Little did I know the rough-and-tumble baker would talk nonstop about his exploits on the Bleu Bayou High School football team throughout our one and only dinner. The guy had played football ten years ago, but he acted like it was yesterday. Not only that, but he still harbored a grudge against a teammate who’d dropped a pass in the championship game. Again…it’d happened a decade ago! I longed to leave the restaurant by the time a waitress handed us menus, and I’d completely lost my appetite halfway through the entrée. Suffice it to say, the evening was a disaster, and I still shuddered every time I drove past Grady’s bakery.
The darkened windows of the donut shop scrolled past me now as I continued my trek through town. By the time I parked my Volkswagen in the driveway of the pink cottage I shared with Ambrose, I wanted nothing more than a hot meal and a good conversation with him and Hollis.
Especially if the meal involved Ambrose’s jambalaya. The thought of his cooked sausage and dirty rice propelled me from the driver’s seat and onto a garden path that wound around our Pepto-Bismol-pink cottage.
Uh-oh. Something’s wrong.
Normally, whenever Ambrose cooked jambalaya, the spicy smells of andouille sausage and minced garlic seeped through cracks in the house’s drywall. But tonight, the only smell to reach me came from some bee balm I’d planted over the garden gate. The minty scent enveloped me as I passed under the arch and approached the house. It was a light, candy-cane smell, which did nothing to stop the growl in my stomach.
I cautiously made my way to the front door, which was ajar, and spotted Ambrose and Hollis in the living room. They sat on either end of the Naugahyde couch, a Nerf football in play above their heads.
“Hey, you’re back.” Ambrose glanced at me as I stepped into the living room.
“Yep, I’m back. Soooo…what’re you guys up to?”
“Relaxing,” Ambrose said. “Hollis here was telling me about your visit to the police station today.”
“Uh, that’s nice.” I scooted closer to the couch. Maybe I’d overlooked the smell. Just to be sure, I gave another whiff. Nothing. “Say, Ambrose. Weren’t you going to make dinner tonight?”
“Already did.” He tossed Hollis a pass without missing a beat. “Your boy here ate the whole meal cold. He didn’t even wait for me to reheat it. Just scooped it cold from the pot and called it delicious.”
“It’s true,” Hollis said. “Tasted like my granny’s, as a matter of fact.”
“But it’s all gone?” I tried to keep my voice even. “Even Bettina’s sweet rolls?”
“Yep. Even the sweet rolls.” Ambrose let a pass from Hollis sail over his head when he must have realized why I was asking. “Uh-oh. You were expecting dinner tonight, weren’t you?”
“Kinda.” I tried not to sound miserable, but the whine came out anyway. “I thought there’d be leftovers.”
“My gosh…I’m so sorry.” Hollis pursed his lips. “I was really, really hungry. Please don’t blame Mr. Jackson. It’s all my fault.”
“Don’t be silly.” No need to make the poor boy feel even worse than he already did. “I should’ve gotten something to eat on the drive home. It’s not your fault. It’s mine.”
By now, Ambrose had straightened. “No, that’s not right, Missy. We should’ve saved some for you. What if I take you guys out tonight? My treat.”
He doesn’t have to ask me twice. “Well, if you insist.” I turned and retreated through the front door, relieved to hear the loud squeak of couch springs as Ambrose and Hollis slid off the cushions.
“Hey! Wait for us,” Hollis called out. “You’ll never believe what else happened today.”
Chapter 7
Tired as I was, I managed to retreat down the garden path and walk to where Ambrose had parked his Audi Quattro. I waited for Hollis to hop into the car’s back seat, and then I settled into the front one, next to Ambrose.
We had the whole road to ourselves as the car moved down Highway 18. Hollis told me all about finding his grandmother’s sister, who was still alive, and who was still living up in Baton Rouge.
As he spoke, we drove past the old Sweetwater mansion, which sat high on a hill on the left side of the street. Shadows danced across the house’s wide front porch, cast there by a single coachman’s lantern that hung above a double-wide door.
There was no sign of Hank Dupre, the property’s owner, or his car, which he normally parked by the kitchen window. Hank bought the mansion about a year ago, after the former owner passed away. At one point, I’d hoped to purchase the house and fix it up, but that was before I discovered a body in an outbuilding. The discovery quashed my desire to own the property once and for all, but that was yet another story for another day and time, just like the story about the kitchen garden Ruby kept outside her mobile home.
After we drove another mile or so, the outline of Dippin’ Donuts, the bakery owned by Grady Sebastien, my erstwhile summer date, appeared. Like always, a neon arrow shot from the bakery’s roof, and the fluorescent tube spelled out TASTY DELITES in glowing red letters.
We traveled awhile longer, until we arrived at Miss Odilia’s Southern Eatery. Although we hadn’t discussed where to eat, both Ambrose and I automatically headed for Miss Odilia’s whenever the subject of dinner arose.
The restaurant was housed in a one-story brick cottage built just after World War I. In addition to being a wonderful cook, Miss Odilia loved to garden, and her handiwork was evident in some purple flower boxes that bookended the windows. The containers burst with fat foxglove, sky-high delphiniums, and stately calla lilies.
Ambrose pulled up alongside one of the boxes when we reached the restaurant’s parking lot. I couldn’t help but admire the lush blue, purple, and goldenrod buds as I left the car and made my way to the restaurant’s front door.
Fortunately, Miss Odilia stood next to a hostess stand by the front door, her head bent toward a young employee who was dressed all in black.
Like always, my friend wore a starched chef’s coat with a fleur-de-lis on the pocket, and she’d twisted her hair into a neat white chignon.
She dashed away from the hostess stand the moment I stepped into the building. “Shut my mouth and call me Shirley!” She swooped me up in her arms and squeezed me so hard I thought I might pop.
“Hello,” I squeaked.
The chef’s coat smelled like fried bread crumbs and cracked pepper, with a hint of Aqua Net hairspray thrown in.
“I’m so glad you’re working at this restaurant tonight!”
“Me too,” she said. “I almost worked at the other one today.”
Once she made a go of her restaurant in Bleu Bayou, Miss Odilia launched a second location in New Orleans. While I cheered her success, I longed for the days when I could wander into this place and instantly find her in the kitchen.
“I just came back to town this morning. Doesn’t that beat all?”
She paused when she noticed someone behind me. “Is that you, Ambrose Jackson? You get more and more handsome every day. Come on over here and let me give you some sugar!”
Ambrose dutifully stepped forward, and she released me to envelop him in a bear hug.
“Hello, Miss Odilia.” His voice sounded squeaky too. “You look pretty good yourself. Are you working out?”
“Fat chance of that!” She reluctantly released him. “You always did know what to say to the ladies, though. I’m so glad you both came to my restaurant tonight.”
Her words reminded me of something—or, more precisely, someone—else. Hollis had been standing behind us the whole time, but I almost forgot he was there because he was so quiet.
“We brought someone with us tonight. Hollis, why don’t you come over here and say hello to Miss Odilia?”
Hollis hung back by the door, though, his face mired in shadows. Either he didn’t hear me, or he wanted to avoid getting one of Miss Odi
lia’s signature hugs. Typical teenager.
“Hollis?”
“Hey, there.” Finally, he mumbled a reply.
“Come join us,” I said.
“I’m okay here.” His didn’t budge, but his hand moved to the hem of his Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt, which he roughly tugged at. He seemed to think he could cover the top of his Nike shorts with the black T-shirt, if he only tugged hard enough.
“Are you okay, Hollis?” Odilia asked. “I heard all about what happened to your grandmother this morning. I’m so sorry. I’ll try to bring you some casseroles as soon as I can.”
“You might have to wait a week or two,” I said. “Hollis is staying with us for now.”
“He is? Well, that’s good. I’d hate to think of someone staying out there on the bayou all alone, with no one for company but those gators.”
I snuck another look at Hollis, who continued to fuss with his T-shirt. Although Miss Odilia’s Southern Eatery wasn’t exactly a four-star restaurant, it did offer crisp white table linens, shiny silverware, and rounded captains’ chairs covered in rich leather. Was that it? Was Hollis worried about his clothes?
I leaned over to Odilia. “By any chance, do you have a spare dinner jacket in the back?” While Hollis hadn’t mentioned it, his body language spoke volumes. And, at this rate, he’d rip a hole in that T-shirt if he didn’t stop fiddling with it.
“As a matter of fact,” Odilia said, “I do. Wait right here, and I’ll run and get it.”
Ambrose shot me a confused look when Odilia left our group, but I didn’t bother to explain. What if Hollis overheard me? He’d only feel worse about his clothes, and that was the last thing I wanted.
“Guess she had to check something in the back,” I mumbled.
We waited a few moments until she returned. She’d slung a dove-gray sports coat over one of her arms, which swayed in the air as she walked toward us.
“Ta-da!” she said, a bit breathlessly, once she reached us. “Someone left his jacket here last night, and he hasn’t come back to claim it. It’s a tad chilly in the dining room tonight. Why don’t you wear it, Hollis?”
“That’d be great.” Hollis breathed the words, obviously relieved. “I mean, only if you don’t care.”
“Not at all.” Odilia passed him the suitcoat. “It might be a little big for you, but no one will notice.”
Hollis shyly took the jacket, and then he threaded his arms through the sleeves. The coat’s shoulders drooped forward, which made one of the lapels overlap the other one, but it’d have to do.
“Is that better?” I asked.
“Much,” Hollis said. “It’s kinda big, but that’s okay. Anything’s better than what I was wearing.”
Now that we’d solved one problem, it was time to tackle another. “If I don’t get some food in me soon, I’m going to faint dead away!”
“You poor thing,” Odilia said. “Why don’t you head over to the hostess stand and let Jessica find you a seat.” She pointed to the girl in black. “I’ve gotta run back to the kitchen now, but I’ll pop out for a visit when I can.”
With that, Odilia bustled away, taking with her the smell of cracked pepper, fried panko, and Aqua Net hairspray. I made a beeline for the hostess stand, while Ambrose and Hollis followed.
“Hello.” I approached the girl. “We’d like some dinner, please.” Although I don’t usually drop names, the hole in my stomach got the best of me. “We’re friends of Mrs. LaPorte’s.”
That got the girl’s attention, and she plucked three menus off the podium. “Of course. Follow me, please.”
She briskly led us toward the dining room, where the low murmur of voices seeped through an open door. About two dozen tables filled the room, each dressed in a crisp linen cloth, and each ringed by a quartet of leather-backed captain’s chairs. Above our heads hung heavy iron chandeliers that filled the room with a warm glow.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t the only one who wanted dinner that night. Every table in the restaurant was taken, the crowd a mix of young couples, lively families, and gray-haired retirees.
I spied only one empty table in our path. It perched awkwardly in an alcove on the left, with most of the headroom taken up by two crossbeams that met in the middle. I’d eaten there once before, and I seemed to recall a near miss when I tried to rise from the table at the end of the meal and almost bonked my head on a crossbeam. I didn’t exactly care to repeat that experience tonight.
But, luckily, Jessica made a sharp turn that veered us away from the alcove, and then she brought us to another table I hadn’t noticed.
This one sat directly in front of a window, and it offered a panoramic view of the dining room. I couldn’t believe our good fortune.
“It’s perfect!” I squealed, so pleased with our luck. “Look, Ambrose, we can see everything from here.”
“Glad you like it.” Jessica dropped the menus on the table’s edge, and then she backed away again.
I was about to repeat something about our good fortune again when I realized the reason for it. Someone had placed a Reserved sign next to a saltshaker on the table, which meant it was probably the best seat in the house.
“I feel so guilty,” I told Ambrose, as he pulled out a chair for me. “She didn’t have to give us such a great table.”
“Look at it this way,” he sat next to me, “it’s impolite to look a gift horse in the mouth. Odilia would want us to sit here.”
“I guess so.” I turned to Hollis, who carefully tucked in his coattails before he settled into one of the other chairs. “Is this spot okay with you, Hollis?”
“It’s great, actually. Granny and I never got to eat anyplace this fancy. We did go to Cracker Barrel once, but only because it was my birthday.”
“That’s so sweet.” I leaned over and cupped my hand over his. Surprisingly, he didn’t flinch, and he didn’t pull his hand away. “I know you miss your grandmother. I’m so sorry about what happened today.”
“Me too. I can’t quite wrap my head around it. I wish she was here with us. She’d probably order one of those big ol’ Bloody Marys she always liked, and then maybe some mozzarella sticks.” He chuckled.
“I wish she was here too.” I slowly straightened again when a waiter appeared beside us.
“Care for some rolls?” He placed a basket near my elbow.
Hallelujah and pass the ammunition. Although a dinner napkin covered the steaming rolls, the doughy smell of fresh-baked bread seeped through the open folds in the fabric. It was all I could do not to tip the basket upside down and let the rolls tumble into my mouth.
“You have to try these, Hollis.” I reached for the basket. “You’ll love Miss Odilia’s butter rolls.”
I was about to pass them to him when I remembered something. “Oh, wait,” I teased. “I forgot…you’ve already eaten. You’re probably stuffed right now.”
“’Scuse me?” His eyes widened as I pulled the basket away.
“Just kidding. Here you go.”
I waited for Hollis to take a roll, and then I did the same. After two or three hearty bites, I smacked my lips contentedly. “That was worth the wait.”
“Always is,” Ambrose said. “It always is.”
“So, you come here all the time?” Hollis asked.
“We come here a lot,” I said. “We like to support local places. We think it’s important to give our business to our neighbors and friends.”
“That’s what I thought people would do with my gator farm,” Hollis said. “I was hoping they’d pick me for a tour when they realized I was a local guy.”
“Doesn’t it usually work like that?” I asked.
Hollis shook his head. “Not always. We have people around here who say they’re from the river, but they’re not. Then they try to give tours, like they’ve been around the Atchafalaya forever. What a scam.
”
The scene with Hollis and Remy Gaudet immediately came to mind. He’d been so angry to find the riverboat captain on his grandmother’s stretch of land.
“By any chance, are you talking about Captain Gaudet?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Hollis said. “That guy’s from Alabama. He tells everyone he knows the river, but I think he learned about it on YouTube.”
Ambrose started to chuckle, but he stopped. “Oh, sorry. You’re serious. I thought you were kidding.”
“It’s lying, Mr. Jackson. Plain and simple,” Hollis said. “People pay good money to tour the river, and they expect their guide to be a local. He didn’t even move here ’til a few years ago. It’s not right, if you ask me.”
“I suppose.” Ambrose sobered up even more. “And I shouldn’t laugh. I guess I just assumed a tour guide would have to be from around here.”
“You’d think so, huh?” Hollis looked troubled now, his eyebrows knit together in a thin line. “That new mayor in town isn’t even from around here.”
“He’s not?” I’d always assumed Zephirin Turcott, the brand-new mayor of Bleu Bayou, was a local guy. He’d recently faced the outgoing mayor in a hotly contested battle that pitted business owners against residents. Most of the business owners voted for Mayor Turcott because he promised to slice through the red tape at City Hall, while the residents voted for the outgoing mayor, who assured them Bleu Bayou had all the business it needed, thank you very much.
“Mayor Turcott isn’t from around here?” I repeated. “How is that possible?”
“He moved here right before the election,” Hollis said. “He’s actually from Oklahoma.”
“Now, how would you know that?” Hollis seemed so well versed in local politics. Most teenagers couldn’t name the vice president of the United States, let alone their city’s mayor.
“Easy. He came to see my grandma a few months ago. He offered her a big wad of cash if she’d sell him the house and her land.”
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