Fat Tuesday Fricassee Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE BISCUIT BOWL FOOD TRUCK MYSTERIES

  “Here’s a recipe for success: Start with a likeable, engaging sleuth, determined to achieve her dream despite everyone’s objections, and add the complications of murder and kidnapping. Then stir in a large dose of family drama, a dishy lawyer, a difficult would-be-fiancé, and lots of humor. Season with murder and kidnapping, then garnish with those sweet and savory biscuit bowls, and oh my, what a delicious mystery. Fast, fun, and so foodworthy.”

  —Victoria Abbott, author of the Book Collector Mysteries

  “The plot in Death on Eat Street is extremely clever and interesting to the reader. Couple that with some unique and fascinating characters, and J. J. Cook has another winner on the market.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Readers are treated to an eclectic cast of characters and a great new cozy heroine in Zoe Chase. J. J. Cook shows readers how it’s done by giving them a well-thought-out mystery that will have them on the edge of their seats . . . A great new book.”

  —Debbie’s Book Bag

  “I highly recommend this delightful cozy to anyone who enjoys cooking, mystery, and a touch of romance and whimsy . . . I, for one, am looking forward to the next book in the series. Zoe and Crème Brûlée are a hit.”

  —Open Book Society

  “Filled with colorful characters . . . The descriptions of the various sweet and savory fillings had my mouth watering.”

  —Melissa’s Mochas, Mysteries & Meows

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by J. J. Cook

  Sweet Pepper Fire Brigade Mysteries

  THAT OLD FLAME OF MINE

  PLAYING WITH FIRE

  IN HOT WATER

  Biscuit Bowl Food Truck Mysteries

  DEATH ON EAT STREET

  FRY ANOTHER DAY

  FAT TUESDAY FRICASSEE

  Specials

  HERO’S JOURNEY

  GATOR BOWL

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  FAT TUESDAY FRICASSEE

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2015 by Joyce Lavene and Jim Lavene.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  For more information, visit penguin.com.

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-60016-0

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / December 2015

  Cover illustration by Griesbach & Martucci.

  Cover design by Jason Gill.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

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  Thanks to Susan and Cindy and the other friendly people in Mobile for their help!

  CONTENTS

  PRAISE FOR THE BISCUIT BOWL FOOD TRUCK MYSTERIES

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME TITLES BY J. J. COOK

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  RECIPES FROM THE BISCUIT BOWL

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ONE

  “There you are, Zoe!” My father opened the door to his apartment. “I was beginning to worry.”

  “Sorry.” I put down my cat, Crème Brûlée. He immediately ran to his food bowl. He tends to eat when he’s stressed. “It’s been a rough day. I was out at six A.M. with the Biscuit Bowl after being up at the other masquerade ball last night until after midnight.”

  Daddy’s critical eyes went over me. “Is there still time to get your hair and nails done? I know you want to look your best tonight.”

  I slumped in one of his elegant but uncomfortable chairs. “I hope there’s time for a nap. I’m so glad this is the last ball. Aren’t you exhausted?”

  “A nap? With all this excitement?” He dragged me to my feet and danced me around the room.

  My father, Ted Chase, and I shared the family legacy of unruly curly black hair. He took care of his by wearing it close-cropped, with a little gray at the temples. His brown eyes were always looking for the next new thing—an investment, a girlfriend, or an adventure.

  My hair went its own way, black curls everywhere. I kind of liked it that way, especially since my only other choice seemed to be shaving my head. I’d inherited my mother’s blue eyes and her common sense, I hoped.

  “You’re a very lucky girl to be entering the Mistics of Time masquerade ball on the arm of King Felix.”

  “Yeah, I know. I felt pretty lucky up until the third ball. Now I just feel tired.” I stopped moving. “I can do my own hair and nails. I’m going to sleep for a while. I know you don’t want me snoring behind my mask tonight. What would people say?”

  “All right. Sleep if you need to.” He kissed my forehead. “I’m worried about you, Zoe. You’re working too hard. You weren’t made for this.”

  I laughed. “What I wasn’t made for was dancing and partying all night. Wake me at six, please.”

  This was the last formal masked ball that I had to attend with my father before the two weeks of carnival parades leading up to Fat Tuesday, or Mardi Gras.

  At least the next day was Saturday, so I didn’t have to take my Biscuit Bowl food truck out. I’d been planning to use the weekend to set up for the start of the parades. I was lucky to be chosen as a food truck vendor this year, and I was planning on turning a nice profit, not to mention finding new foodies.

  When Daddy had bee
n crowned King Felix—the ruler of this year’s carnival—he’d turned to me as his escort. My parents were divorced—not that my mother had ever attended the elaborate pre-Lent parties when they’d been married. She just wasn’t the party type, and she disliked Mardi Gras.

  I understood that Daddy didn’t want to be alone at all the parties. It was traditional to have a partner. I’d been hoping when I heard about his coronation that he’d have a girlfriend he could invite.

  No such luck.

  So since last November, every time there was a party, I’d worked all day and then grabbed my cat and my bag to get a taxi to my father’s apartment. The party costumes were too elaborate to deal with at the diner where I lived.

  I’d been dressing up and going out with him from his place, leaving Crème Brûlée there, too, sometimes, though not for long, since it was against Daddy’s lease to have pets. Sometimes I went back to the diner, and sometimes not. There had been days when I’d changed clothes after a ball and got back just in time to make biscuits at four A.M.

  I was worn-out.

  Daddy kept dancing and humming. I didn’t know if he was practicing or just so excited that he had to dance. I didn’t care. I collapsed on the bed in the spare room and immediately fell asleep.

  - - - - - - -

  Crème Brûlée was sitting on my chest snuffling my face. His whiskers tickled my nose. I couldn’t figure out what was happening as I came out of my heavy napping fog. I glanced at the clock by the bed. It was seven thirty.

  Oh my God! There were only thirty minutes until we had to be at the masquerade!

  I’d never tried to be the belle of the ball, but it was nice to have time to take a shower and get ready. I stumbled out of the bedroom. “Daddy, why didn’t you wake me?”

  “Hmm?” He looked away from his reflection in the mirror. He was wearing black tie and tails. His elaborate mask—a gold and purple dragon—was on the dressing table beside him. “What do you think about my tie, Zoe? Is it crooked?”

  “It’s seven thirty, Daddy. I’m not dressed. You were supposed to wake me at six.”

  He frowned. “Sorry, honey. I got a call from a major stockholder at the bank. I guess I lost track of time.”

  “I’ll do what I can to be ready, but we might be late.”

  I hadn’t seen the gown for the ball yet. My father’s personal assistant had picked it out for me. She’d done a good job on the other dozen gowns, so I trusted her. Heaven forbid anyone should wear the same gown twice during a season!

  I stripped down for a quick, hot shower. My hair was damp, but not wet when I got out. I covered it with a towel while I slapped on some makeup. The eyes were a problem, because Daddy’s assistant thought I should use glittery purple eye shadow and large fake eyelashes.

  No time for that.

  I shook out my hair and put my fingers through it like always. I used plenty of gel to hold it in place. A large gold and purple feather comb looked like a good idea, and it would match my mask. I pulled the curls back, except for some at the sides of my face. The feather added height and interest to the look.

  The plastic bag came off the huge, ornate gown with very little difficulty. It was stunning. There were what seemed like hundreds of layers of gold and purple nylon net covered by hundreds of layers of gold and green chiffon. The bodice was a little snug but did good things for my bust. I had a feeling no man would be looking at the feather or my mask that night.

  I slid my feet into glittery gold slippers and walked out as Daddy picked up his top hat and cane. “I’m ready.”

  He nodded as he walked around me. “You look great, Zoe! Don’t forget the mask.”

  I grabbed my mask, and we left for the ball. We arrived with only minutes to spare at the older building where the ball was being held. Tardiness, my father had told me, wasn’t tolerated for King Felix.

  From outside, the old redbrick building looked as though it needed to be demolished. It had once been a shipping warehouse, according to the cement plaque at the door. NEWLAND AND SONS, 1830. But it had only been for lease recently.

  It was hard to imagine there was an elegant ball going on inside, but there were the white-gloved men at the door in their red coats, welcoming people in who possessed the coveted handwritten invitations. I could hear the swell of music streaming out into the night air each time the door opened.

  This idea of holding the secret societies’ balls and other functions in buildings that no one would ever think of as elegant, or even safe, was part of keeping their activities known to only a few, according to my father. I had no doubt that the Mistics of Time had held an event at this spot since their inception in the 1700s—even before there was a building. Everything about Mobile’s carnival secret societies and parade krewes was steeped in tradition and folklore.

  Another white-gloved gentleman in a mask opened the big doors inside for us. The outside of the building might not have looked like much, but the inside was palatial. Gold walls and purple carpets stretched as far as I could see. Crystal chandeliers glittered on sterling silver laid out on pristine white linen tablecloths.

  There were flowers everywhere, dripping from the walls and lanterns, huge colorful sprays perfuming the air. Music from a string orchestra was subdued, but I knew before the night was out it would get louder.

  I was almost too tired to appreciate the enormous buffet that had been spread for the ball, despite my devotion to being a foodie. The tables were thirty feet long and covered in gold cloth that shimmered in the light from hundreds of candles.

  On the tables was every kind of carnival food imaginable. There were dozens of flavors of MoonPies—two round graham cracker cookies filled with marshmallow and dipped in chocolate or flavored icings. Lemon. Orange. Strawberry. Banana. They all looked yummy.

  The king cakes were enormous. King cakes are a supersweet braided coffee cake that hides a lucky baby statue somewhere inside. They were frosted in the traditional colors of green, purple, and gold.

  I couldn’t imagine any seafood that wasn’t there from shrimp to flounder. It was cooked in every way possible. Fried, boiled, baked, in gumbo, and with rice. The bounty of Mobile Bay and the Gulf of Mexico was well represented. There was spicy jambalaya, platters of roasted corn, and crawfish étouffée.

  Whiskey dominated all the colorful (and powerful) drinks, and there were also Sazeracs made with absinthe. I enjoyed it, but it was an acquired taste. Of course there was plenty of sweet tea and a thick, sugary chocolate drink that was served hot and cold.

  The idea was to sin as much as you could before Lent. Gluttony, drunkenness, promiscuity—these were the hallmarks of the carnival. Dance. Laugh. Drink until you fell down. Eat too much—for a time was coming when you’d have to give all that up for Lent to prepare for Easter.

  You didn’t have to be Catholic, as were the first revelers to join in the celebrations. I imagined that most people didn’t even know why they were celebrating anymore. But it was fun, so who cared?

  Visitors came from across the country to partake of our festivities each year, but no one outside certain select families would ever see the secret balls and masquerades preceding the parades and other amusements.

  Everyone in the huge room was dancing. They were masked, too. The costumes were amazing—women in gowns with hooped skirts and panniers that were five feet across, their hair as high as Marie Antoinette ever wore hers. The men were dashing and daring with their faces hidden and swords at their sides. Tonight was a time to revel.

  I was with King Felix, regent of the ball and all festivities for this year. I had no choice but to dance. As we swirled around the room, I could see men and women wrapped in close embraces behind veil-like draperies against the walls. Couples disappeared into side rooms with their arms locked around each other. I wondered how anyone could tell who they were going off with.

  Maybe it didn’t matter.<
br />
  I finally decided that I had to sit out a dance or two. My feet in the glittering shoes were hurting. It was hot in the large, layered gown, too. I needed a break if I was going to make it through the rest of the evening. Daddy wasn’t short of partners. He didn’t really need me again until the massive picture taking that went on at the end of each ball.

  I quietly put a small amount of food on a purple glass plate and looked for a chair. I wanted to try everything on the table, but I knew I couldn’t hold even a taste of each dish.

  I was also storing up recipe ideas for my future restaurant. I had a food truck now, but my goal was a wonderful stationary eatery where hundreds of people waited each night to come in and be amazed. It would be a must-eat spot in all the tourist brochures and on all the travel websites. No one should go to Mobile, Alabama, without eating here!

  That was a long way off. Right now my recipes were confined to what I could sell out of my food truck. I tried to make them interesting and different, but serving them through a cutout window got restrictive sometimes. Someday it would be different.

  I slipped out on the patio that was at the back of the building. It was surrounded by tall redbrick walls, probably to stop prying eyes from guessing at the identities of the Mistics of Time. I knew those names were a closely guarded secret. In the old days, someone might expect to be killed if they violated the rules and told anyone about the membership of a secret society.

  Most of the members had family names that dated back to the founding of Mobile in the 1700s. They were statesmen, bankers, clergymen, and even soldiers. You couldn’t buy your way into a parade krewe or a secret society. You were either part of it from birth or you were never part of it.

  The lighting along the brick walls came from colorful but subdued lanterns that were hung on trees. Fountains splashed along the cobbled walkway between thick bushes and tall flowering plants. There were plenty of cozy spots for meetings between lovers and secluded benches where they could sit and cuddle.

  I took a swallow of champagne and relaxed with a sigh of relief. I didn’t dare have Sazerac tonight. Any misstep would be embarrassing for my father. Maybe others felt comfortable getting drunk here, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to mess this up for him.