Death of a Crabby Cook

by Penny Pike

  A dark figure hovered outside my side window.

  “Get out of here!” I screamed and fumbled for my phone. “I’m calling the police!”

  The figure stepped back into my headlights, his hands raised in surrender. One hand held a small bag.

  “Jake!”

  “Just me. Sorry if I startled you.”

  I lowered the window. “You didn’t startle me—you scared the crap out of me! Who goes around parking lots knocking on people’s hoods? No one! You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

  He moved closer to my window and leaned in. “Why so jumpy? Something happen?”

  How did he know?

  “Nothing . . . I just . . .”

  “Pull over. You don’t look like you’re in any condition to drive at the moment. Besides, I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  “How did you know where I was?” I asked.

  “Saw you leave the bus and head this way. I hoped I’d catch you before you drove off.”

  I hesitated, then felt foolish that I was still worried this guy might be a murderer. He was just too cute to kill anybody.

  I thought about Aunt Abby alone at her house and figured Dillon would be there soon. Restarting the car, I backed out of the exit and over to a nearby slot, then turned off the engine, deliberately this time. Pushing a button, I unlocked the doors. Jake let himself into the passenger seat and held up the bag.

  “What’s that?” I asked, hoping it was a cream puff and not a weapon of some kind. Of course, if anyone wanted to try to kill me, they didn’t need to leave threatening notes. All they had to do was distract me with a cream puff and get it over with.

  Jake opened the bag. In such close quarters, he smelled of chocolate. What had he been doing? Bathing in it?

  Worked for me.

  “Here. I’m trying another new recipe. See what you think.”

  He lifted out a delicate mini cream puff concoction and held it in his open palm.

  I eyed it suspiciously. How would I know if poison was one of the ingredients? “What is it?”

  “A cream puff,” he said smartly.

  “I know that. What kind?” I tried not to openly drool, but the heady aroma of dark chocolate practically made me swoon. I felt like Dorothy under the influence of a poppy field.

  “S’mores,” he announced proudly.

  “Seriously?” I said, recalling the flavor of my favorite Girl Scout camp dessert. “How do you make S’mores Dream Puffs?

  “Simple. I added graham cracker crumbs to the shell batter, then filled it with a marshmallow cream mixture and covered it in melted Ghirardelli chocolate bars. I want to know what you think.”

  It sounded so tempting I wanted to swallow it whole. But that would be crass, I thought. I accepted the culinary artwork from his large hand and took a bite, savoring the combination of sweet flavors as they melted in my mouth.

  “Mmmmmm,” was about all I could manage after that first bite. I finished the rest in a single bite, wishing he’d brought a dozen more. I could have easily downed them without a thought about the billions of calories in each one.

  “Wow,” I finally said. “Heaven.”

  Jake grinned. “Thanks.” He pointed to the side of my cheek. “You’ve got a little . . .” He leaned in and used his finger to wipe off the bit of cream puff that had managed to escape my mouth. My breath caught. His dark eyes held my gaze. He leaned in closer and put his warm hand on my cool cheek.

  And then he kissed me.

  It was almost as good as the cream puff.

  I pulled back, surprised at myself. I had just let a suspect kiss me! That was not a good thing for a person investigating a murder to do. What was wrong with me? I could claim I was under the influence of chocolate marshmallow and dark brown eyes. No jury of women would ever convict me. But this was not cool.

  Jake must have recognized my reaction. “Sorry,” he said.

  With that little smile on his face, he didn’t look so sorry.

  “Oh, no . . . I . . . uh,” I stammered. “I should be getting home to my aunt. I’m worried about her.”

  Jake frowned. “Something happen?”

  I sighed. Now that he’d kissed me—and I’d let him—I figured I might as well tell him about the note—and maybe cross him off my suspect list. I pulled the crumpled paper out of my purse, switched on the dome light, and showed it to him.

  “Someone left this on your car?” he asked after reading it.

  I nodded. “That’s why I’m worried about Aunt Abby. Whoever wrote that probably knows I’ve been looking into the murders. And he somehow knows that Dillon has a pet rat. I have a feeling he’s been following me.”

  “Darcy, this is serious. You need to call the police.”

  “You’re right. I will. It’s just that with Dillon hiding out in Aunt Abby’s bus, I don’t want to get him into more trouble, you know?”

  “It sounds like Dillon can take care of himself. Right now you need to protect yourself and your aunt. And that means calling Detective Shelton, you hear?”

  Jake sounded genuinely concerned, and it touched me. Almost as much as that kiss had.

  “I will.”

  “Now,” Jake ordered.

  I sighed and dialed the detective’s number. He answered on the first ring, and I explained about the note I’d found on my car. He asked me several questions—Did I see anyone around my car? Did I have an idea who left the note? Had something else happened he didn’t know about? After fifteen minutes on the phone, I finished answering his questions and hung up.

  “Happy?” I asked Jake.

  He nodded. “What did Shelton say?”

  “He told me to go home, lock the doors, and watch my back.”

  “Good advice,” Jake said.

  “And I’ll do that, right after I check to make sure my aunt’s okay.”

  “How about I follow you?”

  “No need. Really. Dillon will be there.”

  Jake nodded. “All right, but call me when you get there. I want to know you’re safe.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  He started to open the door, then turned back to me. “Listen, I’ve been doing a little digging myself, mostly to get my name off your suspect list.” He shot me a glance.

  I felt myself blush. “Did you find out something?”

  “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but when I first opened for business here, I went out with Willow a couple of times. I just wanted to get that out in the open. She kept asking me to these clubs, but they weren’t for me. Then she met this guy who worked for Boris a few months ago—someone named Ivan, I think his name was. Turns out he was an illegal.”

  “You mean, an illegal alien?”

  Jake nodded. “Willow said that Boris said he was going to help get Ivan legal status because he worked for him. But the deal fell through after Willow began seeing Ivan. It turned out Boris had a major crush on Willow and was jealous.”

  “That’s what Aunt Abby said.”

  “She is pretty cute, if you overlook all her tats and piercings.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him.

  “Just not my type,” he added, grinning.

  “Do you think Willow might have killed Boris for getting what’s-his-name sent back to wherever he came from? Or hired someone to do it for her?” I was thinking of Tripp.

  “Don’t know, but Willow told me she’d once been an exotic dancer and had been in trouble with the law for beating up a guy who tried to force himself on her.”

  “She beat him up!?” I was stunned that my friendly coffee source had that kind of muscle in her. And that kind of background.

  “Kicked his ass, is what she said. She said his eyes were solid red and his face looked like it had been run through a coffee grinder. She was kind of proud of that.”

&n
bsp; “Wow. Did she go to jail?”

  “Got probation. Called it self-defense. She said if she’d had more than pepper spray and her cell phone with her, she could have easily killed him.”

  “She used her cell phone?”

  “Smacked him with the corner of it.”

  “Wow.” Who knew a cell phone could be used as a weapon?

  “And pepper spray?”

  “She said all the girls carried pepper spray.”

  We were back to pepper again.

  “Do you think she could have killed Boris?”

  “I don’t know, but she’s got a temper—that’s for sure.”

  I thought for a moment, taking it all in. “Thanks for telling me.”

  He reopened his door. “So, you’ll call me, right?” He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a business card with the name of his company and his cell phone number.

  I took it and put it in my purse. “As soon as I get home.”

  “All right. Night, Darcy.”

  “Good night, Jake. And thanks for the cream puff.”

  “Glad you liked it. Thanks for the dessert afterward.”

  I felt myself blush again.

  He got out of the car and stood watching me as I started up the engine and headed for the parking lot exit once again.

  I was about to pull into the street when I noticed someone enter the back door of the Bones ’n’ Brew restaurant across the street. Moments later, the figure came back out carrying two large bags of trash. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman in the dim light, but the person was strong enough to open the heavy Dumpster lid and heave over the two bags before slamming the lid shut. With a last glance around, he—or she—reentered the restaurant.

  Hmm. Was business getting back to normal at Bones ’n’ Brew already?

  I thought a moment, weighing my options. I was sure Dillon was at home by now, keeping Aunt Abby safe. In fact, Dillon was a lot better protection than I would have been. I let curiosity get the better of me. Who was tossing out garbage at Bones ’n’ Brew?

  I pulled into traffic, made a left turn at the first opportunity, then drove into the Bones ’n’ Brew customer lot, making sure to park in a well-lighted section just in case I was still being followed. I hadn’t come up with a connection between Oliver Jameson and Boris Obregar yet, nor had I talked to Oliver’s sister since Boris’s murder. If she was the one taking out the trash, this might be a good time to ask her a few more questions and see if I could figure out the link between the two dead chefs.

  And if anyone tried to follow me inside and attack me, there would be plenty of knives around to use to defend myself. After working in Aunt Abby’s School Bus kitchen for the past couple of days, I was beginning to know my way around sharp instruments.

  I got out of the car, made sure to lock it, then started for the back door. I paused a moment when I reached the Dumpster, still wondering what was in those bags of trash that had just been tossed. Maybe something that would offer a clue to the mystery? But I wasn’t about to go digging around in there alone, now that it had gotten dark. Not with a killer on the loose.

  Maybe tomorrow.

  I knocked on the door and waited.

  No answer.

  Glancing around to make sure my stalker wasn’t stalking me at the moment, I turned the knob.

  It opened. I entered.

  “Hello?” I called, walking down the small hallway toward the kitchen. The place was empty and deadly quiet, but the overhead lights were on. So where had the person I’d seen disappeared to?

  I moved through the kitchen, passed the dining area, and headed to Oliver’s office. The door was ajar. I pushed it open slowly and looked inside the room, lit only by a small desk light. I tiptoed in. The place was empty, but something felt odd. I stepped to the desk where Oliver had been discovered, slumped over his crab bisque. Brr. Had a ghost just passed through me or was it cold in here?

  I scanned the desk. A mess of papers were scattered about. I walked around to the front of the desk and froze.

  All the drawers were pulled open. Several of them had been dumped out onto the floor. There were papers everywhere.

  Someone had obviously been searching through Oliver’s stuff.

  For what?

  I heard the office door creak and whirled around.

  A figure stood in the doorway, one arm raised, a large knife glinting in the upheld hand.

  I was trapped like a rat in a dead man’s office.

  Chapter 19

  “Get out of here!” the figure screamed, stepping into the room. “I have a knife!”

  I recognized Livvy immediately. Apparently she hadn’t recognized me.

  I held my hands up. “Livvy, it’s me, Darcy. We talked the other day, remember? I’m the one writing a story about your brother and the restaurant.”

  She squinted at me, then lowered the knife. “What are you doing here? You scared me half to death.”

  “I’m sorry. I knocked but no one answered. The door was open. . . . I saw the lights on and thought I could ask you a few more questions. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “Well, you did. I wasn’t expecting anyone to just come waltzing in uninvited.” She moved a few more steps inside and set the knife on the desk.

  “I know. Sorry.” I glanced around at the ravaged office. “What happened?”

  She shrugged, then bent down, righted Oliver’s overturned swivel chair, and dropped into it. “Someone tossed it, obviously. Probably looking for cash or employee paychecks. It was like this when I got here a few minutes ago.”

  A few minutes ago? Then who was the one I saw carrying out the trash?

  “Did you call the police?”

  “I was just about to. I thought I’d look around and see if I could figure out if anything is missing.”

  “Is there?”

  “That’s what’s weird. It doesn’t seem like anything’s been stolen.” She yanked out the already open top drawer and riffled through the contents. “Even his keys are still here.” She held them up and twirled the key ring. It flew off her finger and landed at her feet. She slid off the chair and knelt to retrieve the keys. On her way up, she bumped her head on the open desk drawer and sat down again.

  “Ouch!” she said, rubbing her head. “Stupid drawer!” She reached up and viciously shoved the drawer with the heel of her hand in an attempt to close it, but the drawer caught on something and didn’t budge. This time she massaged her hand.

  “You okay?” I asked, looking down at her.

  She nodded and shook her hand. She started to get up but stopped and studied the drawer a moment. Frowning, she reached up with her other hand and gently tried to push the drawer closed. It still wouldn’t budge.

  “Something’s stuck. . . .” After she’d run her hands under the drawer, her eyes widened. Suddenly she yanked the drawer out from the desk and turned it over on the floor.

  Duct-taped underneath was a legal-sized manila envelope. Livvy dug at the tape and ripped the manila envelope from the bottom of the drawer. Peeling off the tape, she reached inside and pulled out a handful of loose papers.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered.

  “What are those?”

  She flipped through the papers, then looked up at me. “They’re recipes! Ollie’s secret recipes for all his signature dishes. He would never tell me where he kept them. He was so paranoid someone was going to find them and steal them. He had his chef memorize them so no one would be able to copy them. This must be what the thief was looking for!”

  “Wow, he really was paranoid, wasn’t he? Hiding them like that. Who was he afraid would steal his recipes?”

  “Everyone, but lately he was obsessed with Boris Obregar. He was sure Boris wanted to put him out of business.”

  Oliver felt threatene
d by Boris? “Do you think Boris might have killed Oliver to get the recipes?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I suppose he could have been the one who poisoned my brother, but stealing recipes doesn’t seem like much of a reason to kill someone. And besides, how do I find out for sure, now that Boris is dead too?”

  Was this the link I was looking for, the connection between Oliver Jameson and Boris Obregar? Hard to believe it was all about recipes. Were Oliver’s recipes really that valuable? Or was there something more to it? And if Boris killed Oliver to steal them, then who killed Boris? I felt like a beater turning in circles in a mixing bowl, from Boris to Oliver to Boris. . . .

  Who was the third ingredient in this bizarre recipe?

  “What will you do with them?” I asked Livvy as she flipped through the recipes.

  “Lock them in the safe, I guess. I wasn’t planning to use them when we reopen. I’m offering a whole new menu.”

  I was puzzled by the odd timing of the break-in and said aloud, “Well, Boris didn’t break in here, because he’s dead, and you said you just found it this way.” I glanced around for signs that the lock had been damaged, the door had been busted, or a window had been smashed, but I saw nothing to indicate a break-in. While the office had been turned upside down, the door and windows seemed secure. Except for the back door, the way I’d come in.

  “Livvy, was the office locked?”

  She thought for a moment. “Uh . . . yes. After what happened to Ollie, I wanted to make sure his things were safe.”

  “I’m no cop, but I don’t see any signs of forced entry. Are you sure you locked it?”

  Livvy paused again. “I . . . suppose I could have forgotten this time. The door was open when I got here about an hour ago, and the room was a mess.”

  “Did you see anything or hear anything?”

  She shook her head. “I went straight to the office to see if there were any phone messages and found it like this.”

  “Well, you need to call the police. Do you want me to call them?”

  “No, I’ll do it,” Livvy said, retrieving her cell phone from her apron pocket. She stepped out of the room to make the call. At that moment, my phone played a familiar Disney tune.