Roux the Day by Peter King

“Enough to kill for it?”
    She seemed about to answer but thought better of whatever she was going to say and instead said, “It could be valuable enough that a number of people would be after it.”
    “Because of its intrinsic value? Surely not.”
    “There could be … something else.”
    “Such as what?” I asked.
    “One of the recipes?”
    I tried to analyze how much importance she attached to this idea. “Seems a bit far-fetched, doesn’t it?”
    She shrugged. “Maybe.”
    “Are you going to follow this up?” I asked her.
    She nodded vigorously and her blonde hair, though not long, danced a little. “The book is still a good story—it has to be when it involves one of the greatest names in New Orleans cuisine.”
    “Exclusively?”
    “Oh, no, I always have lots of stories going. This one isn’t likely to bring developments every day so I’ll probably come back to it every two or three days. I’ll keep that up as long as it’s still live.”
    I nodded, waiting for her to show some spirit of cooperation in that endeavor, but she only gave me her professional smile. It was obvious that she’d like to know anything I found out, but I didn’t intend to reciprocate.
    “Well, good luck,” I told her.
    “Tell me one thing …” Her voice was unusually moderated.
    “What is it?”
    “Have you been to St. Cynthia?”
    “Who?” I was baffled by the question.
    She studied me, looking for signs of concealment. She evidently didn’t see any. “No, I guess you haven’t.”
    “Who is she and why—”
    She was already talking over my question. “It doesn’t matter. You can find your own way out, can’t you?”
    I could and did.
    I was ready for some sustenance after the morning’s excitement and it was approaching lunchtime. I dug into my pockets and came up with the cards I had been given by the Witches. One of the first that came to hand said VILLA ROMANA , and had the name of Della Forlani, one of my erstwhile kidnappers.
    It was on the edge of the French Quarter and the cab ride was uneventful—no pursuers, tails or gumshoes. It was a little disappointing, really, to be forgotten already.
    A drunk was singing “New York, New York” in a karaoke bar as I walked past the open door, and a few thin streams of tourists sauntered about. A man on a street corner was hawking packets of red beans and rice, and across the street a bearded, haggard young man was playing something mournful on a saxophone. It sounded like Hoagy Carmichael.
    A lunch counter had a sign in the window, EAT LOUISIANA OYSTERS AND LOVE LONGER , and the Villa Romana was just past it, a pleasant building with green shutters and a wrought-iron balcony out in front above the entrance.
    Della was in the restaurant, taking the first orders of the day, for it was still early. She beamed at the sight of me. “So glad you could come. Would you like a table by the window?” Restaurants like to fill the window seats, as it makes the place look popular, and I wanted one so that I could watch the passing scene.
    After giving her order to the kitchen, she came out with a young woman who took over as Della came and sat at my table. A glass of sparkling white wine appeared at my right hand. “Prosecco,” I said, “one of my favorite wines.”
    She clapped her hands with glee. “Good, I hoped you’d like it.” Then she became suddenly serious. “I hope we didn’t give you palpitations when we—er, kidnapped you. I’ve suggested that we stop doing that, but I’m outnumbered.”
    “After the first few uncertain moments, it was all right,” I said. “Gives me something unusual to talk about back home. I may be the only person in my circle of friends who has ever been kidnapped. I’ll be the envy of Hammersmith.”
    “In the meantime, you’re pursuing the book?”
    “Absolutely. You wouldn’t have seen me—Oh, no, of course, you couldn’t, it was taped and will be shown tonight.”
    She was frowning.
    “Elsa,” I explained.