Death of a Crabby Cook

by Penny Pike

  No response.

  I tapped his shoulder. He turned around. He had a thick, unkempt mustache that matched his bushy eyebrows, and deep lines in his weathered, dark-skinned face. A cap that read “SF Maintenance” was pulled over his graying hair.

  “Hi, you’re the maintenance man, right?” I asked, stating the obvious.

  He mumbled something I couldn’t understand, then turned back to the coffee window to await his turn.

  Was he speaking another language? He looked somewhat Middle Eastern, so maybe he hadn’t understood me. I moved up beside him and tried again, speaking slowly and using gestures. “I’m Darcy,” I said, pointing to myself. “I work at the Big Yellow School Bus with my aunt.” I waved an arm toward the bus. “I noticed you work here and I wondered if you might have seen or heard anything about the murder the other day. I’m doing a story for the newspaper—” I gestured writing with an invisible pencil in my palm.

  The man turned his back on me and stepped up to the service window. Moments later Willow handed him a black coffee. He reached into his deep overall pocket, pulled out a wadded handful of dollar bills, and placed them on the counter. Willow gave a “no charge” wave of her hand. The man collected his money, nodded, and shuffled away.

  Leaving my place in line, I ran over to him. “Excuse me, sir. Did you hear what I said?” I was becoming irritated at his rudeness. Even if he didn’t speak English, he could have said something. Once again, he turned away.

  I stood there, openmouthed. “What a jerk!” I said loud enough for the man and everyone around me to overhear me. I returned to the Coffee Witch, garnering odd looks from the people in the recently formed line, but the maintenance man didn’t even turn around. I shrugged and said to no one in particular, “I just wanted to ask him some questions.”

  When it was my turn to order, I looked up at Willow and asked, “Do you know that guy?”

  Willow slid a rumpled note over to me. The words were scrawled in block letters and read: “Deaf. Black coffee. How much?” Apparently he’d handed her the note when his back was turned to me.

  I felt my chest tighten. Crap. I had been trying to talk to a deaf man and had even called him a jerk. I could only be glad that he hadn’t heard me say that.

  “I feel like an idiot!” I said to Willow.

  “You didn’t know,” she said. “Your usual? Or do you want to try my new tiramisu-flavored frap? I call it Jake’s Bane. Jake gave me the idea.”

  Oh, really? I thought. Maybe there really was something going on between Willow and Jake. Even with all the piercings, tattoos, and hair art, she was attractive, but I had a hard time seeing her with ex-attorney Jake Miller.

  “Oh, you talked to Jake today?” I asked casually.

  “Yeah, he came by this morning for his usual.”

  “Are you two pretty good friends?” It was hard trying to sound uninterested.

  She shrugged. “We went out a couple of times, if that’s what you’re asking. But I was seeing someone else at the time, so it got to be too complicated. You know how it is.”

  I didn’t, but my ex-boyfriend probably did.

  Willow’s grin suddenly spread, revealing her pierced tongue. “OMG, you’re totally hot for him!”

  “No, I’m not!” I said, glancing around, hoping no one heard her. “I was just asking. I’m trying to find out more about the people who work around here. Somebody’s got to solve these murders and the police don’t seem to be doing anything but falsely suspecting my aunt and my cousin.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said, clearly not convinced. “Well, I doubt it was Jake. He’s too nice a guy.”

  I shrugged. “Sure, but everyone has a skeleton or two in the closet.” I wondered if Jake’s disbarment was his only skeleton.

  “If Jake has one, I’d be surprised. You’re more likely to find skeletons in the other food truckers’ closets. . . .”

  My eyes lit up. “Really? Like who?”

  Willow glanced behind me. “Can’t talk now. I’ve got customers.”

  I turned around. More than half a dozen people had lined up to get their favorite concoctions from the Coffee Witch. I quickly ordered the tiramisu frap on her recommendation, then paid her and waited for the drink while scanning the circle of food trucks, wondering what secrets they all held.

  I thought about stopping by Jake’s truck and apologizing again, but this time the window was closed and a BE BACK IN 5 MINUTES sign was pressed against it. I wondered where he’d gone. And when he’d be back.

  Moving on, I made a mental note to chat up the vegans as soon as possible and check in again on Cherry Washington. And I still needed to find Tripp Saunders. There were fast becoming too many cooks in the kitchen. I wondered which ones were just red herrings.

  I headed for the School Bus with my drink. Maybe my aunt knew more than she realized about everybody’s business.

  “Aunt Abby?” I said as I stepped inside. “What do you—”

  I stopped cold.

  Aunt Abby stood facing me in the narrow bus aisle, holding her favorite knife.

  Opposite her, with his back to me, was the deaf maintenance man.

  He held something in his raised hand. It looked like a large can of black pepper.

  I screamed, nearly forgetting the deaf man wouldn’t hear me.

  I only hoped someone would.

  Chapter 16

  The deaf man spun around and looked at me aghast, as if offended that I had interrupted him while he was about to pepper my aunt.

  “What the hell!” the man said, sticking his fingers in his ears and wiggling them around. “You’re going to make us deaf with all that screaming!”

  “Dillon?!” I said, recognizing his voice and finally seeing through all the theatrical makeup, fake mustache, and maintenance man getup. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m talking to my mom, Darcy. What does it look like I’m doing? Why did you scream like that?”

  “You scared the crap out of me! I thought you were the murderer, getting ready to attack her with a can of pepper like you—like he did Boris. Why are you holding it like that?”

  “We were just trying to figure out what happened—”

  Before he could finish his explanation, the doors to the School Bus burst open. Jake bounded in, his eyes wide. He was holding a rolling pin and he looked like he meant to use it, but not for rolling out dough.

  “What’s going on?” he said, ready to rumble. After a second he seemed to realize no one was about to get murdered and he lowered the floured weapon. “Darcy? Abby? Are you all right?” He eyed the costumed Dillon.

  “We’re fine, Jake,” Aunt Abby said. “It was all a big misunderstanding. Darcy thought this nice maintenance man was going to hurt me and she overreacted, didn’t you dear?” Aunt Abby shot me a look that said “Back me up, here.” Obviously she was trying to keep Dillon’s identity a secret.

  “Uh . . .” was all I could manage. I glanced at Jake.

  He was staring at the intruder, his eyes narrow. “Dillon? What are you doing in that ridiculous costume? Your Inspector Clouseau act isn’t helping things.”

  “Shhh!” Aunt Abby whispered, moving protectively next to her son. “He’s undercover. The cops and the feds are after him, remember?”

  “How did you know it was me?” Dillon asked Jake, seeming more concerned about being recognized by Jake than about being pursued by law enforcement.

  I glanced down at Dillon’s shoes, a dead giveaway the last time he tried to “go undercover.” But this time he wore a pair of tattered athletic shoes. I wondered where he’d gotten them. Goodwill?

  “Well, first of all, your hands and fingernails,” Jake said. “They’re too soft and clean to belong to someone who deals with the dirt around here. Although the disguise is a pretty clever way to gather some dirt, I suppose.”

 
Dillon held up his hands and checked his nails. Jake was right. Those were the hands of a computer guy, not a maintenance guy. How could I have missed recognizing my own cousin? And how come Jake recognized him so quickly?

  “I think it’s a brilliant disguise, son,” Aunt Abby said, beaming up at Dillon with parental admiration. “And so far the cops haven’t made you.”

  Made him? Who was this woman I called my aunt Abby?

  “How long have you been around here?” I asked Dillon, still nonplussed at his appearance.

  He shrugged noncommittally and glanced at the back of the bus. I followed his look and spotted an open cupboard. Inside, next to a bunch of cooking supplies, was a rolled-up sleeping bag.

  “You slept here last night?” I asked, stunned that Dillon would actually hide out in his mother’s food bus with the police looking for him. Then again, maybe such an obvious place was easy to overlook, just like a maintenance man was easy to overlook in a food truck lot.

  Aunt Abby gave Dillon’s arm a motherly pat. “I found him this morning, lying there on the cold, hard floor, poor thing. You don’t know how relieved I was.”

  “Dillon!” I cried. “The police are going to think you’re guilty because you’re hiding out!” I turned to Jake. “Isn’t that right, Jake?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Jake?” I said, irritated at his lack of focus on such a serious development.

  “What?” Jake said.

  “Never mind!” I snapped. I turned back to Dillon. “So, Clouseau, did you learn anything playing maintenance man?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did.” Beneath all that dark makeup, Dillon still managed to look smug. “You know those vegans?”

  “Vandy and Sierra?” I said. “Yeah, what about them?”

  “You know how they didn’t get along with Boris and kept putting up those ‘no meat’ signs?”

  “You think their vegan beliefs are strong enough to make them murder a meat lover?” I asked. “Seems a stretch.”

  “Not when you hear what I found out about them,” Dillon said, trying to sound mysterious. He helped himself to one of his mother’s caramel brownies.

  “Well? Tell us!” I said, exasperated.

  “They’re fanimals.”

  “Huh?” I was too confused to say anything.

  Jake asked, “What’s a fanimal?”

  “It’s this bizarre subculture where people dress up and act like animals. There are all these conventions and Internet sites and stuff for people who really, really like animals.”

  “So, Sierra and Vandy love animals and like to dress up.” I looked Dillon over. “Sort of like you in your various costumes. But that doesn’t make them potential killers.”

  “Let me finish!” Dillon said, rolling his eyes. “Gosh!”

  “Go on, Dillon,” Aunt Abby said, after shooting a daggered look at me.

  “Well, fanimals started at a sci-fi convention about ten years ago, when fans started dressing up as animal characters, like Wookies and Ewoks, and it took off. There are all these Internet sites like Animorphs and FanimalCity and FurNation you can join where you can chat with other fanimals. There’s a bunch of pictures of them wearing everything from ears and tails and paws to full-on fur suits, like bears and raccoons and foxes, with heads and everything.”

  “So basically it’s Halloween whenever they feel like it,” I said.

  “Well, to each his own,” Jake said, shrugging. “It may be embarrassing for them if word gets out, but it’s hardly a motive for murder.”

  “No,” Dillon said, “but it got me curious about Boris. Did he have something on his computer that would be a problem for them?” He paused.

  “Well, did he?” I asked.

  “I found some pictures of Vandy,” Dillon said.

  “Sex pictures?” Aunt Abby said, raising her eyebrows.

  Dillon shook his head. “No, nothing like that.”

  “Then what?” I asked.

  “There were pictures of her . . . alone . . . at a restaurant . . . eating a big, juicy hamburger,” Dillon answered.

  “You’re kidding!” I said. So vegan Vandy was cheating on vegan Sierra with a carnivorous hamburger. If Sierra found out, it would probably ruin their relationship.

  But was that motive enough for murder?

  • • •

  As I watched Jake walk back to his truck something caught my eye.

  The door to Boris’s truck opened. I expected Cherry to step out but was surprised to see a man exit. A man wearing cowboy boots.

  Tripp Saunders.

  I peered through the window, watching until I saw him walk behind Boris’s truck and disappear.

  I grabbed my purse. “I’ve got to go. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Where are you going?” Aunt Abby cried, her eyes wide.

  “Dude, you’re leaving?” Dillon said. “Aren’t you going to ask those vegans some questions or anything?”

  “Later,” I said, and fled the bus for my car. Today it was parked in the lot beyond the circle of food trucks. I jammed the key in the lock, opened the door, slid in, and started the engine.

  Tripp’s Meat Wagon was easy to spot, thanks to the ginormous sign and bright red paint job. I pulled up to the lot exit and waited for the truck to pass me on the street, keeping my head down to avoid being spotted. Traffic was heavy along the marina, as usual, but that made it simpler to tail the truck, since Tripp couldn’t go any faster than the rest of the other cars on the road. I followed him as he zigzagged through the city, keeping my distance and allowing a couple of cars in between us.

  I followed him for fifteen minutes, until he turned south near the freeway, into the warehouse district of Potrero Hill. I pulled over and parked on the street several yards away, being careful not to appear obvious. Slinking down in the seat, I watched as Tripp got out of the meat truck, locked it, and headed toward an old warehouse that had seen better days. The faded sign painted on the outside read WHOLESALE MEATS.

  Several of the windows were boarded up with wood panels. The rest were embedded with chicken wire. Some were cracked; all were filthy and opaque. Tripp unlocked the door, glanced around, then spat out the toothpick he’d been gnawing on. He pulled open the double doors and slipped inside, closing them behind him.

  I got out of the car, ignoring the fact that I was in a twenty-minute loading zone, and headed for the warehouse, rehearsing what I’d say if Tripp caught me. He might recognize me from Aunt Abby’s bus, so I couldn’t use the “Gee, I’m lost, can you help me?” ruse. I had to come up with something better if I found myself face-to-face with this possible murderer.

  Then again, I could just call the police and let them figure out what was going on behind those locked double doors. And what would I say? “Hi, Detective Shelton. I followed the Meat Wagon guy to a warehouse near Potrero Hill and I think something bad is going on inside.”

  Yeah, that would bring him running.

  I had to see for myself what was going on inside first before I called the cops and made a complete fool of myself. Plus, if I blew this—and Tripp was guilty—I might ruin the only chance I’d have of finding out the truth.

  By the time I reached the double doors, I had the only plan that I knew would be foolproof: don’t get caught.

  I tiptoed up to one of the windows that wasn’t boarded over and tried to scratch off the grime that had collected over who knew how many years, but I only managed to blacken my hand and fingernails. The wire-paned windows seemed to have just as much grit on the inside as on the outside. When I looked closely, I realized it wasn’t dirt that blocked my view, but gray paint. The windows had been painted over on the inside to keep snoops like me from peeking in.

  There were scratches and holes here and there, but nothing large enough to allow me to see inside. I made my way along
the row of panes, searching for a chip in the paint that would give me a glimpse into the warehouse. After trying all the windows on the left side of the double doors, I moved to the right side and searched again. About half a dozen panes down, I found a small hole in the paint about the size of a nickel. I pressed my eye to the dirty pane and strained to see inside.

  The warehouse was brightly lit, something I couldn’t tell from the outside, thanks to the blocked views. There were no hanging animal carcasses, no signs of refrigerators, no butcher table, nothing to indicate a meat-processing plant. Instead, in the middle of the mostly empty room were several large tables filled with electronic equipment—mostly computers and printers. I also spotted what looked like a thermal laminator—we had a couple at the newspaper office—along with a few digital cameras, paper cutters, and stacks of paper.

  Tripp Saunders was perched on a stool, bent over some loose papers, peering at them closely with something like a jeweler’s loupe.

  What was the meat delivery guy up to?

  Chapter 17

  My phone played “It’s a Small World.” Aunt Abby!

  Dammit! I’d forgotten to turn off the ringer!

  I had to change that ringtone.

  I peered into the peephole to see if Tripp had heard the ring, hoping the walls were too thick for the song to catch his attention.

  He was staring in my direction. Frowning.

  Crap! I had to get out of there—fast, before he caught me. He must have recognized the tune—the same tune he’d heard the night Boris died. Not good.

  Starting to panic, I ran around the side of the building. The weedy area was cluttered with old machine parts, broken-down signage, rotting two-by-fours, and probably lots and lots of rats. I tried to step over any loose boards and watch for upended nails, but in my hurry, I scratched my arm on a sharp piece of metal sticking out of what looked like a discarded mattress. Apparently I had escaped into a local dumping ground for everything from broken tools to disused furniture.

  I ducked under an old door with the paint peeling off in large flakes. No doubt lead paint, with my luck. If I didn’t get tetanus, I’d surely come down with brain damage in a few years. Curling myself into a human ball, I slowed my breathing and prayed Tripp wouldn’t find me in this garbage heap.