by J. J. Cook
“I’ll make some coffee,” Ollie volunteered. “There has to be another explanation for Delia going missing.”
We sat down at the counter with mugs of coffee, Delia’s cell phone, and the invitation to Chef Art’s benefit dinner.
“Tell me again what Chef Art said to you in the car when he picked you up.” Miguel pulled out a notebook and a pen.
I repeated my conversation with Chef Art. “I didn’t want to mention this yesterday. Delia swore me to secrecy, but I think things have changed.”
I told him and Ollie what Delia had said about dating Chef Art and that he had picked her up there the night Terry was killed. “I remember seeing the green Lincoln pull out of the back parking lot. I was standing on the corner, talking to her. She got in the car and it took off.”
“Why didn’t Delia say something?” Ollie asked.
“She didn’t want to make an enemy out of Chef Art,” I told him. “She said the police wouldn’t go after him and she’d be stuck with him being angry for no reason.”
Ollie jumped to his feet and slammed one fist into another. “I’ll show him an enemy. Let’s go out to his mansion right now and drag him out. He’ll tell us where she is.”
“I think she went with him,” Miguel quietly said.
“What?” Ollie turned on him. “She wouldn’t take off like that. She liked being here. She told me so herself.”
“I’m not saying she didn’t like being here,” Miguel added. “I’m not even saying she went of her own volition. She may have agreed to go with him to spare Zoe any further problems.”
“That’s stupid,” Ollie fumed, walking from one end of the room to the other.
“Look around. The door wasn’t smashed. Delia walked out without saying anything. The fact that she left behind the invitation Chef Art said he’d send Zoe tells us he was here. That doesn’t mean he had to hurt her to get her to go with him.”
“You’re speculating,” Ollie said. “I still think we should drive out there and demand to see him. Then we can ask him some questions.”
“Chef Art probably has security people,” I told him. “They won’t let us in.”
“What about the police?” Ollie demanded. “Delia’s missing.”
I told him how the police had felt about that. “They won’t help for at least forty-eight hours.”
“We have no demands, just the invitation,” Miguel argued. “We have no proof that she didn’t go of her own accord.”
“Chef Art is supposed to come to police headquarters tomorrow and help me promote my food truck.” I realized as I said it that the chances were that he wouldn’t show up now. There was no point in calling anyone and telling them about an event that wouldn’t happen.
It was depressing. I was also afraid for Delia. I may have been part of making Chef Art feel that he had to kidnap her. Maybe he hadn’t really believed me about not having the recipe after all. If he hurt her—I didn’t even want to think about it.
It was eight A.M. by this time. I would’ve missed the breakfast crowd but could’ve still driven the Biscuit Bowl to police headquarters for lunch. I probably would’ve been there before most of the other food trucks anyway. My heart wasn’t in it that day.
Ollie stalked back to the homeless shelter. Miguel told me he had a few friends who might know something more about Chef Art and the Jefferson recipe. I asked if I could go along. Otherwise, I was bound to sit and eat all the food I’d made for that day. I’d end up five pounds heavier and still depressed.
“That’s fine,” he said. “I can’t guarantee anything. Since the theft of the Jefferson recipe has also involved at least two murders, we have to assume Chef Art is playing this close to the chest.”
“How will he announce that he has the recipe? Won’t the police want to talk to him?”
“Probably,” Miguel said. “If he uses the benefit dinner to announce that he’s found the recipe, he can’t keep it. The only way it could help him would be with publicity. If he wanted to keep the recipe in his personal collection, he’d have to keep his mouth shut about it.”
“Of course, we’re only speculating that Chef Art took Delia to keep it a secret that he has the recipe.” Miguel and I got in his car after I’d locked up the diner. “It makes more sense that you’ll go to the dinner and Delia will be there on his arm, wearing an expensive dress. I didn’t want to say that in front of Ollie. I think he likes her.”
“In other words, she was protecting him because they might have a relationship.” I nodded, thinking about what the two policemen had said earlier. “I really thought she liked Ollie, too.”
“She probably does.” He pulled the Mercedes into traffic. “But Chef Art is a wealthy man who lives in a mansion and travels the world. Why wouldn’t she want to be with him?”
I could see how she could feel that way. What else did she have? My offer of working in my food truck and sleeping on a rollaway bed in a pantry didn’t seem like much compared to it.
“I’m going to make a quick stop at my office, if that’s okay,” Miguel said. “I left my briefcase there last night.” He parked the car and I went inside the building with him. It was part of the shabby-chic area of Mobile. The buildings were older but had a flair to them that came with age and money being spread around to make them popular.
I liked the area, especially the little cafés and restaurants that had opened on the ground floor of some of the buildings. They were too pricey for me to rent, which was how I’d ended up being in the old shopping center that should probably have been torn down years before. There was also a problem with higher crime rates here.
“This is nice,” I said as we walked into his office. It was very low-key, nothing extra. Only one painting of Mardi Gras on the wall.
We heard a noise outside the closed door. It sounded like someone was trying to get in.
“Do you think that’s Delia?” I whispered.
“I don’t know. Let’s not take a chance.”
Miguel and I hid behind a partial wall that separated the main part of the office from the small area that held a fax and copy machine.
I was hoping he might have a gun. I knew he didn’t when he picked up a baseball bat. I grabbed a toner cartridge and crouched down behind the wall with him.
The front door opened. All the muscles in my body tensed. My heart was slamming against my chest. We watched as Don Abbott walked right by us. He seemed intent on going through the papers on Miguel’s desk.
I stared into Miguel’s face and mouthed, “What now?”
I wasn’t embarrassed to admit that I was afraid. Unlike us, Don probably had a gun, and wouldn’t mind using it if he found us.
The way he was going through every drawer and every tiny scrap of paper made me think it would take him a while to reach the area where we were hiding. He’d get there eventually. I wished we had some kind of plan.
Miguel did. He walked boldly out of the room with his hand in his jacket pocket. I wished he’d told me what he’d planned. I didn’t know what to do.
“Mr. Abbott!” Miguel got his attention.
Don turned around sharply, an angry look of surprise on his face. “I thought you weren’t here. Let me have it, Miguel. I figure you have the recipe. It won’t do you any good unless you know who the buyer is.”
I was relieved to see that Don didn’t seem to have a gun, either. He put his hands up, like they do in the movies. Did he really believe Miguel’s hand was a gun in his pocket?
“Tie him up, Zoe,” Miguel said in a harsh voice.
I knew he was trying to get the upper hand with Don before he discovered the trick. I wouldn’t have guessed it would really work.
I didn’t waste time thinking about it. I found a curtain sash that was loose. Don sat down on a chair, and I used the sash to tie him to it. He smelled awful. I held my breath as I pulled th
e sash as tight as I could. I didn’t know how long it would hold him. I hoped Miguel had a second part to this plan.
Once Don was secure in the chair, Miguel took his hand out of his jacket pocket and frisked him. No one had a gun. That was a relief.
Don shook his head. “Man, that’s one of the oldest tricks in the book. I really thought you had a gun!”
“And you fell for it,” Miguel said. “Why are you here?”
“I guess for the same reason you two are here—the recipe.”
“Why do you think I have it?” Miguel stared intently at him.
“You’re the only one I could think of that I haven’t searched. I was thinking Biscuit Girl gave it to you.”
“Biscuit Girl?” I couldn’t believe he called me that.
“Yeah. I was pretty sure that Terry slipped it to you.”
I started to correct his assumption.
Miguel stopped me. “We want part of the money.”
Don laughed in his greasy way. “I knew it. Nobody’s above a million dollars. We could split it, you know? You give me the recipe, and I’ll tell you who we’re supposed to take it to.”
“You start,” Miguel insisted.
Don didn’t look happy about that. He launched a colorful protest, but Miguel ignored him.
“Okay. Fine.” Don looked around the room. “I didn’t know where Terry hid the recipe. But I knew he wrote the location down for me to find in case he got in trouble. He had some girl make it into beads.”
“Beads?” Miguel scoffed. “How could he write it down in beads? Do you think I’m kidding about what I’ll do if I don’t get the truth from you?”
I grabbed Miguel’s sleeve. As soon as Don said beads, I knew what had happened. “Green paper beads, right?”
TWENTY-TWO
Both men looked at me.
“Terry gave Delia some beads in the parking lot the night he was killed. She gave them to me. She said she didn’t want to see them.”
“So you’ve been holding the information the whole time?” Don threw back his stringy hair and laughed out loud. “I’m losing it.”
Miguel took my arm and we walked behind the partial wall again.
“What beads are you talking about?” he whispered with as much intensity as he’d used questioning Don. He was still holding my arm. “How can anything be written on beads?”
“The beads are made from paper. I guess Terry had someone use the beads as a place to hide information about the recipe. I hope he didn’t have the recipe made into beads or it will be worthless.”
“You didn’t mention the beads to the police?”
“Is this an interrogation?” I jerked my arm away from him. “I didn’t think it meant anything. I almost threw them in the garbage.”
“Sorry.” He smiled. “This may be the break we’ve been looking for.”
“But why would Terry write down where the recipe was hidden? He must’ve been the one to hide it.”
“He probably did it in case he needed someone to back him up, like Abbott said. Sometimes, thieves hide what they’ve stolen and give that information to a friend. If their lives are threatened by the buyer, they have some leverage. In this case, Terry knew one man had already died. He probably wanted to use Don as a backup but was afraid to give him too much information.”
We went back to question Don again.
He was gone. I wasn’t as good at tying someone up as I’d thought.
“He’s probably gone to your place to find the beads,” Miguel said. “Let’s go.”
I smiled at him. “No need to rush. I have them with me. I keep forgetting to take them out of my bag.”
To my surprise, Miguel kissed me quickly on the lips and grabbed my hand. “Let’s take a look at them.”
I almost couldn’t move. All the time I’d spent wondering if he had any feelings for me. Surely this was a sign. Maybe he wasn’t ready to date yet, but his response was genuine in his excitement.
“Are you okay?” he asked when I didn’t start out of the office with him.
“I’m fine.”
He frowned. “Was that too much too soon?”
“No. Not at all.” I gazed into his dark eyes. “My bag is in your car.”
He squeezed my hand, and I ran out of the office with him. He locked the door behind us, and we went quickly out to the car.
We got in and Miguel drove away. “Let’s go somewhere public where Don will be less likely to bother us.”
I was surprised he didn’t want to take the beads to the police, and said so.
“There have been so many twists in this case. I don’t want to give anything to Detective Latoure until we’re sure of it. It ruins your credibility if you’re constantly giving the police unimportant information.”
That was good enough for me.
We drove to a small coffee shop. I found a table in a dark corner while Miguel got coffee for us. It was exciting thinking we might be on the right track for the recipe—almost as exciting as Miguel kissing me.
It wasn’t a big kiss, but that was okay. It was a beginning.
He came back with my double shot mocha and his plain coffee. We sat across from each other, and I took the beads out of my bag. I felt the seating was strategic. We could see people coming toward us and hide what we found in the beads.
It was difficult taking the beads apart. There was tough string holding them together. Miguel used the knife on his key chain to cut the string so the beads would be separated.
As he cut the first string, I started unwinding the paper that the beads were made of. It was tightly wound and difficult to pull apart without tearing. Eventually, I got the paper strip unwound from the first bead. It took me ten minutes. Miguel was done cutting the string between the beads. He watched me as the green paper opened under my fingers.
There was nothing written on it. I sipped my coffee, and looked up at him. “I guess we’ll have to unwind all the beads until we find it.”
“Or Don lied to us.”
“We won’t know until all the beads are unwound.”
Miguel began unwinding the strips of paper, too. “Why would anyone want to do this?”
“It’s good for the environment. Usually, they’re made from recycled paper. They look pretty, don’t they?”
Miguel looked at the bead that was half unwound in his hand. “Yes. Beautiful.”
I laughed at him. “Well, when they’re done right, and you’re not taking them apart, they look great. And there’s no plastic.”
“How does anyone even think of doing something like this?”
“I don’t know. I’m not crafty. I cook. That’s about it.”
“You’re very good at cooking, Zoe.” He unwound the rest of his bead. “I’m sure your dream of owning an important restaurant will come true.”
There was nothing written on his bead, either, or the next bead I unwound.
“Would you like me to take those cups for you?” a coffee shop employee asked.
“No!” Miguel and I both barked. The waiter went away quickly.
“I hope he wasn’t traumatized by our response.” Miguel started on another bead.
“He might never be able to pick up trash from tables again.”
I started on another bead, too, and glanced from under my lashes at Miguel. I knew I’d already asked him about going to the benefit dinner. He hadn’t responded. Was it too soon to ask him again?
“Have you had a chance to think about going to the benefit dinner with me?”
“Not really. It’s not the kind of thing I normally do.” He smiled at me as though to ease the pain. “I’m not much of a party person.”
“I can understand. I’m not usually a party person, either.” I was lying. I loved parties. Combining that with all the excellent food, and the chance to s
ee Chef Art’s mansion, was irresistible. But it looked like I might be going alone.
“Are you still sure you should go? You might not like what you find out about Delia and Chef Art.”
I shrugged. “The dinner may not happen at all if what we find on one of these beads leads us to Chef Art as the killer.”
“That’s true.” Miguel finished another bead. There was nothing written on it. “If anything is really on one of these beads.”
It wasn’t much of an answer to my question about Miguel going with me to the benefit dinner, if it happened. I guess it was his way of saying no. He was trying to be nice.
Maybe it wasn’t me, though—he had kissed me, even if it was only a peck. Maybe he didn’t like being out in Mobile society after giving up his job at the DA’s office.
We were forty-five minutes into unwinding beads. String and green paper littered the table between us. None of the waiters came over and asked if we needed anything else. Not that I blamed them.
Our fingertips were green from the dye in the paper. There was one bead left for each of us. If there was nothing there, we’d have to look elsewhere for more information.
“Choose your bead,” Miguel said. “Let’s hope there’s something on one of them.”
Each of us quickly unwound the paper. We were getting to be experts by this time.
Mine was still blank, but there was writing on Miguel’s last bead.
“Chef A. Green chili. Food truck. Watch your back.” Miguel looked up at me when he was done reading. “I guess that says it all.”
“If this was meant for Don, we’d better figure it out before he guesses what it says.”
We threw our trash into a can as we walked out of the coffee shop. Miguel kept the single strip of paper from the last bead and put it in his pocket.
“Food truck? It has to mean the taco truck,” I guessed.
“Probably.”
“Maybe the recipe is in the taco truck. What if we find it?” I asked him as I got into his car.
“We take it to Detective Latoure and let her deal with it from there.”