by Penny Pike
Chef Boris was leaning out of the truck’s service window and shouting at a skinny man in a black jacket, jeans, cowboy boots, and a knitted cap pulled over the top of his head. He was illuminated only by a light shining from inside the truck, but I saw the man’s scruffy dark hair sticking out from under his cap, his ragged goatee, and his irregular sideburns.
Odd. What was Tripp doing dropping off a shipment of meat so late at night?
“I’m telling you, I’m done!” Boris said fiercely in his heavily accented voice. “I did what you wanted, and I’m finished. You got that? Done. Now, leave me the hell alone!”
Tripp leaned in toward Boris. I caught a glimpse of a toothpick protruding from his mouth. He pointed his finger at the chef but spoke so softly I couldn’t make out his words. Then, reaching into the front of his jacket, he pulled out a package wrapped in butcher paper, about the size of a loaf of bread; he pushed it through the open window toward the chef.
“I said, no more!” Boris shouted. He shoved the package back. The delivery guy said something I still couldn’t make out. Finally the chef snatched up the package.
“All right! But this is the last time. The last! Now, get out of here!” He slammed the window closed.
The delivery guy glanced around, no doubt checking to see if anyone had overheard them. I pulled back out of sight and ducked down, hoping he hadn’t spotted me. From my vantage point, I could see his ornate cowboy boots as he stood outside the chef’s window. The toothpick he’d been chewing on landed on the ground at his feet, followed by a wad of spit that caught the light. Moments later I watched as the boots moved around the side of Boris’s truck and headed for the Meat Wagon truck.
I rose, hearing Boris’s angry words ring in my head: “I’m telling you, I’m done! I did what you wanted and I’m finished. You got that? Done. Now, leave me the hell alone!”
So what had Boris “done” for the delivery guy? And why was Boris “finished” with whatever it was? I had a sneaking suspicion it had nothing to do with a meat delivery.
But did it have anything to do with Oliver Jameson?
I remembered Boris talking about receiving poison-pen letters he thought were from Jameson.
Was it possible that Boris murdered Oliver Jameson?
Surely not just because he’d received some letters. Letters, by the way, that supposedly were no longer available as evidence. Had Chef Boris really received such letters? Or was there something else behind Boris’s dislike for Jameson?
Something that involved the deliveryman?
My cell phone rang, startling me out of my muddled murder theory. The “It’s a Small World” theme song told me it was Aunt Abby.
I froze. Uh-oh. Had Tripp just heard the ringtone?
“Hello?” I whispered into the phone, still hiding behind Aunt Abby’s bus.
“Darcy! Where are you?” Aunt Abby said, her voice strained.
“I’m about to leave here. Why? What’s wrong? Where are you calling from?”
“Hurry, I need you!”
The line went dead.
“Aunt Abby?” I said into the phone. I cursed and slipped the phone back into my purse. Aunt Abby sounded as if she was in trouble—again. Was she already at home? If so, I needed to get over there before anything else happened to my poor aunt.
Checking to see if the Meat Wagon was gone, I peered around the corner—and froze again. The truck was still there. The driver’s window was down, and in the dim light I caught a glimpse of Tripp’s face. He was sitting in the driver’s seat and staring in my direction, a frown creasing his brow.
He must have heard my cell phone ring.
That meant he probably knew I’d overheard him arguing with Chef Boris. I wondered if he knew what a big Disney fan Aunt Abby was. If so, he might have figured out who called me from the ringtone.
I peeked again. The window was up, and Tripp had started the motor. But before backing out, he turned to the passenger side.
Someone was in the truck with him.
I waited, hoping to get a glimpse of the passenger when Tripp finally pulled out. Instead, the passenger door opened, lighting up the interior of the delivery truck. To my surprise, Cherry Washington, Boris’s assistant chef, stepped out and closed the door behind her.
Instead of returning to Boris’s truck, she headed toward the overflow parking lot adjacent to the food truck area. Tripp opened the driver’s side door. For a moment I thought he was going to come looking for me. Instead, he slammed the door shut and sped off. The sound of screeching tires filled the air.
So what was Cherry Washington doing with Tripp the delivery guy?
I didn’t have time to think about it at the moment. Aunt Abby needed me.
I got in my car and drove to my aunt’s Victorian home, arriving in record time.
“Aunt Abby?” I called after letting myself in the open back door. “Where are you?”
“In here,” she called from down the hall. Her voice sounded raspy. “Dillon’s room.”
I headed for her son’s room and found her sitting on Dillon’s unmade bed, reading a note written on binder paper.
I eyed Dillon’s pet rat, then went in cautiously, giving the cage a wide berth. Rats seemed to be a common theme with this family. “What happened? Where’s Dillon?”
Her eyes filled with tears. “He’s gone!”
“What do you mean, gone?”
Aunt Abby pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped her nose. “He left this note. Something terrible has happened, I just know it.” She held out the torn slip of paper for me to read.
Mom, got into a bit of trouble and have to lay low for a while.
I’ll be in touch.
—Bugbyte
I looked up at her. “Bugbyte?”
“That’s his avatar name.”
I shook my head, puzzled at the message. “What kind of trouble is he in?” And how bad could it really be for a twenty-five-year-old man-child with no responsibilities? Was it nonpayment of student loans? Overdue cable bill? Video game addiction?
Aunt Abby glanced at Dillon’s dark computer screens. “Darcy, there’s something you don’t know about Dillon.”
Uh-oh.
“He didn’t actually drop out of the university. He left because he was caught hacking into their computers. The truth is, he was being investigated by the FBI. I think he’s in serious trouble this time.”
“The FBI?” I said, stunned.
“He said he only did it to prove a point. He wanted to show the school officials how vulnerable their computers were. He was hoping to be hired as their IT guy. But the feds were called in and they didn’t see things the same way he did. He was kicked out of school and placed on probation for a year. He’s lucky he didn’t go to jail. But he’s not even supposed to go near a computer.”
“Obviously he’s ignored that,” I said, rolling my eyes.
Fresh tears formed in Aunt Abby’s eyes. “But this sounds even worse,” she said, sniffling. “Now he’s really disappeared!”
I rested a hand on Aunt Abby’s shoulder. “You said he’s done this before. Any idea where he might have gone?”
Aunt Abby shook her head. Tears spilled from her eyes. “I just hope he’s all right.”
I sat down next to Aunt Abby on the crumpled comforter and put my arm around her. “I’m sure he’s fine. He’ll probably check in soon. He’s smart—at least, tech-wise. He’ll figure out a way to deal with whatever the problem is. Who knows? Maybe the FBI or the DOD will hire him after all.”
Aunt Abby pulled another tissue from her pocket and dabbed her eyes. “I hope he hasn’t done anything really stupid. But whatever it was, I know he was only trying to help me.”
I looked at Aunt Abby. “What do you mean? Does this have anything to do with Oliver Jameson?”
She pre
ssed her lips together, then finally answered. “He . . . He said maybe he could remotely break into Jameson’s personal computer and dig around, see if Jameson was hiding something. I told him not to do anything illegal. . . .”
Wow. Had Dillon actually hacked into Oliver’s computer? More importantly, had he found anything? So what had caused him to disappear? And where the hell was he?
• • •
After reassuring Aunt Abby and putting her to bed, I returned to the RV and fell into my own bed like a zombie. Things would look better in the morning, my dad always used to say. Of course, he was high most of the time, which probably helped.
The theme song from Jeopardy woke me from my dream about food. The call wasn’t from Dillon or Aunt Abby. I checked the caller ID but didn’t recognize it.
“Hello?”
“Darcy?”
The warm, low voice was familiar. “Jake?” I smiled, then had a thought. How had he gotten my cell phone number?
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Uh . . . sure. Why?”
“What about your aunt?”
“She’s fine—as far as I know.” I was growing alarmed. I decided to check on my aunt and grabbed my robe. “Why? What’s wrong, Jake? You’re starting to scare me. Is this about Dillon?”
Dead silence on the other end.
“Jake? Jake!”
“Sorry. Things are crazy over here. I just wanted to make sure you two were safe.”
“Jake! What’s going on?”
I heard him take a deep breath, then: “There’s been another death.”
Oh God, no.
“Dillon?” I whispered, praying I was wrong.
“Chef Boris. He’s been murdered.”
Chapter 9
When we arrived at Fort Mason at the crack of dawn, a crowd had already gathered around the perimeter of the police tape. The cops had cordoned off the area near Boris’s truck, along with three trucks on either side of him, including my aunt’s Big Yellow School Bus. Curious chefs and customers were being kept at bay, no doubt dying to know more about this second murder. All I knew was that Chef Boris had been murdered sometime during the night. I wanted to know more too.
While I was relieved that it hadn’t been Dillon they’d found dead, I was still concerned about my nephew, and I knew Aunt Abby was too. He hadn’t come home last night and there’d been no word from him this morning.
Where could he be?
Was there any chance it had something to do with him looking into the murder?
The parking area behind the food trucks was blocked by yellow police tape, and the adjacent lot was full, so I parked my car in the Safeway grocery store lot across the street and escorted Aunt Abby to the blocked-off area, now a crime scene. There was no sign of Jake, but I spotted Sierra and Vandy standing shoulder to shoulder outside the yellow caution tape. I headed in their direction to see if I could find out more information about Boris’s death. Maybe they had heard or seen something suspicious before they left their vegan truck last night.
“Come on,” I said, dragging my bewildered aunt by the hand. “Let’s see if the vegans know anything.”
“Oh dear,” Aunt Abby mumbled as she trailed along. “This is not good. Not good at all.”
Sierra turned around just as I stepped up beside her.
“What’s going on?” I asked, playing dumb.
“Chef Boris was murdered last night,” she said. She began chewing on a fingernail that had already been bitten to the nub.
“Wow,” I said. “How was he killed?”
Sierra shrugged and glanced at Vandy. Vandy shot her partner an ambiguous look and began playing with the necklace around her throat. It was a picture of a cow inside a red circle with a line through it. On the back of Vandy’s hand was a tiny tattoo—the letter V. For Vandy? Or for vegan?
I turned my attention to the activity behind the police line. Uniformed officers and a few men and women in suits were talking to one another, some holding baggies of what I assumed was evidence, others just guarding the crime scene. Even with his back to me, I recognized Detective Shelton immediately, dressed in a black suit and shiny black wingtips, his curly black hair hatless and glistening in the morning light. He appeared to be questioning someone, but his sizable frame blocked my view. When he finally shifted his weight, I caught a glimpse of his interviewee.
Jake Miller.
Dream Puff Guy looked as if he hadn’t slept. He wore what appeared to be the same jeans and Dream Puff logo T-shirt he’d had on yesterday, and his blondish brown hair was disheveled. I wondered how long he’d been here.
“Why are they talking to Jake?” I asked Sierra. She pulled her fingernail away from her mouth long enough to answer. “I don’t know. It seems like they’re questioning all of us food truckers.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Vandy let go of the necklace she’d been playing with and nudge her partner. Sierra jerked her head around to face the woman. “What?” she snapped, clearly irritated.
Vandy shook her head. “Let’s go! We don’t have time to stand around here all day and wait for the cops to ask more questions.”
“Then go!” Sierra barked.
Vandy’s eyes narrowed. She abruptly turned and disappeared into the crowd of looky-loos. Sierra didn’t watch her go, too interested in the goings-on by the trucks. She returned to her nail biting and continued to watch the crime scene drama.
“Any idea what happened?” I asked, hoping she’d talk more with her partner out of the picture.
“He was murdered, Darcy!” Aunt Abby piped up next to me. “Remember?”
I rolled my eyes. I was trying to play ignorant to gain more information from Sierra, but Aunt Abby hadn’t caught on. I started to whisper to her, but she had already returned to her conversation with another gawker beside her.
I turned back to Sierra and smiled. “So, any idea how it happened? Or who did it?”
She shrugged and nibbled again on her nail. I wondered if fingernails were on the list of approved vegan foods. They were certainly organic.
“I heard he was killed right there in his food truck,” came a voice behind me. I glanced back to see a teenage girl holding up her cell phone and taking pictures of the scene. I wondered how quickly she’d Instagram them and post them on Facebook.
“Prob’ly poisoned,” said another bystander holding a Coffee Witch paper cup in his hand.
“How did you get that coffee?” I asked, dying for a much-needed jolt. “I assumed the Coffee Witch was temporarily closed.”
He nodded at Willow’s truck. Sure enough, it was just outside the cordoned area. Her line was at least twenty people deep. I’d have to get my Witch’s Brew later when things died down—and see if I could find out what Willow knew about the murder.
“Poisoned. That’s what I heard,” said a hefty man nearby, talking into his cell phone and to the general crowd around him at the same time. “I knew these food trucks were health hazards.”
“No, stabbed, I heard,” came another rumor from a middle-aged man wearing a Giants baseball cap.
“Huh-uh,” said the woman with him, wearing a matching Giants cap. “That black lady over there next to the cop—she said he was killed with a meat cleaver.”
I looked over to see whom the woman was referring to. Cherry Washington, Boris’s assistant, stood just outside the Road Grill truck, talking to a man in a suit. “You heard her actually say that?”
“Sort of,” the woman said. “I read her lips.”
Sierra shook her head, clearly disgusted by the wild guesses. She turned to me and said, “Obviously no one knows anything yet. The cops haven’t told us what happened. They’re asking a lot of questions, but they’re not giving out any answers. It’s been totally frustrating. I’d like to know when I can get back to work.”
“Did the cops talk to you already?” I asked.
Sierra nodded. “Like I said, they asked a bunch of questions.”
“Such as . . . ?” I prompted.
“The usual. Where were we between the hours of midnight and five a.m.? How well did I know Boris Obregar? Did I have any ‘beef’ with him—the cop’s words, not mine. Did I know who might want him dead? Typical TV cop show stuff.”
“What did you tell them?”
“The truth, of course,” she said flatly. “Neither of us saw anything, heard anything, or had anything to do with this.”
I noticed how aloof, almost angry, Sierra seemed. I wondered if it was the inconvenience of the murder and how it might affect her business. Or was it connected with that nudge/look Vandy had given her before she stormed off? I had a feeling Sierra wasn’t sharing everything she knew. What could she be holding back?
“Who found him?” I pressed on.
“I heard it was Jake,” she said, nodding toward Dream Puff Guy. He was still talking with Detective Shelton.
So Jake had found the body! He hadn’t mentioned that when he’d called. Then again, maybe it wasn’t the appropriate time.
“When did he find him?”
Sierra sighed. “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him. All I know is this is going to suck for business. The Vegematic can’t afford bad publicity, not the way things have been going lately.”
Before I could ask her what she meant, I heard Sierra’s cell phone chirp. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and read the text. “I gotta go.” With a last glance at the crime scene crowd, she walked off in the direction her partner had gone.
That was odd. No, they were odd—Sierra and Vandy. It was clear I wasn’t going to get any more information from the vegans at the moment. But I had a hunch those two were hiding something—I just wondered what it was.
I searched the crowd for other familiar faces, hoping I could glean a few more details about the crime. The murder had occurred right next door to my aunt’s School Bus. If this was random, the victim could easily have been her. And if not, who knew? Maybe she was next on some killer’s list.
