by J. J. Cook
“He might be right about the savory.” Delia closed her eyes as she chewed. “But nothing is gonna beat the sweet. Just don’t let him tell you how to make biscuits. You got that down, honey.”
I didn’t know all of Delia’s story, either. I knew she grew up poor and had five sisters. I knew she shared an apartment with some other women who worked at the bar. She had to live close by. I wasn’t sure where. That was about it. Delia was smart and beautiful. She was tall and thin, and wore her clothes like a model. It seemed as though she could’ve done anything she wanted.
I was especially envious of her long legs, since I’d always been on the short side. I was a little plumper than I wanted to be, too. It was hard to make food and not eat it.
“I got something for you, too.” Delia did a quick glance around us in the badly lit parking lot. “I thought maybe you’d like them. They aren’t much. I just wanted to give you something for cutting down on my food bill!”
I looked at the big, green paper beads she’d given me and stuffed them into my pocket. “Thanks.”
A dark green Lincoln sedan pulled in close. Delia popped the last of her biscuit into her mouth and cleaned the crumbs from her bright red lips.
“That’s my ride tonight. Gotta go, Zoe. Take care. Thanks for supper.”
I watched as she wrapped the other biscuit bowl in a napkin and then stowed it away in her red handbag. Her matching red cowboy boots disappeared as she got in the car, and the Lincoln pulled back into traffic.
I worried about Delia. I’d seen the place she was working once or twice. Tommy Lee had told me the bar catered to the rich crowd in Mobile. I think he’d been in there. It looked worse than my diner.
I’d tried several times to give her my cell number in case she needed any help. She wouldn’t take it. She’d been working since she was a teenager, and had taken care of herself and her family. She probably handled her life better than I handled mine anyway.
I walked back through the mostly dark parking lot. Ollie had turned on the lights in the diner. I’d given him a key a few weeks back in case of emergency. I couldn’t think of anyone more trustworthy than him, even if he was homeless.
I knew he was working on the rat problem. I didn’t want to think about how he was doing it. I decided to clean up the food truck and be ready for another early morning tomorrow.
Crème Brûlée was snoring in his bed on the passenger seat in the front of the food truck. He didn’t wake up as I worked. He had taken to ignoring me lately.
I knew he was angry that we’d moved from my apartment. I couldn’t afford to stay there and keep the diner. Besides, there was a shower and bathroom at the diner. It had once been a truck stop. I’d made a small bedroom out of the office. It was fine.
I cleaned and prepped as much as I could in the evenings, but I’d been up baking since four A.M. It was time to go to bed. I closed and locked the back of the food truck then went around to the front.
Crème Brûlée hissed when I picked him up. “You need to go on a diet,” I told him. “The only reason you complain when I lift you is because you’re too big for me to pick up with one arm. No more treats for you. Maybe then you’ll be inspired to catch a few rats.”
He yawned and looked at me like I’d lost my mind. Maybe he was right.
I reached over to get my wallet and keys from the driver’s side. A man was sitting there, in front of the steering wheel. Probably one of the homeless men from the shelter.
I pushed at him. “Hey you! You have to get out so I can lock up.”
He didn’t move.
A little annoyed, I grumbled to myself as I went around and opened the driver’s side door.
The man slid halfway out of the cab. I could see in the dim light that it was Terry, from Terry’s Tacky Tacos—the man I’d argued with that day. What was he doing here?
Could this day get any worse?
TWO
I shouldn’t have asked that question. Crème Brûlée meowed and tried to jump out of my arms.
We both knew that would be a disaster. I couldn’t remember when the last time was that he’d jumped anywhere.
“Just be still and let me think.” I rubbed his ears and stroked his silky fur. He wasn’t much good at anything else, but he kept himself well-groomed—I had the hair balls to prove it.
It hadn’t been more than thirty minutes or so since I’d climbed out of the food truck. How did Terry get in there after me? And what was he doing here? Had he followed me back to give me more grief over parking in “his spot” on Dauphin Street?
“What’s up out here, young ’un?” Ollie came out of the diner, still holding the sword.
“I don’t know. This is Terry.”
He nodded. “From the infamous tacky taco truck?”
“Yes. I don’t know what he’s doing here. I think he may be drunk or something.”
Ollie bent down and put his hand on Terry’s neck. “I don’t know, either, but he ain’t goin’ no place else.”
“What do you mean? I can call him a taxi or something.”
“No, Zoe. You don’t get it. The man’s dead. A taxi won’t do him any good now.”
Dead? That made even less sense to me. Maybe I was too tired to think straight.
Why was Terry—alive or dead—in my food truck?
“We gotta hide him somewhere.” Ollie glanced around. “We gotta get rid of him before someone sees him here.”
“We can’t do that. We should call the police. That’s what you do when you find a dead body.”
“Oh? ’Cause you’ve got so much experience finding dead people?” He chuckled. “You better believe me, Zoe. You think you got trouble now, tell the police there’s a dead man in your food truck. You’ll be in for a heap more trouble.”
I knew he was wrong. If something had happened to Terry, regardless of how he got into the Biscuit Bowl, the police needed to be informed. If there was one thing I knew besides cooking, it was the law.
My mother was one of the most prominent attorneys in Mobile. There was even some talk of her getting a judgeship. She’d fed me the law with my pureed carrots and pears when I was a baby. She’d hoped I was going to follow in her footsteps someday.
I was kind of a disappointment in that area.
I took out my cell phone. “I’m sorry, Ollie. I have to call. If you’re worried about being here, you should go to back to the shelter. I can handle this.”
“I ain’t worried about me, Zoe. It’s you I’m concerned for. What do you think the police will make of you having a dead man in your vehicle?”
I thought about it. “What can they make of it? I didn’t do anything. Someone must have put him here. Or he climbed in and died. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”
Famous last words.
The police arrived about ten minutes later. The first car came in with sirens blaring, skidding to a stop on the broken pavement in the parking lot. Two more cars, filled with Mobile’s finest, joined them a few minutes later. They were followed by an ambulance, and another team of investigators in an unmarked car.
Ollie stayed with me, much to his credit, at least until the police officers started asking questions. He mumbled an apology at that point, and disappeared into the night.
“Do you have a driver’s license or any other form of ID?” Officer Frank Schmidt asked me once we were seated in his police car.
“Of course.” I handed him my license. I knew what was on it—Zoe Elizabeth Chase, five-foot-two (though really I’m five-foot-two and three-quarters), black hair (short and curly), and blue eyes (on the violet side). Twenty-nine years old. “My address isn’t accurate because I recently moved. I’ll have it changed as soon as I can.”
“Sure.” Officer Schmidt handed the license back to me. “Is this your vehicle?”
“Yes. I sold my new Prius and used the money to upgrade it. Uncle Saul is letting me borrow it. I’m trying to make enough money to open my restaurant to the public.”
He
glanced up. “You mean the diner? Is that considered a restaurant?”
His tone bruised my already tender feelings. “It will be when I’m finished with it.”
Crème Brûlée yawned and repositioned himself in my arms. My right hand was going numb holding him. I didn’t think I should ask to go inside and put him down in the middle of my interview.
“Whatever you say.” Officer Schmidt kept typing into the computer. “What about the man in the vehicle? Do you recognize him?”
“You mean Terry.”
“Okay, Terry. What’s his last name?”
“I don’t know. I’ve only spoken to him a few times. He has a food truck, too. He sells tacos and other Mexican food. Terry’s Tacky Tacos. He’s pretty popular.”
“What happened to him?”
“I don’t know. I was getting ready to go lock up the food truck, and saw him in there. I opened the door and he kind of slid out. He wasn’t there when I parked the Biscuit Bowl about an hour ago. I don’t know how he got in there.”
Officer Schmidt studied me for what seemed like a long time. “He suddenly appeared—dead—in your vehicle?”
“That’s about it. I wish I could be more helpful.” I smiled at him for emphasis, wishing I had a biscuit bowl to give him. Everything went better with food.
“Stay here, Miss Chase. We may need to talk to you again.”
That hadn’t gone the way I’d planned.
I waved to Ollie. He was standing outside the homeless shelter with Marty. All the other men were out there, too. With the flashing lights from the emergency vehicles, the parking lot was lighted well enough to see everything. It was quite a show. More excitement than most of us got—or wanted.
I yawned, exhausted, wondering how long it would take to deal with Terry. I felt bad for him being dead and all. But I had to get up really early if I wanted to be done cooking in time to get downtown and set up for lunch tomorrow. It didn’t take long for the best spaces to get filled up with food carts and trucks. Once that happened, it was over for the day.
My phone rang. It was Tommy Lee again. I was going to ignore it, but I felt a little vulnerable, maybe even nervous about the whole matter.
“Hi, Tommy Lee.” I gave in to my need to talk to someone familiar. I knew he’d be through the roof when I told him what had happened. I hoped it was worth it.
“Zoe, you and I need to talk.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.” I explained about the police investigating Terry’s death. “Maybe tomorrow?”
“Don’t be crazy. I’ll be right over. You keep your pretty little mouth shut. Let me do the talking when I get there.”
The phone went dead in my hand. Having Tommy Lee there wasn’t exactly what I’d had in mind. I glanced at the time. It was almost midnight. Would this day never be over?
Officer Gil Gayner got into the car as I was watching the paramedics finally move Terry’s body out of the food truck.
“I’d like to ask you a few more questions, Miss Chase. Exactly how well did you know the victim?”
“You mean Terry? Not well at all—as I told the other officer. We’d only met a few times. He accused me of parking in his space when we were setting up to sell lunch today. That’s about as close to a conversation as we ever got. He wasn’t much of a talker, at least not with me.”
What I didn’t say was that he’d made a pass at me the first time I’d met him. I’d been filling biscuit bowls, and he’d walked into the food truck, uninvited. Before I could ask him to leave, he put his arms around me from behind and bit my neck. He smelled like old tacos and cheap aftershave.
I’d managed to push him out of the food truck and locked the door behind him. I’d been a little nervous afterward about picking up the tiny café tables and chairs I’d set up on the sidewalk. They were the cutest patio furniture I could find, and at a good price, too.
But Terry was gone in his taco truck way before I went out.
“Why do you think Terry got into your food truck?” Officer Gayner asked.
“I don’t know. The last time I saw him, he was downtown in his taco truck.”
“You’re sure he didn’t come back with you? Maybe he was gonna spend the night or something?”
“Absolutely certain! I wouldn’t have brought him here with me.”
“You didn’t think about finding a place to get rid of him around here? In this neighborhood, most people wouldn’t have noticed for a few days.”
I was horrified that he’d even ask me that question. “I’m not sure what you mean, but I didn’t bring Terry here. He left in his taco truck today before I left. I don’t know why he’s here. Someone had to put him in the Biscuit Bowl, I guess. Unless he climbed in there and died after I got back.”
Officer Gayner’s face looked skeptical in the light from his computer. “All right. Wait here, Miss Chase. Someone else might want to talk to you.”
I couldn’t imagine who else that would be. I was starting to get a little cranky. It was almost one A.M. and I was still sitting there, waiting.
More police, this time without uniforms, and some other people in lab coats were in and out of the food truck. They had suitcases full of some kind of gear. I didn’t know what they were searching for, but I was beginning to suspect that Ollie had been right about not calling them.
Crème Brûlée began to get restless. I knew what that meant. He had to go. Not a pleasant thought when I was holding him inside a police car.
I waved frantically to Ollie. He finally noticed and surreptitiously began to make his way toward the car.
He opened the door in front. “I told you, you shouldn’t have called them.”
“It’s going to be fine. I can’t get out right now, and my cat has to go. You know?”
“Go?”
“Use the litter box. I don’t want to hold him when that happens. Can you take him inside?”
“Me?”
“I don’t have anyone else. The police want me to stay here.”
“You mean the police like you for Terry the taco man’s murder.”
“Terry was murdered?”
“From what I can make out, he was shot.”
“Somebody shot him in my food truck? How is that even possible?”
“I don’t think that’s what happened. The important thing is that he was in your food truck. Things like that make police ask questions. We should’ve dumped his body.”
Panic grabbed me by the throat at that point. This hadn’t seemed like such a big deal to begin with. “What should I do?”
“Don’t say anything,” Ollie advised. “I got a friend who’s a lawyer. He sometimes works for Legal Aid. I already gave him a call. Just remember—anything you say will be used to put you in prison.”
He didn’t take Crème Brûlée with him, either, after terrifying me. He sent Marty instead.
Good thing, too. My poor kitty was very uncomfortable.
“I’m praying for you, Zoe.” Marty awkwardly lifted Crème Brûlée. “Be careful.”
I thanked him, and Crème Brûlée bit him. It was only a love bite. Marty moved his hand quickly away from his mouth and smiled, promising to take care of him.
I could understand Ollie and Marty with their grim warnings. They were, after all, used to being around people who could be on the shady side of the law. My involvement with what had happened to Terry was purely coincidental. Nothing to worry about, from my perspective.
Tommy Lee’s attitude had been the same as Ollie’s and Marty’s, I reminded myself. He knew I wasn’t guilty of anything. I had absolutely nothing to hide. So, why was he worried about me saying too much?
By this time, my heart was pounding. Surely no one could think I killed Terry. That would be crazy!
I saw Tommy Lee’s red Jaguar, with the heated leather upholstery, pull up, and heaved a sigh of relief. I watched him get out of the car and tried to get his attention by waving at him. He didn’t look my way.
He spo
ke with the police, and pointed at the car I was in. They wouldn’t let him through the barricade. My eyes welled with tears when I realized they weren’t going to let him talk to me.
Someone else got out of Tommy Lee’s car, on the passenger side. It was Betty, from the bank where I’d worked. She’d handled my 401(k) withdrawal. It was confusing, like everything else at the moment. Why is she here? Why is she in Tommy Lee’s car?
As I watched, Tommy Lee went over and put his arm around her shoulder. It looked as though he was comforting her. That made me a little suspicious. Betty and I didn’t know each other that well. She certainly wouldn’t be all that upset about what had happened to me.
I understood finally when I saw her put her arms around him and snuggle her head against his chest. Tommy Lee bent his head and kissed her right there in front of me.
Tommy Lee and Betty?
I didn’t even know her last name. My Tommy Lee and Betty from the bank were lovers.
Before I had a chance to absorb this information, the front door to the police car opened again. Another man—plain-clothed—sat down in the seat. He was facing me. More questions with the same answers.
His dark suit was threadbare, though I could see it had once been expensive. It was way out of style. I’m not a fashionista, but I could tell that much in the dim light from the dash. Maybe he was undercover. I couldn’t clearly make out his face in the shadows.
“I’m Miguel Alexander. Ollie gave me a call. I’m a lawyer. What have you told the police, Miss Chase?”
I don’t know why. It was as though, when he said my name, it was too much. I broke down, sobbing, and told him everything—from my forty-eight-dollar day to finding Terry in my food truck. I even told him about Crème Brûlée being afraid of rats, and seeing Tommy Lee kissing Betty what’s-her-name.
I saw a white handkerchief waving in front of my face as I peeked through my hands. Miguel Alexander apparently dealt with weeping women on a regular basis.
I finally had a rational thought, embarrassed by my outburst. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Alexander, but I don’t need an attorney.”
