Death of a Crabby Cook (4 page)

I knew that. “Anything else?”

“I'm working on a few leads,” he said coyly.

I rolled my eyes. “Well, I need to find out what really happened to Oliver Jameson and I could use your help, since you're an expert in all things electronic.”

“Like I said, I'm on it.” He returned to his typing. The conversation was over. Dillon wasn't the most social person on the planet. And when he was focused on his computer stuff, he was in another world. A touch of undiagnosed Asperger's? I wondered.

I headed for the kitchen to grab any leftover chocolate goodies for breakfast but found nothing to satisfy my sweet tooth. I hoped the Dream Puff Guy would be opening soon. I needed a shot of sugar to go with my cup of caffeine in order to survive this new job.

I got in my coffee-colored VW Bug and drove to Fort Mason, wondering if I had the stamina to make a hundred thousand BLTs, should the need arise. When I arrived, I drove my small car around to the back entrance, checked in with the security guard, and squeezed in behind Aunt Abby's School Bus. About half a dozen of the food trucks at Fort Mason have semipermanent parking spaces, and Aunt Abby was one of the lucky ones who didn't have to move her bus every day. Instead, she drove her Toyota back and forth and parked behind the bus.

Odd. Her car wasn't there yet. Instead, her reserved space was taken up by the Meat Wagon delivery van. Where was she? Picking up last-minute ingredients for the festival?

I caught a glimpse of the van's driver, a skinny, shaggy-looking guy wearing a Meat Wagon T-shirt, jeans, and ornate black cowboy boots with gold embroidery and silver toe tips, headed for the van. I'd seen him a few times before when I stopped by Aunt Abby's bus in the morning. Tripp was a regular who delivered daily to Chef Boris Obregar's Road Grill truck, parked next door to Aunt Abby's bus. He spotted me, winked, bared a mouthful of crooked teeth, and spat out the toothpick sticking out from his thin lips. With a last leering nod, he jumped into the truck and drove off.

What a creep.

I got out, inhaled the fragrant air—a mixture of the salty San Francisco Bay, exotic foods, and strong coffee—and followed my nose to the Coffee Witch. If I was going to work this eight-hour festival, I'd need more caffeine than the one cup my little coffeemaker provided.

The Coffee Witch, owned and operated by a young woman named Willow something, offered a variety of bewitching concoctions, everything from Simple Spells (vanilla lattes) to Potent Potions (double-shot mochas) to Enchanted Espressos (triple-shot espressos). This morning Willow looked as if she'd had a few too many of her own cauldron-created coffees. She was moving at hyperspeed, serving the other food vendors who needed her magic mixtures to survive the day. Her hair, blond at the tips, black at the roots, and cut in jagged layers, only
added to her frenzied appearance. Fast, perky, and full of energy, she was perfect for this job.

“'S'up, Darce?” she said to me when I finally reached the front of the line. “Heard about your downsizing at the paper. Bummer. Your usual?”

Boy, word spread as fast as an outbreak of ptomaine poisoning among these food truck vendors. I had to remind myself not to tell Aunt Abby any of my darkest secrets.

“Hi, Willow. Yeah, I've got to up the amperage today if I'm going to help out my aunt at the festival. How about one of your Voodoo Ventis?”

“Sweet,” she said, grabbing a humongous paper cup. “Heard you're writing a book.”

Damn Aunt Abby!

“Uh, well, I thought maybe a book filled with recipes from food trucks and food festivals would be something that people might buy. Got a recipe you want to share with me?”

“Totally! How about my Fiendish Frap recipe? That's my bestseller in the afternoon. Secret ingredient: Peppermint Patties.”

“Great! I'll come by in the next day or so and follow up. I thought I'd add some background to the recipe, like how you came up with it—stuff like that.”

“Sweet.” She passed my steaming-hot drink through the window of her renovated postal truck, which now sported her witchy image and logo.

I paid her, sipped my coffee, and glanced around at the eclectic array of food trucks, thinking this cookbook idea was going to be easier than I'd thought. And why not? The food trucks would get their names and photos
in the book, which was great publicity. And I'd get yummy recipes and make a ton of money.

“Heard about the murder?” Willow called out to me, leaning from the window after serving another caffeine addict. “Totally freaked me out.”

“I know! Weird, huh?” I hoped she didn't know about Aunt Abby's visit to the police station. “Did you happen to see or hear anything yesterday?”

“Besides your aunt taking on the dead guy with a knife?”

Great. If Willow knew, then all the food truckers knew.

I sighed. “Yeah, besides that.”

“Nope. Cops came by late yesterday, asking questions. Told them pretty much everyone around here has gotten into it with that jerkwad.”

“You too?” I asked.

“A couple of times,” she said, then took another order from a customer.

So Willow had been interviewed by the police too? But apparently not down at the station. I wondered if the cops had talked to all the food truck owners about Oliver Jameson's death.

Had they found out anything that could take the focus off my aunt?

Or had they learned something that could make things worse?

After Willow was done with her customer, I asked, “What did Oliver do to you?”

“First he hit on me. I mean, seriously. Like I'd ever go out with a fat, old, bald guy like him. When I told him to go screw himself, he said he had friends at the health
department, hinting that he could get them to shut me down. I just laughed at him, told him I had ‘friends' there too, you know what I mean?”

“You told the police about that?”

“Sure. Like I said, it seems like all us truckers have had problems with that jerk. But the cops didn't take me to jail, so I figure I'm in the clear. Maybe they already have someone in mind.”

Like my aunt Abby,
I thought. The coffee in my stomach turned to acid.

“Let me know if you hear anything, will you, Willow?”

“Totally,” she said as another customer sidled up.

I watched Willow as she took the order. I hadn't noticed how attractive she was underneath that crazy hair and with all those piercings and tattoos. But apparently guys were always hitting on her—even old fat guys like Oliver Jameson. Maybe they liked the idea of walking on the wild side.

I glanced around at the circle of food trucks, wondering if any of the other truck owners had seen or heard anything yesterday. I made a note to question as many as I could, later, after the festival crowd died down. Right now I wanted to get to Aunt Abby's bus. Surely she was back and needing me to help prepare for the long and busy day.

I walked over to the bus, but when I arrived, I found the door still closed and locked up tight.

Huh.

I checked my cell phone. A quarter to nine.

It was getting late. Where was Aunt Abby?

I felt a sudden tingling at the back of my neck. Was Aunt Abby all right? Had something happened to her?

After all, there was a murderer on the loose.

I started to text her, then glanced over at the Bones 'n' Brew restaurant across the street and felt another chill.

If this was a random killer, maybe none of us was safe.

Ten o'clock rolled around like the wheels of a bus, with no sign of my aunt. I was really starting to worry. I tried her cell (no answer), called Dillon (no word), and paced around the food trucks to see if any of the chefs had seen my aunt. If she didn't show up soon, I was calling the police.

After checking in at India Jones (sampling some Masala Nachos), then the Humpty Dumpling Truck (resisting the Polish, Swedish, and Chinese dumplings), I was just about to talk to the chef at Porky's, when I heard, “Hey, Darcy!”

I turned to see the Dream Puff Guy waving at me from across the way.

Jake Miller stood outside his cream puff truck, wearing his usual sexy jeans and formfitting white T-shirt. In one hand he held a brick-sized metal box; he waved me over with the other. Maybe he had some news about Aunt Abby, I thought as I waved back and headed for his truck. He knelt down by the front of his truck and slid the box underneath. Then he rose, picked up a small bottle of antibacterial liquid from his outside counter, and squirted a glob into his large hands.

Good thing he was cleaning up. I knew what was in
the box—rat poison. I'd learned from Aunt Abby that rodent infestation is inherent to the restaurant business, but making sure a food truck was free of vermin was a state health-and-safety law. Food trucks were a little easier to keep clean than, say, older restaurants where there are lots of nooks and crannies to hide, but it was still an issue. Aunt Abby did her best to keep the rats and other vermin at bay.

Unfortunately, she explained to me, you can't use snap traps or rodenticides where food is being prepared or served, since the poison might accidentally contaminate the food. She and the other truckers used bait boxes—tamper-resistant stations—like the one I'd just seen Jake tuck under his truck. The idea was to keep the toxins away from the food and kill the rats before they got into the trucks. Apparently Jake Miller dealt with rats the same way.

“Hey!” Jake said, rubbing his hands together.

I blinked. In spite of the fact that I'd been to his truck almost daily since he'd pulled in to Fort Mason a couple of months ago, I had no idea he knew my name. Our conversations had pretty much been: “Piña Colada Dream Puff, please,” “Cappuccino Dream Puff, please,” and “Key Lime Dream Puff, please.” For someone who was used to asking serious questions for news articles, I'd found myself tongue-tied around him.

Maybe it was because he was so hot. And I hadn't been with a guy since Trevor the Tool.

“Hi,” I said, then felt my brain turn into a cream puff. “Uh . . . are you ready for the big festival today?”

“Getting there,” he said. He grabbed a long rod from the side of his truck, inserted it into a small hole at the
top, and twisted it, working his considerable muscles as he opened the awning overhead. When he turned to face me, I saw a little spot of white fluff on his cheek. I was tempted to wipe—or lick—it off, but I held my tongue.

“You helping out Abby again today?” he asked. He returned the long pole to its spot, then began setting out shakers filled with powdered sugar for the cream puffs.

Wow. He knew I'd worked in Aunt Abby's bus yesterday?
And
he knew my name?

“Yes,” I said, glancing nervously at my aunt's busterant. There was still no sign of her. “You haven't seen her, have you? I thought she'd be here by now.”

Jake squinted in the direction of the bus. The rising sunlight brought out the gold in his thick, sun-bleached brown hair and revealed the tiniest feathery lines near his eyes. I guessed him to be in his early to midthirties.

He shook his head. “No, but I haven't been here too long. By the way, I heard what happened to the chef from Bones 'n' Brew yesterday. Is your aunt all right?”

“Oh yes, she's fine. So, do you know my aunt Abby well?” I said.

Jake grinned, revealing a mouthful of straight, white teeth. “We're kind of like a big family here. Everybody trades food, offers support, shares news. There aren't many secrets in the food truck community. And I'm really fond of your aunt. She reminds me of my mother.”

“She's quite a character,” I said, wondering if his mother was as quirky as Aunt Abby.

“She mentioned that you live with her.” He eyed me, his eyes sparkling. “That must be fun.”

Oh God. What else had she told him about me? That I thought he was hot? That I ate so many cream puffs
because I had a crush on him? I was sure I was blushing the color of his Red Velvet Dream Puffs.

“Uh, yeah, I'm just staying there temporarily. Until I find a place of my own.”
And get a full-time job and a regular paycheck,
I thought.

“So, any dirt on the murder?” he asked.

“What? No. How would I know anything?” I asked testily. I glanced again at the School Bus. Where was Aunt Abby?

“You're a reporter, right? For the
Chronicle
? I thought you might have some dirt on who killed Oliver Jameson.”

So he knew I'd worked at the newspaper too. He just didn't know I mostly wrote restaurant reviews. I'd have to duct-tape Aunt Abby's mouth shut in the future.

“Actually, I'm only part-time now,” I lied.

He looked surprised. “Really? How come?”

Boy, this guy was direct. “Downsized,” I said, shrugging. “The economy. You know.”

He nodded sympathetically. “I hear you. Everyone seems to be struggling these days, especially newspapers. It's like they've shrunk to little more than pamphlets. It's a wonder they're still in business.”

“Well, I'm writing a cookbook in my spare time,” I added quickly, so I didn't sound like a complete loser. “I plan to fill it with recipes from all the popular food trucks and festivals. Maybe you'd like to contribute one of your cream puff recipes, say, your Piña Colada Dream Puff? It's free publicity.”

“Sounds good. But I'd have to show you how I make them rather than just hand over the recipe. There's a trick to it.” He actually winked at me.

It felt like my face was on fire. The thought of spending
time with Jake Miller inside his cozy cream puff truck, making Piña Colada Dream Puffs together, sounded like a dream come true.

“And you'll have to wait until after the festival,” he added. “Then I'll know how well the crowd likes my Crabby Dream Puffs.”

Before I could stop myself, I made a face. I thought of cream puffs as sweet desserts, not savory snacks. The thought of biting into a crab-flavored cream puff made me a little seasick.

He laughed at my reaction. “They're pretty good. And they look like little crabs. You'll have to try one.”

I changed the subject. “Have you done the Crab and Seafood Festival before?” I asked, knowing he was a recent addition to the Fort Mason food trucks.

“Nope. This will be my first. Last year I was wearing a suit, carrying a briefcase, and banking billable hours as an attorney. I'm looking forward to this. It should be fun.”

“You're a lawyer?” I said, knowing full well he was because Aunt Abby had told me when I questioned her about the hot guy in the cream puff truck. A thought came to me. Maybe Jake Miller would come in handy with my aunt's recent legal situation.

“Yep. Up and quit, after deciding to go into business for myself. Crazy, huh?”

“Not at all,” I said.
Maybe a little,
I thought. What guy would give up cash-paying clients for cream puffs?

“Well, if you love beer and crab, you'll love the festival,” I added. “It won't be long before this whole area is filled with bands, booths, and billions of people.”

“Can't wait. I love seafood, especially oysters. How do you like yours? Raw? Barbecued? Deep-fried?”

“I like mine left in the ocean where they belong.”

“Really? No oysters for you?”

I shook my head, remembering the handful of people who'd died as a result of eating oysters. Speaking of dying, my thoughts returned to the death of the chef. “Jake, did you happen to know Oliver Jameson?”

Jake shook his head. A lock of his sun-bleached hair fell in his eyes and he combed it back with his fingers. “That detective came around asking questions yesterday afternoon, but I didn't have much to tell him.”

“What did he say?”

Jake frowned. “Nothing much. He did mention the argument your aunt had with him, but I told him she was harmless. Plus, we'd all had our run-ins with the guy.”

That was a relief. “As a former lawyer, is there any chance you could find out exactly how Jameson was killed?”

“I suppose I could make some calls. I still have a couple of cop friends at SFPD. Why? Are you really that worried about your aunt being a suspect?”

I shrugged, trying to appear casual to hide my true concerns. “A little,” I said. “I know she had nothing to do with it, but I'd still like to know what happened.” If Jameson was shot or strangled or axed to death, surely that would let Aunt Abby off the hook. She didn't own a gun—as far as I knew. She was too petite to strangle even a chicken. And while she was adept with a food chopper, I doubted she'd had as much experience with an ax as Lizzie Borden.

“Consider it done.”

“Thanks.” I glanced again at the School Bus, growing more concerned about my aunt's absence with every passing moment. But to my relief and surprise, the bus doors were open and the lights inside were on.

“She's back! Thank God! I have to go. Thanks again, Jake.”

“Hold on!” he said as I started to step away. He disappeared into his truck. Seconds later he reached out through the service window. In his hand he held a cream puff covered in a bright orange drizzle, with slivered almonds sticking out of the creamy filling. The two dots of chocolate frosting on the top made the cream puff look like a small crab. Incredible. This guy was an artist when it came to decorating baked goods.

“On the house,” he said as I reached for it. “Don't worry. This one is filled with sweet orange cream and topped with a tart orange frosting. No real crabs were harmed in the making or baking of it.”

I didn't know which I liked better—the Dream Puff or the man who'd just handed it to me.

•   •   •

“Aunt Abby?” I called, entering the School Bus through the open accordion door.

Aunt Abby had already donned a fresh cafeteria-lady apron and was hurriedly working on what appeared to be crab mac and cheese, guessing from the ingredients on the counter in front of her. She had iPod earbuds in and was singing along to the soundtrack from
Frozen
.

“Where have you been?” I demanded, my hands on my hips. “I've been looking all over for you!”

She pulled out an earbud. “What?”

I repeated the question.

“Oh, I had some errands to run,” she said, not meeting my eyes as she picked up a large knife.

I thought about the other “errands” she had run yesterday—when Oliver Jameson was being murdered.

“We have to get ready for the festival opening!” I said, putting on my own apron. “I've been frantic, wondering where you were. What do you need me to do?”

“Crack more crabs,” she said, pointing the knife at a bowl filled with crabs.

I eyed the knife, remembering the way she'd waved it at Oliver Jameson the previous day. She seemed to read my mind and lowered her arm, then returned to chopping already-shucked crab.

“When is Dillon getting here?” I asked, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves. “I saw him this morning and it didn't look like he was ever getting out of bed.”

“I told him to come around eleven,” she answered. “Could you start the water boiling for the noodles?”

Boiling water was right up my alley. I filled the pot from the sink spigot, turned on the burner, and set the pot on top. “Well, don't scare me like that again. When I couldn't find you, I started asking around at the food trucks.”

“Oh, is that why I saw you at Jake's truck?” Aunt Abby said, smirking.

“He was one of the people I asked,” I said, trying to sound casual.

“Jake . . . Isn't he the one you're hot for?” This time Aunt Abby smiled wickedly as she chopped the crab into pieces.

“I
never
said I was hot for him!” I snapped. “I don't
even
know
him. I may have mentioned he was kind of cute—that's it. But apparently he knows a lot about
me
. What have you been telling him, Aunt Abby?”

She lifted a shoulder. “We're like family here. We talk.”

“That's what
he
said. I hope you haven't told him all about my personal life!”

Aunt Abby grinned. “So what did he have to say?”

“Nothing much. We just chatted. He gave me a free cream puff.”

“Umm-hmm,” Aunt Abby mumbled under her breath.

“What?”

“Nothing. Did he say anything about the murder?” The sound of the big knife chopping crab on the cutting board accented her words. Those might be small hands, but they suddenly looked pretty powerful.

“He said the police talked to him and several of the other food truck chefs to see if they knew anything about Jameson's death.” I paused. “They all knew about the argument you had with the chef.”

Aunt Abby visibly tensed, but she said nothing and resumed her chopping. Had I hit a nerve?

“You know he's a lawyer, right?” I asked. “He said he has friends at the police department and that he'd try to learn more about Jameson's murder.”

Aunt Abby blinked rapidly, the knife still in her now trembling hand. Something was going on in that adorable curly-haired head of hers. I put a hand on her shoulder. “Aunt Abby? What is it?”

“Nothing.” She shook her head. “You'll let me know what he finds out?”

I didn't get a chance to reply. The man himself appeared at the School Bus service window. He was frowning.