The alarm pierced the morning air, jolting Cay out of a dream filled with banging pots and pans and people behaving badly. She pushed herself up in bed, and discovered she was facing the day with heartburn and gas, both from the beer and the image of a dead man still sweating as she pounded his chest with ineffective CPR. Marcy had sent some Skeleton Key Lager home with her from the Taste, and when Cayenne found herself unable to sleep, she ended up drinking more than she intended. She was paying her full bar tab this morning.

She pulled on her fuzzy slippers and a worn chenille bathrobe and stumbled to the kitchen to microwave a cup of chickory coffee left from yesterdays pot. She fired up her laptop and found the web based version of the Times Picayune before the microwave beeped. She cleared a spot at the kitchen table and settled in, perusing the webpage. It didn't take her long to find the article with a screaming headline, "Café owner suspected in Second Death at Food Con!"

The byline belonged to Ivan McNalton and James Reedy.

A rising food writer and critic with the Atlantic Constitution was found dead in the kitchen of the Marriott Hotel and a local café owner has been taken into custody over what authorities are calling "suspicious circumstances." Gustavus Perez, age 42 of New Orleans, already under suspicion for a poisoning death at his popular Casa de Gumbo, was found at the scene, hovering over the body following an alleged fight between him and Nicholas Doogan, the now deceased.

She sipped her coffee and skimmed the article.

According to an eyewitness, Kristina Guillames, caterer for the Taste of Louisiana happening in the room next door, discovered Perez near the body and was heard to say, "What have you done?" Another kitchen employee, Flamenco Calderón, age 28, was also there at the time the body was discovered and was visibly shaken.

"I do not know what to think. He is a hero to me but he has killed a man, I mean, a man died. I do not know how he died. I do not think Gusto would do it. I do not believe it."

Halfway through the article, her cell phone rang. She fumbled around her for her bag on the floor and caught it on the fourth ring. It was Rufus. He jumped right into the conversation.

"Got into the station today and find you in one of the daily reports. Girl, they listed you both as nearby rescuing citizen and eye witness. You okay, boo?"

"Yeah, I'm okay, " She rubbed her pounding head. "Not really a witness. I can testify he's dead, but not much more."

"Damn, girl. I was starting to think Gusto didn't do it. No motive. No previous connection. Grandbois found lots of poison in Trudeau, but nothing but a trace in the gumbo. Can't even rule out the guy falling back into the soup was the reason he even found that. We start looking for someone else and another food guy keels. Got to admit that this Mexican guy is either guilty as hell or one really unlucky hombre to be in two places at the wrong time.

"Gusto," Cay said, irritated. "His name is not the Mexican, it's Gusto Perez."

"Whatever his name is, we got him in custody this time."

Cay protested. "But the guy was drunk and sick to me before he went into that kitchen. I told your officer that night. And Gusto said he just went in there to talk to him. He swears he didn't kill him and I believe him."

"We have an eye witnesses that saw the men tussling, and minutes later, there's a dead guy on the floor. And don't forget that other dead body we found in the Mex... ah... Gusto's restaurant. You have to admit, Cayenne, we had to arrest him. He'll get his day in court."

Rufus cleared his throat, a sure sign he was about to change the subject. "Speaking of the other stiff, turns out he was writing for the New York Times. He was free lancing doing a series on New Orleans restaurants for the paper, you know, something like where the local really eat. Funny thing is that he had called his editor two days earlier and said that he was working on a story that would blow the lid off of Food Con but wouldn't talk about it. Just said it had to do with one of the organizers or the sponsors or something. Anyway he stretched the truth a bit telling Gusto he was the paper's food reviewer, but New York Times ended up getting a big story."

Cay took a quick sip of chickory. " Yeah, I can see the headline, 'Southerners Continue War Against the North With Secret Weapon.' "

Rufus laughed, "We would win that war, baby. Bring out the Cajun napalm!"

Cayenne giggled, then was reminded of something. "Trudeau said he had some dirt on one of the sponsors? You know, I had a short, unpleasant discussion with Nicholas Doogan before he died. He said something about Carson Fontainbleau's career was going to be over soon. Fontainbleau is a big supporter of Food Con. And I saw his assistant talking with him earlier in the evening. Maybe there's some kind of connection between Doogan and Trudeau, something to do with Fontainbleau?"

She could hear him scratching down notes. "The food guy? I love his writing. Hate to be on the receiving end of it but the guy has a way with the words. What do you think he meant?"

"I don't know. Doogan was bent on getting ripped at the fest and he didn't look very good. He wasn't about to share his intentions with me. I just know he went off when I mentioned Fontainbleau's name."

"Well, I'll let the papers fight that battle out. I think we got our guy."

"No way he is going to get a fair trial. The Times Picayune is already calling him the Black Roux Killer. He'll never cook again in this town."

"Grandbois will want his gumbo recipe before he heads to jail," Rufus ventured the question. "Think Kristina can pull that one off?"

"I'm hanging up now," she said, her head pounding and her coffee cold. She promised to bring his new cookbook by for the barbeque the upcoming weekend before she punched her cell phone silent. She paused to collect her thoughts, make herself a fresh pot of coffee, then put the call into Kristina to listen to her beat up on herself about being quoted in the paper.

"I feel so terrible. I didn't mean the way it sounded. I meant to say how can you be in two places at the wrong time. Gusto has a bit of a temper when people are being rude or racist or don't treat him with respect. He told me that he went into the kitchen to tell the man to have more respect, but then there was shoving and suddenly that man, who was slurring his words, suddenly grabbed his head and fell over. I swear it was Nicholas doing all the shoving. He even grabbed Gusto's shirt as he fell."

Cayenne had heard Kristina tell all of this to the police, but she could tell she needed to pour it out again. She also knew Kristina would never forgive herself for implicating Gusto in front of a newspaper man.

"It's out of our hands now, Kristina." She didn't want to tell her that the New Orleans Police Department considered it a closed case. And it was the wrong time to ask for Gusto's recipe.

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

She poured a couple more cups of coffee and ate some dry toast. After showering and feeling a bit better, she went into the office. She looked in the fridge and found the bowl of portered pudding Mambozo had left. She sent good vibes his way and headed to her desk with the bowl and a plastic spoon that had seen better days.

She googled the Times Picayune and put in a call to Ivan McNalton on the Lifestyle desk. She got his voice mail. Knowing it was futile, she left a message anyway for him to call her back regarding the misunderstanding about the beer stew recipe.

Then she dug out Curtis's number. Someone answered at his home and called him to the phone.

"Yeah?"

"It's Cayenne McKenzie Del Roi."

"Hey, the detective!" His voice got hushed. "What's up?"

"Any luck with the web address?"

"Nope. Man, they is eagle eyes around here. They watch my internet time here. Don't think I can get to it. 'less you can help me out."

Cay went silent, not really understanding what he might be asking. Curtis seem to anticipate the question.

"Don't read me wrong now. I dig being a baker better than being in jail, man. I ain't never going back to where I was. I can do this thing, detective. But I got to get me on a computer without a p.o. looking over my shoulder. Can't do that 'round here."

Cayenne thought a bit. She felt she was about to cross a line but chose to step over it anyway. "Well, maybe I can work something out. But I got to be able to trust you, Curtis. You take me for a ride and we are both in deep shit."

" I swear, man. Indian's Honor."

Cay was stopped up short. "What do you mean by Indian's honor?"

"I heard Miss Deirdre and Miss Yolanda talk about how you help that man with the Yellow Magnolias. My grandfather was Mardi Gras Indian. Tribe of the Flaming Egret or something. Showed me pictures. Thought it was all a joke at the time. Man, that dude was really pimped out. But Miss Yolanda told me the story. Makes more sense now. "

"Frank Montana was a good man." Damn, Cay thought, saddened. This town ain't nothing but a city full of grief. She pulled herself together before she lost it and said, "Okay Indian's Honor, then. I'll work something out. "

She hung up then looked up another number in her cell phone and pressed the call button, waiting until a familiar voice answered.

"Hey Yolanda, it's Cayenne. Got a question for you. Does Curtis need to do any community service? The Krewe of Couture is having a fundraiser for their children's art fund and they need help with the set up. "

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

If Cayenne was being honest, she would admit that it often frightened her to visit the den of the Krewe du Couture in the Warehouse District. It had moved since the time she first met the group of these artistic women with a dramatic flair. A krewe's den is where the Mardi Gras magic takes place in the midst of tons of tissue paper, plywood and nails, spattered paint cans, plastic sheeting, and table saws. Most Mardi Gras krewes center around a theme, a captain, a parade, and a desire for fun. But New Orleans Krewes are also secretive and jealously guard any announcement of their float theme until the day of their parade. The first time Cayenne had followed a Krewe member home from the Slippery Slope bakery, checking out a lead that caused her to stumble upon the den of the Krewe du Couture, a wild woman named Hillary threatened her life with glue gun thinking she was there to steal the theme. She had since always called ahead and announced her presence.

The Krewe had dispersed after Katrina and only about half made it back to the city. But they quickly got back to the business of creating amazing thrilling tableaus and resuming their reputation of taking two or more unrelated themes and combining them. They now paraded alongside the Krewe of Muses The sheer work and assembling of minutiae and the 75 different ways they could use rick rack, Barbie dolls, and disabled machinery was fascinating and thrilling.

But the biggest reason the Krewe scared Cay was that she knew that she had a limited sense of imagination and even more limited sense of artistic ability. The Krewe du Couture was loud and arty, racous and raw, cultured and educated, and often out of control. In other words, a lot like New Orleans herself. She loved being surrounded by the excitement, the color and the drama of the floats and the parade, but when things were in the act of creation, she panicked when someone would push a glue gun into her hand, dump a stack of polyester daisies and gold trim and a hundred plastic babies, pieces of antique greeting cards, hotel keys, and peacock feathers in front of her and said say "just glue that on there." She had no artistic imagination so she had learned to wait until no one was around and slip into the bathroom to hide. The Krewe learned early that Cay was a little slow in the creativity department, but that never seem to dampen their enthusiasm or optimism when trying to recruit Cay into its ranks.

Krewes often have a social or charitable function and the Krewe du Couture focused on assistance to an art program through the Louisiana Children's Museum specifically for children in poverty. This year, their fund raiser was a wearable art show and sale held at Natchez Community Cafe in the Garden District.

She poked her head into the small office where krewe captain Mary Dan, dressed impeccably in a black slim fitting pair of pants, a coral silk blouse, several strands of Mardi Gras beads and a pair of black, stitched cowboy boots, was talking on the phone. Mary Dan waved Cayenne to sit in an empty chair as she continued her conversation. " That's right, 50 pounds of chilies, assorted colors and sizes. And my man, you will be rewarded for your discretion."

"My dear Cayenne," she said, raising to her full height and coming over to kiss Cay on both cheeks, European style. "The place is a madhouse. What brings you here? "

"Got a proposition for you. I got a young man who can help out with getting ready for the fundraising next weekend, but I need you to share him with me for a couple of hours."

Mary Dan looked puzzled.

"It's a long story, but a very nice man in a bowtie named Rey is in trouble..." and proceeded to lay out her request.

In the end, Mary Dan agreed that Curtis would trade out several hours being a pack mule for them and she would write that he did a bit more community service hours than he actually did. The other hour would be spent at Mary Dan's computer, under her supervision of course, doing honest paid detective work.

"Come, mon chere, and walk with me. The Krewe is outdoing itself this year." She headed toward the door leading into the larger warehouse area.

"Is that what the chilies are for?"

She smiled her Mona Lisa smile and put a finger to her lips. "Sworn to secrecy."

The float was in various stages but Cayenne could see a half finished outline of a huge pineapple painted and dotted with sparkling glitter to define the ridges, laying on its side, its emerald leaves draping over the back of the float. Thousands of red and green chilies formed a wall of fringe on the left side of the float, though the right side remained bare. The pineapple leaves were rimmed in LED lights and a green and blue satin draped throne for the queen was perched at the highest point of the float, festooned with painted tortillas, peppers and fruits of all kinds.

Though still unfinished , Cay could see that it was going to be an amazing work, a thousand small pieces, each a miniature scene in itself. But she still had to ask.

"I'm not getting it. What the theme this year?" she asked.

Mary Dan smiled. "Hot Tamale Belly. I guess we're mixing a lot of themes, but it is our tribute both to Food Con and the rising Hispanic population in New Orleans. When Katrina needed workers, the immigrant workers were there. And a lot of them are staying . We mix them up, I know, Cubans, Mexicans, Ecuadorians and Puerto Ricans-they are all different, but that's what New Orleans does to people. It mixes you all up into a gumbo. We started on one theme, but you know, chere, how we get off track. It's turned more into a fruit, chili and tortilla theme. And of course, the belly dancers."

"Yeah, I heard about that," Cay said, consciously pulling down her grey cotton sweater firmly around her hips. "Kenois tried to recruit me."

"Not my style either, love," Mary Dan agreed, " but the krewe is having a grand time learning the moves. They are quite good at some things called the Maya and the Egyptian, though I must admit I'm not sure what they are." Here Mary Dan slipped down to a whisper. "But they still need a lot of work."

Mary Dan frowned, her perfect face marred by an uncharacteristic wrinkle in her forehead. "I'm still looking for a band however. Zydee Bob Beaux and Bang are playing at the Blue Moon Saloon in Lafayette this year at the time of the parade so that leaves our favorite band out of town."

"I think I know a tejano band that would be perfect." Cayenne was thinking of the band at the Tortilla stand. Maybe Mary Dan could negotiate a bulk rate of tortillas from the Tortilla Association. "I'll try to track down their information."

"Always the detective, aren't you, my friend?"

A terrible clatter and flurry of excited voices came from the corner of the warehouse. Cay looked alarmed, but Mary Dan just shook her head. "Kenois scheduled a practice today. They just can't get the sword dance down. "

Over in the corner, a tall woman dressed in purple silk harem pants and a gold beaded vest over a silky pink cholis was shouting, "1-2-3 Turn!" in rhythm to the Brothers of the Baladi soundtrack playing in the background while balancing a large curved sword on her head. A gaggle of women in various tribal dress tried to do the same. Hardly a sword stayed on the head and it was looking grim. Cay spotted Marcy at the same time Marcy spotted her. She smiled a big grin and started to wave, but that caused the spinning sword to come crashing down to the ground. Cayenne noted with relief that each sword were covered in a protective sheaf so no one was probably going to get hurt.

As the strains of the music faded out, Cayenne shouted out. "I found it! I found where the weapons of mass destruction are being kept. Kenois, I'm turning you in to Homeland Security!"

"Hey, Cay! Finally decided to join us?" The group leader put two hands together and bowed in respect. "I'm out of swords, but you can practice with that broom handle."

Cay put her hands up as if to ward her away. "No thanks. By the way, what are you calling yourselves?"

"We are still debating. Girlfriends, what do you think?"

"Belly Busters?" said Andreah, sporting a split skirt of green sheer fabric over blousy sequined seamed harem pants and a bright yellow midriff high top.

"The Lotus Lickers?" suggested Samantha, who looked lovely in a draping skirt of silver sequined white chiffon, topped with a white long sleeve crop top and a beaded red scarf wrapped around her hips.

"How about Shimmy Shimmy Riders ?" a woman named Joannie, dressed in a floor length brown and blue pattered skirt with a turquoise leotard top and beaded turban. "It's almost a cowgirl kind of name."

"All right! All right! Back to work." Kenois clapped her hands. "We need to practice those undulations again, preferably without dropping the hardware."

Marcy rolled her eyes and mouthed to Cay "Dictator!" Marcy looked absolutely exotic, dressed in a snow white and deep indigo scarf skirt, topped with a beaded belt and sequin studded leotard, and all brought together by a jeweled blue and white tiara in her hair.

Cay had first met Kenois Tout Tout when she spent time in Lake Charles after Katrina hit New Orleans and emptied the city. When Kenois found herself in New Orleans taking care of a sick relative and missing the parade season in Lake Charles, she first tried to ride with the Krewe of Muses . But there was a waitlist for this popular float. So Cayenne talked to Mary Dan who said yes immediately once she got a look at some of the shoes Kenois had beaded. Kenois was a fun, eccentric addition to the Krewe, who had lost many of its members in the aftermath of the hurricane.

The belly dancing idea on the float was Kenois's. "Bellies are perfect for a food theme!" She exclaimed. The other, more reluctant members soon were enthusiastic about the idea once they saw the kinds of outfits they could make for themselves, with silky scarves, coin studded scarves, bead fringed head wear, ankle bracelets, and toe rings flush with tiny bells. Dozens of calls were placed to Jacques Teutites's dress shop in the French Quarter for fabric, beads and sparkly things. Kenois had taken up belly dancing back in Lake Charles for exercise and became hooked. She thought the sword dance would add a dramatic flair.

Marcy called out from the crowd as the music started up again, "Can we use Mambozo this year? He's our token Cuban and I have the most adorable fruit cup of a hat for him to wear."

"He would expect nothing less than to ride with the Krewe du Couture."

As the music swelled, the dance troupe placed swords on their head then began the characteristic rolling of their bellies from top to bottom.

Mary Dan touched her shoulder as Cay watched, fascinated that the human body could move that way. "Dear Cayenne, please consider joining us tonight. We got plans to head down to the Bourbon House Oyster Bar tonight in the French Quarter. Beside eating the best oysters in town, we are meeting up with Jasmyn. Come with us. "

"Jasmyn who?"

"Jasmyn. Just Jasmyn. She's asked us to part of the Flambeaux Hambeaux Slam. Most people just call it Eat Beat."

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

The Bourbon House Oyster Bar fronted Bourbon Street a couple block down from Canal Street. It featured a full service restaurant and a noisy, booming wooden bar designed in classic forties style that stretched the length of the full room curling at the end closest to the street. Waiters bustled between the kitchen and dining room, noise bouncing off the high ceilings and echoing off the ceramic tile of the floor. Several men behind the counter worked in front of buckets of ice and oyster, quickly shucking fresh oysters and arranging them on beds of rock salt. It was at the curl in the bar that the Krewe gathered while they waited for their table, ordering a couple plates of oysters to start.

"These Curried Oysters are my favorite," Dinah said. "Dickie Brennan sure knows how to cook them.

"This is a Brennan's restaurant?" Cay said, scooping up a mustard color oyster and forking it into her mouth.

"Sure is, " Andreah answered. " Those boys are all over town."

"Tell me about it!" Cay said and related her story of running into Ralph Brennan at the Food Con Exhibit Hall and depositing apple pie filling all over his expensive suit.

"This Oysters Rockefeller recipe is from the original Brennans down on Royal Street." Samantha handed her an oyster. " Here give it a try."

As Cay scooped the steaming clam of oyster, garlic, spinach and Pernod into her mouth, she noticed a striking woman coming through the door. She was dressed from head to toe in clinging soft leather the color of an amethyst. A black silk scarf with purple Celtic designs wound around her neck several times and she wore a black wool hat, complete with green, yellow and purple feathers, that cascading down to the middle of her back. Her long black hair tumbled around her shoulders, and her olive dark skin, dark black eyes, and shimmering purple eye shadow caused such a striking scene, that Cay swore the din of the room got slightly more quiet as dozens of patrons stopped to watch this stunning figure walk toward the group at the bar.

"Jasmyn's here, y'all." Kenois announced.

The group all greeted her and there were kisses all around. Mary Dan pushed Cay forward for an introduction.

"I want you to meet Cayenne McKenzie Del Roi. She helped us extensively many years ago and is an honorary member of our krewe."

"So pleased to meet you.
Any friend of Mary Dan's
Is a friend of mine."

"Very pleased to meet you to, miss..." Cayenne hesitated.

"Jasmyn, just Jasmyn."

"Jasmyn is hosting the Flambeau Hambeaux Slam at the Cave tomorrow night. Lots of great poetry, music , performance art, and of course, our humble krewe of dancers. We are most honored for this invitation, Jasmyn." Mary Dan dipped her head in thanks.

Jasmyn nodded, her mass of tangled Mardi Gras beads clicking around her neck like hail falling against a window pane and her eyes ringed in black and accented in purple. Cayenne couldn't take her eyes off her.

"Most call it Eat Beat
A show of talent and art
All pushing the edge

"Join us my friend
Tomorrow night at the Cave
We'll see where we fly.

She pressed Cayenne's hands warmly with her own hands which sported multiple rings on every finger, then turned to greet the other members of the Krewe.

"Is she speaking in haiku?" Cayenne whispered to Mary Dan, who was thoroughly enjoying a neat glass of Kentucky bourbon along with a raw oyster taken from a plate resting on the bar.

"I've never known her to speak in anything but 5 and 7 syllables. That is her chosen form of art." She downed her bourbon then pushed herself away from the bar. " I'm going to check to see if our table is ready."

As she sipped on her own drink, a glass of Abita Turbodog, Cayenne eavesdropped on the conversation Jasmyn was having with Andreah about the upcoming Eat Beat poetry and performance art slam coming up the next evening.

"Your tribal dancing
will be on fourth in the show
Perfect addition.

"Judges will include
Ivan McNalton, writer
With Times Picayune.

"And Dixie Fouton
President of the Council
On Underground Arts."

Cay's ears picked up as she reached for a raw oyster with Champagne Vinegarette. It would be a good chance to corner Ivan McNalton who had never returned any of her phone calls about Rey's Port and Porter Stew appearing under his name.

"Eat Beat it is then," she said, slurping the oyster straight from its shell, it's slimy salty juices dripping down her chin in great satisfaction.

Coming February 10, 2009. The Flambeaux Hambeaux Slam