Death on Eat Street (Biscuit Bowl Food Truck)

by J. J. Cook

  Another thing for me to feel guilty about. I had an answer for this one. As tired as I was, I didn’t think I could sleep yet. Cooking something would make me feel better. I decided to make some biscuits and sausage gravy for everyone.

  Ollie and I got the food truck cleaned out, and I locked it up for the night. I’d taken Crème Brûlée inside first. By the time we were done, he was asleep on my bed, his little white paws sticking up in the air. I stopped for a moment, and rubbed his soft tummy. He didn’t even wake up enough to do more than hiss at me.

  I laughed and went into the kitchen. Ollie had gone to the homeless shelter to gather the group and tell them I was making food.

  Is it over now?

  I thought about the whole series of events that had led to Don’s death today. I knew it was more than possible that Chef Art would convince Detective Latoure that he had no idea that the Jefferson recipe was stolen. Maybe he was even telling the truth.

  Detective Latoure obviously didn’t want to charge Chef Art with anything. That would probably be the end of that aspect.

  Still, three people had died, and Delia was still missing. The recipe was out there, too. I wasn’t sure where it would go from there.

  I had nothing to trade for Delia. If the killer had her, he probably also knew the recipe Don had was a fake. What else could I do to help my friend?

  Miguel stopped by. He’d heard about what had happened to Don. “Did you get a look at the recipe?”

  I told him it was a fraud. “I don’t know how we’ll find it.”

  “I don’t, either.” He sipped the coffee I’d poured him. “And I don’t see any way to get Delia back safely without it.”

  I thought about it while I took out one pan of biscuits and put in another. I stirred the sausage gravy. “What if we could make the killer think we have the recipe? He must be thinking the same thing we are—the recipe is there, but he doesn’t know where. If we assume he knows the recipe Don had wasn’t real, it could work.”

  “Let’s say you could convince the killer that you have the recipe,” Miguel began. “First of all, your life would be in danger again. Second, how would we get word to him? We don’t know who or where he is.”

  “That’s true,” I agreed unhappily.

  “Maybe the police already have the killer in custody, anyway. Chef Art may be the one behind all of this. We may have been right in thinking he kidnapped Delia. Don’t let that happy Santa face and white hat fool you. Chef Art can play hardball. He knew the recipe was stolen, yet he still offered money for it.”

  “I don’t think he killed anyone or kidnapped Delia, though. I think the person who took her put that invitation to his benefit dinner on her bed to mislead us.”

  “You’re not seriously buying into his whole good-guy routine, right?”

  I shrugged. “I told you, I have a feeling for people. Call it intuition, but it’s more than that. Chef Art isn’t exactly a good guy, but he’s not a killer, either. I don’t think he would’ve come out like that today to help me if he wasn’t basically a good person.”

  “Except that you threatened him,” he reminded me.

  “I think if Chef Art was the killer, or even kidnapped Delia, he would’ve done a better job kidnapping me. Believe me, his heart wasn’t in it.”

  “So, what’s the plan?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’m hoping something will come to me.” I smiled at him. “Feel free to make suggestions. You probably know more about this kind of thing than I do.”

  He smiled back at me, and I was caught in his sweet brown eyes.

  “What do your instincts tell you about me?” Miguel asked.

  “That you’re one of the good guys. Maybe one of the exceptional guys.” I leaned in close to him across the counter. “What do you think about me?”

  Before he could answer, Ollie, Marty, and the rest of the group walked into the diner with hearty greetings and appreciative sniffs of the biscuit and gravy smells that perfumed the air.

  “Later,” Miguel whispered.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  For a while, there was good conversation involving all different types of sports, fishing, and old times the men remembered with fondness. The biscuits and gravy disappeared like Alabama snow. There was nothing left to show for it after a few minutes.

  Marty and Ollie took me aside and pledged their help finding Delia and the Jefferson recipe.

  “There has to be some way to catch this killer before he does away with Delia,” Marty said. “Any ideas?”

  “I don’t think he’s going to stop until he gets the money from Chef Art. That’s what started this whole chain of events,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Ollie agreed. “But without the recipe to trade for Delia, what can we do?”

  “That’s the part I’m stuck on,” I admitted. “Chef Art doesn’t have the recipe. I’m sure of that. He was too excited about getting it from Don. On the other hand, the killer must not have it, either, or there was no reason to kill Don. I think he was probably angry that Don’s recipe wasn’t real.”

  “Or he just wanted to get rid of him.” Marty shrugged. “The man was a nuisance.”

  Ollie shook his head. “I agree with Zoe. I don’t think anyone has been able to find the recipe. Those clues Terry left on the beads were useless.”

  “You’re right. I think that’s what we need to do—find the recipe.” I warmed to my subject. “We have to look back at the clues, and find it to trade for Delia.”

  “But you already searched both food trucks,” Marty said. “Where else are you gonna look for it?”

  “I don’t know—yet. But we have to find it.” I thanked Ollie and Marty for their help. “I’m sure we can do this.”

  “What are you three whispering about over here?” Miguel joined us.

  “Finding Delia,” Ollie said. “I’ve heard of long-distance romances, but this is ridiculous.”

  “I knew you liked her,” I teased him.

  “What’s not to like? She’s hot.” Ollie waggled his eyebrows.

  “But what does she see in you?” Marty wondered with one eye closed, examining his friend.

  “I’m tall. I’m brown sugar through and through.” Ollie’s face puckered up, as though he was searching for another good trait.

  “And you’re a good cook,” I added. “Don’t worry. We’ll find her.”

  “Let me know if there’s anything legal I can do,” Miguel said.

  We all agreed to do what we could. Three of the men—not including Marty or Ollie—were directed to wash and dry plates, cups, and silverware. They left the kitchen cleaner than they’d found it.

  “I think it’s time for us to get back to the shelter,” Marty said. “Good night, Zoe. Thanks for supper.”

  As the men left with Marty, there were hugs and thanks. They looked as rugged and down-and-out as could be, but all the men seemed to have hearts of gold. Sometimes I wondered about their pasts, and thought my instinct might be a bit swayed by the good things they’d done for me. I tried not to worry about it.

  Ollie left soon after. “I’ll give you two some time alone. A word of warning, Miguel: whatever you do, don’t touch her hair.”

  I could feel the blazing hot spots on my face as Ollie chuckled and left the diner. He was beginning to be like the older brother that I never wanted. How could he say something like that? I’d confided the secret to my curls to him in good faith.

  Not that it mattered once the gel was dry. And I didn’t expect Miguel to run his fingers through my hair or anything tonight. It was just embarrassing.

  “Would you like some pie?” I tried to distract Miguel from Ollie’s remark. “I still have a piece or two of Uncle Saul’s peach pie left.”

  “No. I’m full. The biscuits were delicious.” Miguel smiled. “I guess I should go.”

  “Okay.” What else could I say? I had been expecting to continue the conversation that had started before the others had arrived.

  “There was one
more thing I wanted to say.” He came up close to me and took the dish towel out of my hands. “About my intuition with you, Zoe.”

  He put his hands on my arms and stared earnestly down into my eyes. I knew he was going to kiss me, despite what he’d said about not being ready. I tried not to look too expectant or do any puckering. I always hate when girls do that in the movies.

  “Oh?” I opened my eyes wide and parted my lips a little. No lip licking, either. That was a dead giveaway.

  “I think you’re a very good soul. Wonderful, in fact. I’ve never known anyone quite like you.”

  That was it.

  He smiled, wished me a good night, and left the diner.

  I had to sit down on a stool at the counter for a minute to catch my breath, and let go of the expectations I was trying to hide.

  Well, he thought I was wonderful. It was a start.

  I locked the door to the diner and turned off the lights. I was too tired to think about making my sweet and savory fillings for tomorrow. That meant I had to get up even earlier and make them while I was baking biscuits. It would have to do.

  I took a quick shower and hopped in bed with Crème Brûlée. He was snoring so loud that I had to wake him. He turned over and put his paws on my face for a moment before he licked my nose and fell back asleep.

  Even though I was exhausted, my mind kept going over all the possibilities that could have been hidden in the green beads.

  Chef A. That was obvious. Everyone knew Chef Art wanted the Jefferson recipe. Was Terry alluding to that fact? Or was that a warning to Don?

  Green chili. We’d searched for a green chili canister, and a canister with green chili peppers. Neither one of them seemed to be what we were looking for.

  There was always the possibility that someone had found what we’d missed. But if that was true, why not take it to Chef Art?

  Food truck. That seemed obvious, too. I would’ve guessed Terry’s food truck rather than mine. He was only in the Biscuit Bowl a short time harassing me. He could’ve hidden something while he was there, but it seemed unlikely to me.

  Either way, again we struck out.

  Watch your back. Maybe Terry knew this other person was involved. He wanted Don to watch out.

  None of it made any sense—except the part about someone getting to the recipe before us. Both food trucks were such a mess, how could we say for sure that the recipe wasn’t there?

  Suddenly it struck me and I sat straight up in bed. Crème Brûlée hissed and turned over, ignoring me as he went back to sleep.

  “We’ve been thinking about it the wrong way.” I jumped up and rummaged around until I found Detective Latoure’s phone number. I arranged for her to meet me at police headquarters in thirty minutes and called a taxi.

  I threw on some jeans and a T-shirt, pushed my feet into tennis shoes, and plopped Crème Brûlée into his basket. He didn’t appreciate that at all, but I didn’t want him to wake up and find me gone. No telling what kind of trouble he’d get into. Besides, it was dark, and I didn’t want him to be scared.

  My curls were a mess. I scowled at them in the mirror. I didn’t have the heart to wash and fix my hair, so I pulled on a bright blue cap to hide them. “It’s your own fault if you don’t like it,” I told my sometimes pesky black curls. “Every once in a while, you could stay in place by yourselves.”

  I looked as good as I was going to look. I grabbed Crème Brûlée and my handbag before I shot out the door. I locked it behind me, even though it seemed to be a useless gesture. If someone wanted to get in, they’d just break a window. Leaving the door open might be the lesser of the two expenses.

  Despite the argument with myself on the matter, my more practical side won out, and the door stayed locked.

  Detective Latoure was waiting for me when I arrived at police headquarters. I paid my driver, who wasn’t happy about having a cat in his car, and went to meet her, holding Crème Brûlée.

  “You brought your cat with you?” she asked. “Did he eat the startling new clue you think you’ve discovered that made you call me at this ungodly hour?”

  “He gets scared at the diner if he’s alone too long.” I shrugged and readjusted Crème Brûlée’s weight in my arms. “We haven’t been there that long. He still misses the apartment.”

  Patti put her hands over her ears. “Please! I don’t want to know that you’re living in that old diner.”

  “Oh, sorry. Well, anyway, Crème Brûlée has nothing to do with finding the recipe.” I explained my new theory about the clues Terry had left behind for Don to find. “We have to look at the taco truck again. I think I understand what Terry was trying to tell Don.”

  “That’s over at the impound lot.” She looked at Crème Brûlée. “I suppose he has to come, too?”

  Crème Brûlée hissed at her as though he knew Detective Latoure was trying to exclude him.

  “He won’t be a problem. He’ll stay in his basket in the backseat. I promise.”

  Patti smiled and made the mistake of trying to stroke my cat. She pulled her hand back quickly and sucked on her bloody finger. “I think he hates me. But with that body, I don’t think he could get out of the basket if he tried.”

  I didn’t tell her that Crème Brûlée could indeed get out of the basket. I didn’t want to stand out here or take him home. I wanted to take another look at the taco truck.

  “Okay. Let’s go.” Patti shrugged and pulled out her keys. “My husband doesn’t like it when I go out at this time of night without a partner.”

  I laughed as we walked to her car. “He must hate you being a detective.”

  “You could say that. I was going to be a lawyer when we met in college. He’s never gotten over me changing my mind. He really didn’t like it when I worked vice.”

  “What made you change your mind? I can’t imagine my mother suddenly deciding to be a cop.”

  “A friend of mine in college was killed.” She opened the back door of her car for me. “It was one of those random things. He was mugged and put up a fight. There’s not much you can do against a shotgun. I knew I wouldn’t want to defend his killer in court. I know everyone is entitled to good representation. I couldn’t be that person.”

  “What about your husband?” It surprised me that she was willing to open up to me this way. Maybe she was still half-asleep.

  “He works as a corporate lawyer.” She grinned. “We’re not exactly on the same wavelength, if you know what I mean. We tough it out like everyone else does.”

  “That must be hard.”

  “You have no idea.” She got in and started the car as I put on my seat belt. “What about you? Are you crazy, or just a rebel?”

  “I think maybe a little of both. I take after my Uncle Saul more than my parents.”

  “I knew Saul. He was a devil. When he was younger, people thought he was a genius in the kitchen. I never could figure out why he gave it all up. He could’ve been as famous as Chef Arrington.”

  “That’s the crazy part, I guess. He suddenly decided it wasn’t for him anymore. Now he lives in the swamp with an albino alligator.”

  “I’ve heard rumors that there was a woman.” Patti glanced at me for confirmation as we stopped for a red light on Government Street.

  “I guess I was too young for that. If there was a woman who brought him down, I’ve never heard anything about her. But you could be right.”

  We’d reached the impound lot. The officer let us through the gate. There were tall lights shining down on all the vehicles there, trying to prevent theft. They gave the whole area a weird orange glow. I saw Terry’s taco truck right away.

  I left Crème Brûlée sleeping in the back of the car. Detective Latoure and I walked to the taco truck. She opened the door with a key from her pocket.

  “So, what’s the new insight?” Patti hopped up into the back.

  “It’s this.” I carefully pulled away the green chili calendar from the back door. “I was thinking maybe watch your ba
ck could have more than one meaning. What if it meant the back door? And we were all looking for something that held green chili. This calendar has different chili peppers on it every month. I got a free one, too. This month is green chilis.”

  As I spoke, I looked at the back of the calendar image. There was something taped to it. My heart skipped a beat as I excitedly pulled the tape from it.

  The paper was very fragile. No telling what kind of damage had been done to the old recipe. It was still intact, signed by Thomas Jefferson. It was amazing to see it.

  “You know, they had a lot of different ways of spelling the same words we use today,” I told Patti. “I probably should be wearing gloves. I didn’t think of it.”

  “You found it!” She smiled and held out a large plastic bag that she withdrew from her pocket. She put on latex gloves and carefully handled the recipe. “I didn’t think we’d find it.”

  Now for the second part of my plan. “Since we found it, I’d like to use it to get Delia back.”

  I could see her immediately recoil from the idea. “Absolutely not! This has to be returned right away.”

  “If you return it right away, there won’t be any reason to keep Delia alive,” I reminded her.

  “You don’t even know for sure what happened to Miss Vann. She could’ve left town, for all you know, Zoe. I can’t risk this recipe to let you play around at being a detective.”

  I’d thought about this objection before I’d called her that night. “What about if you keep this a secret for another day or two and we make a copy of it? I could try and exchange that for Delia. If nothing else, I could possibly draw out the killer with it. That would be even better for you, right? You’d have the recipe and the person who killed Terry and Don.”

  She thought about it for a moment. “You couldn’t use the real recipe.”

  “Okay.”

  “But maybe I could keep this quiet for a few days. What are you thinking?”

  TWENTY-NINE