Death on Eat Street (Biscuit Bowl Food Truck)

by J. J. Cook

  “Are you okay?” He studied me for a moment. “I mean, with this thing between us?”

  I smiled. For a lawyer, he was remarkably ill at ease sometimes. The lawyers I knew, admittedly friends of my mother’s, were glib on every subject. “I’m fine.”

  He shook his head, raked his fingers through his hair, and started to speak. “Good night, Zoe.”

  After he was gone, I locked up and turned off the lights. The smell of coffee had managed to overpower the spicy red beans, onions, and tomatoes I’d made with okra and corn for my savory biscuit bowls.

  I dressed for bed and snuggled with Crème Brûlée, who heaved a loud sigh and snuggled back without biting, for once.

  “I’m not worried about it,” I told him. “Everything is going to be fine. It has to be. This is my whole new, messed-up life. It has to work out.”

  • • •

  I got up with the alarm buzzing and my heart pounding. I was glad to be awake after having a terrible dream about my mother trying to save Delia and failing. There were cameras taking thousands of flash pictures with my mother’s smiling face near Delia’s dead body.

  It was gruesome. I was glad to concentrate on the coming day. Maybe it wasn’t going to be the big promotional boost I’d hoped for with Chef Art’s help, but at least it was something to do, and another day to do it.

  I said a little prayer for Delia’s safety as I showered and dressed. I hoped she was staying somewhere decent and eating well. She deserved a new life, too, like I had. I wanted her to have that opportunity.

  I fed Crème Brûlée early, which gave him plenty of time to use the litter box before we left for the day. My savory dish was hot, and biscuits were baked. Everything was ready to go in the food truck.

  Ollie tapped at the front door. I opened it, happy to see him.

  “I didn’t expect you to be here this morning,” I told him.

  “I thought I’d try it again today. We’ll see about tomorrow. What needs to go out?”

  Between us, we had everything set up in the truck within thirty minutes. By six A.M., we were out on the road, headed for police headquarters. They were already talking on the radio about where food trucks were supposed to be that day.

  I slapped my hand on the steering wheel. I’d totally forgotten about sending my information to the website again. With all the other things going on, and worrying about Delia, it had slipped my mind.

  “Looks like we’re the first ones here,” Ollie said as I pulled the Biscuit Bowl into a parking space.

  “Good. The weather is supposed to be nice today. I have spicy eggs and cheese for breakfast. All we need to do is start the coffee.”

  “You’re real good at this, young ’un.” He patted me on top of the head with his big hand and wiggled his fingers. “What’s that stuff on your hair?”

  “Gel,” I said, a little self-consciously. “You don’t think these curls stay like this by themselves, do you? Not in this humidity. It dries after a while.”

  He laughed. “That’s good. I was having these thoughts about you and Miguel playing kissy face and him getting his hand stuck in your hair.”

  “That’s not even funny. And we won’t be playing kissy face for a while. He doesn’t think I know what I’m doing. I guess no one thinks I know what I’m doing.”

  “I do. You’re doing what’s right for you. Don’t worry about it. I never do.”

  Somehow, that didn’t make me feel any better.

  I got things set up in the kitchen and started the first batch of fried biscuits. Ollie put out the chairs and tables and wrote the day’s menu on the board as he lifted the window covers.

  I was amazed to see five people already in line, waiting behind Ollie. It was barely seven thirty. Not that I wasn’t thrilled to see them—just surprised.

  By eight A.M., there were fifty people in line. Where were they coming from? I was out of spicy eggs before eight fifteen. It drove me crazy that there was no way to plan what I needed. I might have made all those eggs and sold none of them.

  I hated to tell people that we were out of eggs. They didn’t seem to care. There were people lining up on the sidewalk as far as I could see. I started serving my lunch savory and sweet menu. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do when I ran out of that.

  It was exciting to see so many people wanting to eat my food. It was scary, too. I hoped they weren’t going to be disappointed that they had to eat lunch food.

  I thought about sending Ollie to the nearest store to buy more supplies. The problem with that was making the supplies into food. I could get by with something that I could put in a biscuit bowl that only needed to be warmed, but I couldn’t make more biscuits. When I ran out of those, I would have to head back to the diner, and the rest of the day would be lost.

  “Where are they all coming from?” I asked Ollie, wishing this had been the day Miguel and Delia had been with us.

  “I heard a few people saying they saw some information on the Internet and came by.” He stuffed more money into the cashbox. “We’re gonna have to dump this or get a bigger box.”

  On the Internet? I knew I hadn’t posted anything. It seemed someone else had posted for me. I didn’t mind. I was thrilled with the result. It was everything I’d been dreaming about.

  By nine A.M., there were two TV station trucks there—also two policemen who said we had to move the Biscuit Bowl to the parking lot. The crowds were keeping people from getting in and out of police headquarters.

  “Maybe that will slow them down some,” Ollie said. “I don’t know how much more of this we can handle.”

  I moved the Biscuit Bowl carefully around the crowd of people as the police held them back. I couldn’t believe how many people there were. These couldn’t only be employees going in and out of police headquarters.

  The crowd followed as I parked my food truck in the lot next to police headquarters. I noticed Suzette’s Crepes took my spot in front as soon as I’d moved away. I couldn’t begrudge them that space. I also couldn’t believe people were running to be at the Biscuit Bowl when we reopened. What had gotten into everyone?

  After we were resettled, the back door opened, and one of the nearly famous TV personalities came inside with a cameraman following close behind her.

  “Are you Zoe Chase?” she asked in a pleasant voice. “I’m Renee Reynolds. I’m sure you recognize me from the six o’clock news. I’m here to cover your big event.”

  I was flustered and uncertain. What big event was she talking about? If she meant my sudden popularity, I was totally without answers to explain it. I stared at her, and the camera behind her, not knowing what to say.

  “Renee!” A booming male voice followed her into the food truck. Nearly everyone in Mobile recognized Chef Art’s voice. Renee certainly did.

  “There you are.” She smiled and hugged him, mindful of her hair and makeup. “I was wondering when you were going to show up.”

  “Well, I’m actually a bit early.” Chef Art pushed his large form into the back of the food truck. Renee shifted to one side, kind of flattened against the wall—and Ollie.

  “What are you doing here?” I’d forgotten about his pledge to help me with promotion. He was a kidnapper, possibly a murderer. How brazen could he be?

  Chef Art smiled his famous smile. “Renee, could you give me and Miss Zoe a few minutes to discuss our strategy for lunch?”

  I noticed he didn’t move out of the way. He expected everyone else to find their way around him. I guess that was one of the perks of being famous.

  “Zoe, do you want me to stay?” Ollie’s big face was as dark as a thundercloud. He gave Chef Art such a mean look, it would have made anyone else quail in fear.

  “Yes.” I folded my arms across my chest and glared at Chef Art. “You have a lot of nerve showing up here.”

  Once the TV crew was gone, Ollie added, “Yeah. Where’s Delia?”

  “Delia?” Chef Art looked confused.

  “Delia Vann,” I explai
ned. “Where is she?”

  “Oh.” Chef Art grinned. “I don’t know. I love to visit with her, but not during working hours.”

  Ollie put his big hands on Chef Art’s neck. Even though his hands were very large, they couldn’t quite meet above Chef Art’s white jacket. “Stop playing around. We know you kidnapped her to get the recipe.”

  Chef Art’s gaze darted between us. “I swear, the closest I’ve ever come to kidnapping anyone was Miss Chase here. And that was even more like a conversation than a kidnapping. Why would I think Delia would have anything to do with the Jefferson recipe?”

  Ollie and I looked at each other. I could tell we were both thinking the same thing—was Chef Art for real?

  “I don’t believe you,” I finally told him. “If you came to look for the recipe, your people have already searched everything I own. I don’t have the recipe. If I did, I’d give it to the police.”

  “I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot,” Chef Art said in a congenial tone. “Yes, I want that recipe. I’ve offered to pay several people for it since I heard it was back on the market. I don’t ask questions about how these things happen. But I haven’t kidnapped Delia—although the idea is quite appealing.”

  That was enough for Ollie. He couldn’t get his hands around Chef Art’s throat, but he did shake him a little. “Where is she? What have you done with her?”

  “I assure you, my dear boy, I haven’t done anything to her or with her that she didn’t fully participate in. And even that hasn’t been in a while. I last saw her on the night my unfortunate contact for the Jefferson recipe was murdered.”

  “So you’re saying you didn’t kill Terry Bannister?” I asked.

  “No. Why would I? A man could get a bad business reputation that way. Terry was supposed to procure the recipe for me. I would have paid him the sum we had agreed upon. Nothing more, nothing less. Definitely not murder. I don’t do that.”

  “You hire other people to do it,” Ollie said. “Admit it. You’re the one behind all of this.”

  Chef Art righted his snowy white chef’s hat. “If you mean that I wanted the recipe, you’re right. I’m a collector of old recipes. The Jefferson recipe for crème brûlée would be a jewel in that collection. However, I didn’t authorize a theft, or a murder, or even a kidnapping to get it. You’re looking for someone else.”

  “Then why are you here?” I demanded.

  “To honor a debt. We had an agreement, Miss Chase. My motor home is outside. My publicity team is working at full capacity. I’m ready to help you cook and serve some of your delicious food—and pose for photo ops with you.”

  It was overwhelming thinking about the response his presence and publicity had brought about. It was a little depressing, too. I guess I must’ve looked disappointed.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. You thought this was all you.” Chef Art pinched my cheek. “Be patient. It will come. For now, let’s give the public what they want, shall we?”

  Chef Art and I did interviews with Renee Reynolds and another TV personality I didn’t recognize. There were suddenly hundreds of balloons, with the names of the Biscuit Bowl and Chef Art emblazoned on them, being given out to children.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  TWENTY-SIX

  “You!” he said with a sneer.

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

  “Where’s Chef Art?”

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

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

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

  “Yeah. Like I care.”

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

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

  “Good for you.”

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

  “How much is he paying you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “All right. I will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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