Cities of the Dead by Linda Barnes Page B

him, he was such a charming man …”
    That would take some convincing, judging by that acceptance speech, and by Mary’s assessment of the man.
    â€œHe was charming,” Jeannine Fontenot repeated in her tense whisper, “but a lot of the other chefs didn’t appreciate him, because—well, it’s the truth and not boasting, he was better than they were.”
    â€œAnd you think that—?”
    â€œI know what you’re going to ask. Do I think that one of those other cooks killed him out of jealousy, out of spite?”
    â€œDo you?”
    â€œThis part I want off the record,” she said. “But yes. Yes, me, I think there may be something in that. Jealousy is a very powerful feeling.”
    She said the last few words with such intensity that Spraggue wondered how much she’d known about her husband and Dora.
    â€œNow,” she said apologetically. “I’ve gotten way off the track. You wanted to start with my husband’s background?”
    â€œPlease, I’m interested in your theories about his death.”
    She wasn’t to be led. She mumbled that possibly they could go back to that later.
    Spraggue said, “Maybe I could start with the education of a great chef. Was your husband raised in a family that cared about cooking?”
    She laughed. “He was raised in a family that cared about eating. Talk about poor! They didn’t have a pot to cook jambalaya in. My husband was born in the bayou. Bayou Cajun, like me.”
    That identified the elusive accent. Spraggue was glad he was getting it on tape.
    â€œHe was the youngest,” she went on, “the only boy, and a wild one at that. Funny, with all those women, he was the one wound up doing the cooking. He always said if I’d ever tasted his mother’s cooking, I’d know why he cooked—out of self-defense. He always had a nose for food. You know, great cooks don’t smell or taste the way other people do. It’s a gift, the way that perfect pitch is a gift. It’s an art. People in New Orleans appreciate that more than the rest of this country, almost the way they do in France.”
    â€œYour husband’s parents, are they still alive?”
    â€œNo. No. That Cajun bayou life moves fast. The girls are married and mothers at seventeen. At fifty they’re old, the way that others are at eighty. His parents died years ago. And his sisters are all married off, out of touch. Not a close family, like some. He had a half-brother—or was he a step-brother? Just about Joe’s age. They were real close, T-Bob and Joe, growing up. Two of the three musketeers. We owe a lot to T-Bob.”
    â€œT-Bob? Why T?”
    â€œYou don’t know Cajun. A mixture of French, English, some words all our own. T-Bob was probably named for his father, and they would call him ‘Petit Bob,’ you know, Little Bob. And that would become ‘T-Bob.’
    â€œI see.”
    â€œBut what T-Bob’s last name would be, I don’t even remember.”
    She was starting to talk to herself.
    â€œYou said you owed this T-Bob a lot,” he said.
    She looked up at him in surprise, as if she had forgotten he was there.
    â€œWe owe him the restaurant,” she said simply, “the dream. All this is our legacy from T-Bob. He was so close to my husband.”
    â€œYour husband must have been very sad to lose such a friend.”
    â€œWell, it had been a long time since he’d seen T-Bob.” She hesitated uncomfortably. “And the money, it was a wonderful surprise, the answer to so many prayers.”
    â€œWhen was this? When did T-Bob die?”
    â€œI’m not sure when he died, but the money came maybe six months ago. We did a lot in six months, finding this place, changing it—”
    â€œYou mentioned ‘three musketeers.’ Your husband and T-Bob and …?”
    â€œIt’s a long time ago,” she said. “I