Death on Eat Street

by J. J. Cook

  He wasn’t kidding about his PR people working overtime. It was like a circus. Unfortunately, it was a circus that was running out of food. I was down to my last tray of biscuits, and we weren’t even close to the end of the large crowd I could see from the open windows.

  Ollie was taking orders outside to speed up the process while Chef Art and I cooked and bantered for the radio station that had set up shop right outside the Biscuit Bowl.

  “I’m going to have to close.” I couldn’t believe it. “No more biscuits.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Chef Art said. “You can make more biscuits in my motor home. I’m sure I have plenty of supplies, and there’s a double oven onboard. Ollie and I will hold down the fort here while you work—if he can keep from killing me while you’re gone.”

  “Sorry. He kind of has a crush on Delia.”

  “Really?” He looked absolutely surprised. “She’s a beauty. Does he think he has a chance with her?”

  I thought about that as I left the Biscuit Bowl and stepped out into the sunshine to look for Chef Art’s motor home. It wasn’t hard to find. His face was colorfully painted on the side of the fifty-foot-long motor home. It was so big, I could’ve driven the Biscuit Bowl right into it.

  Once I reached it, two of Chef Art’s assistants greeted me. They took me into the huge, stainless steel kitchen that was equipped to feed massive numbers of people. They asked what I needed and took out flour and vegetable shortening. There wasn’t enough they could do for me.

  When I was set up, and baking four trays of biscuits (love that double oven), the two assistants left to take pictures, sending them to Twitter and other social media outlets. It was awesome what could be accomplished with enough people and money.

  I set the timer for the biscuits and prepared the next four trays. This was like being on a reality TV show where your fondest wish came true. I wasn’t sure about Chef Art being the innocent party in what was happening with Delia, and I felt guilty enjoying the spoils of his largesse knowing she was still out there in danger.

  Still, I couldn’t help wallowing in the success a little, and dreaming about someday attaining Chef Art’s following for my food.

  The ovens made a chiming sound, letting me know the biscuits were ready. I got up to take out the pans and put the next four in.

  The sliding glass door to the motor home opened, and Don Abbott stepped inside.

  TWENTY-SIX

  “You!” he said with a sneer.

  “You!” I looked for the rolling pin I’d seen in one of the drawers.

  “Where’s Chef Art?”

  “He’s in my food truck. What do you want?”

  “I guess now the two of you are in cahoots.” Don looked around the kitchen.

  “I’m not sure what that means.” Who says cahoots, anyway? “He’s helping me promote my business today.”

  “Yeah. Like I care.”

  “Well, I don’t care what you think, either. You can go find him.”

  “I have the recipe,” he said with a wide grin.

  “Good for you.”

  “You better believe it’s good for me. I’ve worked hard for this piece of paper.”

  “How much is he paying you?”

  “Not enough. Why? I’m not cutting you in, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “That’s fine.” I didn’t wait any longer. I took the biscuits out of the oven, thankful that none of them had burned. I couldn’t help it anyway. I was distracted. “You can give Delia back now.”

  He looked blank for a minute. “I don’t have her.”

  “Don’t pretend you didn’t try to set up a meeting to swap her for the recipe.”

  “I didn’t set up a meeting. I don’t have her. I don’t need to swap anything for the recipe. It’s mine now.”

  “You know that’s stolen property, right? If you sell that to Chef Art, you’ll be selling stolen property that was involved in two murders. You could go to prison for life.”

  I hoped I sounded knowledgeable. I wasn’t sure I had any ground to stand on with those charges, but he didn’t know.

  “With the money Chef Art is going to pay me for the recipe, I’ll be going away for life, but not to prison.” He stroked his dirty, stubbled chin. “I’m thinking Tahiti, or one of those other islands that don’t have extradition.”

  I acted like it was nothing to me as I put in the four new trays of biscuits. “Fine. Go on then.”

  “All right. I will.”

  But before he could leave, I had to ask about Delia. “If you don’t have Delia, who does? It must be part of this whole thing. Someone wanted to trade her for the recipe. Who else is involved in this besides you and Chef Art?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. You should ask Chef Art. He might’ve hired more than one person to find the recipe.”

  It seemed like a good answer. He left the motor home. I took a deep breath, glad to see him leave. At least he wasn’t brandishing a gun this time.

  Someone else knew about the recipe—and what it was worth—if Don was telling the truth. I was probably a fool to believe him. He might’ve killed Terry. What was a lie to him?

  When the biscuits had cooled, I took the first four trays to the Biscuit Bowl. It was surrounded by people. They formed a sea around it that made it tough to get inside. Chef Art’s security people created a path for me.

  “Glad you made it back in time,” he quipped when he saw me. “I was afraid these people might turn on me if we completely ran out of biscuit bowls. Any thought on replacing the fillings?”

  I put down the trays of biscuits. This had to stop.

  “I just saw Don Abbott at your motor home. He said he has the Jefferson recipe. He also said he has no idea where Delia is, or who could have her.”

  His eyes lit up when I mentioned the recipe. “That’s good news.”

  “For you,” I reminded him. “I know you don’t think much of Delia, but she’s my friend. I want her back.”

  “I want her back, too. And I never said I didn’t think much of her. She’s a wonderful companion.”

  The whole time he was talking, he was taking orders from Ollie and filling biscuit bowls with amazing speed. He worked like he’d done this exact job all of his life. Somehow, it made me even angrier.

  “Look, if Delia was ever good to you, you owe her something for getting her caught in the middle of your hunt for the recipe. She’s a person, too. She has dreams and goals, just like you do. Think about it. Did you hire more than one person to bring you the recipe? If so, who was it?”

  “I think you need to talk while you fry up more of those bowls,” he reminded me. “As for Delia, let me check into it. You’re right. I hired a few people for the operation. As I said, I’m a collector. The Jefferson recipe means a lot to me.”

  “That’s fine. Just come up with an answer or I’m going to call the police, and you’ll have company when you get that recipe from Don.”

  His eyes widened comically. “You wouldn’t! After all I’ve done for you today? I’ve put you on the food truck map in Mobile.”

  “And I didn’t tell the police that you kidnapped me to ask me about the recipe. I think we’re even.”

  “There’s that,” he admitted. “Trust me. I didn’t mean Delia to be involved in this. I knew she was dating Terry, but that was only a point of interest. We’ll find her. Now, get to frying.”

  I did as he said. I wanted to help Delia. I wasn’t sure what to do except make sure that the people who seemed to be the players in the theft of the recipe knew that she wasn’t forgotten. I planned to have another talk with Detective Latoure before the end of the day.

  What a day it was. We ran out of everything, including serving boxes and plastic forks and spoons. There was nothing left to eat or drink when we finally closed the doors to the Biscuit Bowl.

&n
bsp; I felt like a limp rag, just waiting for someone to come and put me in the hamper. I’d done three interviews by myself and five with Chef Art. I had to empty the cashbox five times and had more credit card receipts than I’d ever seen before. It was amazing what publicity could do.

  “Whoo-eee!” Chef Art was still full of energy. His white jacket was as clean as when he’d stepped into the food truck. He’d done plenty—I couldn’t have done it without him. His white hat was still at the jaunty angle on his head.

  I could tell he loved all of this. I was a mess and wanted to go home and take a nap. Ollie had taken orders and passed out menus until they were gone. He looked as exhausted as I felt.

  “I don’t know what to say,” I admitted. “It was wonderful. I never knew people could eat so many biscuits in one day.”

  “And that’s just the start for you, Miss Zoe Chase,” Chef Art said. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, you’re on the rise. Your business will continue to grow. Don’t do anything stupid, now, hear?”

  “You mean like you did?” Ollie asked.

  “You could say that. Still, I live in a thirty-six-room mansion with three guest cottages, a swimming pool, and tennis courts. I travel around the world on my own private jet, and my yacht is anchored out there in the bay. I think it worked out all right, don’t you?”

  Even Ollie, who wasn’t a fan of Chef Art, had to admit he lived a good life, despite his mistakes. Ollie kind of growled his agreement. He left the Biscuit Bowl to get the chairs and tables from outside.

  “Now, what are we going to do about Delia?” Chef Art tapped his chin. “And where is Don Abbott with my recipe? That was hours ago that he told you he had it. I didn’t want to draw attention, but I have my limits of patience.”

  “I don’t know. He was at your motor home when I was there. He left before I did. Maybe he decided to sell it to someone else.”

  His eyes narrowed a little in his always pleasant face. That was the only hint of any anger about my words. “Let’s go take a look around, shall we? You don’t have to bother taking those biscuit pans back. One of my assistants will get them.”

  I decided to go with him. If nothing else, I’d be a witness to Don selling the Jefferson recipe to Chef Art. I could use my cell phone to record it. Maybe I could use that as some kind of leverage to get Delia back. What else could you expect when you offered so much money for something? There were bound to be people who would do anything to win the prize.

  As Chef Art and I left the Biscuit Bowl, it was starting to get dark outside. The parking lot was almost empty at police headquarters. There was no sign of the crowds that had been there that day.

  Suzette’s Crepes and the Dog House were closing up, too. I had no doubt some of that business Chef Art’s promotional team had generated went to them, too. Their owners looked pleased, even if my food truck had been the hit of the day. We all knew it was staying in the game that mattered. It didn’t hurt that people would associate the Biscuit Bowl with Chef Art from now on. It was what I did with that valuable association that would affect me in the long run.

  “I don’t see him,” I said to Chef Art. “I was only kidding about him selling the recipe to someone else. It seems odd that he knew there was a big payday coming when he sold you the recipe, and didn’t stick around.”

  “Yes it does.” He scratched his beard. “Maybe he’s feeling shy of you watching our deal, my dear. Maybe you should wait in your food truck.”

  I wasn’t happy with that idea, but I knew it probably wouldn’t do any good to argue. I figured I could tell him I was going back to the Biscuit Bowl and then wait outside his motor home until Don made his appearance.

  I knew Chef Art wouldn’t stand around waiting for Don. He’d want to go inside and relax. Despite his vigor, he had to be tired.

  “Okay. I guess I’ll take off. Thanks again for all your help.” I shook his hand.

  “You’re very welcome. You’re coming to the benefit dinner, right? I assume after that we’ll be square?”

  “That’s right,” I agreed. “I’ll see you then.”

  Chef Art made a few more friendly remarks about the dinner and our association. I noticed he was looking around the whole time, like a cat stalking a mouse. He might not have appeared to be aware of what was going on, but he was alert to every movement.

  I left him at the sliding glass door to his motor home. I started to walk briskly back to the Biscuit Bowl until I knew the coming darkness and the scattered vehicles left in the parking lot would obscure me from his gaze.

  Then I doubled back to the side of his motor home where I could watch the door.

  I was standing at the back end of the motor home, the beginning of Chef Art’s giant face painting. There were large propane tanks attached here, as well as miscellaneous scooters and a few pieces of lawn furniture. It was a big, rolling house for an important man, as he’d pointed out to Ollie earlier.

  I saw two of Chef Art’s assistants carrying the biscuit pans and other items that had migrated to my food truck during the day. They were talking and laughing as they walked through the parking lot.

  I moved back a little farther into the shadows, not wanting them to see me spying on their boss. My foot came down on something squishy that I prayed wasn’t dog poop. How bad would that be in my surprise showdown with Chef Art and Don Abbott if I smelled like doggy doo-doo?

  I lifted my foot carefully and smelled. No poop odor. I looked to see what I had stepped on and gasped.

  There in the shadows of Chef Art’s motor home was the lifeless body of Don Abbott.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I didn’t scream, though I had to bite my lip not to. I’d seen quite enough dead bodies in the past few days. I hoped this would be the last one.

  Calmly, I dialed the number for police headquarters, instead of 911, and asked for Detective Latoure. When she got on the phone, I told her about Don.

  “Where are you?” she demanded. “I told you not to get involved any further in this, Zoe.”

  “If you call ‘getting involved’ walking to the back of Chef Art’s motor home, I guess I’m guilty. I’m out in the parking lot. You can’t miss Chef Art’s giant face. I’ll be waiting for you. Is there anything I should do?”

  “Anything like what? What did you have in mind?”

  “I don’t know. Cover the body with a tarp, or something. Direct traffic away from it.”

  “No. Don’t touch anything. Don’t move. I’ll be right out. Just keep Chef Art from leaving, if you have to.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that.”

  Patti Latoure was true to her word. She was downstairs with two uniformed officers in five minutes. They brought floodlights with them and lit up the area where I was standing like it was part of a Christmas pageant.

  “Zoe.” She shook her head, her face very grim in the sudden bright light.

  “Patti.”

  “You seem very calm about all this.”

  “Well, you know how it is. When you’ve seen one dead body outside a coffin, the next one isn’t such a big surprise.”

  “Whatever you say.” She took out her notebook. “How did you find the victim?”

  I described walking back there to wait for Chef Art to finish his business with Don. “I didn’t realize he was right here, and probably wouldn’t meet with Chef Art tonight.”

  She grimaced. “Could we have a little respect for the dead, please?”

  “It seems wrong to accord him respect now that I didn’t give him when he was alive. He held a gun on me and threatened to hurt people I care about. He probably kidnapped Delia, and I think he trashed my diner and food truck.”

  “We have a missing persons report out on your friend, Delia Vann. I have no reason to suspect Abbott of kidnapping her. Do you?”

  “No reason?” I put my hands on my hips and stared up a
t her. “He was involved in stealing the Jefferson recipe. He planned to sell it to Chef Art tonight. That’s why I was standing over here. I wanted to witness that transaction so I could use it against him.”

  “And I think I heard something on TV about your mother looking into a ransom note for Miss Vann. No one else told me anything about that.” Patti raised one brow. “Is that your idea of not getting involved in this mess? I should arrest you right now for being an accessory. You were supposed to come to me if you so much as heard or saw anything related to Terry Bannister’s death or this recipe.”

  Good thing I had Miguel on speed dial. “I was only waiting and watching. And I would’ve come to you as soon as Delia was safe.”

  “And I’d arrest you except that it would mean another visit from your mother and father. Not a good thing for me.”

  Patti crouched down close to Don’s body and checked his pockets, pulling a wallet, and something else, from them. She opened the piece of paper she’d found carefully and read it before she handed it to me.

  “Is this what you’re talking about?”

  I couldn’t believe she was giving it to me. I had no gloves, no training to handle what might be an important piece of evidence.

  Instead of taking it from her, I looked at it closely. The scrawling handwriting at the top of the page said, Crème Brûlée by Thomas Jefferson. A man who used to be president.

  “Well, that’s not it!” I was very clear on the subject. “That has to be the worst forgery of anything in the world.”

  “What’s going on back here?” Chef Art’s voice broke up our conversation.

  “Chef Arrington.” Detective Latoure was courteous and careful in her handling of him. “I’m afraid a man has been murdered right here at the back of your motor home.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.” Chef Art took a step forward and peered at the man on the ground. “Did you . . . uh . . . find anything unusual?”

  Before Detective Latoure could speak, I jumped in. “She found a really bad forgery of the Jefferson recipe. We both know that’s what you’re looking for.”