"I love this guy," Grandbois declared, directing his words at Captain Rufus Thibodeaux, a large black man dressed in civilian clothes standing next to the body and going through his wallet that the initial investigating cop had found in the dead man's pocket. "Roux doesn't get blacker than this." Grandbois tapped his pen on his forehead in thought. "Still, we need to take the gumbo in and test it. Looks like he went pretty fast for a young guy."

Rufus pulled out a driver's license from the expensive looking black leather wallet. He pulled a wallet from the pocket. "Looks brand new. Seane Trudeau. New York, New York. 44 years old. " He pulled out another card and read it. "Restaurant and Food Writer." Rufus snorted. "Bet he gives this place gets a bad review."

"All the better for us down here in New Orleans." Grandbois grumbled. "Enough tourists in this town already."

The investigating office, a fresh faced young man standing near a Today's Special board, piped up. "Owner says the guy claimed he was writing a review for the New York Times. We just called up there and caught HR before they closed up. The personnel office hasn't heard of him but they say they take lots of free lancers. Could be one of them. They'll get back to us in the morning."

" I would think that being a Yankee handed this stiff a better chance of dying than eating a good bowl of gumbo." Grandbois pulled off his greasy rubber gloves and wiped his hands with some antiseptic wipes before he wrote some notes in his police tablet. Then he walked toward the back of the dining room.

The main room of the Casa de Gumbo was a simple place, a converted house really with simple white clothed tables packed into a room with a worn wood floor, with small, old windows with red checkered curtains looking out to the sidewalk. An occasional travel poster for Cancun could be seen between the Carnival, Mardi Gras and New Orleans posters which filled the walls, and a hand woven blanket covered the front podium that held the reservations book . The owner sat stiffly, in shock, in a room off the front room that served as an office, guarded by a police officer. He was in his late thirties, of Mexican descent, neatly dressed in pressed pants and a sport shirt with a logo stitched onto the pocket.

Grandbois extended his hand out to Gusto Perez, the owner and head chef at the Casa de Gumbo. "We are almost done here, Mr. Perez. Just want to tell you, congratulations on winning the best in show in last month's Holiday Bowl Cook-off over there in Metairie. I was in the participating audience and I'm proud to say I voted for you three times. Anyway, I know this is an unusual request, but do you think I can get a couple of buckets to go? The chicken and sausage would be great. I'm missing dinner this evening."

Gusto nodded humbly, and as if hypnotized, slowly headed to the kitchen, police escort in tow. Grandbois shook his head again and turned back to the crime scene. "They are going to love this guy in the kitchen in Angola.." Grandbois said. "Damn, I'll miss him."

Rufus, still investigating the wallet, responded from across the room. "You, and half of New Orleans. I was looking forward to having the kitchen sink for dinner myself. That's why I was driving by when I saw all the black and whites." He contemplated a battered insurance identification card. "This guy has spent some time in Milwaukee. Maybe recently moved to the Big Apple?" He slipped it back into the wallet. "Probably in town for Food Con. Reason I couldn't get a dinner reservation tonight."

Grandbois slipped the other rubber glove off his hand. "Thibodeaux, I'm sending this soup to the lab. I'm smelling almonds on lips of the stiff and that ain't never a good sign. Official diagnosis, suspicious death. Unofficial, I think the gumbo killed him."

"Maybe he had one of those almond beignets that Gusto is famous for, you know the ones with that lemon powdered sugar?" Rufus offered.

"I love those things." Grandbois countered. "Did you ever try the ones from The Swiss Miss Wagon? They work in a swirl of Grand Marnier. It's voodoo, I tell you."

Rufus shook his head as he tossed the wallet into an evidence bag. "Man, you should come over some Sunday and get a taste of the beignets that my wife cooks up. She starts with a buttermilk that has been brought to room temperature…"

The culinary dissection was interrupted by a clamoring of voices outside the door, followed by a tumble of people forcing their way into dining room. Cayenne pushed her way past a police officer, followed by Stan and Kristina, and halted abruptly, breathless and wild eye in front of Rufus.

Rufus brightened at first at the sight of his red headed goddaughter. "Cayenne! What are you doing here, boo?" Then he frowned and his voice grew gruffer. "Cayenne, what are you doing here? This is a crime scene!"

"Uncle Rufus!" She put on a big show of delight. Rufus had been a good friend of her father's when he was a cop down here in New Orleans before she was born. After her father had died and she had moved to New Orleans, Rufus and his wife took her in almost as an adoptive daughter. Having an inside at the police department helped her business as a detective, but she had to be careful to play Rufus just right. He had been promoted after his work in the aftermath of Katrina to policy and community relations, but she knew he missed his investigations work.

She made her way directly to his side, making sure she could get a good look at the body while she still could and gave the tall black man a big hug.

"What are you doing here? Aren't you a big poohbah now? I thought you didn't beat the pavement anymore." She sneaked a glance at the body, still face down in the bowl. Her stomach somersaulted in an arc of nausea. Es terrible, the phrase came unbidden to her brain. Her Spanish lessons were beginning to take root.

Rufus put himself between Cay and her line of sight of the body. He barked to two attendants sipping an espresso at a back table, "We are done here. Take the body down to the morgue."

He turned his attention back to Cayenne. "Truth be told, I was on my way to pick up some gumbo to go. Anita asked me to pick up a couple buckets, and when I saw the cop lights, I thought I'd stick around." Cayenne was glad that Anita and the kids had returned to New Orleans after the hurricane. It was a rough go there for awhile but just like the rest of the city, things were starting to return to normalcy.

Rufus voice, however, turned stern. "That explains me. But what are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be tracking down some kind of heist against that cheese guy?"

"Yeah, I made a note to thank you for the referral. But Kristina called me. The owner of the restaurant is a good friend, want to make sure that he cooperates fully and his rights aren't violated." She moved slightly to the right to get a look at the face of the dead man as the attendants took him away.

Kristina stepped forward. "I can vouch for Gusto. He's a good man, Captain Thibodeaux. Please you got to believe me."

Rufus held up his hand to stop the discussion. "No offense, Mrs. Guillames, but I'll believe whatever Grandbois finds on his autopsy table."

He turned back to Cay. "Making sure his rights aren't violated?" Rufus looked at her suspiciously, "what does this Mexican have against this guy?"

And then he looked at Gusto who had just come out of the kitchen with a bag full of Styrofoam containers. He was ringing up the purchase for Grandbois, his hands still shaking as he punched in the numbers onto the keyboard. Cay had seen that look before on Rufus's face. It was the look of a hardened cop that building his case against a prime suspect.

"Come on, Uncle Rufus," Cay pleaded, using Rufus's trick and moving herself into the line of sight between Rufus and Gusto. " Maybe its just a bad ticker or a heroin overdose. Let Grandbois do his magic before you send anybody to jail."

"Don't tell me how to do my job," Rufus bristled. "This ain't a bad ticker. Something bad with this gumbo and Senor Gusto cooked it. Seems pretty clear to me, young lady."

He walked over to Gusto behind the counter and said in a stern tone, "Señor Perez, we'd be very interested in talking to you a bit more. We'd like you to come down to the station. You are a person of interest and we want to talk to you. I'll be taking you down to the station with me."

"Am I under arrest? Do I need a lawyer?" He said, frightened and intimidated.

Rufus moved closer with a look that Cayenne had seen a million times. "Do you think you need a lawyer?"

Kristina stepped into the growing tension. "Gusto, I will call someone to meet you down there. You should wait until he gets there before you say anything."

Cay could tell that Rufus was not happy. She added, " Just tell the truth, Gusto."

"I can't believe this is happening!" he said. "Mon dios! I did not kill that man."

Cayenne leaned in an whispered to the upset man. "Tenga espera, por favor. Voy a buscar la persona responsible.

Gustavo looked confused. She gave up and said in English. "Don't lose hope. I'll find out who did it." He nodded his head. Damn Chicago accent, she thought. I'll never be able to speak it right.

***********************************************

The three of them left Gusto's shop and piled into Stan's white SUV with Stew du Roux cafe stenciled on the side. Cay pushed aside a load of groceries, espresso cups and bags of red, green and yellow peppers to clear a spot in the back seat. As they maneuvered out of the tight parking spot at the curb, Kristina spotted the city health inspector pulling his car into the loading zone in front of the Casa de Gumbo, which now was laced in yellow plastic crime scene tape.

"When the papers get a hold of this, he's finished in this town," Kristina said, as Stan pulled out into the narrow street and maneuvered the short way back to the Stew du Roux. Cayenne had gotten her invitation for a well cooked meal at the Stew, but she regretted it had to be eaten in the gloom and depression that had settled over her two friends.

She tried to change the subject. "You going down to Food Con this week?"

Stan wrenched his head around, taking his eyes off the road to look at her in disbelief. "Cayenne McKenzie Del Roi, you don't even shop for food let alone cook it. How come you know about Food Con?"

"Let's just say I have a client with connections. I was thinking about going down to check some stuff out."

Stan said, proudly, " Kristina is presenting a workshop. Yes, m'am. She's going to be as famous as Carson Fontainbleau some day." "You know him?"

"Everyone in the food and beverage industry in New Orleans knows Carson Fontainbleau." Kristiana said. " He's one of the pioneers in restaurant review writing. A real writer, not just an eater who can count up to five stars and grunt, 'Yum.'"

"What's your workshop?"

"You know that silly restaurant review column called Krewe du Review that I've been writing for frenchquarter.com.  Well, the planning committee said there was lots of interest in the rise of the internet and consumer ratings of restaurants. So they wanted me to educate the public about the business. You know, teach people that restaurant reviewing is more than just saying stupid things like "Well, it didn't make me barf" or "My waiter was really cute." That's one thing you could say about Carson Fontainbleau. He was a writer first. He can write about food in a way that makes me teeter between being ravenous and wanting to cry."

"That good, huh?"

"I'm going to use a piece from one of his earlier works as an example of how it should be done. Makes me taste the food and feel the cool on my cheek. It's from a piece reviewing the Dudley Fecteau 's place out at the Rendezvous in Crowley. I got it here in my notes because it's the best piece of writing about food I've ever read. Stan, turn on the overhead light." She fished around in her oversized bag and pulled out a notebook, flipping the steno paper over until she reached the page. In the dim light of the car, she read.

The boy's etouffee doesn't smother those shrimp, just massages them into a mellow mood so they'll crawl onto your spoon, curl up and purr. His sauce piquant sets them dancing on their tails. (Leaves on their rear legs for the cancan). And his sausage! He doesn't stop with a boudin blanc and a boudin rouge, oh no. He's got a baiser premier, his "first kiss" sausage, and a bris d'pretemps, his "spring breeze" sausage. His "mother's smile" sausage, his boudin sourire l'maternel, has been known to leave the biggest, toughest men in the parish dropping tears into their plates. He knows the secret of the mélange, too---knows how to make the just right combinations. Like, you ever go walking with your sweetheart on a frosty fall night and stop to give your sweetheart a hug? You reach inside your sweetheart's coat for that warm, bundled-up body, and at the same time press your face against your sweetheart's cool cheek? Well, if you've ever done that, you'll know about Dud's spicy Creole chicken with the chilled vinaigrette on the side. And you'll know why he calls that dish Octobre Nuit. ("One Night At the Rendezvous")

"Damn," Stan said, switching the light back off. "I'm hungry again."

"Unfortunately, that was from a long time ago. He really loves Cajun and Creole traditional cooking and he holds chefs to pretty high standards. That all changed after Katrina came to town. Now, he's more interested into using his words as weapons against any new restaurant that tries something new. Still a great writer. But now he makes you want to plunge your fork into your own chest instead of anyone's Eggplant Pirogue. He gave Gusto a terrible review, even though every other reviewer in town raved over his roux."

She flipped her notebook cover closed and tucked it back in her bag. "Anyway, he is one of the keynotes at the convention of course and I think they picked him as a panelist for the final Black Pot Chef competition. Doesn't get more prestigious than that."

Kristina brightened, and turned to Cay. " Hey, did you know that Swiss Miss is down there with the pastry concession this year? They are being featured. I'm proud to say they were one of my first columns. Now they are the darlings of the New Orleans cafe culture and they take that wagon of theirs all over town. Deirdre has invented a new Mardi Gras cheesecake that's green, gold and purple. Had a slice the other afternoon and I can't wait to go back for another one." She grinned, then the laughter fell from her face. "Poor Gusto. I have to call Juliana."

Stan said, "I heard Yolanda of Swiss Miss hired some kid from one of those diversion programs, you know from some juvenile hall kinds of place. They are trying to teach him to make cheesecake instead of hacking into computers. I think they want him to work on their home delivery business too. You know, king cakes during the Carnival season and coffee breaks off season via the internet. Yolanda has always been kind of a gearhead in her own way. Maybe they could get you into Food Con."

Christina said. "I could probably get you in as a co presenter, too. It might be tough, though. The convention is very tight on checking to make sure you are registered and they will kick you out if you didn't pay to get in. They do it up big for all the food reviewers and trade journalists, and last time too many people were trying to get in for all the free samples, and meals, and receptions."

Cay said. "I prefer to go unnoticed. You know my friend Flamenco? The one helping me learn Spanish? He works in the kitchen down at the Hyatt. I'll talk to him about maybe leaving a back door open." Cayenne knew Flamenco to help her sneak into the convention as long as she could figure out how to say it in Spanish.

"Well, make sure to make it to the Brewers Association of America show case of local microbreweries. Stan and I were hired to cook jambalaya and shrimp piquant for the group. We've been working on recipes."

"That's the one my client was talking about. I think the Houma Brewing Company is being featured."

"I hope so," Stan said. "I love the Terrebonne Stout. Can't seem to find it too much up here."

Turning off of Bougainvillea Street, he pulled the white wagon into the alley behind the Stew du Roux. " Come on in. I'm hoping to perfect that shrimp sauce piquant recipe before the microbrew exhibit and I think I am just about there."

"You should definitely try out Stan's latest version," Kristina said. "It really is to die for."

An uncomfortable silence filled in the car. The horror of the night and the still startling scene of a dead man face drowning in a brown-black soup worked its way back into everyone's mind.

Kristina spoke again. " Poor choice of words. I'm starting to sound like Carson Fontainbleau."