by J. J. Cook
The sound stage was up. Patrick Ferris was there with his microphone. Two of the assistants were struggling with the lighted board while the pretty young women, in shorts and tank tops today, waited on stage, playing with their hair.
It seemed pointless to have the board since there were only two teams. Maybe it was more for the TV viewers than for us.
I saw three other food trucks parked on the street. Grinch’s Ganache was there along with Chooey’s Sooey and Stick It Here. Their team members were out in front of the stage with us, which made for a bigger crowd there, too.
There was also a large crowd of people from Mobile standing outside the roped-off area, probably hoping to get on television. The cameramen were up and moving around, changing their focus as the challenge was about to start.
“Good morning, foodies!” Patrick started with his usual morning greeting.
The applause was much stronger with the other food truck teams there. The people behind the rope yelled and applauded as one of the producers prompted them.
I looked at Bobbie, who was standing next to me. I put out my hand to her. “Good luck, today. I’ll take good care of your daughter.”
Bobbie shook my hand. “And I’ll take good care of your crew. Good luck, Zoe. May the best food truck win.”
One of the cameramen who caught the last of our conversation swooped in a moment too late to record anything. “Could you do that last bit again?”
I glanced at Bobbie.
She frowned and shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“These small moments are important, too.” He tried to persuade us.
“I think we’re about to get started,” Bobbie said. “Catch us later.”
He shrugged and moved away.
“So we’re down to the last two food trucks in the Sweet Magnolia Food Truck Race. It looks like it’s going to be a good morning in Mobile, Alabama, for one lucky food truck owner. We’re all excited to see who that will be.”
There was more applause and some wolf whistles. The crowd was excited and ready to go.
“As we discussed last night, the Biscuit Bowl will be giving up two team members to Shut Up and Eat. Since Shut Up and Eat only has two team members, they will give one team member to the Biscuit Bowl. Team members—switch to your new team.”
Allison came to stand between me and Ollie. Delia and Uncle Saul went with Bobbie.
“That’s right,” Patrick said. “It’s the big switcheroo. It’s not going to be easy to win the race with newbies on your team.”
Everyone else applauded, but I noticed that Bobbie didn’t. Neither did I. And Allison, Bobbie’s daughter, was dressed down like Delia in a baggy T-shirt and jeans.
“Now for the second part of the Mobile challenge. Food is being delivered to your kitchens as we speak. You’ll see your menus when you get back. These are in keeping with the food you’ve served throughout the race. Your primary food menu will stay the same.”
“How much money do we have to make?” Bobbie asked.
“I’m glad you brought that up,” Patrick answered. “Each team will have to sell one hundred and fifty of their basic menu items. That’s pieces, not dollars, so there will be no tie breaking because you’ve equaled each other. Whoever sells that one hundred and fifty items first is the winner. Are we ready to go?”
Again there was applause and people screaming out Patrick’s name as well as the names of the two food trucks.
“I can hear our name! It’s louder than Shut Up and Eat,” Ollie said. “We’re home!”
The two girls on stage turned on the electronic board. It went completely blank (as usual) and refused to come up again.
Patrick shook his head. “Never mind. You guys get started.”
THIRTY-FOUR
“Should I send her out to sell biscuit bowls?” I asked Ollie when Allison was walking in front of us.
“I don’t think so. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” he said. “I’ll go out. You keep her with you, and keep her busy.”
I took his advice. It was what I’d been thinking, too. We got back to the truck and looked for our menu.
I read the printed card. “Carrot, raisin, and apple compote for the sweet, and barbecue chicken for savory.”
“Who eats carrots for something sweet?” Ollie’s expression said that he didn’t.
“I guess whoever buys our biscuit bowls today.” I set Allison to shredding carrots. It was the only way I could imagine using them for something sweet with apples and raisins.
“I’m sure Bobbie is having the same problem,” I told Ollie.
“I could check and see what Mom is doing,” Allison offered.
“No. That’s okay. Let’s get our stuff ready. Finding out what they’re doing doesn’t really matter.”
Ollie started stewing the apples and raisins. I started making biscuits. At least I knew how many we had to have to win. The barbecue chicken was already cooked. It just needed to be warmed before it went into the biscuit bowl. That was a plus.
“I think the carrot shredder is broken.” My new crew member held up the broken article. “Mom has one. I could go borrow it.”
“We’ll have to do without,” I told her. “There’s no borrowing, remember? You have to do with what you have.”
Was this going to be Allison’s agenda? Was she constantly going to volunteer to go back to her own food truck and annoy me to death?
I tried to be charitable—she was a teenager trapped into working with strangers. Maybe she was nervous. None of us had set out to do it this way, but Uncle Saul and Delia were older. They had the maturity to deal with situations that she might not have.
“This is looking good,” Ollie said of the apple and raisin mixture. “Want me to add some cinnamon?”
“Oh. Let me!” Allison grabbed the cinnamon and dropped the whole container on the floor. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”
I wasn’t sure if I believed her or not, but I had no plans to turn her in for refusing to cooperate so I could win the race that way. We could work around her.
I grabbed an extra can of cinnamon from the cabinet above my head. “Use this, Ollie.”
With the first tray of biscuits in the little oven and the fryer getting hot, I made some quick white icing to drizzle over the sweet biscuit bowls. Almost anything tasted good with white icing.
“I have these carrots shredded,” Allison said. “Where do you want me to put them?”
“Let me have them over here,” Ollie said. “What’s that red stuff all over them?”
Allison looked at her hand. “I guess I cut myself. Sorry. I’ll wash off the carrots.”
“I don’t think so,” I intervened. “We’re not using carrots with blood washed off of them. Go and find me a producer’s assistant so we can ask what we should do without the carrots.”
She agreed and ran out of the food truck.
“That’s the last we’ll see of her.” Ollie shook his head. “She’s a devious little thing.”
“We had to expect something from her. She’s working against her mother.”
“We should turn her in.”
“Do you want to win like that?”
He thought about it. “Sure.”
“I don’t want to. We can win on our own.”
I was putting in a new tray of biscuits, wondering how to deal with the problem of not using the carrots, when I felt someone else come into the food truck. With my head down, it was hard to see around Ollie.
I looked up, about to think better of Allison for coming back, but she wasn’t there.
It was Detective Marsh.
“What are you doing here?” I tried to make a quick detour between getting food ready and finding him there with us.
“I think we’ll find the killer here today
. This is the end of the food truck race.”
Ollie snorted. “Right. Miguel is conscious. We know what happened. You might as well turn yourself in. Otherwise we’ll call Zoe’s friend in the police department. She’ll know what to do with you.”
I wiped my hands on a towel. “Ollie’s right, Marsh. Everyone knows the truth about you. We’re guessing you were paid to kill Tina. Everything else was to cover that up. You’ll have to leave now. We’re trying to get ready for the race.”
“The race.” He spat back at me. “This whole race thing was a big, stupid mistake. It should have been a perfect setup. Alex was going to pay me Reggie’s money plus two hundred thousand to kill his wife.”
“Reggie? He was supposed to kill Tina?”
“He didn’t know what he was doing. Alex didn’t, either.”
I was tired of hearing his confession, and wondered how we could alert the police. He pulled out a gun. “I need you to get me out of here, Zoe. No one is going to question your food truck leaving. You can come or go as you please. I can’t hang around and wait for the police to catch up with me.”
I carefully considered my next words. “You’re wrong, you know.” I put three biscuits into the deep fryer. “Everyone is going to question us if we leave before the challenge is done. Have you seen the police officers outside the rope in the crowd? We aren’t getting out of here until it’s over.”
He glanced around the kitchen. “Fine. I’ll be your extra team member until we can get out. Don’t think about trying anything. I know how this whole thing works. Where is that other guy who was working in here? Who’s selling the biscuits?”
“I’m selling the biscuits,” Ollie said.
“Okay. You go wait outside until everything is ready.” He jammed the gun in my side. “And don’t tell anyone what’s going on if you want Zoe to live to see her prize.”
“Just take it easy,” Ollie said. “There’s no reason for anyone to get hurt.”
“You’re right. Do what I say, and no one will get hurt.”
Ollie stared at me as though he was trying to devise a plan.
I nodded. “Go ahead. Open the window and I’ll hand out the food.”
“What about the other one?”
“You mean our other team member who had to go to the restroom?” I filled in quickly.
“Zoe! I hear you’ve lost your carrots.” Chef Art walked right into the middle of our mess.
“You’re the other team member?” Marsh looked at him in surprise, probably taking in the white suit that didn’t look much like something anyone would cook in. “Get in here. Ollie, you get out. Keep in mind that Zoe will die before I do if you give me away.”
Ollie agreed and went outside.
“What’s this?” Chef Art asked. “What’s going on? I don’t recall this being part of the challenge. Who are you, sir?”
“I’m the new Biscuit Bowl team member.” Marsh smiled, painfully shoving the gun deeper into my side. “Let’s all get our aprons on and do some cooking, shall we?”
“That’s not my job today. I’m a sponsor. It would look bad. You two sort out your problems. Zoe—win the race.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Marsh told him. “Didn’t you hear what I told the giant? I have a gun in Zoe’s side. You do what I tell you until we can leave. You got it?”
Chef Art put down his cane and took off his jacket. “I think I understand now. What do you need me to do, Zoe?”
I tried to stay calm. Panic wouldn’t help. My heart was racing, and the greasy breakfast I’d eaten was threatening to come up.
“Ollie was going to fill the sweet biscuit bowls.” I forced my tone to sound normal as I pulled up another basket of fried biscuit bowls and put another one down. “I’ll bake biscuits and fry them. Marsh will put the barbecue into the savory biscuit bowls.”
“I don’t have to do anything,” he told me. “I’m the one with the gun, remember?”
“Not putting out any biscuit bowls will give you away,” I snarled. “There are television cameras, producers, and assistants crawling around here like ants on a watermelon. You made Ollie leave. I need your help to get through this.”
“All right,” he said. “Just don’t forget that I could kill you.”
Chef Art glanced at me with his white eyebrows raised. “You need to hire better team members.”
We were getting the first biscuit bowls ready to go in the awkward silence. It was almost seven A.M. I was trying to think of something clever to do that could save us all—well—mostly me since the gun was on me. Nothing came to mind right away.
Ollie lifted and secured the order window from outside.
“Look who I found waiting outside to see you, Zoe.” His voice was only weirder than the look on his face. “Your mom and dad are here to wish you well.”
“Hi, Zoe!” Daddy waved and grinned at me. “I think you’re going to win this thing. It’s been exciting hearing about it.”
“I’m glad you’re home again.” My mother was dressed, as always, in an expensive suit, lavender this time, her blond hair perfectly framing her determined face.
“Hi, Mom.” I smiled. “Hi, Daddy. It’s good to see you. We’re very busy.”
Daddy looked surprised when he realized Chef Art was in the kitchen with me. “I had no idea you were getting help from a celebrity.”
Chef Art smiled. “I want to see Zoe win the race, too.”
“Do you have time for your old man to come in there and give you a quick hug for good luck?”
Daddy was taken aback when Chef Art and I both shouted “No!” at the same time.
He glanced at my mother, who shrugged and walked away.
“Okay,” he said. “We’ll see you later for your victory dinner.”
“Okay.” I waved and smiled like a trained monkey. “Bye-bye.”
When they were gone, Marsh wasn’t happy. “We’re too exposed this way. Close the window.”
“I have to get the biscuit bowls through here,” Ollie said. “Read the rules. If we don’t do what they say, we’ll be disqualified.”
“Like I care.” He shrugged.
“You will,” he promised. “Didn’t you notice the big interviews they do with the food trucks that are disqualified? They want you to go off about how unfair everything is. I can show you the YouTube video from when Our Daily Bread was disqualified.”
I knew there wasn’t a rule about serving the food through the window, and no YouTube video. Everything would be aired with the show, whenever that would be. But it was a good play on Ollie’s part. Marsh wasn’t familiar with the rules. He didn’t know Ollie was lying.
“Okay. Whatever it takes to get me out of here.”
“Right now, it takes getting these biscuit bowls out on the street so he can sell them.” I handed Ollie my cell phone, which doubled as a credit card machine, and gave him twenty dollars in cash to start with. “Good luck. Sorry I don’t have anyone to run the food out to you.”
“That’s okay.” He glared at Marsh. “Just be careful.”
“We will,” Chef Art promised.
We made more biscuit bowls after he was gone. It seemed he was back very quickly. With everything that had been happening, we were behind on having our food ready.
“Come on,” Ollie urged. “Come on! Delia is out here hardly trying to sell anything and selling more than we are.”
“We have a few unusual problems,” I reminded him. “Let’s worry about getting through this. If we lose, we lose.”
“Don’t even say that,” Chef Art said. “We can still win this thing.”
There was a knock on the back door before it opened. “Hey, I’m from the producer. He wants to know if you’re up for having a crew in here taping while you work.”
Beneath the glasses—which I think she got from Chef A
rt’s assistant—and the food truck race gear was Detective Patti Latoure. She was smiling, but I saw her sharp blue eyes zero in on the gun Marsh was holding.
THIRTY-FIVE
I knew from the look on Ollie’s face that he’d gone to get her. I hoped they had a plan that didn’t involve me getting shot to get Marsh out of the food truck.
“Biscuit Bowls?” Ollie said. “Are any ready yet?”
That took Marsh’s attention away from Patti, who was still in the doorway pretending to wait for my answer.
“I have one tray of sweet ready.” I handed it to him. As I put the tray up to the window, Marsh’s hand moved with me. I didn’t see any way to get out of this mess.
“What about the cameras?” Patti was as persistent as the real assistants.
“Sure. That’s fine. Whatever it takes.” I glanced at her. She winked when Marsh was looking away.
“I’ll be right back. Don’t do anything different. We want to catch you off guard, at least as far as the audience is concerned.”
It seemed as though there was a kind of code in her words. I hoped so anyway. They wanted us to act normal so they could catch Marsh off guard. I held it together by focusing on what I was doing.
“You should’ve said no,” Marsh said when Patti was gone.
“Tell her when she gets back,” I said. “I don’t care. I’ve had TV cameras all but rammed down my throat the last few days.”
“It’s too late now. We’ll have to make it work.”
I could see the fear in Marsh’s eyes as he glanced around the kitchen. He had to know there was little or no chance that he was going to get out of here. I hoped we both survived his run for freedom.
Chef Art caught my eye as he handed me a filled biscuit bowl. He glanced toward a large, sharp knife that was on the edge of the cutting block beside him.
I wasn’t sure what he expected me to do with it. Knives didn’t stop bullets. I wasn’t an expert knife person. Yes, there was a knife at hand—several, in fact. What good were they?