by J. J. Cook
Miguel gave her the piece of green paper from the necklace and explained the situation. “We thought you should know.”
She smirked. “You mean after the two of you couldn’t find the recipe.”
“It’s not just the recipe,” I said. “Delia has been taken, too. We think she might have been kidnapped.”
“Or she’s working with the killer,” Patti said. “Have you reported her missing?”
I explained the problem I’d had with that. She sympathized but agreed that it was police policy.
“Don Abbott knows about the recipe,” I told her. “I had the beads, so he couldn’t find it. We wanted to beat him to it.”
“And did you?” she asked.
“No. We couldn’t find anything except a million reasons to call the health department,” I confessed.
“We searched this food truck already.” She peeked inside the taco truck. “Did the two of you make this mess?”
“No. It was this way when we got here,” Miguel said.
“Then someone else has been here looking around, too. I’ll have the taco truck towed back to Mobile and forensics will go over it again. Have you been in the house?”
“No. We looked in here because the note said food truck,” I said.
Patti looked at the green note, already sealed in an evidence bag. “Are you sure Terry meant his food truck?”
“Where else would he hide the recipe?” I asked.
She raised her brows. “You said in your statement that Terry had been inside your food truck the day he was killed. And you said Miss Vann gave you the beads, telling you that Terry had given them to her.”
I couldn’t believe it. “You think he put the recipe in my food truck?”
TWENTY-THREE
“I don’t see how he would’ve had time to hide anything in my food truck when I was trying to throw him out.”
I said this as Miguel was following behind Detective Latoure’s car. We were headed back to the diner with the lights and sirens blaring on the front police car that was our escort.
“He could’ve planned to do it this way.” Miguel kept his eyes on the road as the speedometer crept up to eighty miles an hour. “You were distracted by what he was doing to you. You wouldn’t have noticed that he left something behind.”
It was hard for me to believe. Even if I’d missed him leaving a green chili item behind in the Biscuit Bowl, I would have seen it since. I thought I knew every inch, every item in my food truck. It shook me a little to think that I might be wrong.
“Why would he leave it with me? He didn’t even know me.”
“He probably didn’t care if he knew you. He could always break into your food truck later and retrieve the recipe. Maybe that’s what he was planning to do when he was killed behind the diner.”
“I guess so.” It was a little hard to take in when I thought about it. I looked out the side window at the trees and houses that were rapidly flying by as we approached Mobile. “He wasn’t killed in the Biscuit Bowl, but it might have been close.”
Miguel squeezed my hand where it rested on the seat between us. “This is all speculation, Zoe. It might not have played out this way. We’ll see when we get there.”
I was sure it was getting to be commonplace for my neighbors in the old shopping center to see police cars pulling into the parking lot near the diner. It would be humiliating if the other shops filed complaints against me and I was forced to leave, especially in this neighborhood.
Detective Latoure was out of her car and walking toward the back of the Biscuit Bowl truck as Miguel was parking. I quickly took out my key—I never left my food truck unlocked.
I realized as we got closer that no one needed the key. The back door was open.
“Looks like Don beat us here,” Miguel said.
I let out a little screech when I saw the door had been pried open. There were utensils and serving trays strewn into the parking lot. Couldn’t people search for things without making a mess?
Running to the food truck, I noticed Ollie, Marty, and some of the other men from the shelter coming to see what was happening.
Then I focused on the wreck that was waiting for me. I could see through the open door that nothing was where it belonged. Jars of spices had been emptied and plastic serving trays smashed.
“Zoe!” Ollie called my name.
He was standing beside the front door to the diner. The glass had been smashed open. It looked like Don hadn’t given up his search for the recipe after he’d finished with the food truck.
My first thought wasn’t for anything I owned. “Crème Brûlée!” I yelled as I ran past Ollie and into the diner.
Everything was ripped open and smashed in the diner, too. I ran to my bedroom area. The bed was torn apart. I couldn’t find Crème Brûlée anywhere. His bed had been tossed, too. Even his kitty litter box had been emptied on the floor.
I walked slowly through the diner, calling his name. I knew Crème Brûlée would be in a bad mood, anyway. I hoped he wasn’t hurt.
There was no answering meow to greet me and give me some idea of where he was. Where was he?
“What a mess.” Ollie was looking around when I came back up to the front of the diner. “I’m sorry, Zoe. I didn’t see anything going on. Whoever did this must’ve walked up or parked in back.”
“You can’t keep track of everything.” I wiped tears from my eyes. “If I can find Crème Brûlée, I’ll be okay.”
“I thought you said he wouldn’t run out.”
“I did. He wouldn’t, except that a stranger made a mess of his home. I don’t know what he’ll do now.”
Ollie smiled. “Too bad he wasn’t a little bigger. He could’ve stopped whoever did this. I think you might need a tough dog instead of a cat with an attitude.”
“Don’t even say that! He has to be here somewhere.”
Detective Latoure came inside to talk to me. I told her about Crème Brûlée. A few minutes later, everyone, including Miguel and Marty, was looking for him with me. They searched behind the stores and in the Dumpsters. He seemed to have disappeared.
“I hope Abbott didn’t take your cat with him,” Patti said.
“He wouldn’t have kept him for long,” Ollie said. “Believe me, that’s one mean cat.”
I kept looking. Where would Crème Brûlée hide if he was threatened? If we were still living back at the apartment, I’d know where to find him. Anytime a repairman showed up there, Crème Brûlée hid in my bedroom closet.
I wondered what he’d equate with that closet?
I glanced into the makeshift pantry I’d built to keep the rats away from my food. Usually, it was closed and locked. Don had cut the lock from the metal pantry. The door was still open.
Carefully, I opened the door and peeked inside. The first thing I saw was a rapidly swishing yellow and white tail. That movement was followed by a warning hiss.
“There you are.” I reached into the pantry and got a small nip on my arm for my trouble. I didn’t care. I hugged Crème Brûlée until he started growling at me. Then I kissed his little face and put him down.
“You’re safe now. I wish you could talk and tell me who did this.”
I found a comfortable place for him until I could get the bed put back to rights.
“I’m glad he’s okay,” Patti said.
“Can you pick Don up and arrest him?” I asked. “I want to press charges for all of this.”
“I’m sure we can find him. We’ll need some proof. I’ll have my team go over the food truck, and your diner. I’m sorry this happened, Zoe.”
“Me, too.” The full realization of how much I’d lost—and how much would have to be cleaned up before the Biscuit Bowl could go out again—hit me with a hard thud right in the chest.
It was just as well that Chef Art wasn’t really planning to join me tomorrow. There was no way I’d be ready to roll in the morning. Even if I could make do with what was left of my food supplies, I’d never get
things in order before then.
I felt like going home and crying. Only this was home now, and crying wouldn’t do much good. Somehow, I’d get through this. I’d start again. I wouldn’t let this beat me.
Miguel offered to take me out for lunch. I knew it was probably because I looked as lost and pathetic as I felt. He was being kind—giving the police some time to start working on the food truck and the diner without me watching them.
I appreciated his sweet thought. I didn’t want to watch whatever the police were going to do. I accepted his invitation. This time, I didn’t even think of the lunch being romantic. I didn’t care. I only wanted to get away from the destruction.
Miguel was even nice enough to let me put Crème Brûlée and his bed in the backseat of his car. Not everyone can handle a cat in their car. Tommy Lee certainly couldn’t. Neither could my mother.
Miguel was wonderful about it. He didn’t even complain when he tried to stroke Crème Brûlée and my evil cat bit him.
“He does that when he likes you.” I showed him the mark on my arm where Crème Brûlée bit me as I was searching for him. “See?”
“That’s . . . nice.” Miguel smiled and closed the back door. “Where would you like to go for lunch?”
I knew there wouldn’t be a lot of choices. I couldn’t leave Crème Brûlée in the car while we ate lunch. The only place I could think to go was Happy’s Drive-In. Visions of roller-skating waitresses serving comfort food as they flew by on the smooth pavement captured my thoughts.
I liked Happy’s. I’d always asked to eat here when I was a kid. The answer was always no. My mother didn’t eat at curbside restaurants.
As soon as I started driving, I came here for lunch, and after school for snacks. Everything was made fresh when you ordered it. Even the milkshakes were made with hand-dipped, hard ice cream.
“What’s good?” Miguel asked as he looked over the huge menu.
“I always have a milkshake. It doesn’t matter what flavor. All of them are delicious. Their cheeseburgers are awesome, and so are their hush puppies. They actually make them with their own batter, not frozen.”
“Sounds good.” Miguel ordered cheeseburgers, hush puppies, and milkshakes for both of us. I had the blueberry orange sky milkshake. Miguel had chocolate, not even chocolate delight. It suited him.
“Let’s go inside for a minute so I can say hello to Happy. Crème Brûlée will be fine.”
“There really is a Happy?”
“Sure. He opened this place when he got out of the navy in 1981. He was a cook on a ship for years. He started right out cooking professionally.”
We went inside. There was only a narrow aisle between the deep fryers, grills, and other food appliances. The roller-skating waitresses zoomed in and out past us, holding trays of food above their heads.
“Happy!” I hailed my old friend who’d given me my first summer job.
“Zoe!” Happy was dressed in white pants and shirt, as always. He looked almost the same as he had the first day I’d met him. Maybe he was a little rounder, and a little older. “It’s good to see you. I hope you got milkshakes. They’re really good today.”
We hugged, and I introduced him to Miguel. The two men shook hands.
Happy nudged me. “I like this one. And he’s a lawyer. You better hold on to him, Zoe. What happened to Mr. Perfect? I hope he ran that expensive piece of junk he drives into a telephone pole.”
Happy’s only experience with Tommy Lee wasn’t a good one. Tommy Lee had my mother’s dim view of eating at fast-food restaurants. I’d brought him inside to meet Happy. Tommy Lee had spent the whole time on his cell phone, brokering some stock deal.
What made it even worse—Tommy Lee had called Happy’s food greasy and had refused to eat lunch. We never went back again.
“I’ve heard about your food truck, Zoe,” Happy said. “It’s been on the radio a few times. You need to get on that website that tracks the local trucks.”
“I know. I can’t figure out how to contact the person who runs it.”
“Why didn’t you say so? Darnell Weaver runs that site. He worked here awhile before he found his thing on the Internet. He does interviews, and reviews of restaurants and food trucks, too. Maybe he could get you set up. I have his number here somewhere.”
Happy gave me Darnell’s phone number and email address. I hugged him and said thanks. “I can see our food is getting cold outside. Thanks for the information. I’ll see you later.”
Happy hugged Miguel, too. Miguel looked surprised to begin with, but he kind of rolled with it. That seemed to be the type of man he was. Maybe it was because his life had been a series of ups and downs. He’d learned to roll.
We got back in the car. Miguel had to get in from the passenger side because the food tray was already attached to his side of the car. I got in after him, and he passed me my food.
Crème Brûlée smelled the food—especially the burgers—and started looking pitiful. He flipped on his back in his bed and put his paws up in the air. He laid his big head back and let out a few pathetic meows. All the while his nose was sniffing the air.
“You know this will make you sick,” I told him. “Quit looking cute. I’m not feeding you.”
His meows got louder. I realized he was probably stressed by everything that had happened to him. I gave in and handed him the tuna treat I always carried in my bag for him. He was satisfied with that and went back to sleep. I could hear him snoring over the sound of traffic going by, and the sixties music Happy always played.
“This is a really good burger.” Miguel smiled at me “Food means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”
That question made me feel a little strange. Was he saying I talked too much about food?
“I suppose good food, and its preparation, is important to me because I’m involved in the industry.”
It sounded like a sound bite I might have given Happy’s friend, Darnell, for an interview. I smiled, and drank some milkshake to mitigate it.
“You’re definitely involved in the industry, Zoe. You have a real passion for it. I could see it on your face as you were cooking the other night.”
“Thanks, I guess. I know making food for people isn’t as important as being a lawyer and getting people out of trouble. It’s just what I do.”
He swallowed what he’d been chewing. “Don’t ever say that. You make people happy, and they feel better, even if they’re going through a bad time. I think that’s as important as anything else.”
After a bad day, his words were very nice. I wasn’t going to wait for a better invitation. I leaned toward him and kissed him lightly, as he’d kissed me at his office. “Thanks. That means a lot.”
He turned serious after that, and didn’t finish his lunch. We didn’t talk, either. I wondered if he felt guilty about his dead wife, or was afraid we were getting too close.
Whatever it was, I didn’t push myself on him. I didn’t finish eating, either, and the waitress came to get our tray. I thanked Miguel for taking me out and saving me from watching someone else plunder my belongings.
“You’re welcome. I guess we should be getting back. I have a client to depose this afternoon.”
And that was the end of my lunch with Miguel.
I was still contemplating what I’d done or said wrong as we drove back to the diner. I didn’t want to apologize. It seemed like he could take that the wrong way, too. It was a good thing I wasn’t thinking about romance with lunch. I would’ve been disappointed. This way, I was just confused.
The police were packing up as we were getting out of the car. Detective Latoure was gone. The crime scene team said they were finished getting fingerprints and whatever evidence they could find.
I thanked them for their help and told them the Biscuit Bowl owed them a free lunch—redeemable anytime they wanted to visit me outside police headquarters during the week.
They seemed happy about that. I felt better. I thought about what Miguel had said about me
making food. I knew he was right, despite what other people in my life thought. It made me happy to see people enjoying my food. Why shouldn’t it make them happy, too?
Miguel said he had to leave. “I’ll be glad to come by later and help you get this mess sorted out, Zoe. Will you be able to work tomorrow?”
“I hope so. Thanks for all your help.”
I waved to him as he left the parking lot. Marty and Ollie walked down from the shelter. I could see the consignment store employees nervously looking out of the front window to see what was going on.
“We have lots of free hands to help get this cleaned up for you,” Marty said when he reached me. “You’ve fed us better than we’ve eaten for a while. Let us help you get set up again.”
I was happy to let them help. All those extra hands could make quick work of the cleanup. I got Crème Brûlée set up in our makeshift bedroom and went to get things started.
We worked for a few hours. Half of the men were in the diner. Another smaller group, led by Ollie, was in the food truck. Things were really starting to get back in shape. I thought I might even be able to go back out tomorrow. I made a list of the supplies I would need to do so.
As I was taking stock of the ruined food, I heard Ollie shout from outside.
“Zoe! You have to see this. I know what happened to Delia.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Everyone crowded around as Ollie showed me a note he’d found duct-taped to the trash bin in back.
“I was bringing the trash out of the truck when I saw it,” Ollie said. “This proves Delia was kidnapped. I knew she wouldn’t leave on her own.”
The note was short and to the point. I’ll trade you the recipe for Delia. Meet me here at midnight. No police.
“We don’t have the recipe. Why does everyone think we do?” I threw the note on the ground. “How are we going to help Delia?”
“Didn’t Miguel say you had the directions to find it?” Marty asked.
I wished Miguel wouldn’t have said that. “Not really directions. It was more a vague idea of where the recipe could be. As you can see, it’s not in the diner or in the food truck.”
