She’s one of my designated managers. I also have Saul Chase, Miguel Alexander, and Ollie.”
She stopped writing the names and looked up at me. “Ollie? Is there a last name?”
“Ollie Oliver,” I lied. I had no idea what Ollie’s last name was. He never used it. But I felt okay telling a white lie about what was basically just a formality.
“Okay.” Tiffany surveyed my list of workers. “Thank you. I’m glad you’re not trying to go this alone. Already, we’ve lost two trucks. Some people weren’t prepared for the situation. I guess next year I’ll ask about preparedness before we sign anyone for the rally.”
“Thanks.” This was it. Delia was talking to several other customers who’d come up to the side window. It was the perfect opportunity. “Having a good time during carnival?”
Lame! But it was the best I could come up with.
“Yes, thanks. You?”
“Great now that we’re this close to Mardi Gras. Those balls and masquerades got to be a bit much, huh?” Better. Much better.
Tiffany didn’t seem surprised to hear me mostly admit that my family was a member of a secret society. She smiled. “I know what you mean! I hate those big parties, don’t you? I avoided them this year since I knew I was working during carnival.”
“Oh.” She might be lying, but I couldn’t think what to say next.
“Well, excuse me. I have to get back to work, and I can see that you have customers!”
Tiffany waved and left the kitchen. Uncle Saul got there with fricassee just in time. Ollie had come with him. He stared at Delia for a moment. She moved away from the customer window, and he took his usual spot.
That was it. I’d expected more friction between them.
“I can stay if you think I can help,” Uncle Saul said. �
�Otherwise, I’m going to head over to the house to sit with your father.”
“No! Don’t go over there!” I thought how upsetting it might be for him to see my mother and father in the bedroom as I had. What would he think? “I really need you here for a while.”
“Okay.” He hugged me. “Don’t get so stressed out that you fall apart, Zoe. You won’t stay in business long that way.”
“I tried talking to Tiffany,” I confessed, changing the subject. “I wasn’t very good at it. I think it’s going to take some practice.”
“Don’t worry about it too much. These things have a way of coming to light no matter how hard people try to hide them.”
I agreed with him, even though this secret seemed pretty well buried. With all the cover-ups, the Phillips family might never know what had really happened to Jordan. I had to do better next time with Tiffany, even if I might be the least sneaky person I knew.
A steady flow of customers began coming to the window as we got the fricassee put away. With Ollie there, I wasn’t as worried about the Cokes disappearing. All he had to do was stare hard at people to make them nervous.
Delia set up plates, napkins, and forks. Uncle Saul handled filling the savory biscuit bowls, and I did the sweet bowls and deep-fried the biscuits.
We were in sync as a team before the crowd arrived and steamrolled across the food truck rally. I barely had time to look up before a new group was there, hungry for biscuit bowls. The food passed quickly from person to person in the kitchen.
A Dixieland band was playing somewhere as night settled on Mobile. We heard the occasional sounds of firecrackers and laughter but couldn’t experience it firsthand. I wasn’t sure this was something I’d want to do every year during carnival. I was missing all the fun I could have been sharing with Miguel. Maybe by next year I’d be more certain of the Biscuit Bowl’s future. Being out here felt like an act of desperation with all the fun I was missing.
The steady stream slowly became a trickle of customers. At midnight when it was time to close, we still had some food left and the parking lot was empty. It was going to be a long night sleeping in the front of the food truck with Crème Brûlée. I hoped I was exhausted enough that it passed quickly.