by J. J. Cook
Once the back of the food truck was scrubbed clean and ready for the next day, I moved into the driver’s area. I got out the disinfectant again and scrubbed both seats, the floor, and the dashboard. The doors came next, and then I cleaned the windows inside and out.
I thought about Terry as I cleaned. I couldn’t help it. Even though he’d been an ass with me, I still felt bad about the way he’d died.
A chilly breeze swept through the truck and I shivered. There were worse things than losing a day with my biscuit truck.
EIGHT
“Give you a hand with something?” Ollie asked.
I jumped, startled from my thoughts of Terry being murdered.
“I’m almost finished. Well, at least I’m almost finished cleaning up. I have to get the food ready for tomorrow. Then Miguel is coming to dinner.”
Ollie waggled his black eyebrows. “That the way it is?”
“Not the way you’re thinking. I invited him to dinner because he was very nice to me today. It was a difficult time. I was glad to have him there. Thanks for calling him after we found Terry. Why don’t you come for dinner, too?”
He looked at his clothes. He was wearing the same T-shirt, hoodie, and jeans that he wore every day. “Don’t know that I’m dressed for dinner.”
“Don’t be silly. You look fine. Come inside and let’s talk about savory fillings. I’ll make some coffee.”
We spent the next few hours working on biscuit bowl fillings. Ollie took over my kitchen, throwing bits of this and that into a spicy gumbo.
It almost drove me crazy. He had no recipe, no idea what he was going to put in next. He kept finding new ingredients and adding them to the pot. He’d stop, put a spoonful on a plate each time, and slurp it up to taste it.
I watched him as I checked my laptop to make sure it was okay for me to park the Biscuit Bowl outside police headquarters in the morning. My permit was good for that area.
“How can you cook like that?” I tidied up behind him. “I’d go insane if I had to work that way.”
“What way?” He rolled his latest sample around in his mouth with a pleased expression on his face.
“How do you know what to put in without a recipe? What if it’s too much, or not enough? What if the spices don’t blend well?”
“Chill, Zoe. Give this a taste and see what you think.”
Before I could protest, he’d stuck the big stirring spoon in my mouth.
It took me a minute to get over that assault. By the time I had, I realized a new flavor was circulating through my mouth, tantalizing my palate.
“Oh my God!” I cried out in ecstasy. “It’s amazing! How did you do that? You have to show me.”
“Sure.” He spread out his ingredients again. “You take a pinch of pepper, and throw in some salt.”
“No. I mean I need the recipe.”
He pointed to his head. “It’s all in here. No need to write it down. I got it from my mama who got it from her mama who got it from her mama. It’s never been written down.”
“That doesn’t mean we can’t write it down.” I grabbed a pencil and paper. “Okay I’m ready.”
He stood there mute and defiant. I put down the pencil.
“Can’t be committed to paper,” he said. “It would ruin everything.”
That was the craziest idea I’d ever heard. I could see by his face that he was serious. I wouldn’t be able to coerce him into letting me write down the ingredients.
Not right then, anyway. I’d keep working on him.
“Let’s make another pot.” I redirected our conversation. “I can’t wait to take it out tomorrow. People are going to love this, Ollie.”
I made the sweet fillings as he worked on the savory gumbo. I kept glancing over to take note of what he was using. It was hard to tell. I think he was purposely trying to keep me from seeing what he put into it. I didn’t understand why he’d be so secretive about it, especially since he was willing to share it.
Uncle Saul had plenty of secret recipes. He rarely shared them with anyone. He wrote them down and hid them. Someday after he passed, I expected to unearth an entire cookbook.
When we were done, I put the savory filling into a metal pan and put it in the refrigerator. It would stay warm in the food truck tomorrow over a vat of hot water, after being heated up in the morning. The sweet fillings were in a bowl that would stay in the refrigerator until I needed them.
The biscuits would have to wait. I wouldn’t dare make them and heat them up tomorrow. Everyone would know.
I glanced at the biscuit clock above the door. I had a little over an hour to shower, change clothes, and get dinner ready. I had a special dish in mind that I hoped Ollie and Miguel would love. It was one of Uncle Saul’s recipes that he’d been willing to share.
Crème Brûlée got up from his nap, a little on the cranky side. He walked over and bit my ankle then licked it a few times. Normally that meant he was hungry. I was staring at his full food bowl. I knew that wasn’t the case.
He hadn’t touched his food. I picked him up carefully and held him in my arms, rubbing his warm, furry tummy. “Aren’t you feeling well?” I asked him.
That’s all I needed—a big vet bill. I hoped it wasn’t something serious.
He purred loudly and closed his eyes. I realized that he was probably attention deprived. Crème Brûlée could be quite the diva when he chose.
“I love you.” I kissed his nose. He returned the favor by biting mine and then licking it. “You know you always come first. But mama has to make some money. We gave up our apartment. If we lose the diner, we’ll have to move back home with my mother. You don’t want that, do you?”
He hissed, and even gave a tiny snarl. That was the height of emotion for him. I knew he understood what I was talking about. He never liked going to my mother’s house.
I put him down, and he started eating. I stroked his fur and praised his efforts. He was going to be fine. He had to be fine.
After showering and putting on clean jeans and a pink T-shirt, I started cooking the pepper and onion strips for dinner. I defied anyone to walk into the diner and not immediately be starving. Not much smelled better than sizzling peppers and onions.
Sure enough, it wasn’t long until Ollie came back to the diner. He’d actually changed his T-shirt, though he still wore the same old hoodie.
He took a sniff and grinned. “That’s got my mouth watering. Smart girl! Hook Miguel with the food. That always works.”
“It’s not that way,” I assured him again. “I’m just saying thank you.”
He laughed and sat down at the counter. “And those tight jeans are saying please?”
I blamed my suddenly heated face on the cooking food. Ollie could be a handful sometimes. People in my life mostly weren’t so plainspoken. He reminded me of Uncle Saul, who also called things the way he saw them. That was one reason my parents had nothing to do with him.
I was glad to see Miguel’s Mercedes pull up in front of the diner. I hoped my hair wasn’t too frizzy from double shampoos today. I couldn’t help it, anyway. I suppose my hair couldn’t, either. Naturally curly hair doesn’t like being abused.
I was surprised to see Delia come in first. She’d obviously come with Miguel.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” I said to her.
Immediately, she took a step back. “I told Miguel we shouldn’t surprise you this way. You were expecting him. I’ll wait in the car.”
This was truly Delia—all the smart mouth and quick banter gone, she didn’t even look like her in her plain, knee-length black skirt and gray top. It was so sad to see her this way. I flew around the counter and wrapped my arms around her. “Don’t be crazy. There’s plenty to eat. I’m happy to have you here. Come and sit down.”
I made the introductions. Delia had met Ollie briefly before. Miguel and Ollie shook hands. They all sat down at the counter while I finished the meal.
“So what happened?” I asked after I�
��d thrown the fresh-cut tomatoes on the grill with the peppers and onions. The rice was already perfect, each grain standing apart from the others, not too much liquid.
“The judge set bail at a reasonable amount,” Miguel said. “I called your father and he stood good for it. We have three weeks before the preliminary hearing.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Delia began. “I don’t know why you wanted to help me, Zoe, but I appreciate what you’ve done.”
Ollie snickered. “Zoe is like Marty—she wants to help everyone, and feed the world.”
I wasn’t sure what to make of that. I was glad I was cooking and I had to face the grill, away from them. Ollie had made me sound like some do-gooder. I never meant to come off that way. I wanted to help Delia and make food for people. That didn’t make me a saint!
“The DA doesn’t have a very strong case,” Miguel said. “I’m not saying it’s going to be a walk in the park, but I think we can get Delia out of this.”
The surprise ingredient in my peppers, onions, and tomatoes with rice was a hint of orange zest. I also garnished each plate with a few fresh orange slices and some radishes. The effect was colorful and tasty.
There were biscuits, of course. They weren’t deep-fried, like the biscuit bowls. These were plain, buttermilk biscuits. I was glad to see everyone reach for one as I put the plate out.
“Zoe Chase makes the best biscuits in Mobile,” Ollie declared. “Maybe in the South.”
“They are very good,” Miguel agreed after taking a bite of one.
Delia nibbled on one. “I can’t eat this whole big one by myself.”
“Of course you can,” I assured her. “You need your strength for the days ahead. Where are you staying?”
“I had a little place I shared with two other girls.” She shrugged. “They don’t want me there anymore. They’re worried about the police looking into their backgrounds. I lost my job at the bar today, too.”
“Maybe I can find something different for you,” I suggested.
I wasn’t sure exactly where I was going with this. I barely had enough money to feed me and Crème Brûlée until the food truck started making more.
“What were you thinking I could do?” Delia asked. “I’m not really good at much.”
“I really need help with the food truck,” I explained. “I can’t pay you a lot, but you can eat your fill. And you could stay here. What do you think?”
Delia appeared to be a little overwhelmed by the offer. “I don’t cook, Zoe. I can wash dishes. I can learn to do almost anything.”
“Okay. We’ll try it tomorrow. I leave here at six A.M. I have to get to a spot where I can park the food truck well before lunch. Otherwise all the good places are gone. Can you do that?”
“Yes. Thanks.” Delia smiled at me. “I’ll try not to let you down.”
“How long do you think the trial will take, Miguel?”
“It’s hard to say. We’ll do the best we can. Sometimes it can take a year to process the crime scene information. The DA won’t go to trial until that information is complete.”
Delia’s beautiful face looked daunted.
I smiled and tried to cheer her up. “Don’t worry. We’ll work it out.”
Dessert was one of my favorites—deep-fried ice cream. I rolled the scoops of vanilla ice cream in a mixture of coconut, honey, and almonds and then put them into the hot deep fryer for a moment. It didn’t take long to create a hard, sweet crust on the outside while preserving the cold ice cream center.
I served it with a dollop of real whipped cream. When I heard three people making satisfied sounds of pleasure and not talking, I was thrilled.
This was what I was looking for, what I couldn’t get at the bank. This was the part no one in my family understood, except Uncle Saul.
After everyone had finished eating and was enjoying my own special blend of coffee (with a little chicory), I asked Miguel if he’d seen all the evidence against Delia.
“It’s mostly circumstantial, but people have been convicted on less,” he said. “A new suspect could wipe it away, as it did in your case.”
“What about an alibi?” I said. “I’m her alibi, remember? We were talking at the corner at about the same time someone was putting Terry in my truck. If it wasn’t so dark in the parking lot, we would’ve seen it happening.”
“I’d be glad to give her an alibi too,” Ollie said. “Tell me what I need to say. I’ve done worse.”
“And everyone knows it,” Miguel answered. “Delia needs an alibi from a credible witness.”
Ollie laughed at him, the dark skin on his face wrinkling. “You know too much, old man. I might need to take you out for a moonlight cruise of the bay.”
“What about the man who picked up Delia that night in the dark green Lincoln?” I didn’t want the subject of Ollie getting rid of Miguel to go any further. “He came from behind the shopping center. He might have seen something.”
Delia immediately shied away from that idea. “We don’t want to mess with him. He’s bad news. Besides, he wouldn’t have been hanging around waiting that long for me. He’s too important.”
“All the more reason to ask him what he saw,” I suggested.
“Again, we’d need a credible account of someone witnessing the killer moving Terry’s body to the truck. Or seeing someone kill Terry. That would work, too.”
“That would be before he picked me up,” Delia added with a sigh. “I didn’t tell the cops about him because he’s an important man. He wouldn’t like me involving him in this.”
“Are you afraid of him?” I asked her.
“No.” She smiled slyly. “I have a few aspirations for his affection. I’d rather him not be bothered. I don’t want to make him hate me.”
My little dinner party began to break up after that. Miguel took Delia back to her apartment. She needed to pick up a few things. Ollie helped me clean up and then went back to the homeless shelter.
Delia and Miguel returned about thirty minutes later with boxes and a few worn suitcases.
“Are you sure this is going to be okay?” Delia asked again.
“I don’t have much to offer. But I could use the help, and you’re welcome to stay. We’ll have to find you a bed.”
“I can sleep on the floor.” She grinned, and thanked Miguel for his help. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without the pair of you today.”
Ollie brought a cot down from the homeless shelter for her. We made room for it in a pantry so she’d have a little privacy.
Miguel left, after wishing us luck tomorrow with the Biscuit Bowl. It was weird hearing Delia humming in the bathroom as she got ready for bed. I was used to living alone.
Everything was set for the morning. I put on a T-shirt and shorts before I snuggled in with Crème Brûlée for the night.
I was excited about taking the food truck out again tomorrow. I thought that was a good sign. Despite everything that had happened, the idea of getting up at four A.M. and making biscuit bowls was enough to make it hard for me to sleep.
Tomorrow, I might get a great spot and the crowds would find me. It only took one day, and big lines of customers, to have a television truck come out and change everything.
“By the end of the week, Crème Brûlée, we could be famous. We could be turning people away from the Biscuit Bowl. After that, they’d find out about the diner. We’d have to upgrade real quick to accommodate more than five people eating here at the same time.”
As if he understood, Crème Brûlée bit my hand—a love bite—and licked it.
“That’s right,” I whispered fiercely to him. “Take that, all you people who didn’t believe in me.”
I said good night, and was almost asleep, when there was a loud banging on the front door.
I’d never had any problem staying there, despite the shabby neighborhood. Still, after Terry’s death, I approached carefully, not turning on the inside light until I saw who was there.
�
�Who is it?” Delia was right behind me.
“I don’t know. It’s probably nothing.”
As I spoke, I saw a man in a ski mask. He pulled out a gun and pointed it right at me.
NINE
“Duck!” I yelled, pulling Delia down with me. “Gun!”
She was on the floor before me. We lay there, covering our heads with our arms for a few minutes. I finally peeked out, and the man was gone.
I called Miguel, and the police.
Delia and I took turns breathing into a paper bag so we could calm down. I’d thought I was acting like a big baby, but she’d been scared, too. She seemed tough to me, so I didn’t feel so bad.
Police officers showed up first. We gave them what we could of a description—about six feet tall, medium build. He was wearing faded jeans and a white button-down shirt.
They took a look around, but couldn’t find anyone. Since there was no damage done to the diner, or us, I thanked them and they left again.
Fifteen minutes later, Miguel was there looking cute and half-asleep in cutoff jeans and a Pearl Jam T-shirt. He asked us questions about what had happened. There wasn’t much to tell.
“He was wearing a ski mask,” I said. “I didn’t recognize him.”
“We couldn’t see his face, but he was about the same size as Terry’s partner, Don Abbott.” Delia knitted her hands together.
“It seemed like he was trying to scare us,” I told him. “Why show us the gun and then just walk away?”
“This location, and Terry’s death, have been all over the news,” Miguel said. “There might be a few people checking out the area.”
That made sense to me. I didn’t like it any better, but it made sense. If the man had really wanted to hurt us, he could have shot us and been gone long before the police had arrived.
“I’ll talk to the police on your behalf right now, and ask for a few more patrols until things quiet down,” Miguel offered. “I think they might be willing to do that.”
I wanted to go. I really wanted to go. But if I went with him, it could take hours. I’d miss the opportunity to take my food truck out again in the morning. It was already almost midnight. I couldn’t do both things, especially after having been up most of the night before.
