Death on Eat Street (Biscuit Bowl Food Truck)

by J. J. Cook

  I heard the sound again, the one that had sent me exploring back there. It was a groaning noise. Someone was in trouble.

  “Hello?” My voice quivered and cracked. I sounded like a woman in a bad horror movie. “Is someone out here?”

  A groan came back to me, muffled, but definitely there. “Zoe? Over here.”

  I hesitated. It seemed like something someone would do to get my attention and then stick a gun in my face. I wanted to make sure no one was really lying on the ground, maybe injured. I just didn’t want that to be me after I responded.

  “If that’s you, Don, my friends are inside and they’ll come looking for me in a minute.” I hoped that was true. Miguel, Ollie, and Uncle Saul had been having such a good time, I wasn’t sure. Delia was busy trying on clothes.

  “Zoe,” the spectral-sounding voice called again. “Help me.”

  It definitely wasn’t a cat. I ran toward the sound. There was a figure on the dirty blacktop. I didn’t hesitate this time. I kept going until I’d reached my target.

  It was Marty. He was injured, clutching his hand to his head and moaning.

  “What happened?” I helped him sit up.

  “I heard something back here. I was afraid it was someone trying to reach the shelter. It happens all the time. I looked by the trash bin, and suddenly, a man jumped out at me. He hit me in the head with something. I went down, and he started asking questions.”

  “Questions?” I immediately became suspicious. That attack may have been meant for me. “What kind of questions?”

  “He wanted to know about you, Zoe. He asked me crazy questions about you and a stolen recipe.”

  FIFTEEN

  Stolen recipe?

  I helped Marty to his feet. “What kind of stolen recipe?”

  By that time, I had been missed at the diner. I heard Ollie call my name from the front of the building. I answered, and told him I needed his help getting Marty inside.

  Miguel, Uncle Saul, and Ollie ran into the alley to find us. Ollie and Uncle Saul supported Marty to get him back inside. Miguel stayed with me as we followed them.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. Someone mugged Marty. He said the person asked a lot of questions about me, and a stolen recipe.”

  “You shouldn’t have been out here by yourself. Don Abbott could’ve killed you. You have to be more careful until this is over.”

  “I didn’t have much choice,” I said. “Besides, it could’ve been a stray cat. As it was, we might never have heard Marty out there groaning if I had ignored it. I can’t spend my whole life thinking that someone is out to get me.”

  “Your whole life, huh?” I could hear the smile in his voice. “It’s only been a few days.”

  “Yeah, well, you know what I mean. Let’s go inside. I want to know more about the recipe.”

  Ollie and Uncle Saul put Marty in a comfortable chair in the television room at the shelter. He’d never made it back to ask the men if they wanted to come to dinner.

  “It doesn’t look too bad.” Ollie examined the wound on Marty’s head after cleaning it. “I don’t think you need stitches.”

  “Miguel can take you to the hospital, if you’re worried.” I wasn’t sure about Ollie’s diagnosis. “Or we could call an ambulance.”

  “No. No. I’ll be fine.” Marty smiled at Ollie. “Ollie had some medical training in the Marines. I’m sure he knows a nonlethal wound when he sees one. I trust him.”

  Ollie went to get a bandage with a smug smile on his face.

  “If you don’t feel like coming down to the diner to eat, I can bring a plate to you,” I offered.

  “I really think you and I should talk for a minute, Zoe,” Marty said. “Everyone else can go to the diner. We’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  He didn’t have to say it twice. Miguel and Uncle Saul went with the men to get them set up with food and something to drink. Ollie stayed behind with me and Marty. He put the bandage on Marty’s head and then sat down to hear what he had to say.

  “Things have been crazy around here.” Marty smiled and put his hand on the new bandage. “Thank you, Ollie. I think I might be able to shed some light on what’s going on—at least as much as I understand from my attacker.”

  “What did he look like?” Ollie demanded. “I bet it was the thief again. He doesn’t know when to quit.”

  “I’m not sure what he looked like. It was dark. I was intent on getting back here. I should’ve been more aware of my surroundings.”

  “You said something about a recipe when we were outside,” I reminded Marty. “What was that all about?”

  “The man wanted to know your schedule, Zoe. He wanted to know what time you leave in the morning, and what time you get back. He asked me where you usually park your food truck. He said you have something that belongs to him. He said it was a recipe that was stolen from him, a valuable recipe.”

  Ollie snorted. “What kind of recipe? Does he think it will win a million dollars in a contest or something? That’s crazy talk.”

  “Did he say what kind of recipe?” I thought it sounded weird, too, but we already knew Terry wanted to sell something that could fit in the pocket of his jeans. That could be a recipe.

  I was with Ollie, questioning what kind of value someone could put on a recipe. It wasn’t like it was a priceless diamond or a gold coin. Who would pay a lot of money for a recipe?

  “He didn’t say.” Marty shook his head. “He seemed very sure that you have it. He wants it back. I hope he won’t try and hurt you to get it.”

  “He’d be wasting his time,” I replied. “My recipes are valuable to me, but I don’t think anyone else would pay for them.”

  Marty shrugged and declared himself ready to eat. We went down to the diner, and Uncle Saul’s eyes narrowed as we talked about the stolen recipe. “You know, I remember hearing something about a stolen recipe a few months back.” He scratched his head, trying to recall exactly what he’d heard.

  “You don’t really think all of this—Terry’s death and Don’s threats—has been about a stolen recipe, do you?” Miguel asked. “What kind of recipe is worth that much money?”

  Delia came out of her makeshift room when she heard all the loud, excited talking. When she found out what had happened, she was upset. “You should have had one of the men with you, Zoe!”

  “I would have if I’d known what was going to happen!”

  I took out my laptop and looked up “stolen valuable recipe” on Google. My search returned a slew of information. I ate my dinner, and read what I’d found.

  “Well?” Ollie asked impatiently. “What’s worth attacking Marty?”

  “How about a stolen recipe worth more than a million dollars?” I looked at my three conspirators over the laptop screen.

  “No way,” Ollie said. “No recipe is worth that much money. I don’t care how good the chocolate cake is.”

  “It was someone famous who wrote it, wasn’t it, Zoe?” Uncle Saul asked.

  “I’d say so—Thomas Jefferson. Who knew Thomas Jefferson could cook?”

  “That’s even crazier,” Miguel said. “What would Terry be doing with that kind of historic document?”

  I read from the text on the screen. “Apparently, someone stole the recipe from a museum in Virginia where it was being displayed. It was written in Jefferson’s own hand. That’s what makes it valuable.”

  Uncle Saul snapped his fingers. “That’s right! I remember now. The recipe was for crème brûlée. It was Jefferson that introduced that dessert to this country after he’d returned from France.”

  When Uncle Saul said crème brûlée, I heard my little Crème Brûlée meow loudly. He finally came out of the bedroom to see who was calling him. He walked right past all the other men and came to stand by Uncle Saul.

  When Uncle Saul laughed and scratched his ears, Crème Brûlée bit him and hissed.

  “I think that was a warning not to talk about him that way in p
ublic,” I told him with a rueful apology.

  “That’s okay.” Uncle Saul watched Crème Brûlée walk back into the bedroom, his head held high.

  “I don’t believe a taco truck driver from Mobile engineered the theft of an antique recipe in Virginia,” Miguel said. “He must’ve gotten it from someone else.”

  Ollie was done eating and tried to look over my shoulder at the laptop. “Does it say anything about who took the recipe from the museum?”

  “No. The police are baffled. The FBI was called in because the recipe was on loan from the Smithsonian. It’s considered a national treasure.”

  “Okay, like I said, Terry didn’t set this up and elude the police and the FBI,” Miguel added. “Someone else must have done the hard work. Somehow Terry was unlucky enough to get his hands on it. That’s probably why he was killed.”

  “You’ve got no real proof of that,” Uncle Saul reminded him. “I don’t see that information getting Delia off the hook for Terry’s death. Or getting Zoe off the hook from someone believing she took the recipe from Terry.”

  Miguel agreed. “I can’t even imagine telling Detective Latoure that I think this is what happened. I looked at Terry’s file. As far as I could see, Terry had never left Alabama.”

  “Who else might be interested in a valuable recipe?” I asked. “It had to be stolen for a recipe collector.”

  Uncle Saul shrugged. “Or someone interested in Thomas Jefferson.”

  I had to give him that. I could see where this could go in many ways. Terry could’ve accidentally found the recipe and planned to sell it. It would be hard to say exactly where to look for a buyer.

  “Well, at least we have somewhere to start, thanks to Marty.” Miguel nodded to him. “I’m sorry we had to find out the hard way.”

  “That’s okay.” Marty looked embarrassed by the attention. “I certainly don’t deserve any praise for being mugged. It’s scary thinking that this person is out there searching for Zoe. I hope you can convince the police that she needs protection.”

  “Never mind the police,” Uncle Saul said. “I’ll take her back with me to my place. She’ll be safe there.”

  When the four of them agreed this was a good idea, it was as bad as my parents wanting Uncle Saul to take me away and save me from my own poor choices. It wasn’t happening, either.

  “I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m not leaving my business. Maybe I could take out an ad in the paper, or on that old billboard right next door. I could tell everyone that I don’t know what happened to Thomas Jefferson’s recipe for crème brûlée.”

  Crème Brûlée, the cat, meowed another warning from the bedroom. We all laughed. Uncle Saul made jokes about Crème Brûlée protecting me—careful this time not to mention his name.

  Everyone was done eating and had hearty appreciation of the cooks’ efforts. Ollie walked with Marty back to the shelter, and the other residents followed.

  That left me, Miguel, and Uncle Saul drinking my special blend of coffee, talking about what had happened with Marty that night.

  “I guess they couldn’t get you out there, Zoe,” Miguel said, “so they decided to use Marty to send a message. You should really consider your uncle’s offer to leave town until this blows over.”

  How many ways could I say no? If I waited a few weeks to come back to my business, I would’ve lost all the momentum I’d gained. People forget very quickly.

  “I think it would be better to come up with a plan to find Terry’s killer,” I suggested. “Now that we know what he’s looking for, all we have to do is find out who has it.”

  “That sounds like a tall order,” Uncle Saul said.

  “Maybe,” I admitted. “I don’t have much choice. You know what I mean about my food truck. I can’t up and leave now. I’ve worked too hard.”

  “Is it worth your life?” Miguel asked in that sincere way he had.

  “Probably not. But I think we can find the killer, and that will take care of it.”

  “What about the man who threatened to shoot Zoe?” Uncle Saul looked at Miguel. “Could he be responsible for all this?”

  “I don’t think so,” Miguel said. “Abbott’s file looks like Terry’s file. Neither one of these men would think of a scheme like this. I think Terry fell into it, and might have told his partner about it. Abbott probably figures Zoe has the recipe since Terry was found dead in her food truck.”

  Uncle Saul nodded. “If what you’re saying is true, Miguel, there is a mastermind behind the theft who passed it off to Terry, for whatever reason. It beats me how you’re gonna figure out who it is without getting hurt.”

  “I think we both agree on that,” Miguel said.

  “I don’t agree. We can figure this out.” I challenged him and Uncle Saul. “We can do this—without abandoning my business.”

  We kind of agreed to disagree. Miguel and I exchanged good nights and shook hands. Uncle Saul hugged him.

  That was the extent of my possible romantic dinner with Miguel. I watched him leave the parking lot and hoped it would get better.

  “You like him, don’t you, honey?” Uncle Saul observed me.

  “I do. He seems like a nice person.”

  “He’s good-looking and a lawyer. Even your mother should like that!” Uncle Saul waggled his crazy gray and black eyebrows up and down. “I like him better than Johnny Lee.”

  I didn’t enlighten him as to my mother’s opinion of Miguel.

  “Tommy Lee,” I corrected automatically. “Well, that egg has already been broken. He’s like my parents. He thinks doing this business is beneath me. Not to mention that he’s been seeing someone else on the side.”

  “The disagreement about the business, I can understand. All couples disagree about something. The other is bad news, Zoe. Better dump him quick. Pick up the smart lawyer instead.”

  “It’s not as easy as all that.” I explained while we made a chocolate raspberry cake for Marty. We both agreed that he deserved something for taking that lump on the head for me.

  We cooked and talked, and drank too much coffee, until well after midnight. Uncle Saul gave me a recipe for a spicy fish stew with carrots and potatoes. I was excited about trying it out on Monday.

  Understanding the nature of my situation, Uncle Saul had come prepared to spend the night. He’d brought a chaise lounge with him, which he set up in the kitchen.

  “Good night, Zoe,” was the last thing he said to me when we were both in our respective beds. “I hope you’ll give more thought to coming back home with me for a while. If I’d known it was more than your daddy’s passing fancy to kidnap you, I would’ve taken you there already. Don’t be so stubborn that you’re stupid.”

  I heard him but only answered with, “Good night.” There was no way I was giving up what I’d built. I was the only one who knew what leaving my job and security behind had cost me. I was the only one who got to make that decision.

  I sincerely hoped it would pay off and I wouldn’t get killed.

  Crème Brûlée licked my face and bit my nose as if to tell me it was going to be okay. I whispered good night to him, too, and was asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.

  Two hours later, as Uncle Saul snored in the kitchen, someone tossed a concrete block through one of the plate-glass windows.

  My new day began with flashing lights on a police car, and the sure knowledge that someone was sending me another warning.

  SIXTEEN

  Officers Schmidt and Gayner were at the scene again. I gave them coffee and some biscuit bowls while we talked. They took our statements, both of which kind of went, “We were asleep and suddenly heard the glass break in the front of the diner.”

  Delia didn’t hear a thing until we woke her.

  What else could we say? Everything else was speculation, even though Marty and Ollie both came outside to see what was going on. There was poor Marty with the cut on his head from the previous attempt to get my attention.

  Marty had made it
very clear that he didn’t want to involve the police in his assault. Like everyone else at the shelter, it seemed he had a past he didn’t want to explore with law enforcement.

  I was thankful that the block hadn’t come in through the window near where Uncle Saul had been sleeping. It could’ve been much worse. That made at least two people I knew who could have been, or had been, hurt by my stubborn refusal to close the business and leave town.

  Oh, but I hated the idea of giving up. My parents would gloat because they’d feel sure they were right. Tommy Lee would no doubt tell Betty at the bank.

  It was more than that, of course. I was terrified of losing everything and having to go back to the bank with my tail tucked between my legs to ask for my job back. The chances were I would never build up the courage to pursue my dream again.

  On the other hand, I didn’t want my friends and relatives hurt, either. How could something like this happen to me now, of all times?

  I took the official police report from Officer Schmidt, who thanked me for the coffee and biscuits. He warned me to be careful. “It’s a tough neighborhood.”

  He had no idea.

  After the police had gone and Uncle Saul was making eggs and pan toast, I called the insurance company and made a claim for the window.

  “They said someone should be out later today to repair it.” I yawned after I’d hung up and poured more coffee.

  “That’s good for today, honey. What about tomorrow, and the next day? If this person is determined to get this recipe, the harassment could go on for a long time. Or tomorrow, he might decide to personally try to get the information from you. Do you know what I’m saying?”

  I did. It was depressing.

  We sat at the counter together. He ate his food with gusto. I pushed mine around on my plate. I drank some coffee, and he finally ate what I’d left behind.

  “What can I do, Uncle Saul?” I appealed to him. “I can’t just leave. You know that. There has to be another answer.”