Death of a Crabby Cook

by Penny Pike

  “You helping out Abby again today?” he asked. He returned the long pole to its spot, then began setting out shakers filled with powdered sugar for the cream puffs.

  Wow. He knew I’d worked in Aunt Abby’s bus yesterday? And he knew my name?

  “Yes,” I said, glancing nervously at my aunt’s busterant. There was still no sign of her. “You haven’t seen her, have you? I thought she’d be here by now.”

  Jake squinted in the direction of the bus. The rising sunlight brought out the gold in his thick, sun-bleached brown hair and revealed the tiniest feathery lines near his eyes. I guessed him to be in his early to midthirties.

  He shook his head. “No, but I haven’t been here too long. By the way, I heard what happened to the chef from Bones ’n’ Brew yesterday. Is your aunt all right?”

  “Oh yes, she’s fine. So, do you know my aunt Abby well?” I said.

  Jake grinned, revealing a mouthful of straight, white teeth. “We’re kind of like a big family here. Everybody trades food, offers support, shares news. There aren’t many secrets in the food truck community. And I’m really fond of your aunt. She reminds me of my mother.”

  “She’s quite a character,” I said, wondering if his mother was as quirky as Aunt Abby.

  “She mentioned that you live with her.” He eyed me, his eyes sparkling. “That must be fun.”

  Oh God. What else had she told him about me? That I thought he was hot? That I ate so many cream puffs because I had a crush on him? I was sure I was blushing the color of his Red Velvet Dream Puffs.

  “Uh, yeah, I’m just staying there temporarily. Until I find a place of my own.” And get a full-time job and a regular paycheck, I thought.

  “So, any dirt on the murder?” he asked.

  “What? No. How would I know anything?” I asked testily. I glanced again at the School Bus. Where was Aunt Abby?

  “You’re a reporter, right? For the Chronicle? I thought you might have some dirt on who killed Oliver Jameson.”

  So he knew I’d worked at the newspaper too. He just didn’t know I mostly wrote restaurant reviews. I’d have to duct-tape Aunt Abby’s mouth shut in the future.

  “Actually, I’m only part-time now,” I lied.

  He looked surprised. “Really? How come?”

  Boy, this guy was direct. “Downsized,” I said, shrugging. “The economy. You know.”

  He nodded sympathetically. “I hear you. Everyone seems to be struggling these days, especially newspapers. It’s like they’ve shrunk to little more than pamphlets. It’s a wonder they’re still in business.”

  “Well, I’m writing a cookbook in my spare time,” I added quickly, so I didn’t sound like a complete loser. “I plan to fill it with recipes from all the popular food trucks and festivals. Maybe you’d like to contribute one of your cream puff recipes, say, your Piña Colada Dream Puff? It’s free publicity.”

  “Sounds good. But I’d have to show you how I make them rather than just hand over the recipe. There’s a trick to it.” He actually winked at me.

  It felt like my face was on fire. The thought of spending time with Jake Miller inside his cozy cream puff truck, making Piña Colada Dream Puffs together, sounded like a dream come true.

  “And you’ll have to wait until after the festival,” he added. “Then I’ll know how well the crowd likes my Crabby Dream Puffs.”

  Before I could stop myself, I made a face. I thought of cream puffs as sweet desserts, not savory snacks. The thought of biting into a crab-flavored cream puff made me a little seasick.

  He laughed at my reaction. “They’re pretty good. And they look like little crabs. You’ll have to try one.”

  I changed the subject. “Have you done the Crab and Seafood Festival before?” I asked, knowing he was a recent addition to the Fort Mason food trucks.

  “Nope. This will be my first. Last year I was wearing a suit, carrying a briefcase, and banking billable hours as an attorney. I’m looking forward to this. It should be fun.”

  “You’re a lawyer?” I said, knowing full well he was because Aunt Abby had told me when I questioned her about the hot guy in the cream puff truck. A thought came to me. Maybe Jake Miller would come in handy with my aunt’s recent legal situation.

  “Yep. Up and quit, after deciding to go into business for myself. Crazy, huh?”

  “Not at all,” I said. Maybe a little, I thought. What guy would give up cash-paying clients for cream puffs?

  “Well, if you love beer and crab, you’ll love the festival,” I added. “It won’t be long before this whole area is filled with bands, booths, and billions of people.”

  “Can’t wait. I love seafood, especially oysters. How do you like yours? Raw? Barbecued? Deep-fried?”

  “I like mine left in the ocean where they belong.”

  “Really? No oysters for you?”

  I shook my head, remembering the handful of people who’d died as a result of eating oysters. Speaking of dying, my thoughts returned to the death of the chef. “Jake, did you happen to know Oliver Jameson?”

  Jake shook his head. A lock of his sun-bleached hair fell in his eyes and he combed it back with his fingers. “That detective came around asking questions yesterday afternoon, but I didn’t have much to tell him.”

  “What did he say?”

  Jake frowned. “Nothing much. He did mention the argument your aunt had with him, but I told him she was harmless. Plus, we’d all had our run-ins with the guy.”

  That was a relief. “As a former lawyer, is there any chance you could find out exactly how Jameson was killed?”

  “I suppose I could make some calls. I still have a couple of cop friends at SFPD. Why? Are you really that worried about your aunt being a suspect?”

  I shrugged, trying to appear casual to hide my true concerns. “A little,” I said. “I know she had nothing to do with it, but I’d still like to know what happened.” If Jameson was shot or strangled or axed to death, surely that would let Aunt Abby off the hook. She didn’t own a gun—as far as I knew. She was too petite to strangle even a chicken. And while she was adept with a food chopper, I doubted she’d had as much experience with an ax as Lizzie Borden.

  “Consider it done.”

  “Thanks.” I glanced again at the School Bus, growing more concerned about my aunt’s absence with every passing moment. But to my relief and surprise, the bus doors were open and the lights inside were on.

  “She’s back! Thank God! I have to go. Thanks again, Jake.”

  “Hold on!” he said as I started to step away. He disappeared into his truck. Seconds later he reached out through the service window. In his hand he held a cream puff covered in a bright orange drizzle, with slivered almonds sticking out of the creamy filling. The two dots of chocolate frosting on the top made the cream puff look like a small crab. Incredible. This guy was an artist when it came to decorating baked goods.

  “On the house,” he said as I reached for it. “Don’t worry. This one is filled with sweet orange cream and topped with a tart orange frosting. No real crabs were harmed in the making or baking of it.”

  I didn’t know which I liked better—the Dream Puff or the man who’d just handed it to me.

  • • •

  “Aunt Abby?” I called, entering the School Bus through the open accordion door.

  Aunt Abby had already donned a fresh cafeteria-lady apron and was hurriedly working on what appeared to be crab mac and cheese, guessing from the ingredients on the counter in front of her. She had iPod earbuds in and was singing along to the soundtrack from Frozen.

  “Where have you been?” I demanded, my hands on my hips. “I’ve been looking all over for you!”

  She pulled out an earbud. “What?”

  I repeated the question.

  “Oh, I had some errands to run,” she said, not meeting my eyes a
s she picked up a large knife.

  I thought about the other “errands” she had run yesterday—when Oliver Jameson was being murdered.

  “We have to get ready for the festival opening!” I said, putting on my own apron. “I’ve been frantic, wondering where you were. What do you need me to do?”

  “Crack more crabs,” she said, pointing the knife at a bowl filled with crabs.

  I eyed the knife, remembering the way she’d waved it at Oliver Jameson the previous day. She seemed to read my mind and lowered her arm, then returned to chopping already-shucked crab.

  “When is Dillon getting here?” I asked, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves. “I saw him this morning and it didn’t look like he was ever getting out of bed.”

  “I told him to come around eleven,” she answered. “Could you start the water boiling for the noodles?”

  Boiling water was right up my alley. I filled the pot from the sink spigot, turned on the burner, and set the pot on top. “Well, don’t scare me like that again. When I couldn’t find you, I started asking around at the food trucks.”

  “Oh, is that why I saw you at Jake’s truck?” Aunt Abby said, smirking.

  “He was one of the people I asked,” I said, trying to sound casual.

  “Jake . . . Isn’t he the one you’re hot for?” This time Aunt Abby smiled wickedly as she chopped the crab into pieces.

  “I never said I was hot for him!” I snapped. “I don’t even know him. I may have mentioned he was kind of cute—that’s it. But apparently he knows a lot about me. What have you been telling him, Aunt Abby?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “We’re like family here. We talk.”

  “That’s what he said. I hope you haven’t told him all about my personal life!”

  Aunt Abby grinned. “So what did he have to say?”

  “Nothing much. We just chatted. He gave me a free cream puff.”

  “Umm-hmm,” Aunt Abby mumbled under her breath.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Did he say anything about the murder?” The sound of the big knife chopping crab on the cutting board accented her words. Those might be small hands, but they suddenly looked pretty powerful.

  “He said the police talked to him and several of the other food truck chefs to see if they knew anything about Jameson’s death.” I paused. “They all knew about the argument you had with the chef.”

  Aunt Abby visibly tensed, but she said nothing and resumed her chopping. Had I hit a nerve?

  “You know he’s a lawyer, right?” I asked. “He said he has friends at the police department and that he’d try to learn more about Jameson’s murder.”

  Aunt Abby blinked rapidly, the knife still in her now trembling hand. Something was going on in that adorable curly-haired head of hers. I put a hand on her shoulder. “Aunt Abby? What is it?”

  “Nothing.” She shook her head. “You’ll let me know what he finds out?”

  I didn’t get a chance to reply. The man himself appeared at the School Bus service window. He was frowning.

  “Jakey!” Aunt Abby said, sounding more anxious than glad to see him.

  Jakey?

  She set down the knife and wiped her hands on her apron. “Darcy said you might talk to the cops for me. Did you find out anything?”

  He nodded. “May I come in for a minute?”

  “Of course.” Aunt Abby rinsed her hands in the sink. Jake stepped inside and inhaled. “Smells good in here. What’s cooking?” He looked in the pot of boiling water on the stove.

  “Water,” I said smartly.

  “Crab mac and cheese,” Aunt Abby added, drying her hands on a towel. “What’s up, Dream Puff Boy? If you talked to the cops, then spill it. Don’t hold anything back.”

  I loved it when my aunt talked like a mob moll.

  “I just got off the phone with a friend at SFPD.” He popped a small piece of crab into his mouth, then licked his lips.

  “Wow,” I said. “That was fast.”

  “And?” my aunt said.

  My heart suddenly started racing at the news we were about to hear. Or it could have been that lip licking.

  “He said they don’t know exactly what killed Jameson yet, but there were no signs of struggle or injury on the body. No stab wounds, gashes on the head, things like that.”

  My heart leapt. No knife wounds. That had to be good news for Aunt Abby.

  Jake continued. “They found him in his office, sitting in his chair, slumped over his desk.”

  I knew about the office, but none of the details. I was impressed with Jake’s connections. “Maybe he had a heart attack!” I said, then glanced at Aunt Abby for her reaction. Her eyes were wide. From anticipation? Or fear?

  Jake shook his head. “They think it might have been something he ate.”

  “Like what?” Aunt Abby asked.

  “Some kind of soup. They found a bowl of half-eaten soup on his desk.”

  “So it was accidental food poisoning,” I said, relieved.

  Jake bit his lip, as if he didn’t want to say what he was about to add. “Maybe not so accidental.”

  “You’re telling us the police think Oliver Jameson was deliberately poisoned?” I asked, stunned at this news. I looked at Aunt Abby, but she didn’t meet my eyes. Her pink cheeks went as white as her still-clean apron.

  “Soup?” she said quietly.

  Uh-oh. I felt my stomach lurch, as if I’d just eaten a bowl of poisoned soup myself. Aunt Abby said she had been in that office sometime before Oliver Jameson died.

  They say the proof is in the pudding. Or in this case, maybe it was in the soup.

  Chapter 5

  Aunt Abby and I worked together in silence after Jake left. I didn’t know what my aunt was thinking, but I pondered the latest news—Oliver Jameson had been poisoned, seemingly by a bowl of soup, in his own restaurant office.

  Was it accidental, as in food poisoning?

  Or deliberate, as in someone had murdered him?

  The police would no doubt find evidence that my aunt had been sneaking around the place, leaving fingerprints and who knew what else that a forensics team could uncover. I set down the wooden spoon I’d been using to stir the noodles I’d just tossed into the pot of boiling water and turned to my aunt. She was ladling the crab mac and cheese mixture into small disposable cups.

  “Aunt Abby, you heard Jake,” I said to her, frowning. “The cops are going to dust Jameson’s office for fingerprints if they haven’t already and they’re going to find out you were there. Why did you lie to them? You’re bound to be discovered. Isn’t obstruction of justice a felony? You could go to jail for that.”

  My aunt avoided my gaze. “Wouldn’t you have done the same thing?”

  “No. But then again, I wouldn’t have gone snooping around in the guy’s restaurant either. What were you thinking?”

  Aunt Abby stopped filling the cups and took a deep breath. “I told you, Darcy. I was looking for something—anything—to keep Oliver Jameson from bothering me and the other food truckers.”

  I knew what she meant. “You wanted something to blackmail him with, didn’t you?”

  Aunt Abby tilted her head, almost coquettishly, and finally returned my gaze. “I wouldn’t call it ‘blackmail,’ exactly. More like . . . ‘leverage.’”

  Shaking my head at her recklessness, I asked, “What did you expect to find? Bad checks? Doctored books? Naughty pictures?”

  She shrugged and went back to her ladling.

  I pressed on, ignoring the bubbling noodles. “Did you touch anything in the restaurant kitchen on your way to Jameson’s office?”

  “No,” Aunt Abby said, focused on scooping up the mac and cheese mixture. “I mean, I don’t think so. Except maybe . . .”

  “Except maybe what?” Extracting information from Aunt
Abby was like pulling crabmeat out of a tiny claw.

  She batted her long lashes. “I may have moved a few of his things around in the kitchen. You know how chefs are about their mise en place.”

  “Their what?”

  “Mise en place. Their kitchen stuff. Chefs like their utensils and prepped food arranged just so. That way they can access things quickly. Sort of like a doctor and his instruments. Or a reporter and her pencils.”

  Ha. “So you—what?—messed with his meese-on-whatever?”

  “It’s pronounced meeze awn plaas. It’s French, you know.”

  Frustrated with her answers, I snapped, “I don’t care if it’s Siberian. You touched his stuff! Your fingerprints will be all over that too! And since you worked for the school district, your prints are on file.”

  She rolled her eyes as if she didn’t really care, but her face flushed cherry red, giving away her anxiety underneath. Maybe she was finally beginning to realize how serious this was.

  She sighed. “Darcy, his things are probably covered with lots of other fingerprints besides mine. That doesn’t prove anything.”

  “Yes, it does. It proves you were there when you said you weren’t. Those other fingerprints no doubt belong to the people who work at the restaurant. You had no reason to be there—and yet, you were sneaking around your competitor’s place of business.”

  “Well, they can’t tell when the fingerprints were put there, can they?” Aunt Abby argued.

  “No, but—” I took a deep breath. I needed to calm down. The timer for the noodles sounded and I poured the contents into a colander that sat in the stainless steel sink. Once the water drained off, I dumped the noodles into a large bowl and stirred in the premeasured cheese and cream, as Aunt Abby had directed. After making sure the pasta was thoroughly coated, I set the spoon down and resumed my inquisition.

  “Aunt Abby, you have to call that detective—what was his name?—and tell him the truth. It will only look worse for you if you don’t, because he’s going to find out. Remember what happened to Martha Stewart?”