Death on Eat Street (Biscuit Bowl Food Truck)

by J. J. Cook

  We had to find a good forger to fool anyone with the document I planned to trade for Delia. Uncle Saul suggested Ben Weathers. Miguel and I went to visit him at his antique shop on Friday morning.

  “Did Uncle Saul mention that his friend did time in prison for forgery?” Miguel asked as we drove to South Water Street.

  Rain had come in from the gulf and was sweeping the streets of Mobile. Not a good day to be out in the food truck, and yet I felt a little let down that I might lose all the momentum I’d gained with Chef Art’s help.

  Delia needed rescuing, I reminded myself. My plan had to work. Miguel wasn’t pleased with my plan when he’d heard it. “Did I mention how many things could go wrong with this plan? I can’t believe Detective Latoure is going along with it.”

  The proof of Detective Latoure’s willingness to try and catch the killer—as well as taking the credit for finding the Jefferson recipe—was in my lap.

  A historian from the Mobile History Museum had authenticated the recipe yesterday. He’d agreed to keep quiet about the find. He’d put the document into a protective envelope where it could be viewed without being touched. He’d also warned that the recipe needed to be returned as quickly as possible, as he ogled the slice of history.

  “It’s going to be fine, Miguel,” I told him. “There are always things that could go wrong, but that doesn’t mean they have to go wrong.”

  “You walking around telling everyone that you have the recipe and are going to sell it to Chef Art is a bad idea. Don threatened you, and he wasn’t even sure you had it. How do you think the killer is going to react with the certain knowledge that you have it? He’s killed at least two people already to get the payoff from Chef Art.”

  “I’ve thought of that. And that’s why I’m staying at my father’s apartment until this is over. He has security. After today, I’ll only have a good copy of the recipe, so it can’t be lost again. The worst that can happen is that the killer will figure out where to find me, and he’ll kill me before I can sell the fake to Chef Art.”

  “Oh. If that’s the worst that can happen—I think we should scrap this idea and come up with another one.”

  I put my hand on his arm as he drove. “Don’t worry. I know this is going to work. Uncle Saul says we can trust Ben Weathers to keep his mouth shut about the forgery. Detective Latoure will have people at the benefit dinner. It’s all going to be fine, and we’ll have Delia back.”

  I wasn’t as sure as I sounded, but what choice did we have? I figured the biggest risk was the killer trying to get the recipe before the dinner. I hoped staying at my father’s apartment would take care of that. In addition to security at the apartment, Detective Latoure had two men stationed downstairs in the lobby. I was probably safer there with the fake recipe than I had been without it at the diner.

  Miguel parked the car in the same spot Uncle Saul had parked when we’d visited Ben. “I hope you’re right. It seems risky to me. As Detective Latoure pointed out, we don’t even know for sure that the killer has Delia.”

  “I think we’re pretty clear about that.” I got out of the car. “Delia didn’t just run off on her own. If it wasn’t for my mother messing up the exchange, we’d have her back already.”

  Miguel came around the side of the car. “I can see there’s nothing I can say that will change your mind.”

  “That’s probably true. Shall we do this?”

  Ben was thrilled to get a look at the Jefferson recipe. He spent ten minutes marveling at it, turning it around, and examining every part of it.

  “I love holding history in my hands. You know, this seems like only a recipe, but Jefferson and his chef—who was Sally Hemmings’s brother, by the way—changed how we think about food in this country. It would’ve been tragic for this to have ended up in a private collection.” He looked up and grinned at me. “Unless of course it was mine.”

  I could appreciate his sentiments. It was fascinating. It struck me even more so because crème brûlée was involved. What were the chances?

  “Now, let’s see. I think I have exactly the right paper here to make this realistic.” Ben put on his glasses and slid a piece of antique paper from a plastic pouch. “If someone who knows what they’re doing looks at this too close, you’re dead. I could tell you that it’s a forgery with a few minutes to examine it. You need to do what you have to do and get out of there, Zoe. I wouldn’t want Saul saying I got his niece in trouble.”

  Of course, Ben didn’t know what we had in mind. I’d only told him the barest information. It was better that way.

  Detective Latoure was hoping that Chef Art wasn’t the killer and wasn’t the person who’d kidnapped Delia. Neither one of us could be sure. She certainly didn’t want to arrest the popular celebrity, especially not at his own, very high-profile, party.

  I didn’t want that to happen, either. It would make me doubt my instincts about Chef Art. When I’d called him, and told him I had found the recipe, he’d almost sounded disappointed.

  I couldn’t tell; maybe he was disappointed that he might have to kill me, or that he’d have to pay me the million dollars he’d promised Terry.

  Whatever it was, I didn’t let it get to me. I had to steel myself in case Chef Art was the culprit. If I was wrong about him, I was wrong.

  Ben began copying the information from the Jefferson recipe to the forgery with excruciating patience. He offered several times to let us leave the recipe with him and pick it up later. I didn’t have to nix that idea. Miguel said no very quickly.

  That meant I had to wait on his customers that came in while he was working. There weren’t many on the dismal day. One man came in for a chair Ben had procured for him. A woman came in to browse but left without a purchase.

  “Hey!” Ben looked at me over the top of his glasses. “I’m doing this for free, Zoe. The least you could do is sell something for me.”

  “Sorry. I was trying. She wasn’t interested.”

  “She sounded interested to me. I thought you’d be a good salesperson since you have that food truck and all. How’s that going, by the way? You were all over the news with Chef Art. Is he your new mentor?”

  “Not exactly. He kind of owed me a favor.”

  Ben grunted. “I guess that runs in the family, or I wouldn’t be doing this, either.”

  “Great. Can we have a little less talk and a little more forging?” Miguel said.

  “Keep your pants on,” Ben said. “This has to be done just right. If I misspell one word, it could be a dead giveaway.”

  The rain came down even harder, making the antique shop seem smaller and darker. No other customers came in. Miguel spent most of his time on his cell phone with a client. I walked through Ben’s shop looking at all the wonderful old pieces he had there.

  “I’m done.” Ben took off his glasses and blew on the ink he’d used from an old fountain pen. “Like I said, someone who knows his business is gonna spot that this wasn’t written with a quill pen. That would be bad. If you’re trying to sell this to a person who is only looking to turn it over and make some money, you should be okay.”

  I knew he was trying to get more information from me about what was going on. I hoped he could stay quiet about what he knew. It was a big secret to keep for someone like him.

  “Thank you for your help.” I picked up the forgery and looked at it.

  “You’re welcome. Tell your uncle I owe him one less favor. Someday, he’s gonna owe me a favor or two.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  Ben squinted up at me as he looked at the real recipe again. “You know, I’d heard this was lost—that the sale to Chef Art didn’t go through. You aren’t involved in that, are you, Zoe?”

  “Not at all.” I smiled at him as I took the Jefferson recipe. “I wouldn’t do anything like that, Ben. My mother would prosecute me in court herself.”

  Miguel and I left the shop, darting out into the heavy downpour. When we were inside the car, he said, “You’re a very
smooth liar, Zoe.”

  “I wasn’t lying. I’m not involved in the sale to Chef Art. I’m only trying to get Delia back.”

  He laughed as he started the car. “Selective truth, then.”

  “Maybe. I guess we better get the real recipe back to police headquarters before Detective Latoure sends out a search party for us.”

  We went over the plan again as we drove across town in heavy traffic. It seemed no one wanted to be out walking or riding their bikes on a day like this. That led to more cars on the road.

  I was surprised when we got to police headquarters that Suzette’s Crepes was parked outside. The weather was so bad that I knew no one would stop to eat. Still, there was a strong part of me that wished I was out there, too.

  Miguel and I ran upstairs. We returned the real Jefferson recipe to Detective Latoure. She took a look at the forgery and pronounced it ready for the benefit dinner.

  “Are you ready, Zoe?” She stowed away the plastic envelope that held the million-dollar recipe.

  “As soon as I pick up my dress from the cleaners, I will be. I’ll be glad to get this over with.”

  “Just remember we need you here by four P.M. to fit you with the wire. Make sure you keep to yourself the rest of today. You don’t need to put yourself in harm’s way any more than necessary. Let us do our job.”

  “Of course.” I smiled at her. “I completely understand.”

  She grimaced. “You’re a terrible liar. Just be careful, huh? I don’t want this whole thing blowing up in my face.”

  After Miguel telling me I was a great liar, I was surprised at Patti’s words. “You don’t have to worry. I’m not going to do anything to get myself killed before I go to Chef Art’s benefit dinner.”

  She glanced at Miguel. “Imagine that being your only motivation.”

  “I guess everyone is different.” Miguel shrugged and picked up the forged recipe. “We’ll see you tonight.”

  “Are you going to keep that?” I nodded at the recipe in his hand as we left Detective Latoure’s office and headed back downstairs. “That would mean you have to go to the dinner tonight.”

  He looked a little red-faced as he gave the fake recipe to me. “I’m sorry, Zoe. You know how I feel about it. You’ll be in good hands with the police. There wouldn’t be anything else I could do to make it any better.”

  Except for being there with me. “I suppose that’s true.”

  We’d reached the front door. Miguel looked at his watch.

  “I can take a taxi back to my father’s apartment.” It was a completely awkward moment. “There’s no reason for you to run back and forth across town.”

  “I do have to be at the courthouse in thirty minutes. If you wouldn’t mind?”

  I smiled and took out my cell phone. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good day in court.”

  Miguel looked as though he wanted to say something else. Whatever it was didn’t come out. “Be careful, Zoe. I’ll talk to you later.”

  I told myself it was just as well. I didn’t want to be all clinging and nagging him. Tommy Lee and I were over. That didn’t mean I had to be insecure about not being with a man. I was a small-business owner now.

  I called for a taxi, squared my shoulders, and went outside to wait under the overhang.

  I thought I might as well get my dress while I was out. It would be wrapped in plastic anyway. I might as well get everything ready.

  Lucky for me, Crème Brûlée was a little familiar with my father’s apartment. He’d settled in there much better than he had at the diner. He liked familiar surroundings and cushiony things. We weren’t that much different.

  Frankie at the dry cleaner’s had my dress ready to go. I hadn’t worn it in a long time. I’d tried it on before I decided to wear it. The elegant black party dress had a little red embroidery at the neckline and waist. It was always perfect whenever I wore it.

  I paid Frankie and stood around making small talk for a while. I realized I wasn’t looking forward to hiding at my father’s apartment.

  I felt like the chances were better than average that the killer would wait until the benefit dinner. What could it hurt for me to do a little shopping?

  I was pretty sure my black heels needed to be replaced before dinner. I still had some money. I started thinking about treating myself to lunch and shoes.

  That ended up taking most of the afternoon. I sprang for a manicure, and a cute little black hat with a veil that had a touch of red that would be perfect with my dress. I got the shoes on sale so I felt justified spoiling myself a little.

  “What in the world have you been doing with these hands?” Penny, the manicurist at my usual salon, asked when she saw them. “Have you been mixing concrete or something?”

  “No. I started my own business. I own a small diner and a food truck now.”

  She looked as though I’d told her that I was about to jump off a bridge. “Why on earth did you do a thing like that?”

  It was a question I was used to answering. I wished it wasn’t—and I wished no one else would ask me in that tone of voice again. It might be time to look for another salon, even though I’d been coming to Penny’s for years.

  Of course, who knew when my next manicure would be? My toes curled in my shoes as they imagined what she’d think of my lack of pedicures.

  All of that led to lunch at the small café, Lavender Blue. I loved the quaint, hole-in-the-wall atmosphere, and the food was fantastic. I ordered my usual roasted vegetable orzo and sat back with my lime water to wait.

  Across the crowded room, I saw Tommy Lee with Betty from the bank. It still amazed me that the two of them had managed to find each other. It annoyed me a little, too, even though I knew I was better off without him in my new life.

  I was depressed, despite telling myself all those wonderful things about being in business and doing what I really wanted to do. I’d never thought of myself as one of those women who had to have a man all the time. But maybe I was.

  That was even more depressing. I ended up splurging for the Grand Chocolate Surprise. It was really good. Then I started feeling guilty. Maybe that was better than being depressed.

  I spoke with Lavender, who owned the café. We’d talked before about food, and many other subjects relating to food. I’d admired her for the last few years since I’d started coming there. She was in her midforties, and was very successful. She was also not afraid to be herself. I could tell because her long, straight hair was dyed a soft shade of purple. She was famous for it.

  “That’s wonderful news, Zoe.” She held my hands and smiled. “I can see looking at you how good it’s been.”

  “It hasn’t been without its problems,” I confided. “I’m still not sure if I’m going to make it.”

  “Of course you will. If not this time, then the next. This place isn’t my first attempt at owning my own restaurant.” She gestured at the soft lighting and plants. “There have been failures. Each time, I got back up, saved my money, and tried again. You will, too.”

  Even though she’d managed to pinpoint my greatest fear, I felt much better when I left. Even the rain had stopped when I got outside. It made me feel like everything was going to be okay. People who didn’t know me might not think I could do this, but I knew they were wrong.

  I grabbed a taxi and headed back to my father’s apartment, full of chocolate and positive energy. I paid the driver when I got there, and stepped out on the sidewalk. The doorman tipped his hat to me.

  “Zoe!”

  I glanced up, and there was Marty. I got the oddest little zing when I saw him. It wasn’t a good thing. “How did you know where to find me?”

  “Ollie told me. You have to come with me. We found Delia.”

  THIRTY

  In all fairness, I had told Ollie where I was going to be staying in case of an emergency. This seemed to constitute that emergency. I didn’t blame him for telling Marty where I was.

  Still, all the hair
stood up on the back of my neck. I wondered what was wrong.

  I was surprised that Marty had come to get me. Why hadn’t Ollie called me to let me know that something had happened? “Where is she? Is she okay?”

  “She seems to be fine, Zoe. I brought my car so we could go right over and get her.”

  I looked at him with his old jeans and T-shirt barely covering his tummy. Beyond him, parked on the street, was an old Buick that had seen better days. I hadn’t even realized that he had a car. It made sense then why Ollie hadn’t called and why Marty had come to get me.

  I shivered a little, despite the warm afternoon sun on my head. Something still felt wrong, no matter how I tried to talk myself out of it.

  “Did you call the police?” I noticed the doorman’s ears perked up when I mentioned the police.

  “You know how we are with the police.” Marty shrugged. “We thought about getting you and figuring out what to do after.”

  “Okay.” I glanced at my watch. I still had an hour before I had to be at police headquarters to be fitted for the wire they wanted me to wear. “Let me drop my stuff off upstairs. I’ll only be a minute.”

  “I’ll go with you.” Marty glanced at the doorman. “He doesn’t look too happy about me hanging around. I think he might ask me to leave before you get back.”

  It made sense. It all made sense.

  Still, I had a growing fear in the pit of my stomach.

  I smiled at the doorman, who knew me well. “We’re going upstairs for a minute, Bodie.”

  Bodie nodded, his critical eyes on Marty. “Whatever you say, Miss Chase.” He used to be a security guard. He seemed to observe the world with as much suspicion as if he’d been a police officer. But a guest was a guest.

  Marty and I walked through the posh lobby. There were a large number of people hanging around, especially for midday on Friday. I thought they were probably police officers, undercover, assigned by Detective Latoure. I smiled at each of them in case my life might be in their hands.

  “Nice place,” Marty whispered. “Do you live here when you’re not at the diner?”