Death of a Crabby Cook

by Penny Pike

  I spotted Livvy Jameson from Bones ’n’ Brew standing on the sidelines and away from the curious masses. Today she was wearing her chef’s whites.

  “Stay here!” I said to Aunt Abby, adding for emphasis, “Don’t move!” My aunt nodded absently and returned to her conversation. I headed over to see Oliver Jameson’s sister.

  “Livvy?” I said, approaching her. She appeared to be engrossed in the crime scene activities and hadn’t noticed me until I said her name.

  She turned to me looking puzzled, frowned, then smiled when she recognized me.

  “Oh, hi. . . .” she said, no doubt searching for my name. I could tell she’d forgotten it.

  “Darcy,” I reminded her “We met yesterday when I came by your restaurant.”

  “Of course. Sorry. This whole . . . situation . . . It’s been . . .” she stammered, then collected herself. “Well, it’s all too familiar.”

  I nodded sympathetically. “I know how you must feel. First your brother, now Chef Boris. Any idea what happened?”

  “Not a clue,” she said. “What about you?”

  “Not much,” I lied. “Only that Boris was murdered.”

  “Well, his death shoots my theory all to hell,” she said.

  “You had a theory?”

  She shrugged and continued to watch the crime scene area. “I thought Boris had something to do with my brother’s murder.”

  I blinked, surprised at her revelation. “You thought Boris might have killed Oliver?”

  “Boris hated Ollie,” Livvy said. “Everyone around here knew that.”

  Odd. Boris was certainly unpleasant, but I thought Oliver was the one everyone hated, after all the things he’d done to the other food truck owners—including my aunt Abby. But as a reporter, I’d learned to ask questions, not give out my own theories.

  “Why did Boris hate your brother?” I asked.

  “Competition,” Livvy said. “Boris was trying to run Ollie out of business and corner the market with his bizarre meats. He accused Ollie of buying cheap cuts and calling them prime. I think he was afraid Ollie might get into the exotic-meat business in order to attract more customers.”

  I frowned, puzzled at this latest tidbit. “But I thought I heard Boris say that your brother had threatened him. He’d even written poison-pen letters telling Boris to move his truck elsewhere or he’d put him out of business—permanently.”

  Livvy stared at me, openmouthed. “That’s ridiculous! Bones ’n’ Brew is a landmark in this city. Everyone knows that! Ollie had no reason to threaten Boris, or anyone else. Yes, my brother could be surly at times—and stubborn—but that was just his personality. He was so much like our father. But it was Boris who was doing the threatening, not Ollie. I overheard him telling my brother that he’d get even with him someday.”

  Wow. This was a surprise. The pot was calling the kettle black. So who had really been threatening whom?

  Livvy glanced at her watch. “Listen, I gotta get back. I still have a lot to do before we reopen.” She started to go, then turned to me. “Will you let me know if you hear anything? Anything at all?”

  “Of course,” I said. She nodded, satisfied with my answer, and headed across the street to her restaurant. Poor woman, I thought. Her brother is dead, and now another chef has been murdered—one, she said, who had threatened Oliver. She had to be as interested in finding out the truth as I was.

  I wandered back to where I’d left Aunt Abby but found her AWOL when I arrived. No surprise, really, knowing her attention span. I glanced at the crime scene area and saw Detective Shelton, but he was no longer talking to Jake. I wondered what Jake had told the detective. And what had he learned from the detective about the murder.

  I was concentrating so hard on finding my aunt that I didn’t notice someone running toward me until just before he rammed smack into me. He hit me hard, knocking the breath out of me. I slammed against the rough pavement, landed on my side, and gasped for air. As I fell, I managed to catch a glimpse of the man’s shoes as he ran off: ornate black cowboy boots with gold trim and silver tips.

  I’d seen those cowboy boots before. Tripp, the Meat Wagon guy.

  Someone bent over and tried to help me up, but my shoulder ached and my arm stung from the pain. The woman helped me to a sitting position.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  I nodded, too winded to talk. After a few recovery breaths, I managed to whisper, “My arm . . .”

  She and the man next to her eased me up to a standing position. I glanced at my arm and grimaced. My shirt was torn at the shoulder and blood had seeped through the cotton fabric where I’d scraped it on the pavement. Tiny dots of blood freckled my bare arm.

  “You need to have that looked at,” the woman said.

  “That jerk who hit you didn’t even stop to find out if you were all right,” the man said.

  “I’ll be okay. Thanks for your help.”

  I had to find Aunt Abby and make sure she was all right. From seeing those boots, I was pretty sure Tripp had knocked me down.

  On purpose?

  Why? I didn’t know. But I had a feeling Aunt Abby might be in real jeopardy.

  Chapter 10

  I was suddenly panicked, and my heart raced as I scanned the area. Aunt Abby had to be here somewhere. I just hoped Tripp didn’t get to her before I did—if that was his plan. Now I was certain that he’d overheard me talking on the phone last night. And that meant he knew I’d overheard him too, arguing with Boris only hours before the chef was murdered. He probably figured we’d be here, once we heard about the murder, and came looking for us.

  Cradling my scraped and bloodied arm, I slipped through the crowd and made my way around the periphery of the crime scene. In spite of the fact that Aunt Abby probably couldn’t hear me over the noise, I repeatedly called out her name and searched for her red curls in a sea of mostly brunettes, blondes, and baldies.

  Finally I spotted her—in the last place I would have expected. Somehow she had made her way to the middle of the crime scene area and was talking to Detective Shelton!

  I let out a sigh of relief. At least she was safe. But then another disturbing thought came to mind: What was she blabbing to the detective?

  “Aunt Abby!” I yelled as I ducked under the caution tape. I broke into a jog, ignoring the pain in my arm. “I thought I’d lost you! You were supposed to stay where I left you!”

  Detective Shelton turned to me and said, “I called her over. I needed to talk with her.” He paused and took a good look at me. After appraising my hurt arm, he raised his eyebrows in surprise. “What happened to you?”

  “Uh, someone pushed me down,” I said, holding my aching arm close to my chest. The bloodstain on my shirt had grown larger. “I’m fine, really.” I turned to my aunt. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course, Darcy,” Aunt Abby said, frowning at my injury. “Better than you, it would appear. You’re bleeding, you know.” She pulled some tissues out of her purse and pressed them onto the wound. The bleeding had actually stopped, but dark red dots of drying blood covered the wound. Throbbing had set in, and it hurt to move my shoulder. Still, at the moment, there were more important issues than my scraped arm.

  “You need to have someone look at that,” Aunt Abby said.

  I ignored her and said to Detective Shelton, “Listen, Detective, I have information you might be interested in.”

  “And what’s that, miss?” the detective said. His condescending tone was clear. Whatever I had to say couldn’t possibly interest him. Nodding at my tissue-covered arm, he added, “Your aunt is right. You need to get that looked at.”

  “I will!” I said, exasperated. “But I need you to listen! I overheard someone arguing with Chef Boris last night.”

  That got his attention. He studied me. “Really? Who?”

 
“It was one of his delivery guys. Tripp . . . something. After he and the chef argued, the guy left in his delivery truck.”

  “The Meat Wagon?” Aunt Abby asked.

  I nodded.

  “Yeah, that’s Tripp,” Aunt Abby added. “Shaggy looking. Needs a haircut and a bath and some teeth whitener and dental work and—”

  “Got a last name?”

  Aunt Abby shrugged.

  “What did they argue about?” the detective asked me.

  “I’m not sure exactly, but I heard Boris say something like he was done with whatever it was he was supposed to do. I couldn’t hear the delivery guy very well—he mumbled, had a toothpick in his mouth—but he gave Boris a wrapped package about the size of a man’s shoe. At first Boris refused to take it, but then he did, and then he slammed the window shut, and then Tripp left.” I had to take a deep breath after getting all that out.

  Detective Shelton clicked his pen. “When did you say this was?”

  “It must have been around eleven or so. I was headed for my car when I heard them talking.”

  “And how were you able to see and hear all of this?” The detective eyed me.

  “Uh . . . I was sort of standing behind my aunt’s School Bus.”

  “Sort of standing?”

  “Well, listening. And kind of hiding . . .”

  “Eavesdropping,” the detective confirmed.

  I nodded and felt myself blush.

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “That’s about it. After I hid, all I could see were Tripp’s fancy cowboy boots.”

  “Cowboy boots?” The detective clicked his pen again.

  “Yes. I was kneeling on the ground behind the bus and I could see the boots from underneath. Really fancy ones, with gold trim.”

  “The boots were under the bus?”

  “No! They were on the other side of the bus, but I could see them from where I was kneeling.”

  Detective Shelton pursed his lips. I had a feeling I was losing credibility. “What about Obregar?” he asked.

  “As far as I know, Boris was still in his food truck.”

  “Did you see or hear anything else?”

  “Yes,” I said. “There was someone else in Tripp’s truck.”

  “Who?”

  “Cherry Washington. She’s Chef Boris’s assistant.”

  “Cherry?” Aunt Abby said, eyes wide with surprise. I knew my aunt and the woman were casual friends.

  The detective wrote something on his pad. “That’s it?”

  “Yes. I mean, no! I think the guy who knocked me down a few minutes ago was Tripp, The Meat Wagon guy.”

  Aunt Abby blinked several times. “Oh goodness, Darcy!”

  “Why do you think that, miss?” the detective asked.

  “Well, I’m not absolutely positive it was him, since I didn’t actually see his face when I fell. But like I said, I did see his cowboy boots as he ran off. They were black with gold trim. Very ornate.”

  “You think they belong to this Tripp?” the detective asked.

  “I’m pretty sure.”

  Detective Shelton frowned. “Why didn’t you tell me right away about this guy bumping into you? He’s probably long gone by now.”

  “I . . . I was worried about my aunt. I thought she might have gone off looking for her son—ouch!”

  I shot a look at Aunt Abby. Had she just kicked me in the back of my ankle? On purpose?

  The detective looked at me curiously. “Is something wrong?”

  After giving Aunt Abby the stink eye, I shook my head. I wanted to reach down and rub my aching ankle, but I sucked it up. Apparently, my aunt didn’t want me saying anything to the detective about Dillon’s sudden disappearance.

  “Well,” he said, closing his notebook, “Thanks for the information. I’ll contact you if I have any more questions.”

  “That’s it?” I asked, surprised at his lackluster response.

  “I’d advise you both to be careful,” he added.

  “Detective,” Aunt Abby said, “do you think Tripp Saunders came back and killed the chef?”

  He shrugged. “We really don’t know what we’re dealing with yet, Ms. Warner, but if the same guy who killed Jameson also murdered Obregar, he may kill again. You should keep your bus locked and your eyes open.” He turned to leave.

  “Just one more question,” I said, catching him before he escaped. “How exactly did Boris die?”

  “Sorry, I can’t give out any more information.” He shook his head and walked away. Apparently this question-answer thing was a one-way street.

  Aunt Abby and I headed for the crime scene tape and ducked under it, freeing ourselves from the cordoned area. Just outside the periphery, Aunt Abby leaned over and whispered, “I know how Boris died.”

  I looked at her. “What? How?”

  “Blunt-force trauma caused by bludgeoning—a blow to the head. They won’t know for sure until they do an autopsy and see how localized the damage was.”

  Blunt-force trauma? Autopsy? Localized damage? My aunt had been watching too many CSI shows. “How do you know all this?”

  Her eyes twinkled as she pointed to a young uniformed officer behind the yellow tape who was keeping curious onlookers from breaching the crime scene. “See that hunk over there? He said I remind him of his grandmother.”

  “Oh my God, Aunt Abby! You were shamelessly flirting, weren’t you? What did you say to him?”

  She smiled. “Oh, I just asked him what was going on and told him I was a possible witness. Then I chatted him up for a few minutes, told him I owned the Big Yellow School Bus next to Boris’s truck. I offered him a complimentary grilled-crab-and-cheese sandwich next time he was in the area; then I batted my eyelashes at him and asked if he thought I had anything to worry about, what with a murderer on the loose and all. He sort of let the details slip out.”

  Whoa. My aunt was more devious than I ever imagined. I could learn from her.

  “Did he tell you what the weapon was?”

  “Not yet. But wait until he tastes my cooking. . . .” She grinned and batted those Kewpie-doll eyelashes again.

  “Aunt Abby, you’re shameless!”

  “I know, but enough talk about me. You need to have that arm cleaned and bandaged. Let’s go to the Safeway across the street and pick up some first aid supplies, since I can’t get into my bus at the moment. I’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

  As we headed for the store, I imagined all the kitchen equipment a murderer could use to off somebody like Boris—a tenderizing hammer, a meat grinder, a lead-filled rolling pin . . .

  I shuddered.

  The list seemed endless.

  • • •

  Aunt Abby shopped for supplies while I went to the restroom and gently washed my arm. She arrived moments later and took on nursing duties, patting the affected area with antiseptic, which stung, applying some sort of salve, which numbed the pain, and wrapping my arm with gauze and tape. When she was finished, we headed for my car.

  As we crossed the street, I spotted my ex-boyfriend, Trevor the Tool-Head from the Chronicle. We’d broken up a few months ago, after I found out he’d cheated on me with my competitor at the “other” newspaper. At the moment, he was talking to one of the officers on the sidelines. What was he doing here?

  “Wait a minute!” I said, and took a sudden detour, pulling my aunt by the hand.

  “Where are we going?” she asked. “I need to look for Dillon!”

  “I have to talk to someone.”

  I waved to Trevor to catch his eye. We’d been cordial, since we both worked at the newspaper and had to get along, but it was all fake on my part, and probably his too. He held up a finger, telling me to wait a minute, wrote something down in his reporter’s notebook, then thanked the cop and heade
d over to where I stood a few feet away.

  “Darcy!” he said with a false grin. “So good to see you! What are you doing here?” He tried to hug me, but I stiffened, and he got the message and moved back.

  “You too!” I lied. I could outfake him anytime, anywhere. But I had to admit, he still looked every bit the rugged journalist in his comfy jeans, button-down camp shirt, and well-worn athletic shoes. Tall, tan, and lean, he always appeared camera ready, like one of those intrepid reporters who covered dangerous missions in war-torn countries. For some reason, he’d never made it to the big leagues, and to his dismay he continued to cover local news. I wondered how many other reporters he’d cheated on over the years.

  “So, Trevor,” I said, crossing my arms in front of me, “are you reporting on the murder?”

  “Yeah, this is going to be a big case,” he said, brushing his tousled hair off his forehead. “I can smell it. It might be my ticket to the front page.” He reached out a hand and placed it on my shoulder. “Hey, sorry about you losing your job. Have you found anything yet? I hear there are openings at that little online weekly.”

  The lack of sincerity in his voice was clear. My pride kept me from telling him I was working for my aunt in her food bus. I changed the subject.

  “I saw you talking to that cop,” I said. “Did you find out anything about the murder?”

  He eyed me suspiciously. “Why? You trying to scoop my story and sell it to the Examiner?”

  I forced a laugh. “No, no, I’m working on a book now.”

  “Really? A novel? Something literary, no doubt.”

  I so wanted to slap the smug off his face. Instead, I forced a smile. “A cookbook, actually. I’ve collected a lot of recipes over the years doing this job. But back to the murder. Did the cop tell you anything?”

  “Why do you want to know?” Trevor asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Just curious. Must be the reporter in me. Plus, my aunt knew the dead guy.” I nodded toward Aunt Abby.

  Tripp looked at my aunt, then frowned. “Nothing much. They’re being very closemouthed about it, keeping it under wraps, you know.”