Killer Beach Reads

by Gemma Halliday Publishing

  A sigh whooshed from Brooke when she dropped onto the bench beside Amy again. "Sorry. That was my boyfriend. I wanted to make sure everything was okay. He's a writer. Usually I can barely get him to eat or even talk to me when he's working so close to a deadline, like he is now. I thought he was calling to ask me to bring take-out home for him, but he was calling to see if I would like to go out to lunch."

  "Then I don't want to keep you from spending time with your sweetheart. I'm sure you devote a lot of time to the truck and don't get a chance like this very often. You can take the copies of my recipes to look at whenever you get some spare time. We can talk later."

  Brooke waved her hand. "He's going to come down here, so you and I have time to talk. But I forgot what we were talking about!"

  Amy twisted on the bench to face Brooke. "You said you've been having problems. What are they?"

  "I've owned the truck for over a year and have never had problems like this before. A meat order was canceled, but the butcher can't figure out what happened. The secretary said someone who said they were part of my crew called to stop the order, but she forgot to get a name. The spices that I use to make rubs and seasonings have been messed up…sugar instead of salt, habanero powder instead of jalapeño. A couple of big batches of rub were ruined. I'm glad I caught the problem before I seasoned any meat and ruined that too, but it was still a waste of time and money."

  "Could the spices have been accidentally put in the wrong containers?"

  "Yes. I get most of them from a bulk store so there might've been a mix-up there, if it wasn't Lara or me refilling the wrong containers. I've never encountered problems like this before, but there have been three mishaps lately. I have to taste every ingredient before using it in a recipe now."

  Amy slipped on her sunglasses, so she wouldn't look like she was scowling constantly because of the bright sunshine. Though, considering the direction the conversation was going, the facial expression would be appropriate. She watched Brooke's shoulder-length, butter-colored curls shift in the breeze while she scowled at the waterfall.

  "Do you think these things were done on purpose?" Amy asked. "A missing meat order must've shut you down for a day, didn't it?"

  Brooke nodded. "It did. On a barbecue truck, no meat equals no product to sell. Everything can be rationalized as being accidental, but on the other hand the problems could be malicious."

  "When did they start?"

  "When I signed up to compete in this contest."

  That cast a different spotlight on the bothersome snafus. Amy tilted her head down to look over the top of her tortoise-rimmed sunglasses. "Could be malicious?"

  Brooke held up her hands in surrender. "I know…I know. The problems I'm having are very suspicious, but I have no idea who could be trying to harm my business."

  "You're in a competition for a coveted parking spot. Could one of the trucks be trying to give themselves an advantage in the Melee?" She drummed her fingers on the bench. "Are you in a turf battle with anyone? I don't know what the food truck community is like for you as an owner, but I would think good parking spots are crucial to success."

  There were more ideas zipping around in Amy's brain, but she didn't want to freak out Brooke. While they were acquaintances, their conversations had always been general chitchat, most often conducted while Amy's barbecue order was being prepared. It would be best to dole out her theories in easily digestible increments, for a person who wasn't used to having strange ideas sprinkled all over conversations. Amy had been told many times that her penchant for inventing scenarios was overwhelming.

  Brooke resumed her stare-down with the cluster of fuzzy-topped decorative grass stalks beside the waterfall. The silence made Amy regret the string of questions she'd doled out. Finally, Brooke leaned closer and said, "I don't want to point fingers, especially because I could be wrong. There's still a chance this is all just a string of weird coincidences. But when I look at the other trucks in the competition, I'd say The Veggie Van has the most to gain."

  Aaaannndd…now they were in the finals. How unnerving that the truck giving Brooke the heebie-jeebies was paired up with the only sidekick competitor who Amy was getting bad vibes from. "Why?"

  "I've heard rumors they're struggling. For some reason they keep parking in low traffic areas that don't pull in many customers. With all of the people who visit this market, it would be a huge boost for them to win the spot here."

  She and Brooke were supposed to be chatting about the menu they were going to serve in a week, but instead they were bouncing around ideas on which competitor had the capacity to cheat their way to a win. "Doesn't their slogan say something about kind food?"

  Brooke snorted. "Cruelty-free food for a kinder planet. Too bad the proprietors don't take after their menu. There's a massive trailer hitch on the back of the van. I have never seen them towing anything, but the hitch has taken out several radiators at food truck rallies. The crew always uses the excuse that they're bad at parking, but I don't believe it. I've talked to several people who have said it looked like the van deliberately turned toward the trucks for no apparent reason."

  "So maybe eliminating competition is one of their underhanded tactics for succeeding. Now they're teamed up with the pink-lipped viper. We should definitely watch our backs."

  Brooke twisted sideways on the bench. She settled her bent knee on the seat and tilted her head at Amy. "What is a pink-lipped viper?"

  Well she thought it was a good nickname for Candi, even if Brooke didn't get the reference. Yet. "I'm talking about a 'who.' Candi, the sidekick finalist who was matched up with The Veggie Van. She always wears pink lipstick and cute, girly clothes. Yet pretty much everything she has said to me has seemed menacing. The words are benign, but the tone is threatening."

  Brooke dragged her hands over her cheeks until she looked like she was impersonating the guy featured in the Edvard Munch painting, The Scream. "Okay. That's not good. On the bright side, if somebody is messing with me because of the competition I only have to make it through another week. Or if it's a wicked string of bad luck, the tide has to turn the other way eventually, right?"

  "Exactly."

  "Then let's talk about something that isn't so disturbing, like food. What recipes do you have?"

  Amy pulled an envelope out of her tote bag. She handed it to Brooke. "I made copies for you. I also listed variations for each recipe, like using different fruits, vegetables, or sauces."

  "That's great," Brooke said as she unwound the figure eight of string which fastened the clasp. She removed the copies of the recipes and flipped through the stack. "You're a real pro. I'll look through these and also show them to Lara, my assistant chef. Give me a day or two, and I'll let you know what dishes we think will work best with our food. Would you be willing to make changes if we think of anything?"

  "Absolutely. Fire away with any suggestions, and I'll see what I can come up with so we can make the menu as great as possible."

  "I'm so happy you're my sidekick. I can't wait to work with you." Brooke leaned sideways and looked past Amy toward the parking lot. "Here comes Harden."

  Brooke bounded from the bench and wrapped a tall man with a neatly trimmed goatee in a hug. He sported dark, messy hair and trendy black-framed glasses. Basically, he was rocking the sexy nerd look. She planted a quick kiss on his lips then said, "Amy, this is Harden, my boyfriend and the next Hemingway."

  Harden shook his head as he pulled Brooke closer then kissed the top of her head. He looked over her head and nodded a greeting at Amy. "I'll admit to the former—not the latter. I am a writer, but far from a legend."

  "Yet." Brooke wriggled from her boyfriend's embrace. She grabbed her purse and the envelope full of recipes from the bench. Happiness bubbled in her voice as she said to Amy, "I guess it's time for me to make an exit. I'll call you soon to let you know what I think about your recipes. Have a good afternoon."

  "Sounds good." Amy waggled her fingers good-bye. "Enjoy your lunch!"


  An hour later, in her kitchen, Amy tried to shake off the wave of annoyance messing with her mood. The quantity of fruits and vegetables she had brought home from the market didn't match the amount of available space in her refrigerator. The kitchen was her laboratory. Recipes were her experiments. And at the moment she had too much raw material. In a last ditch effort she shifted around some baby zucchini and thin Japanese eggplants in the produce drawer and finally found just enough room to squeeze in the baskets of golden raspberries and blueberries.

  She backed away from the refrigerator with a feeling of accomplishment. Her good mood reappeared like the sun on a cloudy day. She'd been matched with her favorite food truck for the Melee and had come up with two new recipe ideas during the process of rearranging the refrigerator. Not a bad day at all, despite the food arranging frustrations. The thump of a car door drew her attention to the window that faced the driveway. Alex was home. The day was getting even better.

  His muddy mountain bike was strapped to the carrier on the back bumper of his jet black Jeep. Amy cooked to relieve stress. Her husband liked to race his bike at breakneck speeds over narrow trails in the forest when he needed to blow off steam after a long week at the company he owned, Quantum Media. As she watched Alex walk up the path toward the door she could see he and his friends had found a very muddy trail to test their cycling skills. Getting sweaty and covered with dirt while barely avoiding up close and personal meetings with trees wasn't her thing, but her husband loved the adrenaline rush.

  Alex swung open the door. He paused on the rug while Pogo, their dog that was equal parts mutt and whirling dervish, danced in circles around his mud-caked ankles. Amy stayed where she was, in front of the refrigerator. He held his arms out and said, "Don't you want to come here and give me a hug?"

  She held her arms up, as if she was holding an invisible beach ball, while she shook her head. "Air hug."

  "You are a wise woman." A clump of dried mud dislodged from the back of his arm and plopped on the rug near his feet. Pogo stopped his happy dance to sniff the clod. The dog took a couple steps backward then bolted into the living room. Alex laughed. "I guess I had better hit the shower. But first, tell me how it went at the market."

  "I made it to the final round."

  "Excellent! Give me twenty minutes to clean up then I want to hear all about it."

  Amy turned back to the refrigerator once her hubby was on his way to the much needed rendezvous with soap and water. Alex looked like he had gone all out on his jaunt through the woods. He'd need more than the protein bars and sports drinks he took with him that morning to replenish his energy.

  By the time he wandered back downstairs Amy had made a huge salad. Her overzealous food shopping tendencies made spur of the moment meals easy to produce. Baby lettuce leaves mingled with a rainbow of chopped vegetables, chunks of hard-boiled eggs, shreds of salty prosciutto, and crumbles of pungent Romano cheese. As she sat the wooden salad bowl on the table Alex's arms wrapped around her waist. The swamp monster odor he had been sporting was replaced with the fresh aroma of soap. Amy twisted in the embrace until she was facing her husband. Or, more precisely, facing the beer logo on his T-shirt—one of the consequences of being a short woman with a tall husband. Although a close-up view of his muscular chest wasn't a bad thing. She entwined her fingers behind his neck and rolled onto her tippy toes. A drop of water, from his damp, rust-colored hair, splashed onto her cheek. When their lips found each other the kiss increased the temperature in the kitchen more effectively than turning on every burner on the stove. She sighed as Alex released her.

  They settled across from each other at the breakfast nook's table. Alex used the tongs to dish up a bowl of salad for himself. "This looks great. I'm starving. Is it a recipe for the finals next week?"

  She shook her head. "I don't think a tossed salad would be a big hit at a barbecue truck. I got paired with Brooke's BBQ, so I'm happy. I'm pretty sure I've tried everything on the truck's menu. It should be easy to tailor my recipes to appeal to their customers. A flip-flop sole would be good topped with Brooke's brisket."

  He speared a forkful of lettuce crowned with a cube of cucumber. "Taste Tester Number One, reporting for duty. I love barbecue." He stretched across the table and planted a kiss on Amy's forehead. "And I love you. Next Saturday will be like an epic playoff game. You're going to crush the competition."

  At least her husband was confident. She wasn't so sure the last round of the contest would go smoothly. "Thanks, sweetheart. I love you, too. Do you think love counteracts bad luck or maybe bad people masquerading as crummy luck?"

  Alex twisted the cap off the glass bottle of chocolate milk she had set next to the salad bowl. The rich treat from a local, organic creamery was his favorite way to help his body recover after an intense workout. "I don't know if it has been scientifically proven that love combats bad luck, but if it makes you feel better I'll say it absolutely will. Want to tell me what's going on? Is one of your recipes not working correctly, or did somebody threaten you?"

  "Everything is fine with me. One of the other women who made it to the sidekick finals is weird, but the bad luck has been hitting Brooke. Everything from incorrectly labeled spices to supply orders being inexplicably canceled."

  He frowned with concern. "You don't think her problems are random, do you?"

  "No. I think somebody is trying to ruin Brooke's chances of winning."

  * * *

  Amy couldn't help but grin at the array of treats lined up on her kitchen island. The miniature pudding cups were adorable. The rich pudding was topped with a sprinkle a shortbread cookie crumbs. It was the new incarnation of the dessert recipe that had sent her through to the last round of competition. She had made a mocha pudding topped with white chocolate shavings. Brooke suggested a different espresso drink-mimicking pudding which she thought would be more appealing to her customers—butterscotch latte. The modification had turned out so good it would be a great recipe to teach for a class if she and the barbecue truck were victorious in the Melee.

  She snapped the lids on the rest of the cups. The little containers were often utilized for salad dressings and condiments. They were the perfect size to let customers get a taste of what they could expect on Saturday. Brooke had proposed offering the samples, so the team could see what customers thought of the menu additions while there was still time to change the recipes. A midweek, small-scale trial run.

  Amy stacked the containers in a cake pan and transferred them to the refrigerator. As she swung the door shut, her cell phone began ringing. She jogged across the kitchen to the built-in desk and plucked the phone from its charging dock.

  "Hello."

  "Amy? It's Brooke. I need to request another change to one of your recipes."

  By the time Amy hung up five minutes later a lead balloon of dread had inflated in her stomach. Brooke's list of strange happenings had grown. This time the problem affected Amy.

  The other recipe Brooke had chosen from Amy's portfolio was crispy polenta cubes with two dipping sauces—a spicy, salty Asian version and a sweet, mixed berry puree. Amy had included two sauces so diners could have the choice of making the snack savory or sweet. On Sunday Brooke had come up with the idea to deep-fry the polenta, making the dish easier and quicker to prepare in the confines of the truck. Then the cubes would be smothered in barbecue sauce-spiked gravy and topped with shredded cheese. A twist on disco fries.

  Now the plan was to go back to Amy's original method of browning the polenta. She would need to fry the bite-sized cubes in melted butter on the truck's griddle, competing for space with the mounds of sautéing onions and toasting buns destined for the truck's famous overstuffed sandwiches. The deep fryer was out of order. It had sprung a leak, oozing oil all over the truck's floor during the night.

  The food truck had spent the day parked in Brooke's driveway, instead of at the downtown farmer's market where it usually hung out, while the slippery mess was cleaned up. The deep fry
er was down indefinitely until the restaurant equipment supplier could figure out what had caused the unusual leak and perform a repair. Did bouncing over endless miles of road lead to the malfunction or did someone cause the oil deluge? At least the flood happened when the truck was unoccupied and the oil was cool. The catastrophe could've easily turned into a tragedy if it had happened while Brooke and her crew were working. They all could've been severely burned. The sobering thought dampened Amy's excitement for the following day.

  * * *

  Amy steered the luggage cart, turned into a cooler and slow cooker transport, around a clod of soil. The parking lot for Clement Street Market was paved, but many of the trucks used to ferry in fruits and vegetables from nearby farms traversed dirt roads and muddy driveways. So the rural vehicles deposited bits of their native terrain in the middle of town. The mounds of dirt dotting the pavement affirmed the freshness of the vegetables inside the market, but avoiding the mini moguls made her feel like she was on a luggage cart slalom course.

  She skipped a few steps when she reached the sidewalk, to celebrate not crashing and spilling her food samples all over the parking lot. Since the barbecue truck's menu focused on full meals, slices of brisket or hulking sandwiches paired up with baked beans or potato salad, Brooke wanted to see if the recipes she chose from Amy's recipe arsenal would appeal to customers who were looking for smaller portioned snacks.

  The free sample day was a great way to gauge the popularity of the new dishes. It also gave Amy the chance to see what it was like to cook in a food truck. Thinking about trying to fill countless orders in the small confines of the truck with three other people had made for a fitful night of sleep. She yawned as she stopped in front of the door to the truck's cab. The awning over the order window hadn't been raised yet, so she knocked to make her presence known. Brooke's face appeared in the small, square window in the door.