Death of a Crabby Cook (13 page)

Tired from the day, I headed for the RV around eleven and fell into its welcoming bed after barely pulling on the Cinderella pajamas Aunt Abby had bought me. I'd offered to spend the night in the house with her, but she'd insisted I get a good night's sleep. She'd promised to do the same. When I left her, she was still sitting at the counter, jotting down notes and sipping wine, tomorrow's potpies waiting in the fridge to be finished.

I startled awake at seven fifteen, when my phone played “It's a Small World.”

My first thought was that Dillon had returned.

“Aunt Abby?” I said into the phone.

“Come here! Quick!” she said. Goose bumps rose on my arms.

Grabbing my robe, I hurried over to the house and let myself in through the unlocked sliding door at the back.

“Aunt Abby?!”

My aunt was sitting at the kitchen island where I'd left her the night before. She was wearing the same green warm-up suit and fuzzy socks, and her mascara had left shadows beneath her eyes. Her curly red hair was a little flatter than usual, and there was an imprint of inked
letters on one cheek. Spread around her were several dozen recipe cards.

“Your phone call scared me,” I said to Aunt Abby, patting my chest. “What's up? Is Dillon back?” I glanced around the kitchen and dining area.

“Sit down,” she said calmly, patting the other stool.

I pointed to her face. “You have something on your cheek.” I took a detour and headed for the cupboard, then pulled down two mugs. One read “Drink Coffee. Do Stupid Things Faster with More Energy,” and one read “Be Nice to the Lunch Lady. She Knows How to Poison Your Food.” Filling the cups, I reheated the coffee in the microwave and brought them to the counter. I grabbed a paper towel and moistened it, then handed the towel to my aunt. She rubbed the side of her face so much that she smeared the ink, making one cheek look sunken and bruised.

“You haven't been to bed all night, have you?” I asked, sitting down and surveying the spread of recipe cards. The ink on the cards matched the ink on her cheek.

“I couldn't sleep. Too worried about Dillon and too worked up about finding the killer.” She swiped at her cheek again. “I guess I dozed off at some point.” She picked up the pen and wrote something on one of the recipe cards. I'd never seen her look so excited about a few ingredients.

“Have you been writing recipes ever since I left you last night?”

I took a sip of coffee and set the cup down.

“Careful!” Aunt Abby said, pulling a card away from my mug.

Touchy? It sounded like my crabby aunt needed this coffee more than I did.

“You need to get some real sleep, Aunt Abby. Aren't you supposed to head over to the School Bus soon? Why are you sitting here writing recipes?”

“These aren't exactly recipes,” she said cryptically.

I picked up one of the cards. Next to the phrase “From the Kitchen of Abigail Warner” was the name “Oliver Jameson.”

I looked up at my aunt, then back down at the card. Was she planning to cook up a new dish called Oliver Jameson Potpie?

Curious, I read the ingredients, hoping there was nothing cannibalistic about them.

1 container rat poison

1 serving crab bisque

I glanced up at my aunt again. She was busily filling out another recipe card. I couldn't wait to read that one. “What is all this, Aunt Abby?”

“They're recipe cards, dear.”

“I
know
that, but what are you doing with them? Why did you write Oliver Jameson's name down and then list poison and crab bisque?”

“It's the way I think, Darcy. Systematically. Using that list you drew up last night, I started with the name of the recipe, only in this case, the person. Then I listed the ingredients, essentially the facts. And finally, I added the step-by-step instructions, only there I jotted down what happened, chronologically. I made up a recipe card for both of the dead guys and all our potential suspects.”

She waved her hand over the display of cards that covered the island counter. I read the “instructions” for Oliver Jameson's recipe card:

OJ found dead in his office Friday afternoon.

Cup of poisoned crab bisque found nearby.

Container of poison missing from crime scene but found in the trash (perhaps stolen from AW's School Bus?)

Down at the bottom, under the word “Tips,” she'd written:

• Had several enemies (see additional recipe cards)
  
• Poor reviews recently, business was struggling
  
• AW falsely suspected
  

The AW obviously stood for Abigail Warner. I smiled at my aunt. “You've written up a recipe card for all of them?”

“Yes. Of course, some of the information is still missing because I don't know it yet. Whenever you see ‘TBD,' it means ‘to be determined.'”

I picked up the next card. “Boris Obregar” was written at the top where the name of the recipe should have been.

“Interesting,” I said, intrigued by her method, if not her madness. “Let me have a couple swallows of coffee and I'll see if I can fill in any of the gaps.”

After fortifying myself with a dose of caffeine, I reread the card Aunt Abby had written for Boris. It took
me a few seconds to get used to her style, but if it worked for her, then maybe it would work for me too.

Ingredients:

1 bludgeoning (aka method)

1 frozen packet of meat (aka weapon)

Secret ingredient: Suspect served time for dealing drugs

Instructions:

Found dead in his truck by Jake Miller

Pepper found at the scene

Weapon (frozen meat) left behind

To which I added:
“wrapped or unwrapped?”

Under “Tips” she'd written:

• Back to dealing drugs? (felony record discovered by Dillon)
  
• Didn't get along with the vegans (they protested his use of meat)
  
• Threatened by Jameson (poison-pen letters)
  
• Avoided Jake (friends with SFPD)
  
• Argued with Tripp the Delivery Guy (overheard by Darcy)
  

I went over the rest of the “Recipe for Murder” cards that listed facts about the victims and our suspects, and filled in information, supposition, and
questions here and there. After an hour, we'd completed cards for Sierra, Vandy, Willow, Tripp, Cherry, and “Unsub”—a word Aunt Abby insisted on using because she'd heard it on
Criminal Minds
. Apparently it meant “unknown subject.” In other words, the list was open to anybody.

That narrowed it down.

I picked up one more blank card and wrote the name
“Jake Miller”
at the top.

Aunt Abby shot me a look. “What are you writing his name for? I told you, Jake is completely innocent.”

“He probably is, but let's include him anyway. He's certainly a part of this investigation. He found the body. And he had his own problems with Boris—or at least Boris had a problem with him.”

“None of that makes him a killer,” Aunt Abby said. I was beginning to wonder if she was the one who had a small crush on the cream puff guy.

“No, but it doesn't rule him out either,” I countered.

“Well, you're wrong. And I'll bet he doesn't have a secret ingredient.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Most people have a secret or two, Darcy. Like Boris and his drug record, Cherry and her rehab stints. I just don't think Jake has one.”

Did she know about Jake being disbarred? I suppose if she did, it wasn't a secret. But I was beginning to wonder if Aunt Abby had some secrets she hadn't shared with me, when her phone chirped. The ringtone—the theme from
Mission Impossible
—sent a chill down my spine. Aunt Abby grabbed the phone from the countertop and whispered into the speaker, “Dillon?”

She listened, then said, “I know. I whispered just in case someone might be listening.”

I glanced around the room for spies, but it was just the two of us. I hoped she hadn't meant me.

“Yes, she's here,” Aunt Abby said. “Okay.” She clicked the speaker icon and set the phone down on the counter.

“Dillon?” I said, leaning in to make sure he'd hear me.

“Yeah, it's me,” the low voice said. Obviously he was trying to talk quietly. I wondered where he was.

“Dillon, the cops were here!” Aunt Abby said breathlessly. “They took all your computer stuff.”

“I know, Mom. No worries. Everything's been wiped clean. And I still have my laptop. Is Ratty okay?”

“Ratty's fine. How did you know about the cops? Where are you, son?”

“I'm safe. For now. Are you all right, Mom?”

“Yes. The cops searched the house and they weren't very polite. Rude, in fact. I'm going to talk to Detective Shelton about that. But there was no police brutality or anything. They were looking for you, not me. They said they had a warrant to arrest you. Dillon, I'm so worried!”

“Calm down, Mom. I'm fine. Believe me. I just want
you
to be careful.”

“Dillon,” I spoke up, “you didn't have anything to do with Boris's—”

“Jeez, Darcy, give me some cred. I know you think I'm an epic fail, but I'm no killer.”

“Sorry, Dillon,” I said, and quickly changed the subject. “Have you found out anything more?”

“Obviously the murderer has to be someone who knew both those guys—and had a reason to kill them,” Dillon said. “I've been trying to find a connection, but so
far, nothing. The only thing that linked them was that they were both chefs, and their businesses were across the street from each other. Plus, they hated each other, but that would only account for Jameson's death, because he was too dead to kill Boris. So the question is, who killed Boris?”

I tried not to say,
“Duh.”
Instead, I said, “And why? I think our best bet is to find out what Tripp was delivering to Boris that night—and what their argument was really about.”

“Maybe it had something to do with Cherry Washington,” Aunt Abby spoke up. “Darcy, you saw her in the truck with Tripp. Maybe they were lovers. Boris was always coming on to pretty young women. Maybe Tripp got angry.”

Dillon broke in. “Maybe she was playing both of them to get what she wanted—whatever that was. Girls do that, you know.”

Like he'd know. “Look, we've got to stop imagining all the possibilities and get some facts,” I said.

“Then do it,” Dillon said simply.

“Easy for you to say. Got any suggestions?” I asked.

“Listen, I'm just the computer geek,” Dillon said. “I'm doing what I can from this end. You two are my field ops. Figure it out.”

“You're taking this James Bond stuff a little too literally,” I said. “This isn't a game, Dillon.”

“Oh, it's
on
. Oops. Gotta run,” he said, his voice low again. “I'll be in touch.”

“Wait!” I said. “See if you can find out anything on the other food truckers.”

“You mean like Willow and those vegans?”

My ears pricked up. “Did you learn something about them?”

“Well, Willow isn't her real name. It's Christine McLaughlin.”

“Why did she change it to Willow?”

“I'm not sure yet. And I'm working on the vegans.”

“Thanks, Dillon,” I said. “Hey, aren't you risking getting caught when you use your cell phone?” I asked.

“Nah. The cops can't trace my calls.”

“Why not?”

“There's an app for that.”

The line went dead before I could call him a smart-ass.

•   •   •

“Thank goodness he's all right,” Aunt Abby said with a sigh. “Now I can finish those potpies and get to work.”

“And
I
can take a shower, get dressed, have breakfast, and try to keep you propped up at work, since you've had too little sleep and too much wine.”

“I'll be fine now that I know Dillon's okay—and not in jail,” she said, retrieving more dough from the double-wide refrigerator. “Got any idea how you're going to find Cherry Washington, now that the Road Grill truck is closed due to murder?”

“Me? What about you?”

“I've got a food truck to run.”

“And I work for a tyrant of a boss who expects me to help her out in her food truck all day,” I countered.

“You'll have plenty of time on your frequent and overly long breaks.”

I was tempted to stick my finger in one of her finished potpies, just to be ornery, but instead I headed out the
back door for the RV. During my shower, I tried to come up with a plan to track down Cherry so I could ask her a few questions—and find out more about Tripp. Unfortunately, I had no idea where she lived or how to get ahold of her. I figured Dillon could find out in a matter of seconds using his computer skills, but for an ordinary newspaper reporter who didn't turn into a superhero by stepping into a phone booth and putting on a disguise, it would be a challenge.

So what did I know about Cherry Washington? She'd been working with Boris for the past year or so, she'd been in and out of rehab, and she was a huge flirt. But I rarely saw her out and about. She didn't hang out at the Coffee Witch, she hadn't stopped by the School Bus for a snack, and she didn't seem to sample foods from the other trucks when she was on a break.

I wondered if she had a sweet tooth. Maybe Jake's cream puffs were her Achilles' heel. Like they were mine.

Note to self: Talk to Jake ASAP. And eat a cream puff.

I arrived at the Fort Mason food trucks a little past nine, planning to speak to Jake before the crowds started lining up for their late breakfasts. Although the Crab and Seafood Festival was over, most vendors, including Aunt Abby, still kept some of the more popular fish-related items on their menus. My aunt planned to continue offering her Crab Potpies, Crabby Cheerleader Mac and Cheese, and Crabtown Fry until she ran out of crab.

I noticed that a few new trucks had pulled into the back lot, no doubt hoping to join the food truck circle once the Road Grill truck moved out. The semipermanent sites were at a premium, and the few transient sites were booked up months in advance. I spotted one truck called the Gluten-Free Glutton, another called the Quinoa Queen (which I continually mispronounced as
quinn-oh-wa
instead of
keen-wah
), and another one called Grill 'Em All, no doubt the closest replacement for Boris's fare. I wasn't surprised to see these trendy new trucks already vying to replace the dead man's truck, since Fort Mason was one of the most popular spots for “road food.” I wondered which one would get the coveted parking site. Personally, I was hoping for a
chocolate truck, since everything could be enhanced by a few ladles of melted chocolate. Even a cream puff.

I spotted Jake talking to the chef at Porky's and wondered if he was planning to substitute bacon bits for candy sprinkles on his cream puffs. He caught me waving, said something to the porky chef leaning out the ordering window, and moseyed back to his cream puff truck, where I stood waiting for him. Unlike Aunt Abby and me, Jake looked as if he'd had a great night's sleep. He wore a bright white T-shirt and clean relaxed jeans, and his thick, sun-bleached hair looked freshly washed, a stray lock dangling over his forehead.

“Morning, Darcy,” he said, grinning.

“You sound chipper,” I said, glancing over at the line for the Coffee Witch. “I need caffeine—or at least jumper cables.”

Jake laughed. “Not quite awake, eh? What with everything that's going on, I'm not surprised.”

“I managed a few hours of sleep, but I think my aunt was up most of the night.” I explained about the police coming to search her home, the warrant for Dillon's arrest, and Dillon's latest call and disappearance.

Jake's smile turned to a frown. “Why didn't you call me when the police came?”

I thought of Jake's name on my suspect list. I'd put him there because Boris might have given him some trouble and Jake had been the one who'd found Boris's body. Plus, I didn't know Jake all that well.

“Oh, uh, it was all so sudden and hectic—I didn't even think of it. I'm sure you would have been a great help.” I bit my lip, trying to look sincere. “Have you heard anything more about Boris's murder?”

“Nah. I talked to most of the other food truckers. They all said the police questioned them but none of them saw or heard anything. Apparently you're the only one who witnessed the argument between Boris and Tripp.”

That's because no one else was there that late at night,
I thought,
other than Boris, Tripp, Cherry,
and me.
“Have the police talked to Cherry or Tripp?”

“I don't know. The cops aren't updating me on their investigation, unfortunately. They're keeping it close to their Kevlar vests. Even my friends in the department are being tight-lipped. Your guess is as good as mine.”

Was it really? I wondered.

“Hey, want to try one of my new cream puffs? Tiramisu.” He gestured toward his truck. But I had a few more questions for him first. “Sure, but—”

“Come on. I'll show you how I make them.”

I glanced at Aunt Abby's bus. I could see her moving around inside and figured I still had a little time before she needed serious help. Why not? The cream puff sounded delicious, and I could ask my questions in the privacy of his truck.

I followed him inside. The smell of freshly baked pastry shells made my mouth water. I scanned the equipment. Hot ovens at the back, large refrigerator on the far side, cooling racks nearby. Everything stainless steel and sparkling clean. Jake put on a fresh white apron with a cream puff pictured on the front and the words “Dream Puffs” lettered above, then pulled a bowl of filling from the fridge and a couple of shells from the rack. It took him only seconds to slice open one of the puffy shells, generously scoop in the creamy mixture, replace the top,
and drizzle on chocolate sauce. I had to restrain myself from grabbing it out of his masterful hands.

He picked up a napkin and handed over the cream puff. I took a bite, closed my eyes, and shivered. The pastry crust was as light as a cloud, crispy, with just a hint of coffee flavor. The creamy filling slid over my tongue, cold and smooth, and tasted like a mascarpone-chocolate-coffee blend. The whole thing melted like cocoa butter in my mouth. If Jake could do this to me with his cream puff, I wondered what—

“You all right?” Jake said, startling me from my brief fantasy.

I opened my eyes and felt a flush of heat envelop my face and body. “Oh . . . yeah,” I said, then coughed and patted my chest. “Just went down the wrong pipe. It's incredible!” I popped the rest in my mouth and licked the chocolate sauce from my lips.

“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.