Death of a Crabby Cook

by Penny Pike

  My aunt was sitting at the kitchen island where I’d left her the night before. She was wearing the same green warm-up suit and fuzzy socks, and her mascara had left shadows beneath her eyes. Her curly red hair was a little flatter than usual, and there was an imprint of inked letters on one cheek. Spread around her were several dozen recipe cards.

  “Your phone call scared me,” I said to Aunt Abby, patting my chest. “What’s up? Is Dillon back?” I glanced around the kitchen and dining area.

  “Sit down,” she said calmly, patting the other stool.

  I pointed to her face. “You have something on your cheek.” I took a detour and headed for the cupboard, then pulled down two mugs. One read “Drink Coffee. Do Stupid Things Faster with More Energy,” and one read “Be Nice to the Lunch Lady. She Knows How to Poison Your Food.” Filling the cups, I reheated the coffee in the microwave and brought them to the counter. I grabbed a paper towel and moistened it, then handed the towel to my aunt. She rubbed the side of her face so much that she smeared the ink, making one cheek look sunken and bruised.

  “You haven’t been to bed all night, have you?” I asked, sitting down and surveying the spread of recipe cards. The ink on the cards matched the ink on her cheek.

  “I couldn’t sleep. Too worried about Dillon and too worked up about finding the killer.” She swiped at her cheek again. “I guess I dozed off at some point.” She picked up the pen and wrote something on one of the recipe cards. I’d never seen her look so excited about a few ingredients.

  “Have you been writing recipes ever since I left you last night?”

  I took a sip of coffee and set the cup down.

  “Careful!” Aunt Abby said, pulling a card away from my mug.

  Touchy? It sounded like my crabby aunt needed this coffee more than I did.

  “You need to get some real sleep, Aunt Abby. Aren’t you supposed to head over to the School Bus soon? Why are you sitting here writing recipes?”

  “These aren’t exactly recipes,” she said cryptically.

  I picked up one of the cards. Next to the phrase “From the Kitchen of Abigail Warner” was the name “Oliver Jameson.”

  I looked up at my aunt, then back down at the card. Was she planning to cook up a new dish called Oliver Jameson Potpie?

  Curious, I read the ingredients, hoping there was nothing cannibalistic about them.

  1 container rat poison

  1 serving crab bisque

  I glanced up at my aunt again. She was busily filling out another recipe card. I couldn’t wait to read that one. “What is all this, Aunt Abby?”

  “They’re recipe cards, dear.”

  “I know that, but what are you doing with them? Why did you write Oliver Jameson’s name down and then list poison and crab bisque?”

  “It’s the way I think, Darcy. Systematically. Using that list you drew up last night, I started with the name of the recipe, only in this case, the person. Then I listed the ingredients, essentially the facts. And finally, I added the step-by-step instructions, only there I jotted down what happened, chronologically. I made up a recipe card for both of the dead guys and all our potential suspects.”

  She waved her hand over the display of cards that covered the island counter. I read the “instructions” for Oliver Jameson’s recipe card:

  OJ found dead in his office Friday afternoon.

  Cup of poisoned crab bisque found nearby.

  Container of poison missing from crime scene but found in the trash (perhaps stolen from AW’s School Bus?)

  Down at the bottom, under the word “Tips,” she’d written:

  Had several enemies (see additional recipe cards)

  Poor reviews recently, business was struggling

  AW falsely suspected

  The AW obviously stood for Abigail Warner. I smiled at my aunt. “You’ve written up a recipe card for all of them?”

  “Yes. Of course, some of the information is still missing because I don’t know it yet. Whenever you see ‘TBD,’ it means ‘to be determined.’”

  I picked up the next card. “Boris Obregar” was written at the top where the name of the recipe should have been.

  “Interesting,” I said, intrigued by her method, if not her madness. “Let me have a couple swallows of coffee and I’ll see if I can fill in any of the gaps.”

  After fortifying myself with a dose of caffeine, I reread the card Aunt Abby had written for Boris. It took me a few seconds to get used to her style, but if it worked for her, then maybe it would work for me too.

  Ingredients:

  1 bludgeoning (aka method)

  1 frozen packet of meat (aka weapon)

  Secret ingredient: Suspect served time for dealing drugs

  Instructions:

  Found dead in his truck by Jake Miller

  Pepper found at the scene

  Weapon (frozen meat) left behind

  To which I added: “wrapped or unwrapped?”

  Under “Tips” she’d written:

  Back to dealing drugs? (felony record discovered by Dillon)

  Didn’t get along with the vegans (they protested his use of meat)

  Threatened by Jameson (poison-pen letters)

  Avoided Jake (friends with SFPD)

  Argued with Tripp the Delivery Guy (overheard by Darcy)

  I went over the rest of the “Recipe for Murder” cards that listed facts about the victims and our suspects, and filled in information, supposition, and questions here and there. After an hour, we’d completed cards for Sierra, Vandy, Willow, Tripp, Cherry, and “Unsub”—a word Aunt Abby insisted on using because she’d heard it on Criminal Minds. Apparently it meant “unknown subject.” In other words, the list was open to anybody.

  That narrowed it down.

  I picked up one more blank card and wrote the name “Jake Miller” at the top.

  Aunt Abby shot me a look. “What are you writing his name for? I told you, Jake is completely innocent.”

  “He probably is, but let’s include him anyway. He’s certainly a part of this investigation. He found the body. And he had his own problems with Boris—or at least Boris had a problem with him.”

  “None of that makes him a killer,” Aunt Abby said. I was beginning to wonder if she was the one who had a small crush on the cream puff guy.

  “No, but it doesn’t rule him out either,” I countered.

  “Well, you’re wrong. And I’ll bet he doesn’t have a secret ingredient.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Most people have a secret or two, Darcy. Like Boris and his drug record, Cherry and her rehab stints. I just don’t think Jake has one.”

  Did she know about Jake being disbarred? I suppose if she did, it wasn’t a secret. But I was beginning to wonder if Aunt Abby had some secrets she hadn’t shared with me, when her phone chirped. The ringtone—the theme from Mission Impossible—sent a chill down my spine. Aunt Abby grabbed the phone from the countertop and whispered into the speaker, “Dillon?”

  She listened, then said, “I know. I whispered just in case someone might be listening.”

  I glanced around the room for spies, but it was just the two of us. I hoped she hadn’t meant me.

  “Yes, she’s here,” Aunt Abby said. “Okay.” She clicked the speaker icon and set the phone down on the counter.

  “Dillon?” I said, leaning in to make sure he’d hear me.

  “Yeah, it’s me,” the low voice said. Obviously he was trying to talk quietly. I wondered where he was.

  “Dillon, the cops were here!” Aunt Abby said breathlessly. “They took all your computer stuff.”

  “I know, Mom. No worries. Everything’s been wiped clean. And I still have my laptop. Is Ratty okay?”

  “Ratty’s fine. How did you know about the cop
s? Where are you, son?”

  “I’m safe. For now. Are you all right, Mom?”

  “Yes. The cops searched the house and they weren’t very polite. Rude, in fact. I’m going to talk to Detective Shelton about that. But there was no police brutality or anything. They were looking for you, not me. They said they had a warrant to arrest you. Dillon, I’m so worried!”

  “Calm down, Mom. I’m fine. Believe me. I just want you to be careful.”

  “Dillon,” I spoke up, “you didn’t have anything to do with Boris’s—”

  “Jeez, Darcy, give me some cred. I know you think I’m an epic fail, but I’m no killer.”

  “Sorry, Dillon,” I said, and quickly changed the subject. “Have you found out anything more?”

  “Obviously the murderer has to be someone who knew both those guys—and had a reason to kill them,” Dillon said. “I’ve been trying to find a connection, but so far, nothing. The only thing that linked them was that they were both chefs, and their businesses were across the street from each other. Plus, they hated each other, but that would only account for Jameson’s death, because he was too dead to kill Boris. So the question is, who killed Boris?”

  I tried not to say, “Duh.” Instead, I said, “And why? I think our best bet is to find out what Tripp was delivering to Boris that night—and what their argument was really about.”

  “Maybe it had something to do with Cherry Washington,” Aunt Abby spoke up. “Darcy, you saw her in the truck with Tripp. Maybe they were lovers. Boris was always coming on to pretty young women. Maybe Tripp got angry.”

  Dillon broke in. “Maybe she was playing both of them to get what she wanted—whatever that was. Girls do that, you know.”

  Like he’d know. “Look, we’ve got to stop imagining all the possibilities and get some facts,” I said.

  “Then do it,” Dillon said simply.

  “Easy for you to say. Got any suggestions?” I asked.

  “Listen, I’m just the computer geek,” Dillon said. “I’m doing what I can from this end. You two are my field ops. Figure it out.”

  “You’re taking this James Bond stuff a little too literally,” I said. “This isn’t a game, Dillon.”

  “Oh, it’s on. Oops. Gotta run,” he said, his voice low again. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Wait!” I said. “See if you can find out anything on the other food truckers.”

  “You mean like Willow and those vegans?”

  My ears pricked up. “Did you learn something about them?”

  “Well, Willow isn’t her real name. It’s Christine McLaughlin.”

  “Why did she change it to Willow?”

  “I’m not sure yet. And I’m working on the vegans.”

  “Thanks, Dillon,” I said. “Hey, aren’t you risking getting caught when you use your cell phone?” I asked.

  “Nah. The cops can’t trace my calls.”

  “Why not?”

  “There’s an app for that.”

  The line went dead before I could call him a smart-ass.

  • • •

  “Thank goodness he’s all right,” Aunt Abby said with a sigh. “Now I can finish those potpies and get to work.”

  “And I can take a shower, get dressed, have breakfast, and try to keep you propped up at work, since you’ve had too little sleep and too much wine.”

  “I’ll be fine now that I know Dillon’s okay—and not in jail,” she said, retrieving more dough from the double-wide refrigerator. “Got any idea how you’re going to find Cherry Washington, now that the Road Grill truck is closed due to murder?”

  “Me? What about you?”

  “I’ve got a food truck to run.”

  “And I work for a tyrant of a boss who expects me to help her out in her food truck all day,” I countered.

  “You’ll have plenty of time on your frequent and overly long breaks.”

  I was tempted to stick my finger in one of her finished potpies, just to be ornery, but instead I headed out the back door for the RV. During my shower, I tried to come up with a plan to track down Cherry so I could ask her a few questions—and find out more about Tripp. Unfortunately, I had no idea where she lived or how to get ahold of her. I figured Dillon could find out in a matter of seconds using his computer skills, but for an ordinary newspaper reporter who didn’t turn into a superhero by stepping into a phone booth and putting on a disguise, it would be a challenge.

  So what did I know about Cherry Washington? She’d been working with Boris for the past year or so, she’d been in and out of rehab, and she was a huge flirt. But I rarely saw her out and about. She didn’t hang out at the Coffee Witch, she hadn’t stopped by the School Bus for a snack, and she didn’t seem to sample foods from the other trucks when she was on a break.

  I wondered if she had a sweet tooth. Maybe Jake’s cream puffs were her Achilles’ heel. Like they were mine.

  Note to self: Talk to Jake ASAP. And eat a cream puff.

  Chapter 14

  I arrived at the Fort Mason food trucks a little past nine, planning to speak to Jake before the crowds started lining up for their late breakfasts. Although the Crab and Seafood Festival was over, most vendors, including Aunt Abby, still kept some of the more popular fish-related items on their menus. My aunt planned to continue offering her Crab Potpies, Crabby Cheerleader Mac and Cheese, and Crabtown Fry until she ran out of crab.

  I noticed that a few new trucks had pulled into the back lot, no doubt hoping to join the food truck circle once the Road Grill truck moved out. The semipermanent sites were at a premium, and the few transient sites were booked up months in advance. I spotted one truck called the Gluten-Free Glutton, another called the Quinoa Queen (which I continually mispronounced as quinn-oh-wa instead of keen-wah), and another one called Grill ’Em All, no doubt the closest replacement for Boris’s fare. I wasn’t surprised to see these trendy new trucks already vying to replace the dead man’s truck, since Fort Mason was one of the most popular spots for “road food.” I wondered which one would get the coveted parking site. Personally, I was hoping for a chocolate truck, since everything could be enhanced by a few ladles of melted chocolate. Even a cream puff.

  I spotted Jake talking to the chef at Porky’s and wondered if he was planning to substitute bacon bits for candy sprinkles on his cream puffs. He caught me waving, said something to the porky chef leaning out the ordering window, and moseyed back to his cream puff truck, where I stood waiting for him. Unlike Aunt Abby and me, Jake looked as if he’d had a great night’s sleep. He wore a bright white T-shirt and clean relaxed jeans, and his thick, sun-bleached hair looked freshly washed, a stray lock dangling over his forehead.

  “Morning, Darcy,” he said, grinning.

  “You sound chipper,” I said, glancing over at the line for the Coffee Witch. “I need caffeine—or at least jumper cables.”

  Jake laughed. “Not quite awake, eh? What with everything that’s going on, I’m not surprised.”

  “I managed a few hours of sleep, but I think my aunt was up most of the night.” I explained about the police coming to search her home, the warrant for Dillon’s arrest, and Dillon’s latest call and disappearance.

  Jake’s smile turned to a frown. “Why didn’t you call me when the police came?”

  I thought of Jake’s name on my suspect list. I’d put him there because Boris might have given him some trouble and Jake had been the one who’d found Boris’s body. Plus, I didn’t know Jake all that well.

  “Oh, uh, it was all so sudden and hectic—I didn’t even think of it. I’m sure you would have been a great help.” I bit my lip, trying to look sincere. “Have you heard anything more about Boris’s murder?”

  “Nah. I talked to most of the other food truckers. They all said the police questioned them but none of them saw or heard anything. Apparently you’re the only one who
witnessed the argument between Boris and Tripp.”

  That’s because no one else was there that late at night, I thought, other than Boris, Tripp, Cherry, and me. “Have the police talked to Cherry or Tripp?”

  “I don’t know. The cops aren’t updating me on their investigation, unfortunately. They’re keeping it close to their Kevlar vests. Even my friends in the department are being tight-lipped. Your guess is as good as mine.”

  Was it really? I wondered.

  “Hey, want to try one of my new cream puffs? Tiramisu.” He gestured toward his truck. But I had a few more questions for him first. “Sure, but—”

  “Come on. I’ll show you how I make them.”

  I glanced at Aunt Abby’s bus. I could see her moving around inside and figured I still had a little time before she needed serious help. Why not? The cream puff sounded delicious, and I could ask my questions in the privacy of his truck.

  I followed him inside. The smell of freshly baked pastry shells made my mouth water. I scanned the equipment. Hot ovens at the back, large refrigerator on the far side, cooling racks nearby. Everything stainless steel and sparkling clean. Jake put on a fresh white apron with a cream puff pictured on the front and the words “Dream Puffs” lettered above, then pulled a bowl of filling from the fridge and a couple of shells from the rack. It took him only seconds to slice open one of the puffy shells, generously scoop in the creamy mixture, replace the top, and drizzle on chocolate sauce. I had to restrain myself from grabbing it out of his masterful hands.

  He picked up a napkin and handed over the cream puff. I took a bite, closed my eyes, and shivered. The pastry crust was as light as a cloud, crispy, with just a hint of coffee flavor. The creamy filling slid over my tongue, cold and smooth, and tasted like a mascarpone-chocolate-coffee blend. The whole thing melted like cocoa butter in my mouth. If Jake could do this to me with his cream puff, I wondered what—

  “You all right?” Jake said, startling me from my brief fantasy.

  I opened my eyes and felt a flush of heat envelop my face and body. “Oh . . . yeah,” I said, then coughed and patted my chest. “Just went down the wrong pipe. It’s incredible!” I popped the rest in my mouth and licked the chocolate sauce from my lips.