Death on Eat Street

by J. J. Cook

  “That way we may never know who killed Terry,” I reminded him. “Maybe we should show it to Chef Art first, and get his take on it.”

  “I know this is the first time you’ve done anything like this,” he said. “Trust me, if we find this recipe, we need to get out of the game. We’ve come pretty far across the line already. It doesn’t take a lot to charge someone with impeding an investigation.”

  I didn’t say anything else about it. I knew Miguel was totally looking at the problem from a lawyer’s point of view. I also knew, from my mother, that wasn’t always the right way to look at things.

  Miguel had Terry’s home address since he and Delia had been involved. He lived a little outside the city in a rental house that looked almost as bad as the area where my diner was located.

  We were at the right place. Terry’s Tacky Taco truck was in the drive. Miguel and I got out of the car after he’d parked behind the food truck.

  Both of us cautiously looked around. That’s what comes of people holding guns on you, and beating up your friends. You constantly expect bad things to jump out at you.

  Miguel opened the back door to the food truck. It wasn’t even locked. It was hard for me to believe Terry would’ve stashed a recipe worth a million dollars in the truck without at least trying to protect it.

  Maybe it was one of those things where it’s the last place you’d expect to find anything valuable so he felt it was safe. I would’ve put it in the bank.

  Well, since it was stolen, maybe not. But I would’ve found somewhere more secure than this.

  “Green chili,” Miguel said when we were inside the taco truck. “This place is such a mess. I don’t know how we’ll find anything. How did he work this way?”

  It wasn’t only that pots, pans, bowls, and spoons were thrown everywhere. There was a heavy layer of grease on everything, too. I hated to touch any of it. I should’ve brought gloves. No wonder cops on TV wear them.

  “I wish we’d brought a flashlight.” I looked at the serving window that was shut. “Maybe we should open that so we can see in here. Green chili could be something that holds green chili. Or it could be a can of green chili. Or a green chili pepper, although I hope it’s not inside a real pepper.”

  “I’ll open the window,” Miguel volunteered. “Take my cell phone. The flashlight app is on it.”

  I looked at the mess with the light from the flashlight as Miguel went outside.

  He was right. Everything was such a jumble of food and cooking and serving utensils—I wasn’t sure if we’d find anything without emptying the entire truck. Maybe this was why Terry wasn’t worried about anyone else finding the recipe.

  Opening the serving window helped—even though it made the interior of the truck look even worse. The smell was awful, too.

  “I’m never eating anything from a food truck again,” I said.

  Miguel laughed. “Your food truck doesn’t look like this.”

  “No, but I can’t ask for a tour of the food truck before I order. I hate to think what kind of germs are in here. It doesn’t look like he’d wiped anything down for weeks. I think these are rat droppings over here, too.”

  “You don’t ever have to worry about that since you take your cat with you.”

  I didn’t go into what a coward Crème Brûlée was. I didn’t like to say bad things about him all the time. I loved him the way he was—hissing, biting, and cowardly.

  We started picking things up off the floor. A quick scan of the upper areas where the food was made didn’t show anything green, chili or not.

  “I wonder if someone else already had this idea and that’s why the truck is such a mess,” I said. “I don’t see how he worked this way. He’d have to pick this up every day while he was working. I don’t think he was that ambitious.”

  “The police probably went through this, too.” Miguel picked up the pieces of several broken spice bottles. “We don’t even know what size this recipe is. It could be anywhere.”

  I was under the area where Terry would’ve taken orders and handed out food. There was a little bit of everything down there. I found an empty salsa box and started filling it so I could look through it when I got up. The light wasn’t much better than before we opened the serving window, at least not where I was.

  “Do you think this could be what he was talking about?”

  I bumped my head on the counter as I tried to get up and see what Miguel had found.

  “Careful.” He took my hand and helped me off of the greasy floor. “If you cut yourself in here, you’ll probably need a tetanus shot.”

  “What did you find?” I rubbed my head ruefully.

  “It’s green.” He held up a small canister. “It says chili on it.”

  I opened the canister. The lid was pressed down so hard that it opened with a popping sound. We both looked inside. There was nothing there, not even chili peppers.

  “I don’t know. Maybe someone already found it.” I was greasy and disgusted with being there. Turning the whole thing over to the police was beginning to sound pretty good.

  “You may be right. We could be looking for anything. Green chili could be a code used between Don and Terry for all we know. I think we should call Detective Latoure and tell her what we’ve found so far.”

  I thought that was a bad idea. I put the box of items I’d picked up from the floor on the cabinet and continued surveying the walls, shelves, and counter.

  “I guess you’re right. I don’t know what else to do. Keeping information from the police could be worse than impeding an investigation.”

  “Agreed. Shall I call or do you want to?”

  • • •

  We waited at Terry’s house until three police cars pulled up. Detective Latoure was in one of them. The other two were from the local police department.

  “This better be good.” Patti Latoure shook hands with the other officers who were from Fairhope, outside Mobile. “We don’t really like to go into one another’s territory, if you know what I mean.”

  Miguel gave her the piece of green paper from the necklace and explained the situation. “We thought you should know.”

  She smirked. “You mean after the two of you couldn’t find the recipe.”

  “It’s not just the recipe,” I said. “Delia has been taken, too. We think she might have been kidnapped.”

  “Or she’s working with the killer,” Patti said. “Have you reported her missing?”

  I explained the problem I’d had with that. She sympathized but agreed that it was police policy.

  “Don Abbott knows about the recipe,” I told her. “I had the beads, so he couldn’t find it. We wanted to beat him to it.”

  “And did you?” she asked.

  “No. We couldn’t find anything except a million reasons to call the health department,” I confessed.

  “We searched this food truck already.” She peeked inside the taco truck. “Did the two of you make this mess?”

  “No. It was this way when we got here,” Miguel said.

  “Then someone else has been here looking around, too. I’ll have the taco truck towed back to Mobile and forensics will go over it again. Have you been in the house?”

  “No. We looked in here because the note said food truck,” I said.

  Patti looked at the green note, already sealed in an evidence bag. “Are you sure Terry meant his food truck?”

  “Where else would he hide the recipe?” I asked.

  She raised her brows. “You said in your statement that Terry had been inside your food truck the day he was killed. And you said Miss Vann gave you the beads, telling you that Terry had given them to her.”

  I couldn’t believe it. “You think he put the recipe in my food truck?”

  TWENTY-THREE

  “I don’t see how he would’ve had time to hide
anything in my food truck when I was trying to throw him out.”

  I said this as Miguel was following behind Detective Latoure’s car. We were headed back to the diner with the lights and sirens blaring on the front police car that was our escort.

  “He could’ve planned to do it this way.” Miguel kept his eyes on the road as the speedometer crept up to eighty miles an hour. “You were distracted by what he was doing to you. You wouldn’t have noticed that he left something behind.”

  It was hard for me to believe. Even if I’d missed him leaving a green chili item behind in the Biscuit Bowl, I would have seen it since. I thought I knew every inch, every item in my food truck. It shook me a little to think that I might be wrong.

  “Why would he leave it with me? He didn’t even know me.”

  “He probably didn’t care if he knew you. He could always break into your food truck later and retrieve the recipe. Maybe that’s what he was planning to do when he was killed behind the diner.”

  “I guess so.” It was a little hard to take in when I thought about it. I looked out the side window at the trees and houses that were rapidly flying by as we approached Mobile. “He wasn’t killed in the Biscuit Bowl, but it might have been close.”

  Miguel squeezed my hand where it rested on the seat between us. “This is all speculation, Zoe. It might not have played out this way. We’ll see when we get there.”

  I was sure it was getting to be commonplace for my neighbors in the old shopping center to see police cars pulling into the parking lot near the diner. It would be humiliating if the other shops filed complaints against me and I was forced to leave, especially in this neighborhood.

  Detective Latoure was out of her car and walking toward the back of the Biscuit Bowl truck as Miguel was parking. I quickly took out my key—I never left my food truck unlocked.

  I realized as we got closer that no one needed the key. The back door was open.

  “Looks like Don beat us here,” Miguel said.

  I let out a little screech when I saw the door had been pried open. There were utensils and serving trays strewn into the parking lot. Couldn’t people search for things without making a mess?

  Running to the food truck, I noticed Ollie, Marty, and some of the other men from the shelter coming to see what was happening.

  Then I focused on the wreck that was waiting for me. I could see through the open door that nothing was where it belonged. Jars of spices had been emptied and plastic serving trays smashed.

  “Zoe!” Ollie called my name.

  He was standing beside the front door to the diner. The glass had been smashed open. It looked like Don hadn’t given up his search for the recipe after he’d finished with the food truck.

  My first thought wasn’t for anything I owned. “Crème Brûlée!” I yelled as I ran past Ollie and into the diner.

  Everything was ripped open and smashed in the diner, too. I ran to my bedroom area. The bed was torn apart. I couldn’t find Crème Brûlée anywhere. His bed had been tossed, too. Even his kitty litter box had been emptied on the floor.

  I walked slowly through the diner, calling his name. I knew Crème Brûlée would be in a bad mood, anyway. I hoped he wasn’t hurt.

  There was no answering meow to greet me and give me some idea of where he was. Where was he?

  “What a mess.” Ollie was looking around when I came back up to the front of the diner. “I’m sorry, Zoe. I didn’t see anything going on. Whoever did this must’ve walked up or parked in back.”

  “You can’t keep track of everything.” I wiped tears from my eyes. “If I can find Crème Brûlée, I’ll be okay.”

  “I thought you said he wouldn’t run out.”

  “I did. He wouldn’t, except that a stranger made a mess of his home. I don’t know what he’ll do now.”

  Ollie smiled. “Too bad he wasn’t a little bigger. He could’ve stopped whoever did this. I think you might need a tough dog instead of a cat with an attitude.”

  “Don’t even say that! He has to be here somewhere.”

  Detective Latoure came inside to talk to me. I told her about Crème Brûlée. A few minutes later, everyone, including Miguel and Marty, was looking for him with me. They searched behind the stores and in the Dumpsters. He seemed to have disappeared.

  “I hope Abbott didn’t take your cat with him,” Patti said.

  “He wouldn’t have kept him for long,” Ollie said. “Believe me, that’s one mean cat.”

  I kept looking. Where would Crème Brûlée hide if he was threatened? If we were still living back at the apartment, I’d know where to find him. Anytime a repairman showed up there, Crème Brûlée hid in my bedroom closet.

  I wondered what he’d equate with that closet?

  I glanced into the makeshift pantry I’d built to keep the rats away from my food. Usually, it was closed and locked. Don had cut the lock from the metal pantry. The door was still open.

  Carefully, I opened the door and peeked inside. The first thing I saw was a rapidly swishing yellow and white tail. That movement was followed by a warning hiss.

  “There you are.” I reached into the pantry and got a small nip on my arm for my trouble. I didn’t care. I hugged Crème Brûlée until he started growling at me. Then I kissed his little face and put him down.

  “You’re safe now. I wish you could talk and tell me who did this.”

  I found a comfortable place for him until I could get the bed put back to rights.

  “I’m glad he’s okay,” Patti said.

  “Can you pick Don up and arrest him?” I asked. “I want to press charges for all of this.”

  “I’m sure we can find him. We’ll need some proof. I’ll have my team go over the food truck, and your diner. I’m sorry this happened, Zoe.”

  “Me, too.” The full realization of how much I’d lost—and how much would have to be cleaned up before the Biscuit Bowl could go out again—hit me with a hard thud right in the chest.

  It was just as well that Chef Art wasn’t really planning to join me tomorrow. There was no way I’d be ready to roll in the morning. Even if I could make do with what was left of my food supplies, I’d never get things in order before then.

  I felt like going home and crying. Only this was home now, and crying wouldn’t do much good. Somehow, I’d get through this. I’d start again. I wouldn’t let this beat me.

  Miguel offered to take me out for lunch. I knew it was probably because I looked as lost and pathetic as I felt. He was being kind—giving the police some time to start working on the food truck and the diner without me watching them.

  I appreciated his sweet thought. I didn’t want to watch whatever the police were going to do. I accepted his invitation. This time, I didn’t even think of the lunch being romantic. I didn’t care. I only wanted to get away from the destruction.

  Miguel was even nice enough to let me put Crème Brûlée and his bed in the backseat of his car. Not everyone can handle a cat in their car. Tommy Lee certainly couldn’t. Neither could my mother.

  Miguel was wonderful about it. He didn’t even complain when he tried to stroke Crème Brûlée and my evil cat bit him.

  “He does that when he likes you.” I showed him the mark on my arm where Crème Brûlée bit me as I was searching for him. “See?”

  “That’s . . . nice.” Miguel smiled and closed the back door. “Where would you like to go for lunch?”

  I knew there wouldn’t be a lot of choices. I couldn’t leave Crème Brûlée in the car while we ate lunch. The only place I could think to go was Happy’s Drive-In. Visions of roller-skating waitresses serving comfort food as they flew by on the smooth pavement captured my thoughts.

  I liked Happy’s. I’d always asked to eat here when I was a kid. The answer was always no. My mother didn’t eat at curbside restaurants.

  As soon as I
started driving, I came here for lunch, and after school for snacks. Everything was made fresh when you ordered it. Even the milkshakes were made with hand-dipped, hard ice cream.

  “What’s good?” Miguel asked as he looked over the huge menu.

  “I always have a milkshake. It doesn’t matter what flavor. All of them are delicious. Their cheeseburgers are awesome, and so are their hush puppies. They actually make them with their own batter, not frozen.”

  “Sounds good.” Miguel ordered cheeseburgers, hush puppies, and milkshakes for both of us. I had the blueberry orange sky milkshake. Miguel had chocolate, not even chocolate delight. It suited him.

  “Let’s go inside for a minute so I can say hello to Happy. Crème Brûlée will be fine.”

  “There really is a Happy?”

  “Sure. He opened this place when he got out of the navy in 1981. He was a cook on a ship for years. He started right out cooking professionally.”

  We went inside. There was only a narrow aisle between the deep fryers, grills, and other food appliances. The roller-skating waitresses zoomed in and out past us, holding trays of food above their heads.

  “Happy!” I hailed my old friend who’d given me my first summer job.

  “Zoe!” Happy was dressed in white pants and shirt, as always. He looked almost the same as he had the first day I’d met him. Maybe he was a little rounder, and a little older. “It’s good to see you. I hope you got milkshakes. They’re really good today.”

  We hugged, and I introduced him to Miguel. The two men shook hands.

  Happy nudged me. “I like this one. And he’s a lawyer. You better hold on to him, Zoe. What happened to Mr. Perfect? I hope he ran that expensive piece of junk he drives into a telephone pole.”

  Happy’s only experience with Tommy Lee wasn’t a good one. Tommy Lee had my mother’s dim view of eating at fast-food restaurants. I’d brought him inside to meet Happy. Tommy Lee had spent the whole time on his cell phone, brokering some stock deal.

  What made it even worse—Tommy Lee had called Happy’s food greasy and had refused to eat lunch. We never went back again.