1 Death on Eat Street

ONE LESS COOK IN THE KITCHEN . . .

It hadn’t been more than thirty minutes or so since I’d climbed out of the food truck. How did Terry get in there after me? And what was he doing here? Had he followed me back to give me more grief over parking in “his spot” on Dauphin Street?

“What’s up out here, young ’un?” Ollie came out of the diner, still holding the sword.

“I don’t know. This is Terry.”

He nodded. “From the infamous tacky taco truck?”

“Yes. I don’t know what he’s doing here. And I think he may be drunk or something.”

Ollie bent down and put his hand on Terry’s neck. “I don’t know, either, but he ain’t goin’ no place else.”

“What do you mean? I can call him a taxi or something.”

“No, Zoe. You don’t get it. The man’s
dead
. A taxi won’t do him any good now.”

Berkley Prime Crime titles by J. J. Cook

Sweet Pepper Fire Brigade Mysteries

THAT OLD FLAME OF MINE

PLAYING WITH FIRE

Biscuit Bowl Food Truck Mysteries

DEATH ON EAT STREET

Specials

HERO’S JOURNEY

DEATH ON
Eat Street

J. J. COOK

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

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DEATH ON EAT STREET

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the authors

Copyright © 2014 by Joyce Lavene and Jim Lavene.

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eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-60014-6

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / April 2014

Cover illustration by Griesbach/Martucci.

Cover design by Jason Gill.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

We would like to thank our fantastic editor, Faith Black, and our amazing agent, Gail Fortune, for helping us with this book. We couldn’t have done it without them!

It had been the worst day of my life.

I parked my Biscuit Bowl food truck beside the diner and closed my eyes as I rested my head on the steering wheel. Outside, the fiberglass biscuit on top of the food truck stopped twirling.

How could so much go wrong in one day?

I’d worked hard to make my dream come true. Why was it all crashing in on me?

My phone rang. It was Tommy Lee, my boyfriend.

That made me feel even worse.

Tommy Lee Elgin is a real go-getter. He’s handsome, makes a lot of money as an investment broker, and is on his way to the top. He’s out there busting his butt, making a name for himself every day—as he frequently reminds me.

What am I doing?

I had recently quit my job at the Azalea National Bank where I was a loan officer—not even a
senior
loan officer.

I’d always wanted to own a restaurant. I loved cooking for other people. I finally got up the nerve to do it after being passed over for promotion—
again
. I cashed in my vacation time and my 401(k). I struck out on my own, filled with entrepreneurial spirit gathered from ten different seminars.

“Zoe, don’t hang up.” Tommy Lee’s voice was as clear and commanding as his picture on my cell phone. “We have to hash this out. You made a mistake. That’s all. We can take care of this.”

Looking at his confident smile, the dimple in his square chin, and his expensive suit, I almost caved.
What am I doing out here anyway? Why did I think I could do this?

“There’s nothing to hash out.” I tried to find the passion and drive that had brought me here. “I’ve made a commitment to my dream. Why can’t all of you see that?”

My commitment included taking all of my cash and investing it in a diner. It was a little run-down. I admit it.

Eventually, I knew all of Mobile, Alabama—maybe even Birmingham—would be standing in line, waiting to eat my food. I was going to be the Paula Deen of my hometown.

There had only been enough money to bring the kitchen area in the diner up to code. I had to do something to get my food out to people. From there, I could invest my profits into upgrading the diner into a real restaurant.

Did that sound crazy? I didn’t think so.

“I refuse to believe that your dream is to make food for other people,” Tommy Lee said. “That’s what cooks and housekeepers are for, sweetie. This is a knee-jerk reaction to being passed over for promotion again. You know your mother and I think this is a bad idea. If you want to cook for someone, you can cook for us all you want.”

I wasn’t sure if I was more offended by his condescending attitude or the fact that he was in league with my mother about this. Both issues made me feel a little queasy.

Quitting the bank had been a big decision for me. I’d worked there for the last five years. When I’d realized that I was facing my thirtieth birthday next spring, I couldn’t let time keep slipping away from me.

The bank had continued to promote men like Tommy Lee—smooth, sophisticated—some of whom I’d trained. Passing me over had been the last straw. It was time for me to go.

“I don’t want to work for the bank,” I said quite clearly. “My biscuit bowl is going to be a hit. I know it will. Once that happens, it’s all gravy. I know you don’t understand. I don’t understand why
you’d
want to be an investment broker, either. Can’t we agree to disagree on this?”

“Zoe.
Sweetie.
Trust me, will you? You’ll thank me someday. You don’t want to get stuck spending the rest of your life in that sleazy diner or that old trailer you call a food truck. Let me help you. You don’t have to go back to the bank. We can refresh your résumé and—”

“That’s not what I want, Tommy Lee.” I wiped away the frustrated tears and firmed up my voice. “Why can’t you see that? I think if you loved me, you’d see that.”

“You’re making a mistake.”

“It’s mine to make.”

“I can’t help you if you won’t let me help you.”

“Then don’t.” I ended the call, and Tommy Lee’s handsome, smiling face went away.

My head hit the steering wheel again, and I closed my eyes.

“Bad day?”

I sat up quickly and wiped the tears from my face. It was Ollie from the homeless shelter two doors down. I took the extra food that I couldn’t sell down there each night. If I could convince the office workers on Dauphin Street to gobble my biscuit bowls down the way the shelter residents did, I’d be rich.

“It wasn’t too good again. I made forty-eight dollars and fifty cents, not counting expenses. And I got into an argument with Terry from Terry’s Tacky Tacos. He said I was parked in his space.”

He nodded. “That’s up from yesterday’s twenty-four dollars and twelve cents.”

That’s why I liked Ollie so much. Even though I’d only known him a short time, he had this positive way of looking at things.

“That’s right.” I got out of the old silver Airstream motor home that Uncle Saul was letting me use. I’d only had to cut open a window and gut the whole inside to make a kitchen and to serve customers. That took the rest of my money.

“So there’s leftover food, huh?”

Okay.

Maybe Ollie
was
only there because I fed him regularly. Maybe he wasn’t exactly my friend. At least he was there for me, even if it was only because he’d be eating a lot of soup without me.

“I could use some help taking the food over. I don’t dare take it inside. I think I heard a rat in the diner this morning.”

“What did you expect in this neighborhood?” Ollie shrugged his broad shoulders, covered in a used green army jacket. He gestured to the derelict shopping center to make his point.

“I paid to have the rats exterminated.” I really dislike rats.

“If you had a
real
cat, he’d take care if it for you.” Ollie opened the cab door of the food truck. My chubby, tabby Persian hissed at him. “See what I mean?”

It was true. I had to leave my cat, Crème Brûlée, in the food truck all day. He didn’t like rats, either. He couldn’t be bothered to try and catch them, though. That might get his big white paws dirty. Instead he stayed in his basket, hissing as I served the few customers I had.

I checked out the food that was left in the compact kitchen area in the back of the motor home. Some of it would still be good tomorrow. The biscuits, which were my most important food, couldn’t be saved. They had to be made fresh daily or they wouldn’t be any good.

“If you could take these”—I handed two trays of biscuits to Ollie—“I think the rest will keep.”

“You made beef stew again, huh?” Ollie sniffed the container I had used to fill some of the biscuit bowls.

“You said I should change it up.”

“I keep telling you, young ’un. Chicken and dumplings and beef stew is fine when you ain’t got no money. Those people over in downtown don’t want beef stew. They want something exotic—some gator gumbo or crawdad stew. The spicier, the better.”

We usually had this discussion at the end of the day. I was having a hard time with my savory fillings for the fried biscuits with the hollow in the middle that I called biscuit bowls. I’d tried plenty of other things, too. None of my favorites had gone over very well.

“The fruit pie fillings were good today.” I tried to sound hopeful. “People liked the custard-filled biscuit bowls, too.”

“You can put anything in these biscuit bowls of yours.” Ollie, who’d once been a marine, took out a little custard from a container. He filled a biscuit before he chowed down on it. “You’ve got these biscuits down.”

“Thanks.” I closed the back door to the food truck. I didn’t want Crème Brûlée to get out. He’d probably get lost.

“Sweet is easy, Zoe.” Ollie started walking with the trays of biscuits. “Savory is hard. You gotta think about the smell. Maybe make some gumbo. You need that aroma to appeal to your customer’s olfactory. His nose, you know?”

Ollie might have seemed like an unusual advisor, but he knew a lot about food. He’d been my six-foot-six confidant, complete with skull tattoo on the back of his bald head, since I’d opened the diner door for the first time two months ago.

He’d been a big help moving things in and out of the diner and the food truck, too. He’d also talked others from the homeless shelter into helping. He had this way of making everyone jump when he told them what to do. The labor for food concept was awesome, especially on my budget.

“Gumbo, huh?” I went ahead of him and opened the door to the homeless shelter. It was housed in an old storefront.

“Don’t underestimate people’s love of unusual foods. Not that I’m saying gator and crawdads are all that weird. At least not to me. But those people you’re tryin’ to impress aren’t like me. I’ve eaten every kind of snake, lizard, and possum that crawls, slithers, and jumps on this green earth.”

Most of that didn’t sound too appetizing. I held the shelter door open for Ollie. Several other homeless men started coming toward us right away. Ollie gave them his mean look and they backed off. He didn’t like them coming up on the food too fast.

“You have to think beyond bland, Zoe. Think
wild
.”

I laughed. “I don’t know if people in downtown Mobile can handle your idea of wild, Ollie.”

“You got nothin’ to lose by trying.” Ollie put the trays of biscuits and leftover fillings on a table. “Okay, men. Thank Miss Zoe, and eat hearty.”

There was always a note of command in his voice when he talked to the other men. He was more personable with me, but he was good at telling people what to do. Ollie liked bossing people around. I wondered if he’d been an officer in the Marines.

It was a favorite pastime of mine, wondering what had happened to bring Ollie down to this level. He was smart, and wickedly funny. Why had he chosen to live this way?

I opened a container of cherry pie filling and filled two biscuit bowls with it. There wasn’t much. The men might as well enjoy it.

“You spoil them, Zoe.” Marty Zimmerman closed the back door and smiled at me. He ran the homeless shelter. “You spoil me, too. We’re all glad you decided to move into the diner. How did it go today?”

“It wasn’t too bad.”

I didn’t want to go through the whole sob story again with him. Marty was a very nice man with a round stomach that had a hard time fitting into his jeans. His Dauphin Island Festival T-shirt was also about a size too small for him.

I supposed beggars couldn’t be choosers. The homeless shelter was run on donations and a little local charity money, according to Ollie. They were barely able to pay the power bill each month.

Marty tasted the beef stew in a biscuit bowl. “Mmm.” He closed his eyes. “This is great stuff. The people who haven’t tried your biscuit bowls don’t know what they’re missing!”

“Thanks.” I appreciated any compliment.

I watched Ollie draw a gleaming sword out of its scabbard while the other men were eating. “What’s that for?”

He grinned, even white teeth strong against his dark skin. “Rat hunting.”

I didn’t know what to say. I smiled at Marty, took two cherry pie–filled biscuit bowls, and wished them all a good night.

The biscuit bowls were for Delia. She was a cocktail waitress who always seemed to be waiting for a bus at the corner of the old shopping center. I knew she worked at one of those sleazy dives downtown. She said the pay was good and it was the only thing she knew how to do.

Even so, I thought she looked a little lost and alone on the corner with her too-short skirt and red sequined top. I felt the need to feed her. It was about all I could do for her.

I walked the food up to her, and smiled. “Going out?”

“Of course. I saw you come in tonight,” Delia said. “I could smell those biscuit bowls a mile off. Sales not so good again today?”

“I’m afraid not.” I said it cheerfully. “But their loss is your gain.”

“And Ollie’s, too, huh?” She nodded toward the ex-marine who was approaching the door to the diner with all the stealth of a hunter in the wild.

“Yep. Everyone eats on me tonight.” I handed her the biscuit bowls. “How are things going?”

“Tips were slow at lunch so I’m going in for the late shift. Have to pay the rent. It’ll pick up.” She sniffed the cherry biscuit bowls before she took a bite of one of them. “What’s wrong with those people downtown anyway? These are the best biscuits, and the cutest idea I ever saw. My granny, rest her soul, would be jealous of your biscuits. And that’s saying a mouthful, Zoe.”

“There’s a lot of competition,” I explained. “Terry’s Tacky Taco truck and Mama’s Marvelous Mojitos all had long lines today. The Dog House was busy, too. I think it has something to do with his food truck. It’s so cute. There’s a dog face at the front and a tail sticking out the back.”

“Well, they don’t know what they’re missing.”

“Thanks. Ollie says I need a better savory filling. He says it should be something that has a strong aroma, something unusual.”

“He might be right about the savory.” Delia closed her eyes as she chewed. “But nothing is gonna beat the sweet. Just don’t let him tell you how to make biscuits. You got that down, honey.”

I didn’t know all of Delia’s story, either. I knew she grew up poor and had five sisters. I knew she shared an apartment with some other women who worked at the bar. She had to live close by. I wasn’t sure where. That was about it. Delia was smart and beautiful. She was tall and thin, and wore her clothes like a model. It seemed as though she could’ve done anything she wanted.