Fat Tuesday Fricassee by J. J. Cook

ordered coffee and beignets for all of us. “You’re gonna love these, Zoe,” he promised with a grin. “Best in the city.”
    I smiled at him and uneasily glanced across the table into Tucker’s blue eyes. “Why am I here?”
    â€œThat’s something I love about Zoe,” Chef Art said to Tucker. “She always gets right to the heart of the matter. The girl is
sharp
.”
    â€œMy son could do with a few more reporters like that. Any interest in working for the newspaper, Miss Chase?” Tucker smiled as he said it, but I could sense the terrible sadness and heartbreak behind his words.
    â€œNo, thanks. I’m a food person. I own the Biscuit Bowl food truck—deep-fried Southern biscuits with a dip in the middle that I fill with sweet and savory foods. I’m hoping to make my mark one day with a sexy new restaurant. The same way Chef Art and my uncle did.”
    â€œSaul Chase?” Tucker nodded. “I remember his old place. Excellent food and good prices. Whatever happened to him? Did he finally join Ted in the banking business?”
    â€œNo. He lives in the swamp out near Farmington. He’s happy there. He doesn’t miss the city life. He’s in town for Mardi Gras—or did you know that already?”
    Our coffee and beignets arrived. There was an awkward moment as everyone added condiments to their coffee. I watched the cream swirl in my cup and wondered where this conversation was leading.
    Crème Brûlée was getting bored, but he got quiet when I fed him a piece of my beignet.
    Chef Art laughed. “Zoe is a little suspicious sometimes, Tucker. Eat up, you two. These beignets shouldn’t be wasted.”
    I sipped my coffee, not prepared to eat the delicious sugary donuts until I knew what was going on. “I think I have good reason to be suspicious. Let’s get to it, shall we? You want to talk about Jordan’s death.”
    Tucker shuddered and put a big hand across his eyes.
    I felt terrible that I’d caused him more pain with my careless words. “I’m so sorry, but I’ve had a rough day. Part of that has been dealing with my parents and their fears about what will happen if I talk about Jordan.”
    Chef Art patted Tucker’s shoulder and then started eating a beignet.
    â€œI apologize.” Tucker got himself together as he impatiently wiped the tears from his eyes. “I’m an old man, Miss Chase, with very few things that I still enjoy in life. My grandson was everything to me. His death has been like dying myself.”
    I reached my hand across the table to him. “I didn’t know him, but your loss is terrible.”
    â€œThank you. I thought I had this under control or I wouldn’t have faced you this way.”
    Chef Art slurped his coffee. “Don’t worry about it, Tucker. Zoe is a very understanding person. She’s also clever, quick on her feet, and notices everything. She can help you.”
    I stared at him. “What are you talking about?”
    â€œTucker has a few questions about his grandson’s death—understandable, I think. We know you were there.” Chef Art held up a beignet. “You have to try one of these.”

NINE

    Tucker took that lead-in from Chef Art to tell me about the
Mobile Times
newspaper—which his father had founded in the early 1900s. He was editor in chief until his son, Bennett, took over about twenty years ago.
    â€œBennett brought Jordan into the business the same way I brought him in—and the same way my father brought me into it—working from the bottom up. Bennett was a good reporter, but Jordan had a real zest for it.”
    I ate the beignet Chef Art had offered me as I listened. A beignet is a fried doughnut sprinkled with powdered sugar and usually served with coffee. This one was exceptional. I hadn’t eaten beignets this good since I’d been in New Orleans. The waitress brought