Under the Cajun Moon (5 page)

World-famous Ledet’s restaurant was on Royal Street near Toulouse, squeezed between an antique shop and an art gallery. My parents used to call it their “first child” as a joke, but to me it was their only child—and I was just a visiting distant relative. I pulled right up front but saw no valet
to take my car, so I continued on toward a hotel parking lot half a block away. Soon, I was strolling through the warm April night, still wearing the linen Theory suit I had put on earlier for the TV show.

When I reached the door of Ledet’s, a surge of emotion filled my throat. How many times had I walked through this very portal, feeling like an outsider in my own family’s restaurant? Pushing that thought away, I tried to open the door but it was locked.

Surprised, I stepped back to look at the sign over my head, just to make sure I was in the right place. I was. I tried the heavy glass door again and then peered inside. The front hallway was darker than usual, but I thought I could detect light and movement out in the courtyard. I knocked but no one responded, so I decided to go around and try the service entrance off of the side alley. As I turned to go, I saw a man coming toward me on the sidewalk, briefcase in hand.

“Chloe?”

“Yes?”

“Kevin Peralta. Your parents’ attorney? I don’t think we’ve ever met.”

Jolted from the memory of last night, I gasped, my eyes popping open.

Kevin Peralta.

My parents’ attorney.

The man who now lay dead on the couch in the suite next door.

Leaning forward, I rested my elbows on my knees, closed my eyes again, and tried to recall what had happened next.

In front of Ledet’s restaurant last night, I had been startled by Kevin’s appearance because he wasn’t the Mr. Peralta I had been expecting. Seeing the confusion on my face, Kevin explained that I was probably thinking of his father Ruben, who had died of cancer the year before.

“I’ve taken over his practice,” he added.

I expressed my condolences, and in turn he tried to offer words of comfort about my own father’s precarious state.

“I know it’s scary right now, but it’s going to take more than a gunshot wound to stop the great Julian Ledet,” Kevin said. “He’s too stubborn to take this lying down. I guarantee you the feisty old guy is going to
be back on his feet in a couple of days, shouting at the nurses about the hospital food.”

“Maybe.”

“No, really. Can’t you just picture it?” Suddenly, he put one hand on his hip, puffed out his chest, and began bellowing in a perfect imitation of my father. “Nurse, you call this
Jell-O
? My
dog
could make better Jell-O than this! The
fleas
on my dog could make better Jell-O than this! Get it out of my sight! Bring me some flan!”

By the time he was finished, I was nearly crying with laughter. You had to know my dad to get that imitation just right. Obviously, Kevin knew my dad very well.

“Chloe? Is that you?”

Kevin and I both turned in surprise to see a man standing in the open doorway of Ledet’s. It was the fill-in bartender, the guy Ledet’s always called in to sub when the regular bartender couldn’t make it.

“Hey, Graze. How are you? Long time no see.”

“Hi, Chloe. I’m sorry,” he replied, holding the door wide so we could step inside. “Your mom told me to leave the door unlocked for you, so I opened up the back. I thought you’d be coming in that way.”

“We would have tried that next. Don’t worry about it.” We stepped inside and waited as he again locked the door. “So what’s going on? Is the restaurant closed tonight because of my dad’s situation?”

Looking surprised, Graze said no, that Ledet’s was always closed on Mondays.

“Oh, right,” I relied, feeling stupid.

Graze led us away from the elegant entranceway and through the main dining room, which was dark.

“If you’re closed, what’s going on out there?” Kevin asked, gesturing toward the courtyard.

Just as I had thought, there were about ten or fifteen people milling around among the greenery and fountains and café tables.

“Private party. A wedding shower for two Ledet’s employees who are getting married. That’s why we’ve got some staff here tonight, a cook and a waiter and a dishwasher. And I’m running drinks.”

He named the happy couple, saying that one was a captain and the other was a sous chef, so it was a joining of front and back house. As I didn’t recognize either name, I figured that both of them must be newer employees. Turnover in the restaurant industry was notoriously high, especially in the high-pressure environment of five-star restaurants like this one, and except for a few old-timers like Sam who had managed to stay in the same position for years, it wasn’t unusual to see new faces every time I came home.

Graze led us toward one of the smaller dining rooms. The lights were on inside, and as he opened the double French doors and swung them wide, I saw that the center table had been set for two.

“Your mama said to give you a room to yourselves and to fix y’all some dinner. But first, can I bring you something to drink?”

“Just water for me, thanks,” I said. “I won’t be here long enough to eat dinner.”

Kevin ordered a drink for himself, and I told him to feel free to order food as well. Just because I had to leave soon didn’t mean he couldn’t stay and enjoy.

Once Graze left to get the drinks, Kevin lowered his voice and asked about the man’s odd name.

“Graze? It’s his nickname.” I went on to explain that in restaurant lingo, those who pilfered cherries and olives from the bar were known as “grazers,” and they were many bartenders’ biggest pet peeve. Legend had it that somewhere in this guy’s career, he had said “Don’t graze! Don’t graze!” so much that it earned him a permanent moniker.

“Got it.
Graze
. I thought maybe he used to be a cemetery worker or something, and you were calling him
Graves
.”

We laughed, which was a good feeling, and I couldn’t help thinking how much easier Kevin was making this whole experience for me. Like the valve on a pressure cooker, the laughter was helping me let off steam.

Graze returned with our beverages and some menus, urging me to have at least a little something to eat so that my mother wouldn’t become angry with them for not following orders to feed me. I was indeed hungry,
but I didn’t want to take up even one minute more than necessary before heading to the hospital.

“This paperwork is going to take a while,” Kevin said, as if he could read my mind. “You might as well. We’ll work as we eat.”

“But—”

“Look at it this way, Chloe. I know you want to see your dad, but right now he wants you here, doing this. If you don’t take the time we need to get this done, you know what’ll happen. He’ll be upset with you for going there instead.”

Kevin was right, of course, so finally I had surrendered to the moment and accepted a menu. As I did, my heart surged again with hurt and anger. With my father stuck in the hospital and me taking his place there with Kevin, I had no doubt which of my father’s two children—the restaurant or me—he loved more.

Now, looking up from my place on the couch in the hotel room, I asked the cop at the door if he thought the detective would be gone much longer. He didn’t know, so I stood and stretched a little. Feeling antsy, I put my hands on my hips and twisted from side to side, glad to realize that at least the headache was finally fading a bit. The memories continued to surface as well.

Alone in the private dining room with Kevin, I had called my mother to check on how things were going at the hospital, but again her phone went to voice mail. Leaving a message and then putting mine away, I had turned my attention to Kevin, who was still looking at the menu and wanted my opinion of the various dishes. I was embarrassed to say that it had been so long since I’d eaten there that many of them were unfamiliar to me. Of course, the menu’s centerpiece was still my father’s signature dish, Croûte de Sel Rose, which translated to “crust of pink salt.” Julian Ledet was known for it around the world, the same way Paul Prudhomme was famous for his blackened redfish.

Many restaurants offered salt-encrusted fish, of course. Prepared by placing a fish and some herbs in a pan and then literally covering them with a mound of salt, the dish was baked in an oven; when it came out, the salt would have formed a solid crust on the outside, allowing the fish
to steam in its own juices on the inside. Though it wasn’t uncommon fare, my father’s version was unique indeed, as he made it with his own special salt, the same salt that was packaged and shipped from an undisclosed facility in south Louisiana and sold as “Chef Julian’s Secret Salt” in fine stores around the world.

On the TV show, Tony had tried to get me to talk about my father’s salt and where it came from, but the truth was that the source was known only to the great Julian Ledet himself. Given that it was pink in color and slightly bitter in taste, I had always had a feeling it was imported either from Hawaii or the Himalayas, both of which were known for pink salt. Wherever it came from, my father always called it the perfect cooking salt because its bitterness gave way to a uniquely delicious flavor during the heating process.

I decided to go with Aunt Alma’s crawfish bisque, a delectable dish that had always been one of my favorites. I didn’t recognize the waiter who came to take our order, but he was obviously a pro, as was everyone who worked at Ledet’s. My father would stand for nothing less than excellence.

When the waiter left and we were alone, Kevin reached for his briefcase and balanced it on his lap. As he opened it up and flipped through the contents, I thought again how handsome he was. Watching him, it had suddenly struck me that part of my mother’s motive for the meeting might have been to matchmake. It drove her crazy that I was thirty-two and not married, for she simply couldn’t understand the point of going through life without a mate. With her, I had always defended my singleness, saying that I poured so much of myself into my career that it wouldn’t be fair to a spouse. What I would never admit to her was that sometimes the loneliness pierced so deep that I would have traded every professional and financial gain I’d ever made for the love of a good husband. It wasn’t very modern of me, but that was how I felt. I didn’t want children, but marriage was something I longed for deeply whenever I allowed myself to really think about it.

Given that most of the guys I knew were looking for easy hook ups with little emotional involvement and zero commitment, I didn’t date
much. Now the first guy I’d met in a long time who seemed decent and kind was dead in the next room. Glancing at the cop who stood watch in the doorway, I resumed my place on the couch, rubbed my temples, and tried to remember more about last night and what had gone so horribly wrong.

F
RANCE, 1719
J
ACQUES

After going undetected for so long, Jacques couldn’t believe that on the final morning he was nearly spotted. He and Papa had worked late into the night to finish polishing the last two statuettes, so they hadn’t roused when the cock crowed. Both men, in fact, were still sleeping the morning away when a loud rapping was heard at the door, jolting them from slumber.

Thinking it was the farmer’s wife with lunch, they were scrambling around trying to hide Jacques’ pallet when the bolt on the door twisted as if by key and then began to swing open. Immediately, Jacques dove onto the floor and rolled up under the cot. His father smartly slid his blanket so that it draped down the front of the messy bed, and then he rose and crossed to the other side of the room, probably so that whoever was entering would not have their eyes trained in Jacques’ direction.

“So you
are
here!” a man’s voice said, sounding startled. “Why didn’t you answer my knock?”

Papa replied in truth—or at least partial truth—that he had been up late finishing the job the night before and had chosen to sleep in.

“Well, put your trousers on, sir. It’s time to load up these trinkets so I can deliver them to the palace. In the box you will find cloths to protect the statuettes. Wrap all but the top layer. Leave those unwrapped, please.”