Roux the Day (19 page)

“The Cajuns trace their heritage directly from the Acadian French who, after being expelled from Nova Scotia by the English, relocated in southern Louisiana. Creole culture had its roots in the early 1700s during the French colonial period.

“Here in New Orleans”—she pronounced it “N’Yorlins”—“we are familiar with these differences and we all have a pretty good idea of the differences between Cajun cooking and Creole cooking. We hear a lot about the merging of the two cuisines, but is everyone in favor of this?”

On the monitors, the camera panned along the two battle lines.

They were glaring at each other and the answer to Elsa’s question was clearly in the negative. She smiled in satisfaction, smelling blood.

“First of all,” Elsa said, “I’m going to introduce the two teams.” She did so, then said, “For the first question, I’m going to ask the Cajuns for their opinion of Creole cooking.”

Oh, oh,
I thought,
here we go.
And we did.

The little lady in the red dress spoke up. “African cooking—that’s all Creole is. All the Africans knew was cook a long time over a little fire.”

The dowager lady with all the hair couldn’t wait to leap in. “Creole cooking is French, Spanish, African, Italian, blended together to produce—”

“A mishmash!” crowed Eugene C. Bird. “That’s not a blend, that’s a mishmash! Why, the only idea the Spanish contributed was to mix meat and fish! Can you believe it? Meat and fish together?”

Lester Levison elbowed his way into the argument. “Know why the Spanish let the Acadians into Louisiana? It was because they couldn’t find any other people dumb enough to want to live in the swamps!”

“Cajun cooking,” declared the dowager lady, “is a coverup. It relies on peppers that are hot enough to cover the taste of the food.”

“Know what the Cajuns do?” cackled the lady in the red dress. “Put pineapple in cole slaw! Imagine anybody with any taste putting pineapple in cole slaw!”

Elsa Goddard was enjoying this hugely. The conflict had become violent right at the start of the program; she hadn’t had to do any priming at all. But she still wanted to make it clear that it was her program and now she tried to grab hold of the swelling confrontation before it got out of control.

“Ladies and gentlemen—” She had to say it three times. “Isn’t there a saying that ‘a Creole takes three chickens to feed one family—’”

Lester Levison was ahead of her. “‘And a Cajun can feed three families on one chicken.’”

“All the Cajuns know is how to feed a lot of people on not much food,” said the lady in the red dress scornfully, backing up Lester in fine style. “Talk about loaves and fishes!”

“What about gumbo?” demanded the dowager lady, raising her voice to cut through the melee. “That’s what I want to know. What about gumbo? All it is is leftovers—bits of ham, scraps of duck, crumbs of sausage meat, shreds of bacon, flakes of fish! You Creoles call that food?”

“Stupid Cajuns!” shrilled the little lady in the red dress. “Spent twenty years trying to grow grapes ’afore you found out that the soil was all wrong.”

Off camera, the dowager lady was making frantic motions at me.
Come on! Get involved!
was her message, I had no doubt. It would have been like stepping between two groups of dagger-wielding opponents or trying to make peace between the Hatfields and the McCoys while dodging the bullets. From the other side, Lester Levison was giving me dirty looks and waving, his exhortation certainly being the same.

Elsa also was making motions that meant she wanted me to enter the fray and I was suddenly alarmed when I glanced at the monitors and saw myself replicated up there several times. “As a comparative outsider,” she was saying, and I caught querying looks from the Cajun team who had thought I was Creole and the Creoles who had thought I was Cajun. “As a comparative outsider, where do you stand in this fascinating discussion?”

“Mustard,” I said. Relative silence reigned. They were waiting to find out whether it was a criticism or a question. “There’s French mustard, English mustard, German mustard, Chinese mustard and kosher deli mustard. They cover the chef’s range of needs very well, so why did the Creoles need one of their own?”

It wasn’t that difficult a question but no one offered a reply. I fired a second salvo. “One thing I could never understand about Cajun cooking is why does it have no pasta dishes?”

Elsa smiled brassily and brought up the topic of jambalaya. The Creoles said it was red and the Cajuns said it should be brown. It was a more inflammatory theme and we were back on the verge of fisticuffs very quickly. The program ended in a verbal fusillade from both teams of combatants and if there was a musical playout, it was
The Ride of the Valkyries.

Elsa came up to me afterwards. “Perhaps I should have told you we were changing the format of the program,” she said brightly. “This seemed like it would provoke more discussion. I think it went very well, don’t you?”

“Pyrotechnically speaking, yes.”

She was trying to catch my eye and frowned. “Is something wrong?”

“Over by that reflector …” I said.

She turned. “What is it?”

“There’s a man standing behind it.”

“I don’t see—”

A figure emerged. “It’s Larry Mortensen!” Elsa said, surprised. “What’s he doing here?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “but he has his hand inside that jacket again and the way it sags, I think he’s brought his gun with him.”

“Y
OUR BADGE,” ELSA SAID
accusingly as Larry Mortensen reached us. “It’s the one you were issued the last time. It’s not valid for today.”

Mortensen looked irritated. His clothes looked as if they had just been thrown on and the ancient bomber jacket he was wearing must have been made long before bombers were invented. The garment attracted my attention particularly because it bulged where his right hand was inside it. He didn’t seem concerned about Elsa’s accusation. He looked from one to the other of us. “Which of you killed Earl?” he demanded.

He was tall and strong and had a gun—all of which made him dangerous. He had a more purposeful look now than before, which was disconcerting.

“You knew Earl?” queried Elsa. It was a good move. It diverted him from any immediate action and he clearly wanted to explain.

“He was a good friend of Richie’s,” he said. “Who killed him?”

“Let’s get out of this studio,” Elsa said briskly. “The staff will be in here in a few minutes to get it ready for the next show. We can go in the conference room. Let me close out my segment.” She went to an instrument panel and pushed buttons and turned switches. I took the opportunity to engage Larry Mortensen. “So the three of you were friends, were you?”

“We were good friends.”

“Then you must know something about the book.”

“The book?”

“Yes. Your brother got the Belvedere cookbook from the auction and took it to Gambrinus’s bookshop. He waited there for someone to pay him money for it. They had an argument and the person shot him, shot your brother. Do you know who that person is?”

He gave me a penetrating look. “Was it you?”

“Certainly not!”

His eyes roamed over to where Elsa was turning away from the instrument panel. She came over to us. She gave me a glance that seemed to have some hidden meaning but only said, “Let’s go to the conference room.”

We had reached the door when a uniformed man hurried in. Elsa’s head moved fractionally in Mortensen’s direction. The uniform had tags that said
SECURITY
and the burly guard took in Mortensen’s appearance with a practiced glance.

“I’ll escort you to the lobby,” the guard said, ready for trouble but not inviting it. Mortensen had his hand out of the bomber jacket now. He gave Elsa and me a very annoyed look but went without any resistance. We exchanged relieved glances.

“That fellow is getting to be a nuisance,” she said. “What was he saying to you while I was summoning security?”

“He was accusing me of killing his brother.”

“Might be as well if you stayed out of his way.”

“I agree but it may be more to the point if he would stay out of mine.”

“Are you any closer at all?” she asked. “To finding out who’s behind this, I mean?”

“Still chasing the story? The big one that could make you famous?”

“Sure.” She was nonchalant with her answer but I could sense a steely determination underlying it.

“My answer is, I’m making progress but not yet ready to announce an arrest. How about you?”

She was debating in her mind. Was it how much she should confide in me? To urge her along, I said, “Wasn’t it one of us who suggested that we might make more headway if we pooled our knowledge?”

“Was it?” she said with the wisp of a smile. “Which one?”

I shook my head sadly. “And just when I thought I was going to hear a revelation.”

“From me?”

“Yes.”

She still had her clipboard in her hands She raised it and glanced at it but with an unseeing eye. “I’m not sure how much of a revelation this is, but I guess there’s no harm in telling you. After all, we’re both after the same end, aren’t we?”

“I don’t think so. I’m primarily looking for the book. You want a spectacular murder hunt with a dramatic ending.”

She wagged the clipboard thoughtfully. “It’s just this. I think one of the Witches is involved.”

“Which Witch?”

She smiled. “I don’t know. I have a few ideas but I don’t want to say anything until I’m more sure.”

“What makes you suspicious of the Witches?” I was remembering the words of Emmy Lou Charbonneau. She, too, harbored the same conviction. Were they both suspicious of the same woman? And for the same reason?

“Oh, various aspects of this whole crazy business.”

“Anything specific?”

“Not really.”

“You’re a big help.”

“No, I’m not—and I know I’m not. I just don’t want to throw suspicion in the wrong direction, that’s all. If I can just gather a few more facts …”

“You know what I think?” I asked.

She gave me an amused smile. “No, what do you think?”

“I think that you may not be the only one who is suspicious of the Witches.”

“You mean you are, too?”

“Not me. I mean, I wouldn’t be surprised if other Witches aren’t suspicious of the Witches.”

“One of them has told you this.”

I knew she was sharp so I wasn’t surprised. I neither confirmed nor denied, in the classical tradition. She did the right thing and concluded that she was right as well as sharp. “And you’re not going to tell me who it is. Okay, it’s a standoff.”

“For the moment. But we should cooperate. I’d hate to think of either of us being the killer’s next victim.”

For all of her tough exterior, there was an unmistakable flash of anxiety there. It was good to know that she was human after all.

Tonight was to be dinner with Leah but before I dressed for that, I sat down with the telephone books in the hotel room. I went through the section on employment agencies, looking specifically at the classification for the hotel and restaurant trade.

I had pondered over the problem of learning more about the Belvedere family and their restaurant. It was closed now, awaiting its reopening by the latest in the line, Ambrose Belvedere. Who better to tell me about it, I reasoned, than the people who had worked there? The problem with that was, where were they? Many must be working in other restaurants but some must be looking for jobs. The restaurant trade has a high percentage of floaters, itinerants, the gypsies of the business who can’t stay put in one job or one place for very long.

It is not always easy to spot these when they are hired. The restaurant prefers more stable employees but can’t be sure when they are hired that they are going to stay. Even as reputable a place as Restaurant Belvedere might hire staff that seem to be reliable only to have them leave a couple of months later. It could be a little tricky getting the information I wanted but I could face that tomorrow. In the meantime, I was able to compile a list of employment agencies who might be able to provide the information I wanted.

Leah’s place was just outside the French Quarter and I had an appetizer in the Carousel Bar before I left the Monteleone. It is well-named. It revolves just like a carousel—well, perhaps not quite as fast but in just as circular a motion. It is an odd sensation and I tried to picture the effect on an imbiber after partaking of two or three drinks. The television screens were the only jarring note.

Leah had not overdone the Asiatic theme, I was glad to notice. A few touches showed, such as Chinese-style lanterns, wall scrolls inscribed with large, scrawling characters, and hibachi-type cookers on some of the tables, but the overall influence was subdued. Leah looked every inch the Asian hostess in a
chamsung
that fit her tall, exquisite figure perfectly.

It was in a lustrous material and had a flowered pattern in blue on a white background. Her shiny black hair was drawn back and held with a dull gold ring. She seemed genuinely pleased to see me and gave me a table away from the kitchen with my back to the wall and a view of the room.

“My menu is descriptive,” she told me in her musical voice as she handed one to me, “and we note the characteristics of both New Orleans and Asiatic cooking. Each has its own typical style and constituents so you will be able to see how I have chosen to blend them into a different and original dish.”

I examined it. “Not an easy task. Looks as though you have done very well.”

“I am sure you are aware of how important ginger is in Chinese cooking,” Leah said. “It is used in many dishes and particularly seafood. The aroma of ginger not only neutralizes the odors but in China, it is believed to absorb any evil in the food.”

I was still looking at the menu as she was talking. “There are a few unusual dishes here,” I said. “Stir-fried Stomach with Mustard Greens is a dish I’ve never seen on a menu before. I take it that is not a misprint?”

She smiled. “It refers to precooked, shredded pork stomach. We have a very faithful Chinese clientele who order it regularly.”