Fat Tuesday Fricassee (3 page)

I promised, surprised by his earnest entreaty. “Maybe you shouldn't belong to this society anymore.”

He laughed. “Not belong? My ancestor started the Mistics. I don't think he'd like me to abandon our heritage.”

“All right. I won't say anything. But let me know if you find out who that poor man was in the garden.”

He kissed my forehead. “Forget about this, sweetheart. Pretend you didn't see any of it. That's what I plan to do.”

Tiffany Bryant, one of the PR people for Mobile Mardi Gras, was reading through a list of dos and don'ts for food truck vendors who'd been invited to take part in the festivities this year.

I kept falling asleep.

It wasn't my fault. With the schedule I'd kept since last fall, and the shock from last night, I was lucky I could get out of bed that morning. Keeping up with the Biscuit Bowl, getting up five days a week at four
A.M.
, was hard enough. Staying up half the night smiling and wearing costumes when there were events and then getting my food truck out on the street by six
A.M.
had been a nightmare.

But I loved Daddy, and he'd always been there for me. I didn't want to let him down. Now the showy secret parties were over. All I had to do was keep my food truck open most of the day, and night, for the next two weeks.

I was going to need a vacation when it was over.

The hectic schedule was starting to show in dark circles under my eyes, which are on the violet side of blue, and a general lack of attentiveness. I'd fallen asleep three times while working in the last week alone. Only Ollie had saved me from going headfirst into the deep fryer.

“Zoe?”

I heard my name in the midst of what sounded like mumbling and perked up. “Yes?”

“You were sleeping again.” Tiffany's voice expressed her disappointment and frustration with me.

I felt like I was in school again.

“Sorry. I was at the King's Masquerade last night until two after working all day.” I yawned. “There's not enough caffeine to keep me awake right now.”

That statement didn't make Tiffany any happier. Her pretty face screwed up into a petulant frown, and her green eyes narrowed. “You know this is the chance of a lifetime and that dozens of other food truck drivers in our area would love to be in your shoes, right?” I was sure they would, too.

When I'd signed up to be part of the big food truck rally during carnival, it had seemed like a wonderful opportunity. I remembered being excited about it at the time. But that was before dozens of balls, masquerades, and Daddy's coronation as King Felix had taken their toll on my energy.

I wanted to say it out loud, but I'd already caused enough trouble. “I'm sorry. I'll try to get some extra sleep. I've read the instructions, if that helps. I know where I'm supposed to park and what I'm supposed to do.”

“I suppose that's better than nothing.” Tiffany took a deep, dramatic breath and plunged into the rest of her long recital.

There were twelve food trucks that had been invited to take part in the carnival celebration. It would all come to a head in two weeks with Fat Tuesday and the parades and festivities across the city before Lent.

There were bound to be thousands of people who would eat my food and remember my name later when they were looking for someplace to eat lunch. Despite my general lack of caring at that moment, I was counting on all the attention I could get while I was there. Tiffany was right—it was a fantastic opportunity.

Suzette's Crepes food truck was represented. I saw them regularly on Government Street at police headquarters where I normally parked Monday through Friday. Charlie's Tuna Shack was there, too, along with Yolanda's Yummy Yogurt. Yolanda had a great food truck with fake fruit hanging off. She always played Bob Marley music, which I thought was a big draw, too.

Mama's Marvelous Mojitos was there, as well. I was surprised, because they basically only served mojitos and not much food. But maybe that was their attraction. I never served anything to drink. There wasn't enough room in the food truck to hold cold drinks.

The other food truck vendors that had been invited were newcomers. Each week it seemed there was new competition on the streets. It was getting harder to find a good space on Government Street, South Royal Street, or even close to Mobile Bay where the cruise ships berthed.

Not that I was worried. My deep-fried biscuit bowls had wowed crowds for almost a year. The publicity from last year's Sweet Magnolia Food Truck Race had also helped. I hadn't won the grand prize, but everyone knew me from the TV show.

Tiffany finally pronounced us all fit to take part in food truck sales at the rally. I knew good sales in the next two weeks could mean adding to my savings account, too. That meant being able to remodel my diner into one of the best restaurants in the city more quickly. That had been my goal from the beginning. My plan was starting to unfold.

My friend, and assistant in running the Biscuit Bowl, was waiting impatiently outside the meeting for me. Ollie—no last name—was about forty. He was well over six feet, a large man with a wicked skull tattoo on the back of his head and neck. He'd been a marine until some bad things had happened to him, but that was a long time ago. We didn't talk about it.

“What were they doing in there, tattooing
The Biscuit Bowl
on your back or something? Nothing should take that long that doesn't have food or money involved. Did you eat without me?”

“No. But there were hundreds of rules and regulations to learn, and I had to sign a dozen legal documents. You don't want to know the rest.”

“This thing better be worth some money, young'un, or you've exhausted yourself for nothing.” He scowled, but Ollie's natural look is a scowl.

It didn't help that he'd broken up with my other cooking assistant, Delia Vann. It made for some unpleasant moments in the very small kitchen where we worked. People needed to get along in a four-by-eight-foot space inside an Airstream motor home.

In the future I planned to ban romantic relationships between employees—and friends.

“It's going to be great for business,” I enthused as we walked down Dauphin Street to meet our ride. “Look how many people come out for Mardi Gras each year. They're all going to eat our biscuits and love them. The aftermath will be even bigger.”

He stalked along beside me on the sidewalk. He managed to keep his much longer stride in check so my short legs could keep up with him.

I was five-foot-two and three quarters—not exactly short, but compared to Ollie, everyone was short.

February had brought rain and cool temperatures to
Mobile, Alabama. I hoped, as everyone else did, that sunshine would grace the parades and festivities. But weather was fickle and something we couldn't control. It was the same for rainy days on the street with my food truck. Rain meant fewer customers and ruined biscuits that couldn't be used. No one likes an old biscuit.

“Are you all set on the food?” Ollie asked. “You know what you're serving for the next two weeks?”

“I think so. I'm working on homemade MoonPies tonight.”

“That sounds like something I could get into. I love MoonPies.” He grinned and rubbed his big hands together. “But they're labor-intensive, aren't they? I think it might be hard to make enough for all the people who'll be here for carnival. Have you got a plan for that?”

“I do.” I wasn't sure what it was and thought he might be right. MoonPies were complicated to make, but they tasted so good. “MoonPies have been around almost as long as Mardi Gras, you know. I've heard so much carnival lore and legend the past few months that I could take a test on it in my sleep—which is where it would have to be.”

“Have you worked out how to make the marshmallow good and sticky? That's an important part of a MoonPie. The icing has to be just right, too. It can't be too thick. I've had it that way. It's no good. Are you doing flavors or just chocolate?”

“Chocolate, at least right now. We'll see if we can keep up with making them for more than just the first day.”

Ollie was a good cook. I respected his opinion. He'd given me so many delicious ideas for sweet and savory foods to go in my biscuit bowls. As independent as I liked to think of myself, I wasn't sure I would have made it as far as I had without him.

We'd finally reached our destination. My boyfriend, Miguel Alexander, had been meeting with a client. He had
a car—an older Mercedes—and had promised us a ride back to the old diner where I lived and worked.

It was too expensive to drive the food truck all over the city, and I'd given up my Prius to make ends meet. Taxis, buses, and Miguel's car were basically my mode of transportation unless I was selling biscuit bowls.

The dark sky above us looked threatening as the wind whipped up Mobile Bay. The first few drops of rain were starting to fall when Miguel came out of his meeting and saw us.

“Glad you're here.” He unlocked the car doors. “It looks like that big storm front is moving in from the Gulf.”

We got into the car just in time as a deluge came crashing down on us.

“Whee!” Ollie laughed as heavy rain pelted the car. “We were lucky this time.”

“How was your meeting?” Miguel asked me.

“Boring.” I yawned. “How was yours?”

“The same.” He started the car, windshield wipers slapping against the window. “Mr. Anthony wants my help, but he doesn't want to plead guilty even though it would mean a lighter sentence.”

Miguel was a lawyer but also worked for himself. We could empathize with each other's small business problems. He made more money than me, usually, but my work was a lot more fun.

“You'll talk him around.” I pushed back a wing of black hair that had fallen into his face. I loved his wonderful brown eyes and his sexy baritone. He was a wonderful listener, and our relationship was going along pretty smoothly.

He kissed my hand. “Thanks for the encouragement.”

I yawned again. “I hate to say it, but I'm getting too old to party all night and work all day. When I was a kid, it wasn't so hard.”

“You're barely thirty,” Miguel reminded me with a laugh. “You'd better start working out.”

“That's the ticket,” Ollie said from the backseat. “I work out two hours every day.” He showed us his formidable biceps. “Both of you are spring chickens compared to me, but I could outlast both of you together.”

Miguel pulled his older Mercedes into the heavy street traffic. As soon as it started to rain, drivers seemed to be divided into two categories—those who drove faster because of the rain and those who drove slower because of it. Either one made the journey to the diner take longer.

I didn't mind. Ollie and I talked about making MoonPies and other delicious foods we were going to serve from the Biscuit Bowl during the parades.

Talk about being the luckiest woman in the world—I had Miguel and Ollie on my side and a spot for my food truck during carnival. Life was good for me. Everything was going my way.

And then we got back to the older shopping center where the diner was located. Mr. Carruthers's car was out front. “Oh no!”

“What's wrong?” Miguel drove slowly through the broken pavement and potholes that made up the shopping center parking lot.

“I completely forgot that today is my health inspection on the diner. What am I going to do?”

My diner wasn't much to look at yet, but it was going to be a good stepping stone for me—once the Biscuit Bowl had made enough fans and money. People would come to the diner for a while after that. From there my fans would follow me to my nicer restaurant. I wasn't sure where that would be yet. But the diner was an important part of my plan.

At one end of the shopping center was the homeless shelter
where Ollie lived and was now part-time director. The homeless men who lived there all appreciated a rainy day where my food didn't sell so well. Ollie and I shared the leftovers with them.

I also needed my diner to make food and bake biscuit bowls. That meant it had to pass inspection. So far I'd made no real connection with Mr. Carruthers as I had the previous health inspector. My goose was cooked.

“What's the problem?” Ollie demanded. “Just tell him to get lost.”

“It doesn't work that way. You need a health inspection to stay open. If I can't make food for the Biscuit Bowl, we can't be part of the food truck rally.”

“Maybe you can reschedule,” Miguel suggested. “These things aren't written in stone. The inspector is supposed to let you know when he's coming.”

The car had stopped beside Mr. Carruthers's vehicle. I grabbed my bag that had been specially made for people involved in the carnival food truck rally. It had lots of food truck slogans and pictures of food, including my biscuit bowls. “I've already put it off a dozen times. There was so much going on. I think this may be my last chance.”

I held my bag over my head. I should've brought an umbrella—another casualty of remembering anything. It was better for my souvenir bag to get wet than it was for my black
curly hair. The bag could be dried, and everything would be fine. My poor curls were already suffering from the damp weather and had responded with enormous frizz.

“Hello, Mr. Carruthers.” I smiled as he rolled down his window. “Maybe we should reschedule this inspection. The weather is awful, isn't it? We could do this on a nice day when you don't have to walk through this downpour.”

To demonstrate how wet it was, I splashed around in the puddles that engulfed my feet. My shoes were going to be ruined. I should have worn tennis shoes.

Mr. Carruthers had the kind of face that looked as though he'd been carrying the weight of the world on his thin shoulders for most of his life. His clothes were clean and neat but had seen better days. I knew nothing about him personally, but the man generally seemed long-suffering and unhappy.

“Miss Chase.” He enunciated both words with painful clarity as he glanced down at the clipboard he was holding. “This is the
final
opportunity we have to inspect your premises. If we don't accomplish that today, I'm afraid I'll have to shut your so-called diner down.”

“Oh no! Let's not do that. I can run in to get an umbrella so you won't get wet.” I stared at the top of his balding head. “At least your head won't get wet.”

His thin lips stretched into what might have been a smile. “I'll be fine. Lead the way.”

I ran to open the door to the diner, praying that I had done everything he'd asked since the last time he was there. There were one or two things he'd passed with the idea that they would be repaired before he returned.

Miguel and Ollie followed me inside, holding the door for Mr. Carruthers.

“Gentlemen.” Mr. Carruthers stared at both of them and then at me. “Don't tell me you're serving customers here, Miss Chase. You know you aren't licensed for that.”

“No.” I had left the kitchen in a mess during my haste to get to the meeting. I straightened up, quickly wiping everything down as I moved. “These are my friends. I don't serve customers here yet. I know that would be wrong. That's why I have the Biscuit Bowl.” I pointed to the Airstream in the parking lot with the spinning biscuit on top.

“Of course.” Mr. Carruthers consulted his clipboard. “You were approved to use the kitchen in the diner to make food for the truck. Let's start with your food storage area, if you please.”

I walked toward the pantry and freezers, but I noticed him running his fingers along the counter as he came around. It was probably still covered in crumbs from working with the MoonPies that morning.

We looked at the freezer, which was in good condition. I'd repaired cracks in the walls and ceiling in the pantry. I watched him mark his paper as I showed him the improvements.

I quickly closed the office door where I slept. I couldn't afford my apartment, the diner, and the Biscuit Bowl on the money I'd taken from my 401k and savings to open my business. It wasn't legal to sleep at the diner, but it was the only way I could get started.

“Your cleanup area next, if you please.” His dour face didn't give anything away. What was he thinking?

I had replaced the sink and drain boards on both sides of the counter next to it. I also had to put in a new water heater that had the necessary temperature to kill germs. There was also a new industrial dishwasher and new tiles on the floor near it.

“All right.” He scribbled on the paper again. “Let's look at the cooking area.”

I'd bought a new oven that would bake enough biscuits at one time so that I didn't have to do double and triple baking. I hadn't replaced the old griddle, but he'd said it would
be fine if I cleaned it. There were other replacements and additions. I hoped it was enough.

Mr. Carruthers finally sat at the counter and worked on the paper. Miguel and Ollie were seated at one of the old booths that I hadn't replaced since I couldn't serve customers, anyway.

I waited impatiently for him to give his verdict. It didn't have to be great, just passing so I could keep using everything here. I watched as he took out one of the cards that would mark my grade for the diner. Maybe everything was going to be okay. I crossed my fingers behind my back.

Then suddenly there was my cat, Crème Brûlée. He was a hefty cat with large bones who loved his food. His white Persian face and tabby stripes made him look larger than if he'd been a black cat. Nature had played a cruel fashion trick on him.

I couldn't believe he was on the counter. Crème Brûlée never jumped. He wasn't active enough to do more than hiss and sleep on my bed. I must have forgotten to feed him or he didn't like the food I'd left.

Mr. Carruthers looked at him as though he'd never seen a cat before. “What is this, Miss Chase?”

“That's my cat, Crème Brûlée.” I moved quickly and picked him up. “He's very friendly.”

Crème Brûlée hissed at me and bit my finger—no doubt to embarrass me. Then he proceeded to hiss at Mr. Carruthers. I handed him to Ollie who wasn't at all happy about it. He took Crème Brûlée, anyway, holding him awkwardly in his arms.

“You can't have a cat here, Miss Chase. It's unhealthy and against regulations for a cat to live at a restaurant.” Mr. Caruthers got to his feet. “I can't give you a passing grade with the cat here. He'll have to go.”

“What? No! Wait! He doesn't live here.” I glanced at Miguel who was shaking his head. “Crème Brûlée is only
here because my apartment is being painted. He couldn't stay there with the wet paint and the painters.”

Mr. Carruthers held his pen right above the line he had to sign to give me a passing grade. He was only an inch away. “All right. I'll take your word for it, Miss Chase. I'm going to give you a temporary passing grade on your inspection. It will be good for thirty days, but I'm keeping my eye on you. If I stop in, that cat better not be here.”

“He'll be gone tomorrow.” I grabbed the temporary license. Lucky for me he didn't see all of my personal stuff—including my bed—in the office. A human living at the diner would be even worse than a cat. “Thank you, Mr. Carruthers. This means a lot to me since my food truck is going to be part of the carnival festivities. Would you like one of my throws?”

“No, thank you. I have all the bangles, Frisbees, and other nonsense that I need. I'll see you sometime in the next thirty days. Good luck with your food truck.”

Mr. Carruthers nodded at Miguel and Ollie as he walked out the door. He didn't unbend enough to smile.

At least everything was legal for a while.

“I want one of the throws,” Ollie said. “I didn't know you had any. Let me see.”

I opened the box that had just come in that morning. I'd bought a thousand white plastic cups decorated with Mardi Gras colors of purple, green, and gold. They had the Biscuit Bowl name on them.

“These are awesome.” Ollie raved. “Is the Biscuit Bowl going to be in one of the parades? We'll have to be careful not to hit someone in the head with one of these.”

“We won't be in a parade, but I thought we could give these out with every order until we run out.”

“Great idea. Can I have one now?”

“I hate to be a killjoy,” Miguel said. “The cups are cute,
but what about lying to the inspector? What are you going to do with Crème Brûlée for the next month?”

“For the next two weeks leading up to Lundi Gras—Fat Monday—he'll be staying in the Biscuit Bowl with me. There's a parade every night, and I'm supposed to keep the Biscuit Bowl parked in the same place for the whole time. Someone is always supposed to be there with it. It's part of the agreement with the carnival committee. Crème Brûlée will be with me.”

“That's two weeks.” Miguel got up from the booth and picked up a cup. “What about the rest of the time after Mardi Gras?”

“I don't know about being a killjoy,” Ollie said, “but you're sure a pain in the butt, Miguel. This is Zoe's moment in the sun—possibly the greatest moment of her life. She'll be serving biscuit bowls to all the revelers and krewes in the city. That's one of the biggest honors I can think of.”

I didn't exactly agree with Ollie. I hoped this wasn't the greatest moment in my life. As good as it was, I knew it could be better.

And I knew what Miguel was trying to say. “Don't worry. I'll figure something out. I could stay with Daddy, but Crème Brûlée couldn't since he can't have a cat.”

“I'm not trying to give you a hard time,” Miguel said. “I know how important this is to you. I just don't want it to get messed up.”

“I know.” I put my arms around him and gave him a big kiss for worrying about me.

“It's getting too mushy in here,” Ollie said. “I'm going back to the shelter. Zoe, you're not planning to stay alone in the food truck at night, are you?”

“I am. I don't want anything to go wrong. Last year there were some break-ins at the food trucks that were out on the streets. I don't want the Biscuit Bowl to have graffiti all over it, or half my food to be gone in the morning, either. Keeping
the trucks in one place keeps the drivers from jockeying for position each day the way we do everywhere else, too. That's why the committee did it that way this year.”

“I wish I could help you,” Ollie said. “I can be there all day, but the terms of being a part-time director at the shelter means I have to be there at night. I could give it up if you want.”

“No. I'll be fine.” I smiled at him. I knew he'd do it if I asked him. I didn't plan to let that happen. Having the part-time job at the shelter and working part-time for me was as close as Ollie had come to having a normal life for years.

“I'd be happy to spend the nights out there,” Miguel volunteered. “Who sleeps during carnival, anyway?”

“And I'd be glad to have the company. I just don't want you to feel like you have to be there. I'm not worried about getting hurt or anything. I don't think people on the streets having a good time are dangerous, just a little careless.”

“I'll take a look at my schedule and see what I can do.” Miguel kissed me. “I have to go. I'm due in court shortly. Let me know if you need a ride anywhere.”

Ollie and Miguel walked out together, but Ollie waved to him as he turned to go to the shelter. Between the homeless shelter and the diner was a popular consignment shop and two shops that were empty. One was an old tailor's shop with dusty sewing machines still in the window. The other had some old mannequins in it.

Crème Brûlée meowed loudly as though he was protesting them leaving the diner. I knew better. He tolerated them, but that was about it.

A moment after they were gone, Delia sneaked in. “I saw Ollie leave. Is it safe?”

She removed her large dark glasses. Her long black hair was loose on her shoulders, framing her smooth, cocoa-colored face and large brown eyes. She was built like a fashion model, or a dancer, with long legs and a lean body.

If I didn't love her so much, I would be jealous. My body was stocky. I was no great beauty. I couldn't even make it through ballet lessons when I was eight. I kept gaining weight—how many cooks do you know who are superthin?

Miguel seemed to like my curves—and my naturally curly hair. That was good enough for me.

“You and Ollie have to get over this,” I told her. “We're going to be too busy during the next two weeks to have you arguing in the kitchen.”

“I came to talk to you about that, Zoe. My sister Hazel is having surgery. My mother can't be there, because Hazel lives in Atlanta. I told her I'd come to help out with the kids and all. I'm so sorry. I didn't know what else to say when she asked.”

“Of course you have to go.” This couldn't be happening. First the diner issue and now Delia wasn't going to be there during carnival. “We'll make it work without you. It'll be fine. Take care of Hazel.”

Delia hugged me. “If you don't want me to, I won't go. I told Hazel I'd have to ask you first.”