The Salty Taste of Murder (A Foodie Files Mystery Book 1)

by Christine Zane Thomas

  “That’s Detective Javier Portillo,” I hollered back at her. “He’s working the Jessica Hayes case.”

  My voice said business, but my smile probably betrayed me. No, it definitely betrayed me.

  I floated into the house with a full week’s worth of work ahead of me and a budding crush on my brain.

  TO: Foodie Allison

  FROM: Abby Ellis

  SUBJECT: My Mother

  My mother always said if you don’t have something nice to say, then you probably shouldn’t say it. You don’t know why the food was bad. Maybe a cook quit, or an ingredient was forgotten. I, for one, WILL be trying them out, despite your two forks.

  Stubbornly,

  Abigale Ellis

  9

  “Hey, girls,” I said, slipping off my shoes and prying my keys from the door lock. “Ow, Bella, that hurts. Nice to see you, Nicky.” I greeted my mother’s dogs. They both jumped and scratched up and down my legs. Bella even nipped me.

  They acted as if they hadn’t seen me in months when it had been no more than week.

  “Nice to see you too,” Mom scolded or feigned insult. Someone once told me that fifty percent of jokes are true, and with Mom, it was probably more often.

  “Yes. Nice to see you, Mom,” I said. “The lock’s still trying to eat my key.”

  “It’s the key, I’m telling you,” Mom said. “That boy at Maverick Hardware doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

  “I’m pretty sure anyone can run that machine,” I retorted.

  I took a seat in her easy chair where Bella immediately jumped up and cuddled up close to me. At my feet, Nicky rolled over, showing me his belly. Once he was satisfied with his belly rub, he joined Bella and myself in the chair.

  “I’m pretty sure you come visit with me so you can see the dogs.” Mom, like Mrs. Jeanie, was sipping on a large cup of coffee. This was probably her fifth or sixth cup of the day. She didn’t care if it was fresh or reheated in the microwave. To her, coffee was coffee.

  “You’re probably right,” I joked.

  I was surrounded by puppy love but knew full well puppies were fun for a little while but turned into work. I wasn’t quite sure I was ready to take the plunge into dog ownership—too much responsibility for a single girl.

  The national news was on the television, droning on about the state of our country—Mom likes to be an informed citizen. If it wasn’t on the news then it’d be the weather channel. On a rare occasion, I could convince her to watch Food Network with me. I had to steer clear of HGTV, otherwise she’d spend the whole of the show informing me what I needed to do to unlock the potential of my place. Where the money would come from for such renovations was anyone’s guess. Neither of us had it.

  No matter what was on though—or if the TV was on at all—spending time here brought the warm and fuzzy memories of my childhood bubbling to the surface. Most of those memories were just of the two of us. My dad left when I was young, and that memory was neither warm nor fuzzy.

  “Is everything okay?” she asked me. “You seem a little stressed.”

  Magical mom powers, activate. She could always sense when I was dealing with anxiety.

  “I’m fine,” I lied. She saw through it.

  “It’s not those ridiculous trolls on the internet again, is it? I told you not to read their comments. People these days are crazy.”

  “No, Mom, it’s not that,” I said. “Plus, your email didn’t help.”

  “I don’t count.” She rolled her eyes. “Then what is it?”

  Mom wasn’t going to drop it until I told her. I had to rip the band-aid off.

  “I had a strange incident this morning,” I said. “It’s probably nothing. You know me—just blowing things out of proportion.” She nodded as I continued, “But it still left me feeling a tad uncomfortable.”

  I explained the unusual incident with the truck on my run this morning. Then I made the mistake of telling her about my ride home afterwards.

  “Promise me you’ll steer clear of The Southern Depot,” she instructed. “Also, be creative with your runs. Don’t follow the same path.”

  “I won’t go running near there again. And that’s a good idea about varying the runs,” I offered, but thinking, duh.

  “All right, good enough,” she said. “Oh, and you could text me before you start running, and then again when you are back home safe.”

  “You sure you don’t mind early wake-ups?”

  She shook her head. “Your safety takes precedence.” She took another slow sip of coffee. I could tell she was transitioning. And her eyes told me what this transition would be about. Butterflies began to flutter in my stomach.

  “So, this detective you mentioned,” she said. “Is he handsome? Is he single? Tell me everything.”

  “Yes,” I answered the first one honestly. “I don’t know if he’s single. I don’t think he’s married.”

  She cocked her head for me to go on.

  “There’s nothing more to tell,” I replied. “Here, give me the remote.” I reached out for the clicker.

  Mom gave me a knowing smile. She knew me so well.

  We settled on the first chick flick I could find. The talk turned to food and then to the hotness of each of the two male contenders jockeying for the lead star. We just enjoyed each other’s company—sometimes it’s nice not be home alone for the night. And the doggy snuggles were just the icing on the cake.

  10

  The next morning, I woke up feeling recharged—refreshed, even. Funny how something as little as spending a night vegging out in front of the TV with my mom could turn my whole perspective around.

  But my hopes of knocking out a quick blog post on the ever-popular Avocado Post, a shared blog site between me and three other online blogger friends, were squashed by a text from Kate.

  Java Hutt?!?

  Two days in a row… My bank account wasn’t going to like me. But that’s typical. I saved the file, all twenty-two words I had written, and thumbed out a quick reply. I’d drop almost anything for Kate or Java Hutt coffee. Plus, there was the slight chance I’d see Javier again. I put on a dab of makeup for that possibility. It wasn’t much, but it was better than seeing me splotchy with sweat cascading down my forehead like he had yesterday.

  In a final act of desperation, I spritzed on some body spray, got my keys, and headed out the door. There was a touch of coolness in the air, a taste of fall.

  For once, I managed to beat Kate. I ordered for both of us. And both cups of coffee were waiting at the table by the time she arrived. She smiled and mouthed the words ‘thank you’ as she took the cup in both hands, snuggled it close to her chest, and took a long sip, smearing her bold, berry lipstick on the white lid.

  It never failed, when we got together, I looked like I had just rolled out of bed—jeans and a T-shirt, my little dab of makeup—while Kate looked like a million bucks. Her blouse fit neatly around her curves—and what curves they were—and a matching pencil skirt. This was her work attire—sometimes she liked to lie and say she envies mine. But I was pretty sure she didn’t own a plain-ole T-shirt. Once she showed up to help me cook in one of those Mia Nobel dresses—the flowery print ones that cost a whole paycheck.

  Kate’s gonna Kate, I thought with a smile.

  “What are you smiling about?” she asked.

  “Oh, nothing.”

  We drank our coffees and caught up on the happenings of the past few days. Or rather, the lack of happenings. The police had yet to formally charge anyone with Jessica’s murder.

  The bell on the entrance jingled, alerting the staff of a new customer.

  “Someone’s ears must’ve been burning,” I whispered to Kate.

  Over the years I had formed a bad habit of looking up to see who was entering a shop. Kate pursed her lips satisfactorily and checked her watch.

  “Right on time,” she whispered to herself loud enough for me to hear as Detective Javier Portillo n
odded in our direction.

  “Kate,” I whispered harshly, “is this a setup? You knew he’d be here.” And honestly, so did I. But I wouldn’t give Kate that satisfaction.

  “I had a hunch.” She shrugged. “Like most guys in law enforcement, his habits are predictable.”

  He ordered his coffee and meandered over to our table.

  “Good morning, Detective,” Kate said, smiling.

  “Morning, Miss McCallister. Morning, Allison. Are you feeling better today?”

  My cheeks reddened hot. There goes not being splotchy. I couldn’t help it. Every time I was embarrassed I blushed.

  “Much better,” I replied quickly, hoping Kate wouldn’t catch on. I may have missed some parts in our catch up earlier.

  “And you’re welcome for the ride yesterday,” he said.

  “Sorry, I meant to say thanks. Didn’t I say thanks?”

  No, you were too busy swooning.

  “Maybe you did,” he lied.

  “Javi,” Gertie called and set a drink down on the bar. He walked over and grabbed his coffee.

  “Ride?” Kate whispered.

  “I’ll tell you about it later,” I shot back.

  Javier went back to hovering above our table.

  Kate flipped the switch to full-on reporter mode.

  “Detective Portillo, I have a couple of questions, if you don’t mind. We can keep them off the record—for now.”

  He didn’t try to stop her, but he didn’t really indicate he was comfortable with her asking questions either.

  Kate pressed on, “I’ve heard several people are concerned about the business partners, Taylor Coker and Camp Devereaux.” I gave her a look, wondering if she’d been reading my mind. That was another thing we hadn’t talked about. “Are either of them considered suspects?”

  The detective smiled knowingly—he probably thought I put her up to this. “I’d say it’s too soon to rule them out.”

  “Well, from what I’ve been looking into,” Kate said, “both men have been involved in several defunct restaurants spanning most of southern Georgia and even across the border into Florida.”

  “We are definitely looking into it, Miss McCallister.” His response was vague. But it obvious that he was interested in the topic. “We have to find the evidence to tie our suspect to the murder. So far, there isn’t much of a paper trail or anything else.”

  “Oh, well, thank you for your time, Detective.” For a moment, Kate looked as if the wind had been taken from her sails. Then she flashed him her award-winning smile. “Have a great day.”

  “You, too, Miss McCallister.” He nodded at Kate. “See you around, Allison.”

  “Allie,” I corrected. “You can call me Allie.”

  He smiled. “See you around, Allie.”

  “What was all that about?” Kate and I had asked each other at the same time. “What?” we asked each other in unison.

  “Jinx! You owe me a coke,” I said.

  We chuckled.

  “I’ll go first,” Kate offered. “What is this ride that y’all are talking about?”

  I recounted my encounter with Javier the day prior. During the entire story, Kate grinned from ear to ear.

  “He likes you,” she said batting her eyelashes coyly.

  “What makes you say that?” I asked.

  “Seriously, do you even listen? He keeps calling me Miss McCallister. To him, you’re Allison—Allie now. Add to that he was your knight in shining armor yesterday. It’s safe to say he likes you.”

  “No… No, he doesn’t,” I said, hoping deep down I was wrong. I wasn’t sure she was right about this. Maybe she was just being hopeful. He was nice enough to me. He helped me out. Those are all things that friends do. Making new friends in a small town at thirty, though, that was difficult. Finding a relationship with someone new anywhere at thirty, well, that seemed nearly impossible.

  “You’re wrong,” she said confidently.

  We’ll see about that.

  It was my turn to ask the questions.

  “So, what was all that about? His business partners—where did all that come from?”

  For the next thirty minutes, I listened as Kate explained her research. How she too had found the pictures on Facebook. Like me, she had trouble figuring out the identity of the woman with Camp and Taylor.

  “She’s not a business partner. Maybe she’s just staff…” Kate said, unsure.

  “Maybe.” I shrugged.

  Then Kate dug into the real dirt. She’d come across information about the other restaurants the two partners had owned, all of which had shut their doors—all except The Southern Depot.

  If anything, Kate was thorough. She could convince me, and probably a jury of my peers, that either one had done it. No wonder she’s so good at her job.

  But my suspicions lingered on the girl.

  “The thing is,” Kate explained, “it looks like The Southern Depot is headed down that same path. All that I need is a paper trail to tie one of them to the death.”

  Kate, too, was convinced that Miller had nothing to do with it. He was a victim. After all, he was just the kitchen guy—the head chef, the expeditor, and quality control. He knew nothing about the books. That was Jessica’s territory.

  Again, the bell on the door jingled. Glancing up, as usual, I saw a girl in a hat walk briskly out the door. She seemed familiar. Too familiar. It had to be the same girl I’d seen leaving The Southern Depot and getting in the truck.

  I got a sinking feeling in my gut.

  Did she just hear our conversation? And if so, what does this mean for Kate and myself?

  TO: Foodie Allison

  FROM: Clay Adams

  SUBJECT: AGREED!!!

  Allie,

  I have to say I tend to agree with your review of The Southern Depot. Yes, it’s a shame about that girl. But the prices are SKY high! And the food—well, I’d as soon go to the diner. Good on you for your honesty!

  Clay Adams

  11

  On my way home from the coffee shop, I took an ill-advised detour and drove past The Southern Depot. After all, hadn’t the girl said they’d be open for lunch today?

  It was a little early, but kitchen prep would’ve started. There were a few cars in the parking lot. Miller’s truck was one, and there sitting in the same exact spot was the silver truck that had startled me yesterday. The other cars were probably kitchen and dining staff.

  A honk from behind my car forced me into the realization I’d been putzing on a heavily trafficked road. To avoid the notice of an onlooker’s gaze, I kept going down the street and across the railroad tracks. When I got to Jefferson Street, I turned down it and went the long way home.

  I’d gotten to thinking about that truck yesterday. Was the driver trying to scare me or was it some strange coincidence? This wasn’t a movie, after all. It was real life. People don’t do things like that in real life, do they? Maybe I’d just built it all up in my head…

  But another thing about living alone was I’d gotten really good at internal monologue. The thoughts festered. I shouldn’t have let it get to me. But I couldn’t help it. It was like the fallout with Jessica in high school, only amplified—I guess I’ve been this way my whole life.

  I raced inside the house having somewhat mentally formulated a plan. In the spare bedroom that I used to call an office, I kept an old bulletin board in the closet. I’d meant to hang it there on the wall. I’d hoped to have an office with a real desk—a place to write—a bookshelf, and inspiration hanging on the wall.

  What I had was a room filled with clutter. The bookshelf was still in a box, unbuilt. Books were stacked on the floor. And I’d moved the nice desk out to the living room to be closer to the TV.

  It took some digging, but I finally dug it out from behind a cardboard box filled with last year’s dinner receipts.

  The board itself had come from my room at home that Mom still kept mostly intact. I scrounged
items from it here and there. This bulletin board had been a prized possession at one time. Faded pictures of my childhood and notes from friends were tacked into the cork. I relished the memories before carefully stripping the photographs away.

  The clutter of the room got to me. So, I set up shop again at my desk in the living room. There was a pink pad of sticky notes on the desk. I began scribbling on one after the other.

  Organizing things had always been a stress reliever for me. Like the clutter in my spare room, the clutter of my mind can get to be overwhelming. I needed the stress of this case to be set free from the inside.

  In almost every police drama on TV, they have a board similar to the one I’d begun to construct. At the top, I had my list of suspects: mystery woman, Camp, and Taylor. The mystery girl was underlined. I really did need to figure out her name. And even though I didn’t want to do it, I had to put Miller’s name up there, though, his was not level with the others. In this house, he wasn’t really a suspect.

  Next, I began to ponder motives.

  On a new note under Miller’s name, I scribbled, “Life Insurance Policy.” On another adjacent sticky, I wrote, “Crime of Passion?”

  Of course, I didn’t believe it was him, but I needed to lay it all out there—from my brain to paper. It was therapeutic.

  What about these business partners? Was it one of them, two, all three? Maybe they’d set Miller up somehow. At this point it was anyone’s guess.

  On my phone, I pulled up that Facebook photo of the two partners. I could’ve easily been reading into things, but it looked as if the female investor was closer to Camp than to Taylor. Was there something romantic between them? Underneath both of them I stuck, “Relationship?”

  Then for all three investors I added, “Failing business.”

  It looked pretty good for a spur of the moment creation. Perhaps it was a little pink, and there was no pizzazz to it. No mugshots or string connecting the pieces of the puzzle. That would’ve been a nice touch. I made a mental note to pick up some string and maybe some ink for the color printer next time I was at the store.