by J. J. Cook
She had a strange expression on her face. At least I thought she did. I hoped it wasn’t me, and I was imagining that she looked odd.
Before I could say anything, she held up her hand. It was covered in blood.
“Zoe, I need your help.”
TWENTY-FOUR
I guided her into the hotel room and called 911.
“What happened?” I helped her take off her dark pink jacket. It was covered in blood, too.
“Someone shot me as I walked up to the hotel.” Her face was very pale, eyes sunken, with dark circles around them.
“Where’s Marsh?” I looked at my cell phone, called his number and the emergency services number. I hoped the paramedics wouldn’t be far away.”Listen to me a minute.” She put her hand on the cell phone to stop me from calling for help. “I learned something about the killer. I haven’t had time to tell anyone else. You have to remember—”
Her voice started fading, and her eyes closed. Her hand dropped from the cell phone, leaving a smear of blood behind it.
“You can’t die,” I told her. Weren’t people supposed to stay awake? “Stay with me, Macey. Don’t lose consciousness.”
Her eyes fluttered open for a moment, and her lips moved, but I couldn’t hear what she was saying.
I tried to flag down a passing porter. Maybe the hotel could get someone here faster. Hotel staff passed me by like I was invisible.
“Zoe?” Miguel said on his way to the elevator. “Oh my God, what happened?”
Tina came in and sat on the bed while Miguel knelt by my side on the floor.
“She said someone shot her. I don’t think she knew who it was. How long does it take for an ambulance to get here?”
I heard the elevator chime. Uniformed paramedics rushed into the room with a stretcher and other equipment. “Help her, please.”
Miguel put his arm around me and we moved away from Helms. The paramedics were all over her, calling out her vitals and attaching needles and other apparatus to her. She was so helpless.
“She said she was shot,” I repeated, wanting to be some help.
One of them briefly turned to face me. “We can see that, ma’am. Best for you all to wait outside until we can get her out of here.”
“Come on,” Miguel urged me, taking Tina’s hand and leading her out, too.
Marsh was next off the elevator. I told him what had happened. He started to storm into the hotel room, but the paramedics pushed him out of the way and walked quickly past him.
“What happened?” Marsh asked me. “Who shot her?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t know why she came up here. She was trying to tell me something. I couldn’t make out what she was saying.”
Tears in his eyes were hastily pushed away as he pulled himself together. “What is it with you people? This race needs to end now.”
He rushed for the next elevator to follow his partner to the hospital.
Hotel security came next, ushering me out of my room and into another room. The red bloodstain on the beige carpet stood out as I quickly gathered my things together and hid Crème Brûlée under a blanket. He was squirmy and hard to carry.
“Why did she come to see me?” I kept asking Miguel as he helped me relocate. “She said she was shot outside the hotel. Why didn’t she stay outside and call for help? Or ask for help at the check-in counter. That would have made more sense.”
“People do strange things during emergency situations,” he explained. “It’s as though whatever is on your mind supersedes what’s happening to your body.”
Tina was crying and following us around like a puppy.
“She’s exhausted. Let me get her somewhere she can sleep,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
After he was gone, I looked around the new room. It was exactly like the old room, except there was no blood on the floor.
It was crazy. The whole thing seemed crazy to me.
Maybe Marsh was right. Maybe the race should be stopped. How many more bad things could happen before we got home?
I sat in a chair and held Crème Brûlée close to me until Miguel got back. He brought Uncle Saul with him. “Do you think this had something to do with the race?” Uncle Saul sat on the edge of my bed.
“I don’t know.” That sparkly, fun feeling I’d had after drinking too much was gone, leaving me with a raging headache. “Helms said it had something to do with the killer. I couldn’t understand anything else she said.”
“That poor woman.” Miguel shook his head.
“We should see if Chef Art still has his limo out.” I jumped up. “We could go to the hospital and find out how Helms is.”
“I’m sure someone will let us know,” Uncle Saul said.
“I can’t sit here not knowing. I don’t care if I don’t sleep at all tonight—I have to know if she’s okay.”
“Someone will call and let us know,” Miguel said. “You should get some sleep.”
“I don’t know if I can.” I completely lost it, sobbing into Miguel’s shirt. “I want to go home. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt or die. This is it.”
While I cried and tried to stop myself from hiccupping, Miguel and Uncle Saul came up with a plan. I was so glad they did because I wasn’t drunk, but my brain wasn’t functioning right, either. We went downstairs to get Miguel’s car. Several of Birmingham’s uniformed police officers passed us. I kept my head down, not up to answering a barrage of questions about what had happened to Helms. We managed to get out of the hotel. Miguel used his cell phone GPS to find the hospital.
When we got to the hospital, Miguel asked at the admitting desk about Helms. The nurse pointed to a place we could wait. Marsh was already there. He only looked slightly better than his partner had after she’d been shot.
He was staring at a pack of Marlboro cigarettes that hadn’t been opened. “I gave these up six weeks ago. I promised Macey I’d quit. Neither of us is married anymore. No close family. She’s all I have that makes my life normal.”
“They won’t help,” Miguel said as he sat down next to me. “I smoked for a long time after my wife died. It never made me feel better. Nothing does.”
It was another little piece of the puzzle that was Miguel Alexander. I was almost too tormented to even notice. I excused myself and went to the ladies’ room to wash my face.
Blotchy complexion and swollen, red-rimmed eyes had taken their toll. Even my curly hair was flat. I blew my nose on some rough toilet paper and splashed cold water in my face. “Don’t make me slap you, Zoe Elizabeth Chase. You know I’ll do it. Pull yourself together. This behavior isn’t going to help.”
They were my mother’s words on occasions like this one. I imagined her standing in this hospital bathroom saying similar things to herself. Somehow, that grounded me again and made me take a deep breath.
My mother was a tough, pragmatic taskmaster at times, but she was also a rock. I’d never seen her panic or lose it, as I had back there. My dad was a different story. He cried at movies and after listening to his favorite jazz songs.
Maybe it was the curly hair.
When I went back out to the waiting area, I was calmer and beginning to cope with the situation. My head still hurt, so I bought a Coke from a vending machine and swallowed two Tylenol. Good thing, too, because the Birmingham police had caught up with us.
They were actually very polite and apologized for bothering us. They asked a few questions but didn’t stay long.
Marsh kind of vouched for us. I was surprised that he suddenly seemed to trust us. Maybe it was because Helms had come to me after being shot.
The only sticking point I seemed to have with anyone was that I hadn’t been able to understand what Helms had been trying to tell me before she’d passed out. I said the same words over and over, attempting to explain the situation. The Birming
ham police looked skeptical.
“She mentioned that there was a new development in Alex Pardini’s death, right?” Marsh asked me.
“I think that’s what she was trying to say.” I sure couldn’t swear to it. “We’re going to have to ask her when she wakes up.”
The surgeon finally came out to talk to us at around three A.M. He said Helms was stable and holding her own. She’d be unconscious for at least the rest of the night and on strong pain meds the next day.
In other words, we might not have any answers about what had happened to her, or what her new information was that might have caused her to get shot, until we were already in Mobile for the last leg of the race.
“Don’t worry,” Marsh told us when the surgeon had gone. “I’m staying here with her. I won’t let anything else happen to her.”
It seemed as though there was nothing else to do. Uncle Saul said we should go back and get some sleep. I agreed, though it was hard leaving Helms.
We were back at the hotel by three thirty A.M. Everything was so quiet. Even the manager at the night desk whispered good morning to us as we walked by.
Uncle Saul decided to go up and sleep for two hours.
Miguel and I went upstairs. He walked me to my door and we went inside. The room was mostly dark. Crème Brûlée was snoring on the chair.
“I’ll see you in a couple of hours,” Miguel said.
He started to walk away and I caught his hand. “Will you stay instead? I don’t think I can sleep, and I don’t want to be alone.”
He nodded and shut the door behind him. “I can do that.”
We ended up sitting up against the pillows on the bed in the dark room. I had thought we could talk; you know, exchange secrets we wouldn’t have said at any other time. I leaned against his chest and heard his heart beating. I thought about him being alone and smoking after his wife and baby had died.
I closed my eyes to gather my scattered thoughts before I spoke, and the next thing I knew, the alarm on my phone was going off. It was six A.M. Time to go on with the race.
“I think I fell asleep for a while,” Miguel whispered, a smile in his voice. “How about you?”
“I think I completely passed out, and I apologize if I was snoring louder than my cat.”
“There were a few gasps and a little muttering, but no snoring,” he assured me.
“That’s good. I’d hate to snore the first night we spend together, you know?”
He kissed me, and we sat together silently for a few minutes.
“We have to go,” he said. “After this is all over, we’ll talk about us. Tonight, we’ll be home again. I’ll see you later, Zoe.”
I didn’t really see him leave, but I saw the door open and close. I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower. After the terrible night I had, I’d expected to feel much worse.
Miguel assuring me that I didn’t snore helped. Seeing his face first thing was great, too. That smile was enough to chase all my blues away.
I felt lighthearted and ready to face the day. It was time to take out the bikini.
– – – – – – –
There was a large crowd waiting for us in downtown Birmingham. The TV show promotion, and the building tension to see who would win, had created fans. I saw my name on two large posters that were held in the air.
“Look! There’s Zoe and Delia!” A man yelled and waved.
“Weird.” Ollie shook his head. “Why was he yelling for the two of you and not me?”
Uncle Saul slapped his back and laughed.
Ropes were up to keep the crowds away from the food trucks in the pre-dawn darkness. Camera crews were on hand from several of the major TV networks. It seemed odd after being in Atlanta, a much larger city, that people would make such a fuss over us in Birmingham.
All the food truck vendors were wearing robes or large shirts that covered up their bikinis when we met in front of the stage where Patrick Ferris was waiting.
“Why isn’t he wearing a bikini?” Ollie asked in a sour voice. His super-long Crimson Tide T-shirt covered his bathing suit.
“Because he isn’t part of the race.” Uncle Saul’s bikini was covered by an ankle-length trench coat. “He gets to wear what he wants. Anyone taking odds on him making it through the rest of the race?”
“I’ve got some money to put on that!” Bobbie Shields was wearing a loose-fitting flowered dress over her bikini.
Her daughter, like Delia, wore her bikini out in the open. Not surprising since she looked awesome in it. It was one of those suits with the patches in strategic places that seemed to be held together with magic.
Patrick was going through his usual spiel, reminding us all of the rules and the challenge for that day. I could tell everyone was extra nervous. This was the end of the line for two more food trucks. Only one stop to go before a winner was announced.
Dante was there, up by the front of the stage. He was wearing his black bikini with no covering. It looked good on him. He pulled it off with fantastic abs and a taut tush.
I clung to my pink robe and didn’t plan to remove it until I had to.
Miguel was there in jeans and a Biscuit Bowl T-shirt. Ollie had a few words to say about the outriders not having to meet the challenge. He was mostly ignored as the time neared for us to get started on making food for the day.
There was no sign of the Our Daily Bread team. Had they given up rather than wear bikinis? It seemed like too much to ask for. I waited for them to make an appearance.
When everything pertinent had been said, the remaining food truck teams started back to get ready for the day. Chef Art had managed to get a TV crew from Mobile to come in and tape us making food.
“You all remember to wear your hats,” he reminded us before making room for the cameramen.
Ollie and Uncle Saul looked at each other and sighed before they removed their outer garments to reveal the skimpy bathing suits beneath them.
When Ollie removed his T-shirt, I heard an audible gasp from Delia.
She stared at him. “Which one of us is supposed to look better in a bikini?”
TWENTY-FIVE
My jaw dropped, too. I had never seen Ollie wearing so little. He made Dante look like he’d only started working out a few days earlier. Ollie had muscles on his muscles. He was in awesome shape.
“Man!” Uncle Saul shook his head. “You look good. Why were you covering up?”
“I’m wearing a woman’s bikini.” Ollie punctuated each word with a dollop of sarcasm. “Why do you think?”
“I love the dragon tattoo.” Delia ran her hand up his back from the spot where the dragon’s tail ended under the red bottom to the head that was arched back on his broad, muscular shoulders.
“Thanks!” He looked surprised and pleased that we were so complimentary.
I took the opportunity, while everyone was gawking at Ollie’s physique, to remove my robe and quickly stash it in a bottom storage bin in the kitchen.
“Wow!” Miguel approved quietly, but with a lustful smile that I enjoyed.
I felt myself blush all over—and I mean all over. “Okay. Let’s get going or we don’t have a chance of having the food ready by eight. Uncle Saul, what are we making today?”
He’d chosen a simple, but sure to please, menu. His gumbo was to die for, even though we’d have to take a few shortcuts to have it ready in time. For our sweet dish, he’d chosen berries and whipped cream.
We jumped right in. Delia and I chopped precooked vegetables, sausage, and chicken while Uncle Saul started the biscuit bowls. The berries had to be thoroughly washed—that was Ollie’s job.
It was hard to ignore the cameramen. It was already like being in a fish bowl. Sometimes I felt like the camera was going right in my ear. Could they come any closer?
I knew they were doing us a fa
vor, traveling up from Mobile to document the race. It was still hard to work that way.
It was just as hard to keep my mind focused on what we were doing. I kept thinking about Helms, wondering how she was doing and why she’d risked her life to come up to my hotel room after she was shot.
It made me feel guilty that I couldn’t understand what she’d been trying to tell me. Obviously it was something important or she wouldn’t have done it.
All we could do was wait until she until she could tell everyone.
I hated waiting.
The bikini was comfortable as the kitchen heated up. I’d left the back door, and the order window, open. That brought in a fresh breeze. I didn’t want to turn on the air-conditioning until the afternoon.
“Okay.” Uncle Saul rubbed his hands together as he finished making the roux. “Let’s get the rest of it in there.”
The big pot had to rest over three of the burners on the small hot plate. All of the vegetables and meats went into the pot, and the whole thing started to smell divine right away.
It was a good thing we were using fresh berries for the sweet biscuit bowl and not cooking those, too!
“Where does this recipe come from?” one of the cameramen asked when we got quiet.
“My grandma made it and passed it to my mother.” Uncle Saul grinned as he stirred the mixture. “Now I make it. You know, a man can cook, too.”
The cameraman laughed. “Some men, maybe. I can barely make coffee and toast.”
“It’s easy,” Uncle Saul assured him. “Here. Let me hold the camera. You stir the pot until the sauce thickens.”
They switched places, and the cameraman awkwardly used the big spoon to stir the mixture. “Like this?”
“Just like that,” Uncle Saul told him. “I hope the camera is on.”
“It’s on.” The other man laughed. “They might want to edit this part out.”
“The berries are ready,” Ollie said. “Should I put sugar on them?”
“No!” Uncle Saul didn’t like that idea.
