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Early Monday morning, BJ stared at the blinking cursor on the white space beneath the new chapter heading of her story.
Something’s missing.
Instead of highlighting the previous text and hitting the delete key she did a cut and paste, moving a large portion to a new folder where she saved it. She couldn’t believe she’d thrown away the cemetery tale.
“Sixteen pages. A good start toward a short story. I even had a good title.”
She thought she ought to check email once more before shutting down the computer for the rest of the day. Jacob’s newest message made her frown. She was done with him, and wished he’d just go away. But a curious nature kept her from deleting the email unread.
He said he wanted to know what she looked like beyond the twenty-six, petite, blue eyes, long blond hair description she’d given him in an earlier note. One side of her mouth curved upward. Jacob had managed to tap into her adventurous side.
Her physical description was false. Same with her place of employment. Some things were off limits. Rather than tell him that she’s the executive chef and owner of a five-star restaurant, purchased for her by her husband after she graduated culinary school, she confessed she lived in New Orleans but kept up the lie that she worked downtown at Vieux Carré department store.
She skimmed over the first part of his email again.
He said he stopped by Vieux Carré last night hoping to see her. Saw a short blond talking to a woman wearing identical clothing: tan slacks, white shirt, purple vest. The blond had her back to him so he wasn’t able to see her face or a name badge. He waited in his car. But he never saw the blond leave the building. He assumed the employees have a separate entrance. He’s intrigued, but if she’s not ready to meet in person yet, how about—
BJ glanced at her watch.
“Time to go.”
The first Monday night of every month the Lieu du Crime writers group held their meeting in the conference room at her restaurant from five till nine, breaking for dinner at seven. Tonight was special. She planned to personally oversee all of the preparations.
A NOLA Homicide Detective named Gary Northcutt had recently joined the group, the president informed her. He was working on getting his first novel published. He’s also their guest speaker for the night.
She composed a brief response to Jacob saying that she’d get back to him later with details regarding... “Regarding what?” She didn’t finish reading his message before deleting it.
* * *
Driving to the French Quarter BJ did her damnedest to pay attention to the traffic, but something kept stirring in the back of her mind and distracting her.
Did she dare meet Jacob in person? Pretending to be Suite Sue?
I’ve got bigger fish to fry, right now. Head chef Owen will start bitchin’ a fit when he realizes I’m late. I swear if he weren’t so damn good at what he does, I’d fire his fucking ass in a heartbeat. I’m tired of reminding him who’s the boss.
When she arrived at Wild Capers she was in for a bit of a shock. The lot was completely empty, as where the lots of the surrounding businesses. The power wasn’t on, and Owen hadn’t bothered to tell her. He also didn’t let her know that the restaurant sign and entrance awning were a total loss.
It had taken the city utility company a full week to restore the electricity the last time a storm tore down the power lines. She lost all of the perishable food.
Twisting the key too hard she almost broke it off in the lock. Smacking the door aside, she entered the restaurant. Amidst the staleness of an un-air-conditioned building she also detected a faint odor of garlic and onion. Missing was the mouthwatering aroma of her award-winning signature dish: Allemande caper sauce with spaghetti.
She hurried to the kitchen. Wrenched open the freezer door. Slapped a hand over her nose. Everything, absolutely everything, had to be replaced. Along with the lost revenue she would have gotten from the writers group.
Dammit.
She went straight home. Called the utility company, and was informed they were scheduled to work in her area later in the afternoon. It was the first time she’d heard that an F1 tornado had touched down in New Orleans, causing moderate damage.
Next, she called her suppliers to put a large order on hold.
She planned to also call Owen and fire him, but she needed to get back to the restaurant to take pictures for her insurance company, and she wasn’t in a mood to deal with him.
Oh hell. The writers.
She searched the pages of her notebook for the phone number of the group’s secretary.
Felicia Epps told her she had sent the members an email last night after hearing on the five o’clock news that there were still a few homes and businesses in the dark.
BJ refused to allow the woman to make her feel guilty for not having taken charge of the situation herself since it was her restaurant. The attitude was extended to include Owen.
“I don’t know who has electricity and who doesn’t. I called the four members who don’t have an email account,” Felicia explained. “We can only hope everybody received the message one way or another. See you next month.”
The woman hung up before BJ had a chance to ask her if Detective Gary Northcutt had been notified. She located his number. A detective named Lucas Cantin told her Northcutt wouldn’t be in until later, but he’d make sure he got the message.
She set her camera on the passenger seat of her car.
After doing what needed to be done at the restaurant to satisfy the insurance company, she drove over to Frank’s office to ask him if he wanted to have lunch with her to discuss the damage. His receptionist said he’s gone for the day.
“He didn’t say where he was going.”