by J. J. Cook
Chef Art held his head high and straightened up. “I’ll admit to having an interest in a certain recipe. I’ve done nothing illegal. The recipe is a collector’s item, and I am a collector.”
I could tell Detective Latoure didn’t want to get involved in that issue. With me speaking up about it, she had no choice.
“Did you know that recipe—the real one—was stolen from a museum in Virginia?” she asked. “The man who took it was found dead in his motel room in Atlanta—without the recipe.”
“I had no idea.” Chef Art managed to look completely innocent. He was as fine an actor as he was a cook. “I’d heard that the recipe was up for sale. I arranged with a man I’d never met to sell it to me. That’s it.”
Before Detective Latoure could answer, Chef Art sent one of his assistants to fetch his lawyer.
“That could be a logical assumption on your part,” Patti finally said. “There was no way for you to know the recipe was stolen.”
“True,” Chef Art agreed. “I haven’t seen it as yet. I would’ve authenticated it right away. If I’d learned that the recipe had been stolen—heaven forbid—I would’ve immediately turned it in to the police.”
It was the biggest load of hogwash I’d ever heard. I couldn’t believe Detective Latoure was buying it, but she was nodding and looking serious, as though it made perfect sense.
“We think this man, Don Abbott, might be a part of the theft. His partner, Terry Bannister, was murdered. Whoever is interested in owning the Jefferson recipe, not an upstanding businessman like yourself, of course, has gone to extreme lengths to get their hands on it.”
The medical examiner arrived. We were forced to move away from the motor home. The area was blocked off just in time. A TV crew arrived to see what all the fuss was about.
“Did you see the recipe?” Chef Art whispered to me while Detective Latoure was talking to the medical examiner.
“It wasn’t the real recipe.” I told him what it said at the top of the paper. “I’m no expert, but I don’t think that was even remotely close to an antique document.”
“So it’s still out there, somewhere.” He sighed as though in relief.
“Did it ever occur to you that you could be a suspect in this murder? In Terry’s murder, too, for that matter? It looks like Terry was killed because he wouldn’t hand over the recipe. He hid the location of it in some beads that he gave Delia. Maybe when Don showed up with this impossible forgery, you killed him, too.”
“Looks can be deceiving.” Chef Art dared a quick glance at Detective Latoure. “I definitely didn’t kill Don Abbott. You’re my alibi for that, Miss Chase. Do I need to remind you that I haven’t been anywhere without you for the last eight hours?”
He was right. We’d either been doing interviews or cooking since I’d seen Don last. I wasn’t sure about what had happened to Terry, but Chef Art was clear of Don’s death.
“Sorry.”
“That’s all right.” He sniffed and looked away, as though he was hurt by my supposition. “You young people. No matter what anyone does for you, you turn on them like a snake.”
I started to remind him again why he’d helped me today, and that he was probably the catalyst in the deaths, if not the actual killer, of both men. His willingness to pay top dollar for the stolen recipe made him the accessory Detective Latoure was looking for.
Detective Latoure finally came back toward us. Chef Art gave me a warning look. He didn’t have to worry. What could I say that I could prove?
“It looks like Mr. Abbott may have been killed with the same weapon used on Terry Bannister, a .22 pistol.” She shrugged. “That is to say that they were both shot with the same caliber, anyway. We’ll know more once the ME has some time to examine the body.”
Chef Art shook his head. “Bless his soul.”
Patti turned to me. “You didn’t notice anyone else around the back of the motor home when you got there?”
“No, but it was dark already. I saw Don earlier today when I was making biscuits in the motor home. He told me he had the recipe Chef Art was looking for and asked me where he was.”
“He didn’t threaten you again, or act aggressive in any way?”
“No. I guess he thought he had what he needed. He didn’t need to threaten me.”
I could tell the way Detective Latoure turned to Chef Art that she disliked questioning him. Her brow was deeply furrowed, and there was a cautious tone to her voice.
“This recipe you wanted to buy—you say you didn’t know it was stolen. How did you come to hear about it?”
“An antique dealer told me about it,” Chef Art said. “He always keeps a lookout on that kind of thing for me. He knows I collect antique recipes. I had no idea we were dealing with the criminal element, Detective. Believe me, I would’ve immediately told the police if I’d been aware.”
Patti’s smile was hesitant as her pen hovered over her notebook. “I’m sorry to have to ask you this, Chef Arrington, but can you remember your whereabouts last Tuesday night?”
“I can indeed,” Chef Art said readily. “I was in the company of a beautiful young woman. You can certainly check with her.”
“And her name?”
“Miss Delia Vann.”
Patti glanced at me. “I was afraid of that.”
“I know Miss Vann has been kidnapped,” Chef Art said in what seemed like a last-minute attempt to clear himself. “I had nothing to do with it, and even offered my assistance to Miss Chase in trying to find her.”
“Chef Arrington, I’m going to have to ask you to accompany me inside and answer some questions.”
“What? That’s ridiculous!” Chef Art’s flair for the dramatic brought his voice to a feverish pitch. “I won’t stand for being treated this way, Detective. You know who I am.”
Patti’s expression was one of long suffering. “I know. Believe me, if there was any other choice, I’d take it.”
“You’re not arresting me, are you?”
“No, sir. We need to verify a few things, that’s all. I’m sure you’ll be free to go in no time.”
Chef Art seemed to accept his fate. He walked alongside Detective Latoure toward police headquarters.
“What’s going on?” Ollie asked as a huge wave of reporters followed Chef Art toward the building. “Are they arresting him?”
“Probably not. He already called his lawyer.” I looked back at where the crime scene people were doing their job. I realized that finding Don’s body had affected me more than I thought. “Let’s go home, Ollie. I think that’s all I can do today.”
I felt a little guilty leaving Chef Art that way. I reminded myself that he probably had a dozen lawyers on retainer. He didn’t need my help. If Detective Latoure had questions about me being with Chef Art all day, I could answer them when they came up.
We drove back to the diner, with Crème Brûlée making terrible sounds. He was hungry and tired. It had been a longer day than usual for him. I hoped he’d get used to staying at the diner while I was out in the food truck. He was better off at home with his food and litter box.
“That was one awful day, Zoe, except for the biscuit sales. You kicked butt on those!” Ollie said as I parked the food truck in the space by the diner. “There isn’t any food left. Everyone is gonna be disappointed about that.”
Another thing for me to feel guilty about. I had an answer for this one. As tired as I was, I didn’t think I could sleep yet. Cooking something would make me feel better. I decided to make some biscuits and sausage gravy for everyone.
Ollie and I got the food truck cleaned out, and I locked it up for the night. I’d taken Crème Brûlée inside first. By the time we were done, he was asleep on my bed, his little white paws sticking up in the air. I stopped for a moment, and rubbed his soft tummy. He didn’t even wake up enough to do more than hiss at me.
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I laughed and went into the kitchen. Ollie had gone to the homeless shelter to gather the group and tell them I was making food.
Is it over now?
I thought about the whole series of events that had led to Don’s death today. I knew it was more than possible that Chef Art would convince Detective Latoure that he had no idea that the Jefferson recipe was stolen. Maybe he was even telling the truth.
Detective Latoure obviously didn’t want to charge Chef Art with anything. That would probably be the end of that aspect.
Still, three people had died, and Delia was still missing. The recipe was out there, too. I wasn’t sure where it would go from there.
I had nothing to trade for Delia. If the killer had her, he probably also knew the recipe Don had was a fake. What else could I do to help my friend?
Miguel stopped by. He’d heard about what had happened to Don. “Did you get a look at the recipe?”
I told him it was a fraud. “I don’t know how we’ll find it.”
“I don’t, either.” He sipped the coffee I’d poured him. “And I don’t see any way to get Delia back safely without it.”
I thought about it while I took out one pan of biscuits and put in another. I stirred the sausage gravy. “What if we could make the killer think we have the recipe? He must be thinking the same thing we are—the recipe is there, but he doesn’t know where. If we assume he knows the recipe Don had wasn’t real, it could work.”
“Let’s say you could convince the killer that you have the recipe,” Miguel began. “First of all, your life would be in danger again. Second, how would we get word to him? We don’t know who or where he is.”
“That’s true,” I agreed unhappily.
“Maybe the police already have the killer in custody, anyway. Chef Art may be the one behind all of this. We may have been right in thinking he kidnapped Delia. Don’t let that happy Santa face and white hat fool you. Chef Art can play hardball. He knew the recipe was stolen, yet he still offered money for it.”
“I don’t think he killed anyone or kidnapped Delia, though. I think the person who took her put that invitation to his benefit dinner on her bed to mislead us.”
“You’re not seriously buying into his whole good-guy routine, right?”
I shrugged. “I told you, I have a feeling for people. Call it intuition, but it’s more than that. Chef Art isn’t exactly a good guy, but he’s not a killer, either. I don’t think he would’ve come out like that today to help me if he wasn’t basically a good person.”
“Except that you threatened him,” he reminded me.
“I think if Chef Art was the killer, or even kidnapped Delia, he would’ve done a better job kidnapping me. Believe me, his heart wasn’t in it.”
“So, what’s the plan?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m hoping something will come to me.” I smiled at him. “Feel free to make suggestions. You probably know more about this kind of thing than I do.”
He smiled back at me, and I was caught in his sweet brown eyes.
“What do your instincts tell you about me?” Miguel asked.
“That you’re one of the good guys. Maybe one of the exceptional guys.” I leaned in close to him across the counter. “What do you think about me?”
Before he could answer, Ollie, Marty, and the rest of the group walked into the diner with hearty greetings and appreciative sniffs of the biscuit and gravy smells that perfumed the air.
“Later,” Miguel whispered.
TWENTY-EIGHT
For a while, there was good conversation involving all different types of sports, fishing, and old times the men remembered with fondness. The biscuits and gravy disappeared like Alabama snow. There was nothing left to show for it after a few minutes.
Marty and Ollie took me aside and pledged their help finding Delia and the Jefferson recipe.
“There has to be some way to catch this killer before he does away with Delia,” Marty said. “Any ideas?”
“I don’t think he’s going to stop until he gets the money from Chef Art. That’s what started this whole chain of events,” I said.
“Yeah,” Ollie agreed. “But without the recipe to trade for Delia, what can we do?”
“That’s the part I’m stuck on,” I admitted. “Chef Art doesn’t have the recipe. I’m sure of that. He was too excited about getting it from Don. On the other hand, the killer must not have it, either, or there was no reason to kill Don. I think he was probably angry that Don’s recipe wasn’t real.”
“Or he just wanted to get rid of him.” Marty shrugged. “The man was a nuisance.”
Ollie shook his head. “I agree with Zoe. I don’t think anyone has been able to find the recipe. Those clues Terry left on the beads were useless.”
“You’re right. I think that’s what we need to do—find the recipe.” I warmed to my subject. “We have to look back at the clues, and find it to trade for Delia.”
“But you already searched both food trucks,” Marty said. “Where else are you gonna look for it?”
“I don’t know—yet. But we have to find it.” I thanked Ollie and Marty for their help. “I’m sure we can do this.”
“What are you three whispering about over here?” Miguel joined us.
“Finding Delia,” Ollie said. “I’ve heard of long-distance romances, but this is ridiculous.”
“I knew you liked her,” I teased him.
“What’s not to like? She’s hot.” Ollie waggled his eyebrows.
“But what does she see in you?” Marty wondered with one eye closed, examining his friend.
“I’m tall. I’m brown sugar through and through.” Ollie’s face puckered up, as though he was searching for another good trait.
“And you’re a good cook,” I added. “Don’t worry. We’ll find her.”
“Let me know if there’s anything legal I can do,” Miguel said.
We all agreed to do what we could. Three of the men—not including Marty or Ollie—were directed to wash and dry plates, cups, and silverware. They left the kitchen cleaner than they’d found it.
“I think it’s time for us to get back to the shelter,” Marty said. “Good night, Zoe. Thanks for supper.”
As the men left with Marty, there were hugs and thanks. They looked as rugged and down-and-out as could be, but all the men seemed to have hearts of gold. Sometimes I wondered about their pasts, and thought my instinct might be a bit swayed by the good things they’d done for me. I tried not to worry about it.
Ollie left soon after. “I’ll give you two some time alone. A word of warning, Miguel: whatever you do, don’t touch her hair.”
I could feel the blazing hot spots on my face as Ollie chuckled and left the diner. He was beginning to be like the older brother that I never wanted. How could he say something like that? I’d confided the secret to my curls to him in good faith.
Not that it mattered once the gel was dry. And I didn’t expect Miguel to run his fingers through my hair or anything tonight. It was just embarrassing.
“Would you like some pie?” I tried to distract Miguel from Ollie’s remark. “I still have a piece or two of Uncle Saul’s peach pie left.”
“No. I’m full. The biscuits were delicious.” Miguel smiled. “I guess I should go.”
“Okay.” What else could I say? I had been expecting to continue the conversation that had started before the others had arrived.
“There was one more thing I wanted to say.” He came up close to me and took the dish towel out of my hands. “About my intuition with you, Zoe.”
He put his hands on my arms and stared earnestly down into my eyes. I knew he was going to kiss me, despite what he’d said about not being ready. I tried not to look too expectant or do any puckering. I always hate when girls do that in the movies.
“Oh?” I opene
d my eyes wide and parted my lips a little. No lip licking, either. That was a dead giveaway.
“I think you’re a very good soul. Wonderful, in fact. I’ve never known anyone quite like you.”
That was it.
He smiled, wished me a good night, and left the diner.
I had to sit down on a stool at the counter for a minute to catch my breath, and let go of the expectations I was trying to hide.
Well, he thought I was wonderful. It was a start.
I locked the door to the diner and turned off the lights. I was too tired to think about making my sweet and savory fillings for tomorrow. That meant I had to get up even earlier and make them while I was baking biscuits. It would have to do.
I took a quick shower and hopped in bed with Crème Brûlée. He was snoring so loud that I had to wake him. He turned over and put his paws on my face for a moment before he licked my nose and fell back asleep.
Even though I was exhausted, my mind kept going over all the possibilities that could have been hidden in the green beads.
Chef A. That was obvious. Everyone knew Chef Art wanted the Jefferson recipe. Was Terry alluding to that fact? Or was that a warning to Don?
Green chili. We’d searched for a green chili canister, and a canister with green chili peppers. Neither one of them seemed to be what we were looking for.
There was always the possibility that someone had found what we’d missed. But if that was true, why not take it to Chef Art?
Food truck. That seemed obvious, too. I would’ve guessed Terry’s food truck rather than mine. He was only in the Biscuit Bowl a short time harassing me. He could’ve hidden something while he was there, but it seemed unlikely to me.
Either way, again we struck out.
Watch your back. Maybe Terry knew this other person was involved. He wanted Don to watch out.
None of it made any sense—except the part about someone getting to the recipe before us. Both food trucks were such a mess, how could we say for sure that the recipe wasn’t there?
Suddenly it struck me and I sat straight up in bed. Crème Brûlée hissed and turned over, ignoring me as he went back to sleep.
