Текст книги "Fry Another Day"

Автор книги: J. J. Cook

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

SEVEN

Miguel and I were less than thirty minutes outside of Charlotte. We turned around and drove back to police headquarters.

The man on the phone had been vague. It wasn’t Detective McSwain, and yet the caller had said it was about him.

“I gave Detective McSwain my business card after I talked to him about Alex Pardini and Reggie,” I explained to Miguel. “He said he might need me to testify about hearing the argument and the phone conversation. This seems too soon for that.”

Miguel didn’t like it. “They need to work on the investigation. They shouldn’t call you for more information every few minutes.”

I knew he was trying to protect me, and I felt good about that.

I couldn’t afford to pay him. I could hardly ask him to act as my legal counsel if I needed one.

My father had paid my legal fees with him last year when I’d been investigated for murder. I wasn’t involved in the same way this time—although Reggie had been part of what had happened last year, too.

I didn’t have much money of my own—everything I had was sunk into the business. I could offer him food. That was about it.

We parked the car and went inside the police station. I asked for Detective McSwain. The officer at the desk looked at me a little strangely and then asked us to wait. He said someone would come and talk to us right away.

A few minutes later, Detective Macey Helms came out and shook our hands. She was an attractive, heavyset black woman with braided hair. Her deep purple suit was very nice. I complimented her on it.

“Thanks.” Her voice said she wasn’t impressed. “If you two will come this way.”

We went with her to a small conference room. The metal bar on the table reminded me that criminals were interrogated here. It made me uncomfortable, which was probably a good thing. I have a way of running off at the mouth sometimes. I was sure this wasn’t an appropriate moment for that. I clamped my lips closed as I sat down.

Just let Miguel do the talking. Don’t say anything you’ll regret.

Another detective, who introduced himself as Stanley Marsh, stood at the side of the room while Detective Helms sat down with us. He looked like he was in his thirties, maybe, with dirty blond hair and blue eyes. His clothes were worn and dirty. Maybe he was an undercover cop.

I could tell Miguel was a little agitated. His face was alert as he spoke to the two detectives. “What’s going on? Miss Chase understood that she was here to speak to Detective McSwain.”

Detective Helms put a card on the table. “Recognize that, Miss Chase?”

That was easy enough. “Yes. It’s my business card. Was there something wrong with giving it to Detective McSwain?”

The two detectives glanced at each other.

“We found your card on Detective McSwain’s body a short while ago,” Detective Helms said in an accusatory tone.

I sat forward in my chair. “Body? He was perfectly alive and well when I saw him last. You can ask all the police officers who were out there with the food truck race. I barely even talked with him alone.”

“A short while ago, Detective McSwain was found dead. He appears to have been the victim of a hit-and-run.”

“That happened very quickly,” Miguel added. “We were only thirty minutes out of Charlotte.”

“So the two of you were together?” Detective Marsh asked.

“Yes. We’ve been together since I left Detective McSwain.” I peeked at Miguel. He didn’t seem to have a problem with me saying that.

“What did you and Detective McSwain talk about?” Marsh was standing against the wall with his arms folded across his chest.

“He asked me a few questions about Reggie Johnson the first time. Later, I told him that I’d heard Alex Pardini from the race talking about killing Reggie.”

Helms nodded to Marsh. “The dead man from the food truck.”

Marsh moved toward the table. “And what did you tell him?”

“I told him that I barely knew Reggie. We were both from Mobile and had food trucks. That was about all we had in common. I was walking past an RV when I heard Alex talking to someone about Reggie’s death like it wasn’t an accident and there could be more to come. Alex was talking about covering it up.”

“And you and Mr. Johnson were both competitors in the food truck race, no?” Helms suggested.

“Not really.” I smiled at both of them, not wanting to sound superior, but let’s face it—the Dog House wasn’t a real competitor with the Biscuit Bowl. “I make most of my food from scratch. Reggie put hot dogs on buns and dressed them up.”

Marsh slammed his hand on the table. “Did you kill Reggie Johnson, or were you in any way responsible for his death?”

Miguel sat forward. “What’s this about? I was with Miss Chase when she was speaking to Detective McSwain. He never said anything about her being responsible for Mr. Johnson’s death. In point of fact, Miss Chase was constantly with others, who will be glad to vouch for her entire morning.”

Detective Helms made a dismissive motion at Detective Marsh. The man immediately backed off to stand against the wall again.

“Here’s what we’ve got,” Helms said. “We have a food truck driver who was found dead after a strap was cut that held his refrigerator in place. That happened before the race. We had reason to think it might be suspicious even without what Miss Chase just told us. We have a fine detective who was found dead as he was investigating that death. We know Detective McSwain wasn’t accidentally struck by a vehicle. And we have your business card in his coat pocket, Miss Chase. How do you think all those things go together?”

I started to speak. Miguel put his hand on mine.

“Miss Chase isn’t a police officer. She doesn’t have any idea how those things go together.”

“Okay.” Detective Marsh tried a new approach. “Why was your business card the only one Detective McSwain took from all the food truck drivers that were here in Charlotte?”

I started to speak again. Again Miguel said I shouldn’t answer.

“You did your part,” he argued. “Let them do their jobs.”

– – – – – – –

An hour later, Miguel and I were walking out of the police station. The police had asked a lot of the same questions over and over. I only had the same answers. Eventually I guess they got tired of my answers, but there was nothing they could charge me with so they let me go.

“So you think it’s okay to go to Columbia now?” I asked him.

“Yes. I think you were very clear on what you had to say.” He squeezed my hand. “Good job, Zoe.”

“Thanks. I hope they didn’t think I had anything to do with it. Reggie was obnoxious, but I wouldn’t have killed him—although Ollie said he would have.”

“I’m glad you didn’t say that.” Miguel smiled as he opened the car door for me. “The police didn’t suspect you of anything. They were just trying to get an idea on what occurred here. You happened to be part of that.”

I had ten calls from Uncle Saul on my phone. He kept asking where we were and how close we were to Columbia. I suppose we would’ve already been there without the police detour.

After I talked to him, I turned to Miguel. He was intently staring at the interstate highway again.

“Do you think Detective McSwain was killed because he was investigating what I told him?”

“I think we should leave it alone, Zoe. We don’t want to be involved in this any further.”

“I kind of feel responsible, if that’s what happened.”

“The police will take care of it. It might not be safe for you to walk around asking questions, in case Alex is involved with what happened. You don’t want to end up like Reggie.”

I looked out of the side window, watching the landscape change from big city to rolling hills and small communities. Charlotte was a nice place, although my memory of it might be colored by the two deaths that had just occurred there.

I had a lot of questions that Miguel didn’t want me to ask. I was a little afraid to ask them, too.

Not only because someone might kill me, but with Alex involved, I could be kicked out of the race.

I was happy to see the signs for Columbia. I hadn’t exactly been up for initiating another conversation like the one we’d had before as we were leaving Charlotte. I was worried about Reggie and Alex, and Detective McSwain. The food truck race had suddenly become even more stressful.

Columbia was a clean city, smaller than Charlotte. It was also warmer and more humid. I had the GPS coordinates in my phone for the hotel we were staying at. Miguel’s Mercedes was a little too old to have GPS built in, even though it was in immaculate condition.

“Pull off on this exit,” I told him. “It looks like the hotel is close to downtown this time.” In Charlotte, the hotel had been outside the city.

“What are you doing about Crème Brûlée tonight?” he asked.

He was asking because I’d had to sneak my cat into the hotel last night. The hotel wasn’t pet friendly. I’d already looked up the hotel in Columbia. It wasn’t pet friendly, either.

I had to leave the air-conditioning on in the food truck all night anyway, but I didn’t want Crème Brûlée to get scared and start howling.

“I’m sneaking him in with me again, I guess,” I said.

He shrugged. “Where’s the next turn?”

I glanced at my phone. “One mile on the right. We should see the signs for the hotel from the road.”

Maybe he was making conversation by asking about Crème Brûlée. Maybe he was looking for a way to break the silence between us without bringing up the police problem in Charlotte. Either way, I was happy to oblige.

I told him about the biscuit bowl fillings we were working on for tomorrow, and the plans I had to remodel my restaurant at home, if I won the prize money.

“You really love making food, don’t you?” A smile tugged at his lips.

“I do. Food makes people happy. They go out and have a good meal and leave their problems behind them for a while. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“No.” He reached over and squeezed my hand. “There isn’t.”

We found the multistory hotel easily. Uncle Saul and Ollie were waiting in the bar on the ground floor. Miguel and I checked in at the front desk and then joined them.

I was reluctant to bring up what had kept me in Charlotte, but I knew they were going to find out anyway. I explained the whole thing when we sat down.

Miguel sipped his Corona and didn’t say a word.

Ollie was full of questions. “So they think Reggie was murdered and this cop was killed because you asked him to look into the conversation you heard between Alex and some mystery guy who might have killed him?”

“When are you gonna learn to keep your pretty mouth shut, Zoe?” Uncle Saul shook his head. “You didn’t get that from your daddy’s side of the family, I can tell you that. The Chases know how to keep secrets.”

Miguel saluted him with his bottle.

I was conscious of the fact that there were dozens of people from the food truck race in the bar and felt exposed by the conversation. “I don’t want to be the next victim, do you?”

“What about Alex?” Ollie said loud enough to turn heads.

“Shh!” I reminded him. “We don’t know what’s going on with that yet. Let’s not rock the boat until we’re ready to swim.”

“Right.” Ollie scrutinized the other patrons of the bar. “The killer could be right in here with us.”

“Maybe.” I glanced around. “But why would anyone want to kill Reggie? He wasn’t a great threat as a competitor. He was by himself, unlikely to win the race. It doesn’t make sense. Why not kill someone from Grinch’s Ganache or Our Daily Bread?”

Uncle Saul made a disbelieving face. “You think those two are the front-runners, Zoe?”

“I think so. What can’t you do with bread? Who doesn’t love cupcakes? It won’t matter what the challenge is; bread or cupcakes will win every time. Besides, the bread truck people are ministers. Everyone loves ministers.”

“What about Stick It Here?” Ollie said. “Everyone loves pot stickers.”

“Not so much, maybe,” Uncle Saul observed. “And they weren’t very creative with the last challenge.”

Miguel called for another Corona. Ollie and Uncle Saul both had their drinks refreshed.

I decided I only needed one margarita. I got the keys from my uncle to go out and check on Crème Brûlée. I’d have to decide if it was late enough to try and sneak him inside.

There was an underground lot where all the food trucks were parked. It was easy to tell that the hotel had been chosen because there was plenty of room in the parking area. The trucks had to be plugged in and air-conditioned to keep the food fresh.

The Biscuit Bowl’s twirling ceramic biscuit wouldn’t have fit inside anything less than twenty feet high. There were colorful additions on some of the other food trucks, too, like the giant loaf of bread on Our Daily Bread and the sticks coming out of Stick It Here. Grinch’s Ganache had a big cowboy hat on top.

My twirling biscuit was the tallest, and that made it easy to find in the pack. I was very proud of the design. Uncle Saul and Ollie had come up with the idea when the truck was being renovated. I added on to it later.

It struck me as soon as I opened the door that the inside of my food truck was too hot and completely dark. There were usually little colored lights on the appliances and a clock on the microwave. Nothing was on.

I found Crème Brûlée. He was a little warm with his heavy coat, but he seemed fine. I checked the circuit breakers in the truck. Everything seemed okay, but the power wasn’t working.

Holding my cat because I was afraid he might make a slow jog for the door, I checked the outside plug. That was the problem.

Someone had deliberately not only cut my power cord but chopped it into pieces.

EIGHT

I got on the phone right away with Uncle Saul. He, Ollie, and Miguel ran down to the garage after snagging the hotel security man.

I kept Crème Brûlée hidden while the security man looked at everything. If the hotel found out I was sneaking my cat inside, they might kick us all out.

“Yep.” Sid, the security man and part-time parking attendant, verified the results. “Somebody cut up your cord all right.”

By this time, other food truck vendors were parking their trucks. Other vendors who were already checked in heard what was going on. They raced down to make sure their trucks weren’t damaged. The space was suddenly filled with food truck teams.

Everyone checked their trucks. The new arrivals were safe. The damage had been done before they’d arrived. Someone called the police, and the entire garage erupted in chaos.

I took advantage of what was going on and sneaked Crème Brûlée up to the hotel room in a large tote bag. I wasn’t able to bring his food and litter box. That worried me some. I decided to put him in the glass shower stall with some water.

“You’re going to be fine,” I told him as he meowed at me. “At least you’ll be cool. Don’t make too much noise or we’ll both be sleeping in Miguel’s car tonight. And you know how he’ll feel about that.”

Actually, Miguel had never really had a problem with my cat riding in his car. But Crème Brûlée didn’t know that. Maybe it would encourage him not to start howling.

I went back to the garage. It was really a mess by then. There were a dozen police officers walking around, searching everything, and taking pictures. The garage was cordoned off with crime scene tape.

The food truck vendors were upset. Alex was there with the sponsors and producers. The garage wasn’t meant to hold that much angst.

“What am I supposed to do about my fish?” Fred Bunn asked whoever would listen. He was the owner of Fred’s Fish Tacos. He was a short man, barely five feet, with crazy, curly red hair and millions of freckles.

I liked him just for his curly hair. It made me go to him and sympathize. Curly hair attracts curly hair.

“I know. I’ve lost a few things, too. Will we be compensated for our loss?” There wasn’t enough milk, butter, or eggs left over in the mini fridge for the next challenge, and what had been left from Charlotte was spoiled.

We were lucky we hadn’t shopped yet as Miguel had wanted to. I’d preferred to head straight to Columbia and shop there after being detained so long in Charlotte.

Fred looked at me like I was crazy and turned away to complain to someone else. It seemed as though my sympathy wasn’t what he was looking for.

I found Miguel, Ollie, and Uncle Saul at the Biscuit Bowl. “Have you heard anything yet?”

“They’re saying it was vandalism because the hotel announced that vendors from the race were staying here tonight to get publicity.” Miguel shrugged. “I don’t know what they were expecting.”

“I’m not buying that explanation,” Ollie said. “Maybe if Reggie weren’t dead, I might see it their way. Now I’m thinking someone is trying to sabotage the race.”

“For what purpose?” Uncle Saul asked him. “They don’t like food trucks? You’re being paranoid, Ollie.”

“It seems more likely that one of the vendors did this to cut out the competition,” Miguel suggested. “Anyway, the police said to stay with our food trucks and they would take our statements.”

“You don’t have to stay,” I told them. “You can go upstairs and get some rest for tomorrow.”

“If there is a tomorrow,” Ollie grumbled.

“I’m not leaving you alone down here,” Uncle Saul said. “I don’t like the looks of this, Zoe. Who knows what will happen next?”

Uncle Saul tended to be a little paranoid, too.

Alex came around to our side of the Biscuit Bowl with a big grin on his attractive face. “Don’t you worry about a thing, Biscuit Bowl team. We’ll pick up the tab for your damages and get these cords fixed before tomorrow.”

“Thanks.” I tried not to show my dubious feelings toward him. He might not be guilty of anything.

“There’s only one thing,” Alex finally said. “I can get these cords repaired tonight—won’t cost you a cent. I can’t do the same with reimbursing you for your loss on supplies. If you’ll send me an itemized list of what you lost, and how much you paid for it, I can get a check cut for you by the end of the week. Best I can do.”

Bobbie Shields, wearing another colorful Hawaiian dress, came around to complain to him. “You know, I looked at my losses. I already shopped. I can’t replace what I need to start again tomorrow without a check from you tonight. I’m not made of money.”

Alex looked uncomfortable. “I wish I could do something more, but this is it. You might be able to get a payday loan or some such in the city.”

Dante Eldridge, the owner of Stick It Here, also joined us. He was a large black man who was covered in tattoos. He wore a red handkerchief around his closely cropped hair. His tight red tank top showed the power and size of his chest and arms.

“Don’t give me that poor story, Pardini. Get some money from those rich sponsors over there. Give them a check at the end of the week. The rest of us can barely afford to be here. We can’t afford to lose all our food.”

Alex was definitely on the defensive. “Good idea! Why don’t you ask each of your sponsors for money? They could get you a check. No problem.”

Dante stepped closer to him, dwarfing Alex. “I am my sponsor, fool. Get me some money to replace what was lost, or your luxury ride might be too damaged to drive tomorrow.”

Several other vendors had stepped closer to hear the conversation. They agreed loudly and adamantly with Dante and Bobbie.

It was almost amusing watching Alex gauge the mood and then do a quick cut and run to his RV. I could imagine that he locked himself in, too.

“Now what are we supposed to do?” Dante was furious. “There’s not gonna be much of a race if there’s no money.”

Reverend Jablonski came toward the group with his arms outstretched. It seemed to be a popular pose.

“Ladies and gentlemen. I, and my fellow team members, would like to help you in your hour of need. We have sufficient funds to give each of you a stake, so to speak, to begin your sales tomorrow. We incurred no losses—flour and water don’t go bad. We would enjoy helping you.”

I was surprised and pleased by the offer from the members of Our Daily Bread food truck. It was truly inspiring.

I felt sure we’d be fine in the Biscuit Bowl. Our losses weren’t that severe. Repairing the electric cord was good for us. We could settle up with Alex later.

Bobbie, Fred, and Dante all took loans from Reverend Jablonski. It made the vandalism a lot easier to bear. Maybe Alex would even be able to come out of his RV.

“I’m going back upstairs for another drink while we’re waiting for the miracle-working electrician who’s going to get all these rigs repaired tonight.” Uncle Saul slapped Ollie on the back. “Are you coming?”

“Sure. Anybody hear from Delia yet?”

“We probably won’t hear from her until she gets here,” I said. “She’s a big girl. She can find her way here.”

I asked Miguel if I could get the roller skates from his Mercedes. “I might as well see if I can still do this. I’d like to know tonight if I have to withdraw from the challenge.”

“Are you going to practice down here?” He glanced around at the crowded garage.

“No. I think I’ll hit the pavement upstairs once I’ve given my statement.”

Miguel got the skates and waited around with me for one of the police officers.

We talked about all kinds of things—I stayed away from any discussion about Reggie’s death or what had happened to Detective McSwain.

Instead we talked about carnival and taking boats out on Mobile Bay. We both enjoyed eating French pastry and good coffee. He even told me a few things about his legal practice, which was set up in one of the worst parts of town.

“I guess you have to go where the customers are, like I do.” I said. “Ollie told me the two of you met when you got him out of jail. I know I’ll never forget how kind you were when the police thought I’d murdered the taco truck driver.”

“You’re a different case. For one thing, you paid for services. I have a problem collecting from a lot of my clients. I’m thinking about living in my office the way you live in your diner.”

I smiled but pointed out the major difference between us. “You could go back into practice where people pay you. You don’t have to build up a reputation for what you do. Everyone knows you.”

“That may be true.” He watched some of the vendors pulling spoiled meat from their freezers. “But most of my reputation isn’t very good. I don’t know if I could ever do legitimate legal work again after the fiasco of the election. I don’t know if anyone would trust me. And there are so many people who can’t afford legal advice. I think I’m where I need to be—as long as my expenses stay low and I don’t have a life.”

“Well you can always come and eat at my place for free. Consider it a night out.”

“And I can give you free legal advice.” He smiled at me.

I hadn’t asked, and I was dying to know. Now was as good a time as any. “Why did you agree to come with me on the race? I know you have better things to do. Not that I’m complaining. I’m just curious.”

“I thought we could spend some time together away from our normal routines. I didn’t know it would be so crazy, but it’s good to talk, right?”

“It’s very good to talk,” I agreed.

Whee!

One of the many police officers in the garage finally came to take my statement. Under Miguel’s watchful eye, I left out the part about what had happened in Charlotte. I probably would’ve added it on otherwise. I like to tell the whole story.

After the officer had nodded and given me his card, Miguel helped me hide Crème Brûlée’s collapsible litter box and his food. We sneaked those things up to my room, along with the skates. My cat was genuinely glad to see these little pieces of home when I’d set them up.

“Have you sent me the supply list yet?” Miguel asked when I’d closed the bathroom door to give Crème Brûlée some privacy.

I took out my phone and pushed send. “That should be it. Thank you again for doing this. And for waiting with me downstairs. And for helping me with the police.”

“You’re very welcome.”

We stood there awkwardly. My cell phone rang and so did his. We exchanged quick good-byes and he was gone.

I sighed and answered my phone. It was my mother in Mobile. She’d heard about the problems we were having with the race and wanted to check on me.

Wanting to check on me was the story of our relationship. My mother was a high-powered corporate attorney who was running for a judgeship even as we spoke. Her goals in life included driving me crazy and pushing me to be more like her.

Instead, I was more like my dad who wasn’t a slacker but had never had the urgent need for greatness that my mother enjoyed. I looked like him, too—like Uncle Saul. The three of us shared black curly hair, even though my dad cropped his down to nothing so it wouldn’t curl. I guessed it was his way of controlling what he could of his life, especially while he’d been married to my mother.

“So what’s going on? The food truck murder is all over the news. Maybe you should come home before it gets any worse,” my mother suggested.

I could imagine her sitting in her perfectly organized office with her well-toned body and sculpted blond hair. We shared blue eyes, and that was about it. I loved my mother, Anabelle Chase. I just wasn’t like her.

“It’s okay, Mom. It didn’t happen anywhere near me. I’m pretty sure the police were wrong about it, too. I think it was just an accident. They’re making a big deal out of it to get more publicity. You don’t have to worry.”

“Too late. I’m worried. I should send someone down there to take care of you.”

“Uncle Saul is here.”

“Exactly. That’s why you should come home now. Don’t make me come up there and get you.”

My mother had never appreciated Uncle Saul’s free spirit lifestyle. I was sure that was why their relationship was quickly over when they were very young, and she’d made her play for the other Chase brother.

Uncle Saul could’ve run the Bank of Mobile with my father. It had been in their family for more than a century. It was his birthright. Instead, he’d opened a successful restaurant and then left to live in the swamp.

She didn’t understand that he needed to be different. It had only gotten worse when she’d divorced my dad.

“I’ll be home in a few days. Everything will be fine.”

“Zoe, I get your strange need to express yourself with food. But I don’t want you to die doing it.”

“Mom—”

“I’ll send you a plane ticket in your email. Talk to you later. Love you.”

I looked at the phone. My mother’s pretty face still lingered there, even though she’d hung up on me. Crème Brûlée was scratching at the bathroom door for me to let him out.

I took a deep breath and went to grab my bag. I’d brought duct tape to protect the corners of the room, even though his claws were cut short. I didn’t want to take any chances that I would have to pay for damages.

I certainly wasn’t going home until I got kicked out or the race was over. My mother claimed to understand, but I knew she didn’t. Winning this race meant a lot to me—more than a few cut cords or even Reggie’s death.

I was there to win!