Текст книги "Fry Another Day"

Автор книги: J. J. Cook

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

ELEVEN

I let the two detectives into my room. I should’ve known they wouldn’t leave me alone just because I’d ignored them. I shouldn’t have agreed to help them.

Miguel’s threats of possible dire consequences for my actions were running around in the back of my mind.

I sat on the edge of the bed. Crème Brûlée hadn’t moved from his perch on it since I’d left. Helms took the soft chair and Marsh took the chair by the desk.

“What’s wrong?” I was hoping this would be over quickly and I could go to bed.

“We know you have to be up early—so do we, of course—to go out with the food trucks.” Helms smiled at me. She was really a very attractive woman.

“Something has happened that you should be aware of.” Marsh leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “We have a possible suspect in the death of Reggie Johnson. Our person of interest may even be involved with Detective McSwain’s death.”

“Who is it?” I was ready for anything.

“We think Miguel Alexander is involved.”

Okay. “What in the world makes you think that?”

“Mr. Alexander got a sizable deposit in his bank account the day he left Mobile.” Helms stared at me as though I should immediately understand what that meant.

“Are you monitoring all our bank accounts?” That shocked me more than the stupid idea that Miguel had anything to do with the deaths in Charlotte.

They exchanged glances.

“We needed to keep track of a few accounts, yes,” Helms agreed. “There were some standouts in the group. We aren’t keeping track of yours, Zoe, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Actually, I was more worried about Uncle Saul’s bank account, if he had one. My dad always said his brother was into a few shady dealings.

“I’m sure Miguel got paid for a job,” I shot back. “He does a lot of work on credit. I think you should pick another suspect.”

“Twenty-five thousand dollars is a lot of credit,” Marsh said.

“Have you been to a lawyer lately? That’s like two hours of work.” I wished they’d go away. I didn’t want to hear any more.

“The money was wired to him from an account in the Caymans,” Helms continued. “That’s what raised the red flag for us. We can’t tell whose account that was. We’ll have more information in the next twenty-four hours.”

“I don’t believe Miguel has any ties to the people putting on the food truck race.” I yawned, hoping they’d take the hint. “Why would he kill Reggie?”

“He does have two ties,” Marsh said. “You and Reggie Johnson. We think he may have exploited the tie with you to get involved with the race so he could kill Mr. Johnson.”

“Why is he even here, Zoe?” Helms’s face was earnest. “Have you asked yourself that question? He’s not an official member of your team. He doesn’t work for you.”

“I asked him to come. He’s an outrider. He gets supplies. Each team is allowed one person with a car for that job.” I didn’t want to go into why Miguel was really there. That was between him and me.

They both nodded as though that meant something sinister.

“What about Alex?” I demanded. “Have you found out anything about the phone call I overheard?”

“We got his phone records, but that was a dead end.” Marsh shrugged. “There’s nothing there we can use.”

“Keep an eye on Miguel,” Helms said. “That’s all we’re asking.”

“It’s for your own good,” Marsh added. “If we’re right, and Alexander was paid by someone to disrupt the race, he’ll keep trying. He may have killed at least once. If so, he won’t hesitate to kill again.”

“And he may have someone working with him, so stay sharp,” Helms said. “We think someone else killed McSwain, but it was definitely part of this whole scheme.”

“That doesn’t sound like Miguel,” I insisted. “I think you should find another suspect. I won’t spy on him for you. You’ll have to find someone else. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to bed.”

Helms was apologetic. Marsh had more to say on the subject, but I insisted on escorting them both to the door.

When they were gone and the door was locked behind them, I took off my jeans and lay down beside Crème Brûlée in my T-shirt and underwear.

“Can you believe that? They think Miguel killed Reggie and had someone kill Detective McSwain. I suppose he cut the power cords to the food trucks, too. How stupid is that?”

Crème Brûlée rolled on his back and meowed for me to pet his tummy. He slapped at me with his paws.

“Yeah. There is the mystery woman. They’d have to be pretty brazen to meet right here at the hotel if they’d killed people, though, right?”

He hissed and rolled over.

“I know. Miguel is probably seeing that woman. She was really gorgeous, and she’s not his sister. But that doesn’t make him a killer.” I sighed. “I’m going to sleep now. Let’s handle all this in the morning.”

– – – – – – –

I had terrible dreams about singing and roller skating all night. I was glad when the alarm clock finally rang and it was time to get up.

I tied my skates to each other like I used to when I was a kid. I showered and dressed in jeans and a tank top after tying a scarf over my hair. I put the skates across my shoulder and got everything—except my cat—down to the food truck in one trip.

It made me feel better to see all the other food truck owners in the parking deck getting ready for the day. I’d been a little nervous going down there after being the first one to find the vandalism last night.

I’d thought later that it was lucky for me that whoever was responsible for what was going on had only wanted to cut a few power cords instead of killing someone else. Otherwise, I would’ve been a likely candidate.

A likely candidate for Miguel to kill?

Stupid thought. Where did that come from?

I shrugged it off as I stowed away my stuff and went back up to get Crème Brûlée. Delia was getting her things together. She hadn’t slept in her bed at all last night.

Was she with Ollie all night?

Eww.

My mind needed a cleansing cup of coffee after that thought. It was almost as bad as thinking about my parents doing it.

“I’m glad to see you’re back,” I burst out to keep from thinking.

She smiled, her eyes dreamy. “Ollie is quite a man.”

Double eww.

I grabbed my cat. “I have to get back down to the food truck. I’ll see you in a little while.”

So they were together. I was glad for Ollie. I hoped it wouldn’t complicate the rest of the race. Not everyone could couple-up and work together.

Crème Brûlée was already snuggling into the truck seat when I left him. A few of the other food truck drivers called out a greeting to me as I opened the back door to the Biscuit Bowl. I was completely thinking about the day ahead—not so much the roller skating or the singing as the food and how everything would go together. It was a normal thought for me each morning as I set out.

“Zoe?”

I jumped and stifled a small scream. It wasn’t because Miguel had crept up on me, I told myself. It was because I was tense.

“Sorry.” He smiled. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“That’s okay. I’m getting ready to go.”

“Did you get your cat out here already?”

“Yeah. Sure. No problem.”

“Look, about dinner last night—”

I didn’t really want to hear it. I hailed Ollie and Uncle Saul when I saw them. I don’t know what Miguel thought of that, but I was a little irritated with him. I didn’t think he’d killed anyone, but he’d ditched me to go out with the mystery woman.

Was it my imagination or was Ollie a little more peppy than usual?

“Let’s go sell some biscuit bowls,” he said loudly and then eyed me critically. “Is that your idea of sexing up to sell biscuit bowls while you’re singing and skating?”

Of course everyone had to turn and examine what I was wearing.

“This is my idea of what I’m going to wear today,” I retorted. “I’m sure we’ll do fine.”

Delia joined us. She and Miguel stowed the rest of everyone’s gear in the trunk of his car. Nothing else was said about my taste in clothes. I was ready to go out and win the challenge.

I noticed that several of the other teams were smacking hands and doing joint cheers to get themselves going. Maybe we needed to do something like that, too. I thought we’d wait and see how we did that day. Tomorrow we’d be in Atlanta, if we made the cut. If not, there wouldn’t be much to cheer about.

Uncle Saul moved Crème Brûlée into the middle of the seat between us. He rode with me in the Biscuit Bowl. Delia and Ollie rode with Miguel.

It was almost like carnival back home, watching all the big, colorful trucks roll out of the underground parking lot. I turned on the spinning biscuit on top of my truck. I might as well give everyone in Columbia a peek at what they were missing because they didn’t live in Mobile.

There was very little traffic headed to the downtown area at that time of the morning. It was an eerie feeling. I suspected this was why we were setting up so early. The streets were empty where we were directed to park. It was just like the day before in Charlotte. As soon as the food trucks were in place, everyone began jumping out. The race directors got the cool-down tent in place, next to the stage again. As we were getting everything ready for the challenge, we could hear Alex trying out the microphone.

Chef Art poked his head in the kitchen for a moment. “Don’t forget your hats. I don’t want you to win the challenge and not have everyone see my hats on TV.”

“We’ll do it,” I told him.

“Zoe, why aren’t you wearing tight, short shorts? People want to see some skin out there. The tank top is good. Can you pull it down some—show a little cleavage? What are you thinking? Can you change into something a little more indecent before the challenge?”

“I could, but I’m not going to. I own the Biscuit Bowl. I can’t sing, but I can skate. If I fall, I don’t want it to be on bare knees. This is what I’m wearing.”

He shrugged. “Just say you don’t want to win. I’ll understand.”

I looked back to tell him that the kitchen was crowded enough with four of us back there, but he was already gone.

The biscuit dough was ready. I’d already mixed it up, rolled it out, and cut some biscuits. It had to be baked in muffin trays to make the indentation for the filling. Ollie was putting the first tray into the little oven.

“Alex wants everyone down at the stage in five,” one of his assistants told us.

“You don’t need me,” Ollie said. “Go find out what’s happening. I’ll keep the biscuits baking.”

“I’ll stay here, too,” Uncle Saul said. “I’m working on our savory filling—spicy chicken and eggs. I think I’ll do better with more space.”

I knew our sweet filling was going to be peaches. I could work on that when I got back. I’d been saving a recipe for spicy peaches that I’d found in January for this moment.

“I guess it’s you and me,” I said to Delia. “Let’s see what Alex has to say.”

Miguel joined us outside and walked across the street with us. The tall buildings of downtown Columbia were lit up against the dark sky. There was a hint of rain in the air that I hoped would pass. I could probably make it roller-skating down the city sidewalks if they were dry. If they were wet, I wasn’t sure.

“Good morning, everyone,” Alex called out. It may have been dark all around us, but the stage where he stood was bright as day. “How are you all this morning?”

He went on to acknowledge the sponsors again. He explained the rules and concept of the food truck race. Everyone was waiting for the reason we were all called together. We stood impatiently, hoping he’d come to the point so we could get back to work.

“I know you’re all anxious to hear everything about today’s challenge. You all have your packets with the basics. You already know that you’ll need one of your team to skate and sing as they try to sell their food to people who are on their way into work this morning.”

We nodded.

Antonio Stephanopoulos from Athens, Georgia, the owner of the Pizza Papa food truck, made a rolling motion with his hands. His thin gray whiskers shook. “Let’s get going, eh?”

“I love your enthusiasm,” Alex yelled after he asked for applause. “What you don’t know about today’s challenge is that one of the people you’ll be trying to sell your food to this morning has twenty-five hundred dollars in cash for the first person to find him.”

That brought some enthusiasm and a few whistles.

Delia and I looked at each other and grinned, too.

“Besides singing and skating, part of the challenge is to be the first team to sell a hundred and fifty dollars’ worth of product on the street today. The taste challenge will be met by us interviewing people on the street after they’ve had your food. We’ll look at those tapes after the challenge to determine the winner. Now go out and make your sponsors proud!”

“That’s a lot of extra money,” Delia said. “You could really use that, Zoe.”

“If I win it, we’ll split it.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re already helping me and Ollie. Maybe you could take us out for a night on the town when we get home.” She hugged me and ran back to the food truck.

“I hope you win,” Miguel said. “Don’t worry about the skimpy shorts and top. If you fall, you’ll be glad you’re wearing jeans. Besides, you’re already the best-looking food truck owner here.”

I laughed. “Is that comparing me to Antonio Stephanopoulos or Roy Chow?”

“Good luck out there.”

I stepped inside the Biscuit Bowl kitchen. Delia had already shared the news with Ollie and Uncle Saul.

“Stay focused. Look for someone who doesn’t appear to have any money,” my uncle suggested. “Maybe a street person or another vendor.”

“No,” Ollie argued. “This is gonna be on TV. Whoever has the cash is gonna look good. Maybe not dressed in a suit, but good.”

I took their advice, such as it was. Delia looked me over and tied my T-shirt in the back so it was tight on my chest. She also rolled the legs on my jeans so they were up to my knees, but still covering them.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that most of that bare skin she’d exposed below the knee would be taken up with my skates.

I thanked them for their help and got the peach filling ready. Uncle Saul’s spicy chicken and egg filling smelled wonderful. Biscuits were baking up light and fluffy. Ollie turned on the deep fryer.

I looked at my team. They made me want to cry. They were all such great people.

“Thanks again for all your help. I wouldn’t be here without you.”

Delia winked. “Don’t forget to thank Miguel, too.”

“I won’t. I’m going to put on my skates and get ready. We can be on the street at five thirty. I don’t know how many people will be out there looking for breakfast, but the early biscuit maker hopefully sells her quota early, too.”

I tried not to worry about the biscuit making. It was easy to start thinking you were the only one who could make your headliner food. The biscuit bowl was my creation, but I knew I could trust my team to do a good job.

I put on my skates and cleared my throat. I was more worried about being able to stand up and move around than whether or not I could sing.

I looked around for Miguel. I couldn’t find him, or the Mercedes, anywhere on the street. I started to call him, but I didn’t want to be a nag or someone who’s always trying to keep tabs on him. I didn’t really need his help.

Ollie brought out the first tray of biscuit bowls, savory. I took it from him, got ready to sing, and fell down hard on the sidewalk.

TWELVE

There were only three spicy chicken biscuit bowls that could be saved. The other five had to be thrown away.

What made it even worse was that we were the first team up and running so we were getting extra coverage from the cameramen. They didn’t stop taping when I fell, either. The whole mess—including the ripped, bloody part of my jeans where I’d hit my knee on the concrete—would be preserved for the TV audience.

Ollie helped me up and yelled for Delia. “We have to get that knee cleaned up.”

Delia ran outside with Uncle Saul. They both groaned and said how sorry they were, asking if I was okay.

In the meantime, one of the ministers from Our Daily Bread (not Jay Jablonski) was already on his skates, singing loudly in his professional choir voice and heading into the waiting crowd of spectators with a trayful of cinnamon rolls.

“Never mind that,” I told my team. “We need another tray of biscuit bowls. Delia, could you get me a wet paper towel? Let’s get over this and move on.”

The cameraman had his lens right in my face as I was talking. I wished I could yell at him to move away. I’d agreed when I registered to allow the cameras complete access. What good was a food truck race if they couldn’t capture every single detail?

Delia, Ollie, and Uncle Saul moved quickly. I was on my feet—wobbly but standing. A wet paper towel got most of the blood off my knee. My jeans were only going to be good for making shorts later.

Ollie and Uncle Saul got another tray of eight biscuit bowls ready.

By that time, Fred was skating away from his fish taco truck. Believe me, the cinnamon rolls smelled a lot better than fish tacos at that time of the morning.

Another minister was taking more cinnamon rolls to the first one, who was now lost in the crowd, probably selling his hundred and fifty dollars’ worth of product before I could even get on my feet.

“Come and find me when you have another tray ready.” I started slowly skating down the sidewalk again.

“Be careful,” Ollie said. “And sing. Don’t forget to sing!”

It looked as though Bobbie Shields’s daughter, Allison, who was part of the Shut Up and Eat team, was a worse skater than even me. She was a pretty young girl with waist-length blond hair that gently floated in the breeze as she fell, over and over again.

Finally, her loose meat sandwiches and giant pickles spread out around her, she gave up. I passed her on the sidewalk as she sat there crying.

I felt terrible not offering her my help. It wasn’t just that I’d lose the challenge. I didn’t think I could stop without falling over, too. I couldn’t remember how to use the brakes on the skates.

Lucky for me, I skated right into a man on the edge of the crowd that stopped me. He smiled and steadied me before buying one of my biscuit bowls.

“This looks really good.” He took a big bite. “Mmm. Tastes good, too. Let me have another one.”

I stuffed the money into my pocket, glad I didn’t have to make change at the same time. I pushed my feet a little and glided forward again. A woman stopped me and bought another biscuit bowl.

I should’ve been better prepared. My pockets weren’t going to be adequate for the money I was going to have to put into them. I wasn’t used to street selling. I had my cash box at the food truck. It usually wasn’t a big deal.

I noticed that a member of Chooey’s Sooey was skating around like a pro with dim sum on a tray. He was also wearing a money pouch around his waist. Great idea.

When Ollie came to find me, I only had one biscuit bowl left. I was singing my heart out, any song that came to mind.

“I need one of those.” I pointed to the money pouch.

“You mean a fanny pack?” He shook his head. “Nobody wears those anymore.”

“I don’t care.” I dug in my pockets until I found all the money I’d made and stuffed it into his hands. I still had the money for change that I’d put in there. So far everyone had given me exact change, and a tip.

“Okay. Let me call Miguel.” He massaged my shoulders quickly and then took the empty tray and the money before he left.

What I really needed was some pain-relieving antibiotic spray for my knee. It had been a long time since I’d had a scrape there. I’d forgotten how much it hurt. I couldn’t get to my phone to call Miguel and see if he could find some in the cool-down tent where they kept the first-aid supplies. I was going to have to live with it.

The crowd was much bigger today than it had been in Charlotte. They were all there to watch what was going on and wave to the camera. It seemed like I’d skated through a sea of them before I reached the other side.

Ollie brought more biscuit bowls after I’d emerged from the crowd. He took the money again. “I can’t get in touch with Miguel. I don’t know where he is. I sent Delia to the cool-down tent for some salve for your knee. I’m gonna kick Miguel’s scrawny butt when I see him.”

“Thanks.” I continued skating. “How are we doing on the money?”

“We’ve got a ways to go.” He held up a cup with a straw in it. “Uncle Saul says hot water with lemon is good for your throat. I’d like to kick his scrawny butt, too, but we have to get through this challenge first. Are you okay?”

“Great.”

On the other side of the crowd were the real people heading in for jobs at the downtown businesses. Some were white-collar workers in their suits and ties. Others were retail shop people in various other outfits—more colorful than the suit people. None of them looked very happy.

I heard them grumbling about the delays in traffic because of the food truck race. They were in a hurry to get to their jobs and didn’t have time to stop for a before-work snack. They didn’t mind telling me about it, either.

I saw the minister from Our Daily Bread praying by the crowded sidewalk. A few people stopped, prayed, and bought cinnamon rolls from him. Maybe they felt sorry for him.

I tried my best to think of something I could do to draw positive attention to my biscuit bowls, which were getting cold waiting for me to sell them. Cold biscuit bowls were bad biscuit bowls. I had to come up with something. I realized this was why everyone had expected me to wear tight shorts and a low-cut top.

But I didn’t want that kind of attention. I saw Dante from Stick It Here in his red scarf, talking to a crowd of women who were buying pot stickers and kebabs from him. He was letting them taste first before buying.

I knew what I had to do.

When Ollie came back with the next tray of biscuit bowls, I had him break two of them into smaller pieces.

“We’re going to need a few extra biscuit bowls to give away,” I told him. “Maybe you should bring some napkins back with you, too.”

“Okay. You sound a little hoarse. Drink some more water.” He held the cup again. “I hate to tell you this, but somebody said that Grinch’s Ganache has already sold enough cupcakes to win the challenge.”

“We should keep going anyway. Who knows if that’s true or what else is involved or how they’re going to decide who gets kicked out? Has anyone found the man with the money yet?”

“Not as far as I know.” He squatted in front of me and carefully sprayed antibiotic pain relief on my knee. “Is that okay? I can pull up your pants leg if you need me to.”

I breathed a sigh of relief right away. “No. That feels better already. Thanks, Ollie. Any word from Miguel?”

He snorted. “Nothing, otherwise he’d be running this stuff out here. Is something wrong with him?”

“Not as far as I know.” I pushed what Helms and Marsh had told me out of my thoughts. No way Miguel had anything to do with the cords being cut in the parking garage or Reggie’s death. I didn’t believe that for a second.

I had to focus on finishing the challenge.

The camera crews had switched from following the food truck team members to interviewing the people on their way to work—probably for the taste challenge. I heard a few workers curse at them. One man loudly told a cameraman to get out of his face.

What happened to the South being so friendly?

My voice sounded a little stronger after the lemon water. I switched to all the patriotic songs I could think of—“The Star-Spangled Banner,” four verses; anything I had ever heard that sounded like “God Bless America.”

I engaged the slightly hostile crowd and offered them free samples as I skated by the steps of another large building. People were really starting to pack into the city. I glanced at my watch; it was seven thirty.

A few more people bought biscuit bowls from me. One man bought a peach biscuit bowl for breakfast and a spicy chicken biscuit bowl for lunch. I sold two peach biscuit bowls to a woman in a dashing red suit with a matching hat. Loved her look!

I had to tell her how gorgeous she was. That was when I was struggling to make change for her twenty-dollar bill. I didn’t say it just to sell her a biscuit bowl.

One of the members of Pizza Papa’s team had dropped his tray of mini pizzas on the sidewalk. I’d thought when I saw him skating with a tray in each hand that he was doomed. He was shaky on his skates and had forgotten all about singing. Antonio pushed through the crowd to help him. The closest cameraman took pictures of the whole thing.

I was down to one peach biscuit bowl when Ollie finally came back.

“We’re having a few issues with the deep fryer.” He replaced my empty tray with a full one. “That’s the bad news.”

I groaned. “How bad is it?”

“Like it-will-never-deep-fry-another-biscuit bad.”

Oh no. At home, I’d know where to get that fixed, or replaced, on credit. What are we going to do out here?

“Don’t give up yet. Saul is looking at it. He thinks he might be able to do something with it.”

My legs and feet hurt, especially my knee. My lips were chapped and my throat was sore. I was ready to sit down with a cup of coffee and take a break.

“The good news is—this is it! Sell this tray, and you’re done with the challenge.” He held up the lemon water again.

I waved it away. “I can’t drink any more of that stuff.”

“You have to. You have to stay hydrated. The fish taco truck was out in front until his assistant passed out from dehydration. They had to take him to the hospital. They dropped out of the challenge because they only had one skater. Drink the water. Sell the biscuit bowls. Keep singing.”

I did as he said because I knew he was right, but I was almost too tired to care.

When Ollie was gone, I pushed myself to sell the last eight biscuit bowls. I wished I’d thought to ask if anyone had won the money yet. I knew it didn’t really matter. I had to concentrate on getting rid of the biscuit bowls.

I thought for a few seconds about buying them myself and eating them, but I knew that would be the moment all the cameras would focus on me.

I saw a group of businessmen in nice suits walking toward a building with a double green door on the front at street level. I skated toward them, and into them, when I couldn’t stop.

Miraculously, I didn’t drop anything.

“Sorry.” I smiled as they helped me settle my tray and held me upright for a moment.

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing out here selling food on the street?” One of them was a handsome man who had a sweet, smoky drawl that even managed to tingle my weary senses.

“It’s that food truck thing,” one of the other men told him—not so handsome and a little nasal.

“These look very good,” smoky, sweet said, not only looking at my biscuits, either. “I think we could use five of them for our morning meeting, don’t you, Roger? Pay the woman.”

Roger (nasal) quickly took out his wallet and gave me forty dollars for the five biscuit bowls. “Keep the change, and look for a new job.”

Forty dollars! That was well over my hundred-and-fifty-dollar goal. I almost started crying, I was so grateful to be done with it. I still had three biscuit bowls left, but that didn’t matter since the challenge was for the money and not how much product we could sell.

“Thank you so much. I really appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome.” Sweet and smoky smiled and went inside the green door.

I was ready to skate back to the biscuit bowl before my legs gave out on me. I saw a man putting newspapers into one of the dozens of newspaper boxes. His big delivery truck was parked at the curb.

I knew the remaining biscuit bowls wouldn’t be any good. We’d have to throw them away when I got back. I thought I might as well give them to this man to enjoy. I could also give him a business card.

Who knew when he might be in Mobile?

“Excuse me. I have these yummy peach biscuit bowls that I can’t use. I was wondering if you’d like to have them.”

He squinted at me, his baseball cap pulled down low on his face. “They look delicious. Are you sure you don’t want me to buy them?”

I explained about the food truck race and the daily challenge. “So I’m good for the day. Usually my customers have hot, fresh biscuit bowls, made to order. I don’t want to sell them to you cold and a little stale.”

He nodded and took the whole tray in one hand before he threw his ball cap up in the air and congratulated me. “You’ve just won the twenty-five-hundred-dollar cash prize!”