Текст книги "Fry Another Day"

Автор книги: J. J. Cook

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

NINETEEN

We scrambled trying to get the generator up and running again. It seemed as though it had been affected by the storm, but Uncle Saul said it was just a power surge in the generator.

The thunderstorm raged around us, soaking us as we messed with the generator trying to get it started. When we finally had power again, Ollie and Delia came back, drenched, no sales, and all the biscuit bowls soggy with water.

“What now?” Ollie took off his T-shirt and wrung the water out of it.

“Wow.” Delia admired Ollie’s muscular physique when he’d taken off his shirt. “You work out?”

“Two hours most days.” He preened a bit for her to admire his arms and back.

“You’re in great shape.” She touched his chest.

“Thanks.” He examined her carefully from her feet to her hair. “You, too!”

“Thanks. I don’t work out but I’m careful what I eat.”

As she said that, I saw two members of the Chooey’s Sooey food truck team passing by with umbrellas. Apparently they didn’t believe the race organizers were going to shut down for the rain, either.

“I wish we had umbrellas.” I shook my head for not thinking ahead that the weather could go bad.

“I could take Miguel’s car and go get some,” Delia volunteered.

“That’s true. We could use GPS to find a store close by. It’s too early for much to be open downtown.”

“What about a drugstore?” Uncle Saul asked. “There’s always one of those open twenty-four hours, and they probably have umbrellas.”

“Good idea.” I gave Delia my credit card. “Hurry! We don’t have much time.”

She took the keys to the Mercedes and my credit card and left.

“She’s never gonna get back in time.” Ollie looked out the customer window.

I kept making strawberry filling. “What else can we do?”

Uncle Saul retained his equanimity. “They’re gonna have to give everyone an extra hour or something. You’ll see. No need to fret over it in any case. You can only do what you can do.”

Chef Art’s assistant popped in from the back of the food truck. “He sent me with these umbrellas.” She began speaking before she could catch her breath. In her hands were two large red and white umbrellas with Chef Art’s face and logo on them. “He says to tell you the challenge isn’t changing for the storm.”

“Thanks, Lacie.” I took off my apron. “We’re going out, Uncle Saul. You’ve got the kitchen. I’ll take Ollie and the change with me. Call Delia and have her come back. Good luck.”

He laughed. “Good luck to you, too!”

The umbrellas were the huge beach-type ones. They weighed a ton but covered a large area. I couldn’t balance one of them with the tray of biscuit bowls. It was a good thing Ollie was so much taller than me. He held the umbrella over both of us while I walked close to him.

“I was afraid of this.” Ollie inclined his head toward the nearly empty, rain-soaked city street. “No one wants to hang around and buy food during a thunderstorm.”

I knew he was right, especially when a lightning strike close by made me afraid we might become kebabs holding onto the metal umbrella.

As I was agreeing with him, I saw Patrick running up the sidewalk. His assistant was trying to hold an umbrella over his head. Lights came on, and the cameraman began taping another personal segment for the race.

“Zoe Chase, owner of the Biscuit Bowl from Mobile, Alabama, what is your next move during the thunderstorm? You only have”—he glanced at his watch—“ten minutes to meet the challenge of selling a hundred dollars in upside-down biscuit bowls for change.”

“Actually, we assumed the challenge would be postponed until the storm was over,” I said. “It makes more sense than all of us standing out here while the people we’re trying to sell to are running into buildings to get away.”

He laughed. “Then why are you out here?”

“Because I realized making sense wasn’t what the race is about. I don’t know if any of us are going to make the challenge, but we’re out here, Patrick. I guess we’ll see where it goes from there.”

The camera followed my gesture toward the street where a few people were hurrying to get out of the storm.

“Thanks, Zoe.” He put down the microphone and shivered as the lights and camera went off. “Let’s get in the RV,” he said to his cameraman. “It’s nasty out here.”

Patrick gave us a salute and ran off again.

“We might as well take off, too,” Ollie said.

A city bus pulled up to the curb. It was packed with commuters.

I saw Sarah and Daryl run up to the door where people were making their way off. They immediately started selling their cupcakes for twenty-five cents each. A few hands reached out to exchange their quarters for cupcakes.

Brilliant!

“Let’s do it,” I said to Ollie.

“We can’t sell enough biscuit bowls here to make the hundred-dollar challenge,” he remarked.

“We can’t, but we can stay good in the standings for trying. We’ll take the back door.”

I knew Ollie was right. I also knew we could sell more if the weather cleared, but why waste this opportunity in case it didn’t?

A few of the disembarking passengers were grumpy at being detained while Ollie made change for the biscuit bowls so they could pay with quarters, dimes, and nickels. A few pushed around our customers who wanted what we were selling. I was surprised when the bus was empty to find that we had sold all but one biscuit bowl.

“What are we doing about getting more?” Ollie asked. “I can go back and get them, but if I leave the umbrella with you, they’ll get soaked on the way. If I don’t, you’ll get soaked.”

“There’s no time left anyway.” Sarah and Daryl ran by us on their way back to their food truck. “Let’s go back together.”

I saw other teams heading in with umbrellas. We’d made about twenty dollars. I knew Sarah and Daryl had probably done about the same. There might not be a winner for that one.

“We have to focus on getting the second challenge,” I told my team when we reached the Biscuit Bowl. Delia was back, and in an apron, wearing Chef Art’s hat. She was helping Uncle Saul make chicken salad.

“I’ve got another tray ready to go and biscuits in the oven,” he said. “Are you going back out?”

“We have to try and find someone for the taste test if we want to go on.” I shook the water out of my shoes. “I don’t want to go home from here.”

Uncle Saul handed me the next tray of biscuit bowls, half of them chicken and half of them strawberry. “We’ll get the next tray ready. You all be careful out there. You’re walking around in a thunderstorm holding a lightning rod.”

“Better than a trayful of soggy biscuit bowls,” I told him with a smile.

Ollie and I went back out on the street. The rain had become lighter as the morning had moved on. The sky behind the big downtown buildings was a swirl of storm clouds that didn’t look as though it was about to move off. All we could do was keep going and pray for a miracle.

Ollie had found a way to put the rest of the change into a money bag that he’d stuffed into the pocket of his waterproof jacket.

“What now?” He looked around.

The streets were as devoid of foot traffic as they were before. People from the food trucks stood around us trying to decide how to get a customer to come back with them. The cameras were rolling, even though Patrick wasn’t out there. I thought we must all look a little pathetic standing around holding our food and not finding anyone to sell to.

The rain had lightened to a drizzle. There were plenty of cars in the street, filled with curious people staring at us. An Atlanta police officer was out there keeping an eye on things. There wasn’t much to see, but for the life of me, I couldn’t think what else we could do.

“Give me two biscuit bowls,” Ollie said. “One strawberry. One chicken. Let’s see if we can’t drum up some business.”

I watched as he ran out into the street at a crosswalk as the light changed to red. He went from car to car with his captive audience. I couldn’t tell if he was selling or not until he waved to me.

I ran out into the street with him. The police officer shouted, “That’s what the crosswalk is for,” but didn’t try to stop me.

“Give me a strawberry biscuit bowl for this lovely lady in yellow.” Ollie rolled his eyes at me, but he was smiling as he made change for the woman.

“Thank you. This is wonderful,” she said. “Now I don’t have to go out for lunch.”

The light turned green. Ollie and I were stuck in the middle of the intersection with cars going by on both sides.

“This could work,” I enthused. “You’re the best for thinking of it.”

“I’m not just good-looking, you know. I’m smart, too.” He took two biscuit bowls from the tray.

By the time the light had turned red again, all of the food truck vendors were in the street. Ollie was working car to car. I followed him with the rapidly disappearing tray of biscuit bowls. When the light turned green again, we were out of product.

“I’ll run back and get more.” I was excited that we’d found a way around the problem.

“I don’t think you need to.” He pointed toward the sidewalk where a woman in a green Honda was parked. She waved to him. “I think we have our product review for the taste test! I told everyone who bought a biscuit what we needed. She agreed.”

Ollie told the woman where to pull her car, and we walked her to the cool-down tent like she was precious cargo. I could see she was flustered and embarrassed, but she went through with it, giving us a glowing video review for our strawberry biscuit bowls.

“We met the extra challenge,” he said after walking the woman back to her car and giving her a chicken salad biscuit bowl to say thanks. “That’s pretty good, right?”

“I don’t know. I guess we’ll see. It shows initiative, right? I think a lot of teams are going to be washed out.” I hoped so anyway.

We took our money to the cool-down tent as Roy Chow and Reverend Jablonski were taking theirs in, too. Some of the sponsors were there, along with the producers and Patrick Ferris.

I didn’t know how this was going to come out, since we didn’t make enough money but had completed the review.

After a few minutes of conferring and checking things out, Patrick announced what they’d decided. “Because of the bad weather, no team sold enough to meet the challenge. We had two teams who made the taste-test challenge, the Biscuit Bowl and Our Daily Bread.”

There was appropriate applause, mostly from the producers’ assistants.

“We have a question for the Biscuit Bowl team and the Our Daily Bread team,” Patrick said. “You can take your thousand dollars now or use that win to improve your standing in the race. Your decision.”

It was a no-brainer for me. “We’ll use the money to improve our standing.”

“So will we,” Reverend Jablonski said.

“Then it looks like we have a tie for the winner of the second challenge,” Patrick said. “No team will take home the thousand dollars for the taste-test challenge.”

“So what do we do in case of a tie?” Jablonski asked.

The sponsors conferred with the producers. They gave their decision to one of their assistants, who delivered it to Patrick.

“Come on. Come on.” Ollie urged them to move faster. “Who wins?”

“The decision has been made to break the tie using the taste-test videos from each of you. We’re going to show the videos again, and whoever has the best compliments about their food wins.”

“Like what?” Ollie asked.

“Words.” Patrick fumbled trying to explain. “Good. Excellent. Delicious. That kind of thing.”

We watched our video again and then Our Daily Bread’s customer video. I couldn’t tell much difference. But Our Daily Bread was declared the winner of the tie.

Ollie and Chef Art protested the decision. It still put us in the number two slot, so I was happy. All we had to do was hang in there until Reverend Jablonski messed up and the race was ours.

Chef Art, immaculate as always in his white linen suit, winked and nodded at me. I knew he was pleased despite his protests. It had been a difficult challenge in the bad weather. We were still doing better than the other teams, which meant someone else was going to be sent home.

There were high fives between the two ministers representing Our Daily Bread. Everyone was excited and congratulating one another.

Now that the challenge was over, I was starting to worry about Miguel. I thought we would have heard something from him by then. I had hoped he’d be back already.

It made me feel guilty. I’d been so worried about winning the race, I’d forgotten all about him until that minute. I wanted to help him, but I wasn’t a lawyer. I hoped he’d called someone who knew what to do. All I could think to do was to go to the police station and demand his release.

Ollie growled as we left the tent. “We weren’t prepared enough.”

“I suppose not, but neither was anyone else. We did okay. Let’s get cleaned up. I want to know what’s happening with Miguel.”

We walked back to the Biscuit Bowl and told Uncle Saul and Delia the news. We started packing up, even though we had to wait for the official word about who had won, and what they had won.

I went to the front of the truck and checked on Crème Brûlée. He didn’t like storms. His howling during the bad weather was usually even worse than the thunder and lightning.

He seemed okay. Maybe I needed to run out to the food truck with him next time there was a storm at home. I stroked his soft white tummy, and he purred for me before he started slapping with his paws.

“You are so crazy.” I kissed his little nose. “But I love you. I know I’m neglecting you a little, but I’ll make it up to you later.”

“Excuse me,” a woman’s voice said from behind.

I turned and faced Tina Gerard—for my money the one responsible for Miguel being questioned by the police. I would’ve blown her off. I felt like it was what she deserved.

Before I could, she said, “I know you’re Zoe Chase. I’m worried about Miguel. Have you heard anything?”

TWENTY

There was a tense sadness about her that I hadn’t noticed when I had seen her far away. She was beautiful and fragile, reminding me of a glass statue. Her clothes were expensive and well made. I felt sorry for her, too, knowing her husband had been trying to take everything away from her in their divorce settlement.

At least I hoped that’s what had been going on. She may have been lying about the whole thing to implicate Miguel in Alex’s death. I had to keep that in mind as I agreed to talk with her.

With everyone else packing up in back, and Crème Brûlée snoring in the front seat, I took a towel and dried off a pretty ornamental bench that was close to where the Biscuit Bowl was parked. We sat there as the heavy storm clouds moved slowly above us, promising more rain.

“I haven’t heard anything from Miguel since he left with the police early this morning.” I watched her face and eyes for any sign of what she was thinking.

She broke down sobbing. I went to the truck and got her a couple of napkins.

“I never meant for anything like this to happen when I asked him for help.” She thanked me and wiped away her tears.

“What did you expect?”

“I thought he could help me keep my daughter. I didn’t care anything about the money or the property. I haven’t worked in years, but I’m a lawyer. I can make my own way. Alex was vindictive and wanted to destroy me. Miguel has always been a good friend. I realize now that everything I’ve done has made me look guilty of Alex’s murder, and now Miguel is being blamed for it, too.”

“So you didn’t realize that putting twenty-five thousand dollars into Miguel’s bank account could make him look guilty of killing your husband?”

“No, of course not. I never dreamed someone else hated Alex enough to kill him.”

Someone else? I caught her meaning. She hated him enough to kill him.

“Did you kill him, or get someone else to do it, knowing Miguel would take the fall for it?”

Her face never changed. “I’d never do something like that to Miguel.”

“Have you told that to the police?”

Her eyes shifted away from me. “I’ve talked to the police. They’ve asked me a ton of questions about Alex’s death.”

“But did you tell them that you put the money in Miguel’s account for him to represent you?” I had to pin her down on this.

“They never asked me.”

I stood up, anger propelling my legs like springs. “We have to go and tell them.”

“All right. I can do that.” She sniffled, getting slowly and gracefully to her feet.

The producers and sponsors of the race sounded the buzzer. I knew I had to go to the stage for the last phase of the Atlanta challenge. That wouldn’t take more than a few minutes.

“I have to take care of something, but I’ll be right back. You can wait here or wait in the Biscuit Bowl. Then we can go to the police and get Miguel out of this mess.”

“I’ll wait. I don’t want to hurt Miguel.”

She looked sincere. She sounded sincere. All I could do was trust her.

Unless I found out better.

Ollie, Uncle Saul, Delia, and I walked over to the stage area. Chef Art met us there with a smug smile and a twinkle in his eyes.

“Are we going to Birmingham?” I asked.

“I think you’ll be pleased with the outcome.”

“Good morning, again, foodies!” Patrick yelled out.

There was a loud screech in his microphone. We winced and covered our ears.

He frowned at the technicians, who quickly made adjustments.

“Let’s try this again. Good morning, foodies! The challenge is over, and we have a new board. Can we see that now?”

The same two women smiled and brought out the electronic board. After it was in place, it lit up briefly—then shut down again.

Knowing Tina was waiting, and that we could help Miguel, made me impatient. But I knew I had to be there to continue the race. Two more minutes. Two more minutes.

“Okay,” Patrick said. “After these glitches, everything should be a snap.”

They turned on the board again, and this time it stayed on.

“We have our winner—Our Daily Bread. Let’s hear it for them.” Patrick applauded, and everyone in the street in front of the stage applauded, too.

“No one won the first challenge because of the rain, but there were teams who worked hard despite the weather. A tie between our top two teams was settled, and we’re ready to move on to the next stop in our race: Birmingham, Alabama.”

Everyone applauded enthusiastically.

“Let’s take a look at the new standings on the board, and who will be going on to the next leg of the race.”

The numbers came up on the board. They were the same numbers as when we first got here. The group was silent as we waited for the decision of the producers as to who would go on.

The board went off again for a moment and then came up with the names.

Patrick read them off. “At the top is Our Daily Bread. Consistent high points. You guys rock.”

“I wish he’d get on with it,” Delia said.

“Me, too.” I took a quick peek back at the Biscuit Bowl. The large biscuit on top was spinning, but I couldn’t tell if Tina had waited for me or not.

“In second place, the Biscuit Bowl.” Patrick located our little group with his gaze and pointed to us. “This team must try harder because they’re always in second place.”

Everyone applauded.

Ollie was offended by the statement. “What does that mean?”

“Shh,” Delia said.

“The third team moving forward is Shut Up and Eat. In this weather, their sandwiches have become looser than ever.”

“Is he supposed to be a comedian, too?” Uncle Saul demanded.

“If he is, I don’t think he’s very funny,” Bobbie Shields said.

“And in fourth place, we have Grinch’s Ganache.” Patrick finished out the lineup. “Pizza Papa and Chooey’s Sooey will not be joining us for the next leg of the race.”

The cameras panned on the two losing teams. They moved into the cool-down tent for their final interviews.

“You all made it!” Chef Art cheered. “You’re going to Birmingham.”

As soon as I got the word and the cameras were off the group in the street, I ran back toward the Biscuit Bowl.

“Where are you going?” Uncle Saul yelled.

“I’m going to help Miguel. Take the food truck to Birmingham.”

“Zoe, there’s not enough room in there for the three of us,” Ollie reminded me.

“I’ll go with her.” Delia ran after me.

“What’s going on?” Chef Art was losing his happy expression. “What are you doing, Zoe Chase?”

“I’ll meet you in Birmingham,” I promised. “There’s something I have to do.”

I looked at the bench. Tina wasn’t there. She also hadn’t waited in the food truck. She was gone, and her testimony about her relationship with Miguel was gone with her.

It didn’t matter. I was going to talk to Helms and Marsh anyway. Maybe Tina was too scared to tell her side of the story. I wasn’t.

As soon as Delia and I were in Miguel’s Mercedes, I started the car and we hit the street. I explained to her about Tina.

“What are we going to do without her?” she asked.

“I’m not sure yet. Someone has to hear what she told me. I guess that’s what I’m going to do.”

We managed to find the downtown police station with only a few wrong turns. My clothes were still damp and uncomfortable from the rain. I didn’t even want to think what my curly hair was going to look like that afternoon when I took the scarf off. There wasn’t time to worry about it. I didn’t plan to leave Miguel in Atlanta.

The police officer at the front desk was less than welcoming. “Have a seat over there. I’ll call your name if someone can help you.”

There were several people already waiting, but Delia and I managed to find two hard wooden chairs to sit in. Most of the others around us waiting were soaking wet, too. Someone smelled strongly of whiskey. One man had a large cut on his forehead, which he was holding a napkin to while blood oozed out on his hand.

“I hope they hurry,” I said.

Delia told me to relax. “It could be a while. Just take a deep breath and think of something else. What are you planning to make for your biscuit bowls tomorrow?”

She was right. That took my mind off being in a police station. We talked about the race and everything that had happened. I fired off a few texts to Uncle Saul, asking what he thought about food for tomorrow.

It was about thirty minutes later when the man at the desk finally called my name.

“They’ll see you now.” He pointed. “Go through that door and to your right.”

I thanked him. He grunted and shook his head. Delia and I hurried through the door.

The long hallway was a depressing shade of yellow green that seemed to go on forever. I was glad when we took the first right and came to another man behind a desk who showed us into a room where Marsh and Helms were drinking coffee.

“What are you two doing here?” Helms asked.

“We have new information about Alex Pardini’s death that you should hear,” I told her. “Where’s Miguel?”

“He’s cooling his heels in one of the interrogation rooms. What kind of new information do you have?”

Marsh did air quotes. I hate those.

“I’d like to see Miguel.” I made my voice sound like my mother’s when she was in court.

“We’d like cinnamon rolls for breakfast.” Helms mocked me. “We don’t always get what we want, Zoe. New information first.”

I sat down at the table with them and poured out everything that Tina had told me. Helms and Marsh didn’t look impressed.

“If she has something to contribute, why isn’t Tina Gerard with you?” Helms asked.

“She got scared. The police have already interviewed her dozens of times.”

Marsh was skeptical. “Why isn’t this information in any of the reports?”

“I don’t know,” I retorted. “But it raises enough questions about Miguel’s involvement in Alex Pardini’s death to warrant his release. Besides, he has alibis for the times you think he killed people. He was with a member of my food truck team since we left home. We would all gladly vouch for him.”

I felt like I was channeling my mother. How else could I have sounded so much like a lawyer? It might be because I was spending so much time with one.

The detectives smirked and glanced at each other.

“Are you representing Mr. Alexander now?” Helms asked. “I didn’t know you were a lawyer and a food truck operator.”

I sat back from the table and put my hands in my lap. “You’re right. I’m not a lawyer. But I’d really hate for the two of you to be looking so hard at Miguel that you miss the real killer. How embarrassing would that be, especially since the race will be broadcast nationwide.”

I could see that made them think a bit. They excused themselves and went to talk in the corner by the drink machine. Delia, who’d stood behind me like a bodyguard, squeezed my shoulder and smiled down at me.

After a few minutes of discussion, interspersed with pointing, grunting, and arms flailing in the air, the two detectives from Charlotte came back to the table.

“Okay. We’re going to look for Tina Gerard to corroborate what you’ve told us, Zoe. We’re going to release Miguel, for now. If you’d like to wait up front again, he’ll join you there.”

I thanked them, feeling stupidly satisfied. We hadn’t really won the war, just a small battle.

Delia and I walked out of the room and back down the hallway.

“They didn’t have jack on him or they wouldn’t have let him go so easy,” she said.

“I think you’re right. At least we can get him out of here and go to Birmingham.”

“Yeah. We have to think of something to blow those Our Daily Bread people out of the race. We’re never gonna win following behind them all the time.”

I agreed with her. “We’ll have to work on it. We still have Birmingham.”

“Maybe I should go shopping again. Maybe my clothes aren’t right.”

I didn’t think it was her clothes, but I didn’t say so. It was wonderful how engaged she was in helping out. I had the best team in the world.

Miguel finally walked through the door from the long hall. Delia and I jumped up and hugged him. He looked tired. His black shirt and jeans were rumpled. I hadn’t noticed that morning that he had dark stubble on his face. And his hair was almost as messy as mine.

I liked the look.

“I was wondering what happened,” he said. “They could’ve kept me a lot longer.”

“Not with us coming to the rescue,” I added with a smile.

“Let’s get out of here.” Delia’s eyes narrowed as she looked at two uniformed officers near the front door. “We don’t want them to change their minds.”

“I agree.” Miguel put an arm around each of us. “Let’s get out of here while we still can.”