by J. J. Cook
There was some good-natured joking between tables about people singing as they sold their food for the next challenge. Everyone was worried about the taste challenge. I thought that was the easy part.
To make the rest of us feel even more insecure about singing in public, Reverend Jablonski and his fellow ministers from the Our Daily Bread food truck got up and performed several hymns for us.
“They sound like the freaking Vienna Boys Choir,” Ollie remarked. “How are we supposed to compete with that?”
Chef Art squirmed in his chair. His usual white linen suit seemed to fit a little tighter than normal. “I’d say the singing isn’t going to sell biscuits. Zoe doesn’t have to be a great singer tomorrow. She needs to show a little cleavage and a lot of leg. The biscuit bowls will do the rest.”
Everyone turned to me. No pressure. I sighed and started eating.
I had to resign myself to doing whatever was necessary to win the money. It was my food truck, after all, and my idea to be here.
The sliced roast beef was dry and the gravy was lumpy. I longed for a good burrito but was too exhausted to go out and find one. It was unfortunate that there was no food truck in the challenge tomorrow with Mexican food.
Delia was working hard to impress Ollie. She was looking at him like he was a chocolate-covered donut.
Maybe that was the part I was missing with Miguel.
Chef Art looked unhappy and impatient. He left before dessert. I went with him. Four A.M. would come early, and I was ready for today to be over.
We talked about my menu plans for tomorrow, and he reminded me how important it was to keep the food ideas fresh.
“Everyone is trying to come up with great ideas, sensational eats,” he warned. “I hope you are, too, Zoe. You know how essential that is to the food truck business. Don’t pay any attention to Saul on this. He’s got his food brain stuck in the 1980s.”
I agreed with him before the elevator chimed as it reached my floor. “I’ll see you in the morning, Chef Art.” I borrowed a page from Alex. “You know I’m all about the food.”
“I hope so. Good night, Zoe.” I got out of the elevator. The doors had closed before I saw Helms and Marsh standing in front of my room.
“Zoe, it’s important that we talk to you right away.”
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 go
ing 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.