Free Fat Tuesday Fricassee by J. J. Cook Page B

didn’t see anyone who seemed to mind.
    â€œWell, 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.
    â€œChef Arrington!” I hugged him, barely able to reach around him. “What a surprise to see you here.”
    Crème Brûlée made a grunting noise, since he was caught between us.
    Chef Arrington and I didn’t have a long relationship, and it was based on odd happenings that had brought us together. But he’d become like my patron saint, encouraging me and helping me find opportunities to get ahead with my food truck.
    The best part was being invited to his many famous parties at his old mansion, Woodlands. I’d rubbed elbows with famous chefs from all over the world. Each party was a remarkable experience with amazing food.
    â€œNot so much, Zoe,” he admitted. “I have a nefarious purpose for being here. I confess the doorman called to let me know you were here.”
    I didn’t like the sound of that. I knew Chef Art could be sneaky when he wanted to get his way, but he’d been so good to me. I was willing to help him if I could.
    â€œNefarious, huh? What purpose would that be?” I had to yell the words over the sound of the band that was now dancing in the street as they played. “I have to get back to the diner to get ready for tomorrow.”
    He laughed. “I don’t think either of us is going far during this pop-up parade, do you? Let me buy you a cup of coffee in the hotel café and explain the situation.”
    He was right. Neither of us was going anywhere. Traffic was already backed up both ways. No doubt a few police cars would soon add to the madness.
    â€œI have to bring my cat.”
    â€œNot a problem.” He held out his arm, and I slipped my hand into it, accepting his invitation.
    When we entered the quiet café, I asked, “You didn’t set up the whole parade so I couldn’t leave until you talked to me, did you?”
    He patted my hand on his arm. “Even I don’t have that kind of power, my dear. You know what this city is like at this time of year.”
    He scanned the café, and I became suspicious. As soon as he saw a man seated at the back of the eatery, away from the windows, he immediately set us in motion to join him.
    I’d never seen the man before. He was older, like Chef Art, probably in his seventies. His hair was a full white mop on his head. He had a large ruddy face below it.
    He was a big man with a broad chest and shoulders. The shoulders were slightly stooped with age, but he got to his feet easily as we got near the table.
    â€œYou must be Zoe Chase.” The man held out his hand to me. “Anabelle and Ted’s daughter, yes?”
    â€œYes. And you are?”
    â€œThis is Tucker Phillips.” Chef Art introduced him as he pulled out a chair for me.
    The last name couldn’t be a coincidence. The dead reporter’s name was Jordan Phillips. What was that old saying—out of the frying pan and into the fire?
    I hesitated to sit opposite Tucker Phillips. Chef Art picked up on my reluctance. “That’s right, my dear. This is Jordan Phillips’s grandfather. Sit down, please. You make me feel short.”
    I took Tucker Phillips’s hand and squeezed lightly before I sat, carefully concealing Crème Brûlée under the large white linen tablecloth. I couldn’t believe Chef Art had his fingers in this pie, too. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Phillips.”
    Tucker and Chef Art sat, too. A waitress brought us menus, but Chef Art