Death of a Crabby Cook

by Penny Pike

  “Well, it’s easy enough to make. The French call it choux à la tiramisu.”

  Oh my God, he speaks perfectly accented French, I thought. I’m doomed.

  “You just make the basic pastry puff—water, butter, sugar—bring it to a boil, and add the flour and stir for a couple of minutes. Then add the eggs and coffee, spoon the batter, and bake them for thirty minutes. While they cool, you beat cream and sugar, then fold in mascarpone and chocolate. I drizzle a little Ghirardelli chocolate sauce on top, then dust it with powdered sugar. That’s it.”

  That’s it, eh? Might as well try to teach me how to hack into a computer or solve a murder mystery. I smiled. At least it would make a great recipe for my food truck cookbook.

  “Well, it’s amazing. Thank you.”

  He looked pleased and began filling more shells with the creamy custard.

  “So,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant, “I saw you chatting to that bacon truck guy. Anything new?”

  “We were just talking about the new trucks that want Boris’s site. I think they’d kill to get in here.”

  I frowned.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Bad choice of words.”

  “What do you think will happen to Cherry Washington now that the truck is closed?”

  Jake returned about a dozen freshly filled cream puffs to the fridge and pulled out another tray of shells. I tried not to drool.

  “She mentioned something about taking over his truck, if she could get some cash together quickly. I think she was hinting for me to lend her some dough, but I’m still paying off the loan for my own truck. She talked about hitting up Willow from the Coffee Witch and a few others to invest.”

  Hmm. So Jake had been talking to Cherry. And he’d been talking to Willow. I briefly wondered if there was something going on between Jake and Cherry or Willow. He was hot, and they were both attractive in their own ways.

  Not my concern at the moment, although I felt a wave of something resembling jealousy pass through me. Focus, Darcy, I told myself. You’re trying to figure out who murdered Boris Obregar and Oliver Jameson, not who’s dating whom. Willow seemed unlikely for the murder, since I couldn’t come up with a motive for her, but Cherry might have had a motive, since she apparently wanted to take over Boris’s truck.

  Enough to kill Boris?

  Then how did Oliver fit into all of this?

  “When did you talk to Cherry?” I asked, tempted to stick my finger in the bowl of melted chocolate.

  Jake continued scooping spoonfuls of tiramisu cream into perfectly shaped pastry puffs, one after another, in a smooth and precise rhythm. “Yesterday, after the police were done questioning us.”

  “Any idea where she is now?”

  Jake dropped the spoon in the nearly empty bowl and wiped his fingers on his apron. He turned to me. “Not really. I assume she’s in Boris’s truck, cleaning up the place. You still trying to figure out who killed him?”

  I ignored his question and added a couple more of my own. “What about his truck being a crime scene?”

  “I guess you didn’t notice. The police took the tape down last night, after they’d finished collecting all the evidence.”

  It was true—I hadn’t noticed. Some sleuth wannabe I was. “That was quick.”

  “The amount of time varies,” Jake said. “Most crime scene techs get what they need the first time around. They pretty much cleaned the place out and hauled everything away. I assume Cherry is free to collect whatever she needs. I’m sure she has a key to the place.”

  I peered out the window at the Road Grill truck. The yellow tape was indeed gone. I wondered if Cherry Washington was inside at this very moment. If so, I definitely wanted to talk to her. I straightened up and pulled my purse up over my shoulder.

  “Thanks for breakfast,” I said. “I’d . . . better go help Aunt Abby open up the School Bus. Come by later for a complimentary Crab Potpie—today’s specialty. I owe you.”

  “You don’t owe me anything,” Jake said, smiling. That smile was as infectious as his cream puffs. “Wait a sec,” he said, reaching for a spotted and stained notebook. He opened it and pulled out a stained sheet of paper. “I’ve got a copy of the tiramisu recipe if you want it for your cookbook. You’ll probably want to try it before you put it in your book.”

  I didn’t have the guts to tell him I didn’t cook. “Thank you,” I said. I folded up the recipe. I opened my purse to stuff it inside and caught the purse strap on the edge of the counter. My bag fell to the floor with a thud, spilling the contents on the black-and-white-checked linoleum. We both knelt down to retrieve the fallen items. I gathered up my keys, wallet, makeup bag, pens, and mints, while Jake collected my ChapStick, cell phone, tissue pack, and reporter’s notebook.

  He waited as I stuffed the first wad back into my purse, then began handing me the rest of the items. He was about to give me my notebook when he paused.

  I looked up at him. He was staring at the notebook, frowning.

  I glanced down. It was open to the page where I’d written the word “Suspects.”

  Jake’s name was at the bottom of the list.

  And now he knew it.

  I pulled the notebook from his hand and forced a fake laugh. “I can explain,” I said as I rose. Oh really, Darcy? This should be good. “Of course I don’t consider you a real suspect, but, uh . . . since you were the one who found the body, I added your name—more to rule you out than anything else. Plus, I’d had a lot of wine, so I was putting down all kinds of names—even Dillon’s.”

  Oh my God, I was rambling on and going nowhere, except maybe digging myself deeper into a black hole.

  Jake nodded, but by the frown on his face, I could tell he was not convinced. I decided to make my escape before I caused any more damage.

  “Anyway, I’d better run. Thanks again for the cream puff. It was awesome!”

  I leapt down the steps and fast-walked toward the Coffee Witch, nearly bumping into the maintenance man who was sweeping litter into a pile nearby. I needed a jolt of coffee more than ever. I wondered what Jake was thinking at the moment. That I suspected him of murder? That I didn’t trust him? That I was an idiot? Probably the latter.

  I glanced back to see if he was watching me. He was. And the frown was still on his handsome face.

  I checked my cell phone for any texts from Dillon, but the only message I had was from Aunt Abby asking if I could bring her more napkins on my way back to the School Bus. When I reached Willow’s truck, I ordered a Witch’s Brew—double espresso latte—making a mental note to question her about her name change when she wasn’t so busy. After helping myself to a handful of napkins from her condiments shelf—and telling myself it wasn’t “really stealing”—I headed for Aunt Abby’s bus, swinging by a few other trucks to “borrow” more napkins. When I reached the Road Grill truck next to my aunt’s place, I tried to peer in through the drawn shades to see if there was any sign of life.

  I heard a loud thump come from inside and froze.

  Someone was in there. Cherry?

  I set down the coffee and napkins on the School Bus ledge nearby and headed for the door of the beef truck. I knocked and called out, “Cherry? Are you in there?”

  No answer.

  I listened. More bumps and thuds. I knocked again. Still no response. Maybe Cherry didn’t feel like talking right now. Maybe she was in the middle of something important. Maybe she was being murdered.

  “Cherry!” I yelled. “It’s Darcy from the Big Yellow School Bus next door! Are you all right?”

  The door flew open, slamming against the side of the truck.

  “What?!” Cherry Washington stood in the doorway, dressed in tight short-shorts beaded with rhinestones and a tank top that did nothing to hide her large breasts, her sleek mocha-colored abdomen, or the belly-button ring that dangled from her navel.
Her spiky black shoes could easily put an eye out if used the right way. She certainly wasn’t dressed for success—or for working in a food truck.

  “I . . . I thought I heard noises coming from inside. I wanted to make sure you were all right. Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m just picking up a few things, trying to clean the place up now that the cops are done with it.” She brushed her hands against her shorts, wiping off little black flecks.

  Pepper.

  She started to pull the door shut. I reached for it and held it open, feeling decidedly at her mercy since I was standing at least three feet below her. Make that four, with the heels.

  “I was wondering . . .” I said.

  “What?” she said, frowning.

  “Uh, Jake mentioned that you might be taking over Boris’s truck. Is that true?” I tried to keep my tone light, as if I were rooting for her rather than trying to root out information.

  “Yeah, maybe,” she said, shrugging.

  “Oh, well, if there’s anything I can do to help . . .”

  “Who’re you again?”

  “Darcy. I’ve been helping out in Abby Warner’s Big Yellow School Bus next door.”

  “Oh yeah. I seen you around, haven’t I? You always over at Jake’s place. Got a thing for cream puffs, doncha.” She eyed me as if waiting for my reaction to this deep, dark secret.

  “They are pretty delicious,” I said. “So, are you going to keep the menu the same if you take it over? Or do something else?”

  She stuck out a hip. “I wanna do my own thing, you know, but I haven’t decided what, yet. Maybe Cajun. I’m from N’Awlins. I’m thinking I’ll call it Creole Voodoo. My grand-mère’s got some magical recipes that’ll cast a spell on anyone who tries them. But I’m looking for a silent partner, you dig? You interested?”

  “Oh, no, sorry. I’d like to help, but I just lost my job. That’s why I’m working for Aunt Abby.”

  “She your aunt, eh? Maybe she interested?”

  “I doubt it. But good luck. I hope you find a backer. Maybe one of Boris’s contacts?”

  I was hoping she’d mention Tripp, the delivery guy I’d seen her with, but she raised a well-drawn eyebrow and just nodded. When she started to close the door again, I held it fast. “Hey, what about Tripp, from the Meat Wagon? Didn’t I see you talking to him the other night? Maybe he could invest a little?” It was a long shot, but I had to find a way to get her to talk about him.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Yeah, maybe. Look, I gotta get back to cleaning up. Lemme know if your aunt’s interested in a good business deal, y’hear?”

  “Will do,” I said as she closed the door.

  I turned around and nearly bumped into the maintenance man I’d nearly bumped into earlier.

  “Whoa!” I said. “You startled me!”

  Avoiding eye contact, he mumbled something under his thick gray mustache that I couldn’t make out and shuffled off, sweeping the surface as he went. I collected myself and headed next door, mentally summarizing what I had learned to share with Aunt Abby. One, Cherry Washington was interested in owning the truck. Good motive for killing off your boss. And two, she had raised a telltale eyebrow and had abruptly ended the conversation when Tripp’s name came up. Why? Because the two were in on something together and he killed Boris for her?

  I had to talk to Tripp—if I could find him. Meanwhile, I could have used some help from Dillon. I had a feeling he could get on the computer and find out all kinds of things about Cherry Washington and Tripp Saunders, not to mention everyone else on my list.

  Where was a computer nerd when you needed one?

  Chapter 15

  “Aunt Abby?” I called as I stepped into the Big Yellow School Bus. I didn’t want to startle my aunt. There’d been enough of that lately.

  “About time,” she said, busily sprinkling a dash of paprika on the tops of her crab potpies, which she’d named “Coach Crabbies.” “We open in twenty minutes. Where’ve you been?”

  “Snooping around,” I said, helping myself to a slice of cheddar cheese that sat waiting for the onslaught of grilled-crab-and-cheese sandwich orders that were sure to come.

  Aunt Abby stopped what she was doing and looked me over. “What did you find out?”

  “Well,” I said, slipping on an apron. I tried a couple of times to tie it the way Aunt Abby had taught me, but I only managed to wad it up around my waist. It was a lost cause. “First I stopped by Jake’s to get some breakfast.”

  Aunt Abby’s Kewpie doll eyebrow shot up. “I’ll bet.”

  I took an air-swipe at her. “Stop that! Actually, he was full of information. I found out Cherry Washington wants to take over Boris’s truck. That could be a motive for killing Boris.”

  Aunt Abby indicated the loaves of fresh bread on the counter, then handed me a large, familiar knife—the one she’d waved at Oliver Jameson just before his death. The way things were going, I was surprised the police hadn’t confiscated it for evidence.

  “But that wouldn’t explain Oliver’s death,” Aunt Abby said, making a sawing gesture so I’d start slicing.

  “No, but if I do a little more digging, I might find a connection. I’ve only talked to her once.”

  “How’d you find her?” Aunt Abby asked. She began placing the paprika’d pies in the oven.

  “Jake saw her going into Boris’s truck. The crime scene tape is down. She was inside cleaning up. At least, that’s what she said she was doing.”

  Aunt Abby pulled out another rack of pies and proceeded to “decorate” them with the red-orange spice. “Huh. I assumed that truck would close and another truck would replace it.”

  I nodded. “I saw a few vying for the spot, but they may not have a chance if Cherry finds a backer for her plan.”

  Aunt Abby’s eyes lit up. “She needs a backer?”

  I nodded and replaced the slices of bread back in the plastic bag.

  “I have an idea,” Aunt Abby said. “Why don’t I offer to be her backer?”

  “What? I thought you barely made enough to keep this place running.”

  “That’s true, but I could at least offer. That would give me a chance to ask her some questions, like what’s her credit record, does she have any criminal history, stuff like that. Of course, Dillon could do all that online . . . if he were here.” Her face fell at the mention of her absent son.

  “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea, Aunt Abby. What if Cherry turns out to be a murderer? If she thinks you’re looking into her background, she may try to stop you.”

  “Who? Little old innocent me?” Aunt Abby batted those eyelashes again.

  “Yes, you. You’re not as invincible as you think you are.” I pulled out another loaf and began whacking away again.

  “Did Jake say anything else?”

  At the thought of how the meeting had ended, a heat wave seared through me. “Uh . . . not really.” I busied myself with the loaf of cheese bread.

  Aunt Abby stared at me, hands on her hips. “Darcy. What did you do?”

  “Nothing!” I shrugged. “My purse . . . fell open. Accidentally. Jake may have seen my suspects list. . . .”

  “Oh, Darcy, no! He was our only real ally besides Dillon. Now he thinks we suspect him of murder?”

  “I’ll fix it,” I said, sawing at the bread. Sawing, sawing, sawing.

  “Oh, really? How?”

  “I don’t know yet. But I can’t live without those cream puffs of his, so I’ll make it better.”

  We worked in silence for a few minutes. The clock was ticking and in less than five minutes it would be time to open the service window and greet the growing line of customers for their late breakfasts or early lunches.

  Finally, Aunt Abby finished wiping the counter and turned to me. “Well, we still don’t have our killer. So what do we do next?�
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  “I need to talk to Tripp Saunders and find out what he and Boris were arguing about—and what’s up with him and Cherry.”

  “Oh, is that all? How do you expect to do that?” Her words dripped with sarcasm.

  “I’m a reporter, remember?” I said. “Or at least I was until a few days ago. I’ll pretend to interview him. I don’t think he knows that I overheard him. He just knows someone did—someone with a personalized ‘It’s a Small World’ cell phone ring.” I shot her a look. I really needed to change that tune.

  Before I could continue, Aunt Abby opened the window and began taking orders. I filled them as fast as I could and made only four mistakes the whole morning. Most of the customers wanted the Custodian’s Special at this hour—bacon, egg, and hash browns on a biscuit. How people could eat such a loaded combination of fat, salt, and cholesterol was a mystery to me. I liked my breakfast food simple—like a cream puff.

  The rush kept us both busy until around two, when things settled down enough for me to take a break and get a coffee.

  “Want anything?” I asked my aunt.

  She raised her bottle of peach Snapple, took a swallow, and shook her head, then went about cleaning up the latest mess.

  I headed for the Coffee Witch, walking slowly past Jake’s truck, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, judge his mood, and see if he could take a coffee break. Unfortunately, he was still dealing with a line of customers, mostly women. Attractive women. Oh, well. After putting Jake on my list of suspects, I could pretty much cross him off my list of future dating material—a list of one. So much for that list.

  There was only one person in line for Willow’s coffee truck—the maintenance man. As I stood behind him, I wondered if he’d seen anything related to Boris’s murder. I hadn’t really thought of him before, but then, people who work in the service business are often invisible. They become part of the background, overlooked or ignored. Yet they’re often in a position to see and hear all kinds of things the rest of us miss.

  “Excuse me?” I said to his back.