by J. J. Cook
I took that as a yes.
“I’m sorry.” I think it was the first time in my life that I empathized with her. I loved my father, but I suppose I always knew something was up with the many scenic vacations that he took alone.
“That’s neither here nor there. And if you don’t want to marry Tommy Lee, I’m certainly not going to try and force you to do so.” She took my hand and leaned forward across the table. “But Zoe, look at the people you’re making friends with now. Who is that tall man with the tattoo, and the woman in the tight shorts with too much eye makeup?”
“I hired them to work with me.” I didn’t plan to help make her point about the quality of my friends.
“And that lawyer you’ve been hanging around with.” She scowled. “I hope you aren’t seeing him as a replacement for Tommy Lee. He’s a lawyer, so that’s in his favor. But he dropped out of the real world. He actually represents a lot of felons—at least that’s what I’ve heard.”
“Like me?” I felt the argument coming and tried to keep it from happening. “There’s nothing between us, Mother. He was there the night the police found Terry in my food truck. He was nice to me. That’s it.”
“Except that you’re having your father pay him to represent your friend, the cocktail waitress.” She nodded at Delia.
She’d known all along. She probably knew Ollie lived at the homeless shelter, too. I had no doubt that she’d made it her business to know everything that I was doing.
“It’s true. It doesn’t mean anything about me and Miguel. I wish you and I wouldn’t always go between not talking at all and arguing. We used to talk, when I was in school.”
She smiled in a superior fashion. “That was back when you were willing to listen to reason.”
I got up. “I have to go. Once lunch is over, it’s time to go home. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Everything doesn’t have to be good or bad between us.” She stood up, too, and hugged me. “Let me help you. I know you’re in debt for all of this. Let’s move on, okay?”
“I’m not done with all of this. This is my life. You can be part of it, or we can live in the same city and never see each other. I agree about moving on, but not in the direction you want.”
I went inside the food truck and hid, knowing she’d leave. Ollie and Delia looked at me like I was a stupid kid. I’m sure they were listening. Both of them were so far removed from having arguments with their parents. It made me feel young.
“She’s gone,” Delia said. “I’m sorry you’re having family trouble.”
Ollie snorted as he laughed. “I haven’t seen anyone in my family in over ten years. At least you still have a family, Zoe. You should work it out with them—except that she’s totally wrong about Miguel.”
I thanked them and got busy cleaning. Delia and Ollie were laughing and joking as they were outside cleaning the tables and chairs.
Looking at the cash drawer, I could see we’d had a great day. I wasn’t crazy enough to sit there and count it, but the drawer looked pretty full. We’d still have a few people who’d stop on their way home after work. There were still biscuit bowls to sell.
Miguel stopped by on his way into police headquarters. He told Delia that the police were going to drop the charges against her.
“Thank you so much.” She hugged him in response. “You’re the best.”
“I appreciate that. Try to stay out of trouble. The police, and whoever killed Terry, are still looking for the Jefferson recipe. I don’t know that they won’t have another go at you.”
Delia and I exchanged looks. I wanted to urge her to tell Miguel about Chef Art being in the parking lot the night Terry was killed.
“I’ll watch my back.” Delia didn’t mention it. “I’ve done it for a long time.”
“Are you going to look for another place to live and work?” he asked.
“I don’t know yet.” She smiled at me. “I’ve really enjoyed working with Zoe. I’d like to stay on, if she’ll have me.”
“Of course. You’re a lot better at the window than Ollie. Customers aren’t crazy about his mean look.”
Ollie wasn’t happy with that. “I’m good at the window. I kept that jerk from taking your money, didn’t I? But if you want to keep me making savory fillings, that’s okay, too.”
“You can always scare off thieves,” Delia said. “You’re close enough to put your big, handsome face in the window when I give you the signal.”
“Handsome, huh?” Ollie viewed himself in the stainless steel plate on the food truck wall. “You’re right. I can keep the biscuit bowls coming, and still scare off people I don’t like.”
He made his mean face, obviously knowing exactly what I’d been talking about. We all laughed. Miguel said he had to go inside and talk to Detective Latoure.
I accompanied him out of the food truck. I wouldn’t give away Delia’s secret about Chef Art, but I could keep Miguel up to speed by telling him about being kidnapped.
“Are you okay?” he asked when I told him about what had happened.
“I’m fine. He didn’t try to hurt me, or even threaten me. He wants the recipe. I think he may be involved with what happened to Terry. Maybe even before that—to Terry’s friend in Atlanta.”
I’d already walked up the stairs to police headquarters with him. At the large concrete landing, we stood and talked for a few minutes.
“Without proof, there’s nothing Detective Latoure can do,” he told me. “I’ll tell her about Chef Art. She won’t like it. Nobody wants to go after a beloved icon. Still, it would be worth her knowing so she can keep an eye on him.”
“I might be able to help with that proof.” I hadn’t planned on saying anything to Miguel about the benefit dinner, but I needed a date for that night, and he sprang to mind. I figured the worst he could say was that he was too busy.
“That sounds a little risky, Zoe,” he said after I’d explained about the dinner.
“Maybe not as much if I’m not alone,” I hinted. “I could bring someone with me.”
He frowned. “I don’t know about Ollie in a group like that.”
I wondered if he was completely obtuse. “I was thinking about you, Miguel. You know all about the recipe. You’d be good to have there as backup.”
“Let me know about the date, and I’ll try to go,” he said. “I still don’t know if that’s a good idea. It could be dangerous if Chef Art is involved in this.”
“He’s not going to be able to do much. There will be a ton of famous people there, and chefs making all kinds of food. It might be hard for him to step out and kill someone.”
Miguel agreed. “Keep me updated.”
I watched him walk inside the building. It was a little victory—he hadn’t entirely blown me off. He didn’t seem very excited about it.
Ollie, Delia, and I sat around playing cards for a while. Business was very slow until about four thirty. A trickle of late lunch customers stopped by then and took food home with them for dinner.
I wrote a supply note. I was quickly running out of to-go boxes. I hadn’t planned on using so many. They weren’t cheap, either, but if customers wanted them, I’d have to keep them in stock.
By five thirty, the building seemed to mostly be empty. The other food trucks were leaving. We were securing everything so we could do the same. It had been a good day in many different ways. I knew Delia was happy not to be under suspicion for Terry’s death, and I was happy that Miguel might go with me to the benefit dinner.
We drove back to the diner. Nothing seemed to be out of place, or broken. I hoped whoever was responsible for hurting Marty, and throwing the cement block through my window, was busy looking in another direction.
I thought about Chef Art again. I knew Miguel was right. The police wouldn’t want to confront him. Still, the timing, and his motivation for killin
g Terry, seemed to make him a perfect suspect.
I figured he thought Terry had the recipe with him. Maybe he’d planned to buy it from him. Something went wrong, and Terry died. Now, the Jefferson recipe was lost again. If Chef Art had killed these men, he probably wouldn’t be satisfied until he found it.
There wasn’t a lot of food leftover to take to the homeless shelter. Ollie and I took what we had. All of the men seemed grateful for it. I talked with Marty for a while to see how he was getting on after being mugged on my behalf. I made sure he got biscuit bowls with sweet and savory before anyone else.
“I’m fine,” he told me. “Still worried about you, Zoe. People have been killed for this recipe. I don’t want that to happen to you.”
“I don’t, either,” I agreed. “I think the person looking for the recipe may understand that I don’t have it.”
“Why do you say that?”
I told him about my conversation with Chef Art. “I think he believed me about not having the recipe. I guess we’ll see if things get quiet again around here.”
“I guess we will. But be careful in case it isn’t true.”
We talked about how things were going at the shelter. I finally said good night and went back to the diner. Crème Brûlée was cranky because he hadn’t been fed immediately when we got back from police headquarters. I endured his love bites and let him lick them. Afterward, he settled down, purring, and I went in to make a little something to eat.
Ollie had stayed at the shelter. Delia was making herself a grilled cheese sandwich. I let her make one for me, too. We ate them with only coffee to drink. Every meal doesn’t have to be elaborate. I was too tired to do anything more than get ready for the next day.
Delia helped me with the dessert fillings. I made another batch of Ollie’s gumbo, since that had gone over well last week. We didn’t talk much. I guess we were both tired.
Once the food was ready for Tuesday, Delia yawned. “I love working with you, Zoe. But these hours are killing me. Who gets up before noon?”
“People who want to sell breakfast biscuit bowls and have the best spot for lunch.” I yawned, too. It was contagious.
“I guess so. I appreciate you paying me today. Working with you is the first money I’ve made during daylight hours in a long time.”
I had been happy to pay Delia and Ollie fifty dollars each for their help that day. I’d been surprised by how much money we’d brought in. At that rate, I’d have some savings put away toward my restaurant in no time.
“I was glad to have you there.” I started to ask her again about Chef Art, and if she might change her mind about taking that information to the police. Really, I was too tired to argue about it again. Tomorrow would be another day.
Nothing unusual happened that night. It gave me the sense that I’d been right about Chef Art being behind the theft of the Jefferson recipe, and possibly Terry’s death. I wasn’t sure why he’d believed me when I’d told him that I didn’t have the recipe, but I was glad of it. Trying to get my business up and running was hard enough. I didn’t need the extra strain of dealing with those other problems.
• • •
I got up right away when the alarm went off at four A.M. Crème Brûlée protested my moving him on the bed by clutching my arm in his two little paws. It would’ve been sweet, except for his slightly extended claws. They left tiny red imprints in my arm, not quite breaking the skin.
“Why do I put up with you?” I stared into his unhappy face.
He licked my nose to apologize, and I forgave him.
“I’m going to feed you right away, and I want you to use the litter box before we go.” There had been a minor potty accident yesterday. I knew he’d needed more time before I rushed him out of the diner.
He looked like he understood. When I put his food down, he ate right away. I left him there, and went to take a shower and get dressed. The weather forecast looked good again for that day. It was supposed to continue to be clear until Thursday. That would give me a nice day for my Chef Art event. I planned to call everyone I could think of to come out to the Biscuit Bowl tomorrow.
I was a little worried that I might tell everyone that he would be there, and then he wouldn’t show. On the other hand, if no one knew he was coming, my publicity would be limited to the people going in and out of police headquarters.
It seemed to me that I was better off taking a chance that he wouldn’t stand me up.
He probably wouldn’t, I thought as the water from the shower sluiced down over me. After all, I could still press charges against him for kidnapping. I didn’t want to do that. I wanted Chef Art as my friend, not my enemy—unless he was a killer. That was yet to be seen, as my mother always said.
I put on a clean pair of jeans and a Biscuit Bowl T-shirt. I’d had dozens of the shirts made when I first started out. It was too bad the company I ordered them from hadn’t done a good job sewing them. I could only wear each one a couple of times before it began to fall apart.
I still had a few new ones for Wednesday. I knew the sizes I had would fit me and Delia. I wasn’t sure about Ollie. I had to remember to have him try one on so I could be prepared for tomorrow. My plan was to go out and buy him a plain blue T-shirt, if nothing else, so at least the colors would match when we were on TV.
I dried my curls as I was thinking about adding sage to the savory biscuits. I was making glazed strawberries for my sweet biscuit bowls.
I realized I hadn’t seen or even heard Delia since I got up. Maybe her alarm clock wasn’t working or she needed an extra nudge. Like she’d said, she was used to going to bed at this time and not getting up until noon. It was quite a time shift for her.
I went over to her bed and put my hand down to shake her.
There was no one there.
TWENTY-ONE
I turned on the big light. Maybe she’d walked around me in the dark to the bathroom.
No.
I searched the diner, even the back part that I didn’t use. She wasn’t anywhere inside.
I turned on all the lights and went back to the rollaway bed.
Delia wasn’t there, but something else was.
Chef Art had promised me an invitation to the benefit dinner at his home. The invitation, printed on harvest yellow stationery, in flowery script font, was on the bed in her place.
I called the police.
It only took a few minutes for Officers Schmidt and Gayner to respond.
I met them outside. “My roommate, Delia, has been kidnapped.”
Officer Schmidt nodded and yawned. “You know, another hour and we would’ve been off duty.”
“What makes you think she’s been kidnapped, ma’am?” Officer Gayner asked.
“You know the kind of things that have been going on here.” I didn’t feel like I needed to brief them. “I got up this morning. She was gone. All I found in her place was this invitation.”
Officer Schmidt looked at the invitation. “You’re a lucky lady. My wife would kill to be invited to one of these dinners.” He smiled at his partner. “I’d kill not to have to go with her.”
“Was there a disturbance during the night? Did anything out of the ordinary happen?” Officer Gayner at least tried to be responsive. “Was the diner broken into? Any sign of a struggle?”
“I don’t think so.” I tried to think if I’d heard anything last night. I was so tired, I wasn’t sure I would’ve heard any noise, unusual or not. “Maybe you should look around. I don’t know what I’m looking for.”
The two officers went inside and examined the area where Delia had been sleeping. I noticed that her few personal belongings were gone, too. Maybe she’d left. Maybe she’d decided that working with me was too hard.
“I don’t see any sign of a struggle,” Officer Gayner observed. “Have you tried to call her?”
“I di
dn’t think of that.” I took out my cell phone and called her number.
All three of us heard her phone ring. It was on the floor under the rollaway bed.
“She wouldn’t have left without it.” I tried to make a point. “Her whole life is in that phone.”
Officer Schmidt took out a notebook. “What does she do for a living? What’s her name?”
“She works with me here in the diner and on my food truck. Her name is Delia Vann.”
The officers exchanged knowing glances.
“She’s good-looking, light brown skin, long hair?” Officer Schmidt asked.
“Yes. That’s her,” I agreed.
Officer Gayner said, “Yeah. We know her. She’s working with you now?”
“Yes. Can you call something in so everyone will look for her?”
Officer Schmidt put away his notebook. “We can’t file a missing persons report for forty-eight hours anyway, unless there are extenuating health issues. Sorry.”
“But she’s not just missing.” I stopped Officer Gayner from leaving the diner. “She wouldn’t leave without saying anything. And why would she leave behind the invitation to Chef Art’s benefit dinner and her cell phone?”
I could tell Officer Gayner wanted to believe me. He was sympathetic. “I’d like to help you. My hands are tied. If she doesn’t turn up in forty-eight hours, go to the police station and file a report. The chances are she’s decided not to work with you anymore, and didn’t know how to say it. It happens. As for her cell phone, she’ll pick up another one—one where you won’t be able to reach her. Sorry.”
I couldn’t believe it. They walked out of the diner and got back in their car.
“What’s going on?” Ollie frowned when he saw the police car.
“Delia’s gone. I think someone took her. I know she wouldn’t have left on her own without saying anything.”
I went through the whole thing again with Ollie. He looked through the diner, and even in the food truck. There was no sign of her.
In the meantime, I called Miguel to let him know what was going on. He was there when Ollie and I were done looking around the outside of the diner.
