Fry Another Day (4 page)

It would be up to me and Uncle Saul to keep food ready for Ollie to take to Delia.

That was my strategy. Smart, right?

It was a relief when we began at last. Ollie was already taking a second, finished group of biscuit bowls to Delia. The bacon and cheese biscuit bowls smelled
deelish
(made with sweet potatoes instead of shortening). The spicy apple raisin filling had a dusting of powdered sugar and a swirl of white icing.

“It was getting a mite crowded in here.” Uncle Saul heaved a sigh of relief when it was only the two of us. “What is wrong with that boy, anyway? Has he never had a girl before?”

I knew he was talking about Ollie and his disastrous efforts to court Delia.

“Miguel told me that Ollie was actually married before, when he was still in the Marines. His wife was a marine, too. She had PTSD and opened fire on him one morning at breakfast. She shot him twice before he had to kill her. He almost died, too.”

Uncle Saul put a hand to his forehead. “Holy smoke! That boy has been through the wringer! No wonder he's making such a mess of things. It would only be Christian for me to take him under my wing. I used to be pretty hot with the ladies of Mobile, you know? During carnival, I was the king of hearts.”

He chuckled to himself as he filled five more apple biscuit bowls.

“Maybe you should show Bonnie that side of you.” I grinned. “I'm sure she'd be interested.”

“Are you trying to be a matchmaker or what?”

Everything was going well until we reached the ninety-five biscuit mark. We were
so
close.

Then one of the cameramen barged into the Biscuit Bowl and knocked over what remained of my apple raisin filling.

I turned to him, angry. “What are you trying to do?”

“Uh—sorry, ma'am. I was—uh—trying to get a close-up of your
apples
.” He stammered and pulled at his network ball cap.

Uncle Saul slapped his hand on his leg. “Never heard
that
term for it before!”

We looked at where the cameraman had stopped recording on the screen. It was an in-depth view of my cleavage above the red tank top.

I was flattered—in a lame kind of way. But now we had only the bacon cheese filling. “It's all we have. It will have to do. We only have five more biscuits to sell. Let's make this work.”

Ollie was back for more biscuit bowls. “Delia's kicking butt on sales. You should see her sell!”

“Take these.” I gave him the last bacon cheese biscuit bowls. “How are the customers holding out?”

“The crowds are getting smaller as everyone goes back to work. Good news is that a lot of people are hanging around to see what's going on.” Ollie grabbed the biscuit bowls and was gone.

The cameraman was done with us—our crisis was past. Had he done it on purpose to create drama?

Miguel popped his head into the food truck. “How's it going? I've got twenty statements from people saying they loved your biscuit bowls. But Pizza Papa just sold their hundredth slice. I guess they win this challenge.”

“Sweet potato pizza—and they sold out?” I turned off the deep fryer. We were done.

“They were selling them really cheap.”

“Don't they have to sell at their normal price? Isn't that covered in the rules?”

“Not sure.” He shook his head. “One interesting thing I heard while I was out there—the police are wondering if Reggie Johnson's death was really an accident.”

“What do you mean by that?” Uncle Saul asked him. “The police think someone pushed a refrigerator on top of the man? In that small area?”

“It's something about a strap that had been holding the refrigerator in place,” Miguel said. “It looks as though it's been cut.”

I listened as I started cleaning and putting things away. We'd have to move the truck today, and everything had to be strapped down.

How could the police even tell the difference between a strap breaking and a strap being cut?

“I hope that's not true,” I finally remarked. “Why would anyone want to kill Reggie?”

Uncle Saul laughed. “Maybe it was someone who ate his food.”

“Now that's mean.” I stored away the remaining flour, baking powder, and shortening. I hoped never to work with sweet potatoes in biscuits again. It was possible to do, but the biscuits weren't the best I'd ever made.

Ollie and Delia weren't back yet, which meant they hadn't sold the last five biscuits. Oh well. I hadn't expected to win all the challenges. I hoped we wouldn't be sent home yet, but it was a possibility. Each day, team members who didn't win the challenge could be sent home.

I took off my hat and let Uncle Saul do the rest of the cleanup. I had a small bottle of cool water that I shared with Crème Brûlée in the front of the truck.

Crème Brûlée rolled on his back, showing me his soft, fuzzy tummy. I tickled it gently while he pretended to swat at me as though he didn't like it. Everything was a game with him—except looking for his food.

The police were still swarming all over the Dog House right in front of me. I thought about poor Reggie making it all the way here, only to end up under his refrigerator before he had a chance to take the first challenge of the race.

I always checked all of the appliances, shelves, and supplies in the back of the Biscuit Bowl before I moved it from place to place. I made a mental note to double-check from now on. It was always better to be safe.

Courtesy of the Sweet Magnolia Food Truck Race, all the teams would be put up at hotels for the night. The idea was to finish in one location and announce the winners—and losers. Everyone who wasn't kicked out would go on to Columbia, South Carolina. We'd spend the night there and then face our challenges in the morning on Tuesday.

Mobile felt a long way off. I wasn't joking about being homesick for my normal, appreciative customers and my friends. I missed my old diner. Being part of the race was exciting, but strange.

Sweet potatoes in biscuits? I was amazed anyone would eat them.

The loud buzzer that sounded could be heard up and down the main street. That meant the challenge was over. Everyone would gather at the cool-down tent again.

“I guess that's me.” I stroked Crème Brûlée and we rubbed noses. “I'll be back soon. Don't worry. I'll leave the air on for you. No scratching or potty on the seats!”

He meowed and snuffled my hand a little, flipped over, and went back to sleep.

I hoped we'd at least managed to stay in the race. I glanced in the back. Ollie and Delia were there.

“We sold the last biscuit bowl a minute before the buzzer went off!” Ollie was excited, even though it wasn't necessarily something that would help us stay in the race. He almost lifted me up off the floor when he hugged me.

“I knew I sent out the right girl,” Uncle Saul said to Delia, hugging her.

Ollie frowned. “It was a
team
effort. One person couldn't have done it alone.”

Miguel came to join us. “You were great! It looked like Pizza Papa won the challenge. We'll see what happens now. Let's get over to the cool-down tent.” I led the way and everyone else followed.

Alex was back on the stage again. The food truck drivers were slowly making their way toward him. Some were covered in food stains. Others already looked defeated.

“Most of you met your first challenge,” Alex said. “Give yourselves a big hand.”

Of course everyone applauded.

“But we can't all be winners. It was decided that, despite the sad death of Reggie Johnson, and the subsequent loss of his food truck, the Dog House, that one other food truck will still be taken out of the running after this challenge.”

Everyone groaned. Really, I guess we'd all hoped the producers might let Reggie's truck be the one that didn't go on. He obviously couldn't participate. Wasn't that enough?

I could see from the faces of the other food truck owners standing close by that they had felt the same way. A certain amount of grumbling was to be expected with that disappointment.

“Okay. I know a lot of you figured it would only be the Dog House eliminated from the race.” Alex smiled at everyone. “How fair would that be since Reggie didn't participate?”

His attempt to placate the crowd wasn't very popular. He conferred with a group of people on the sidelines that I'd decided were “the producers.” He was back a minute later with his arms stretched out like Moses parting the Red Sea.

“I'm sorry, but that decision is final,” Alex said. “I have the names of the contestants who will be going on to Columbia with us. I also have the name of the winner of the challenge. Does anyone want to hear it?”

The crowd yelled in a halfhearted fashion.

“I can't hear you.” Alex cupped his ear with one hand. “Does anyone want the
good
news?”

The group managed a louder response, with Ollie leading the way as he screamed his answer. I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to hear out of my left ear again.

“That's better.” Alex opened a large envelope. “The winner of the sweet potato challenge is Our Daily Bread, according to all challenges.”

Everyone applauded as Reverend Jay Jablonski ran to the stage. Our Daily Bread was manned by a group of ministers from Jacksonville, Florida. They'd started the truck selling breads, rolls, and coffee cakes as an outreach project for their church.

Alex congratulated Reverend Jablonski. The stocky, balding minister took the microphone to thank his team and race officials.

“We owe it all to God,” he said with a big smile on his face.

There were also prizes awarded daily to challenge winners. Reverend Jablonski won a new air conditioner for his food truck.

“Of course he won.” Bobbie Shields from Shut Up and Eat complained loudly as she stood next to me. “Sweet potatoes aren't all that noticeable in bread.”

Reverend Jablonski left the stage after another round of applause. Alex took over the microphone again.

“And now for the contestants who will continue on to Columbia.” He took out another sealed envelope.

I wondered when someone had time to make up those envelopes. The challenge had only been over for such a short time.

“Are you ready?” Alex tried to rev up the group again. His excitement was falling on disappointed ears. “Traveling on to Columbia and the second leg of the race will be: Our Daily Bread. Shut Up and Eat. Fred's Fish Tacos. Chooey's Sooey. Stick It Here. Grinch's Ganache. Pizza Papa. And the Biscuit Bowl.”

“That means the mushroom woman didn't make it,” Uncle Saul said loudly over the cheers and moans from the winners and losers. “Darn! I was looking forward to trying her mushroom soup.”

“At least we made the cut,” I said. “I wonder how they came to that decision.”

Alex tapped on his microphone to get everyone's attention again. “And of course, our friend and fellow food truck owner Reggie Johnson travels with us to Columbia in spirit. That's it, people. See you tomorrow.”

Everyone filed into the cool-down tent for a briefing on what we could expect tomorrow. The challenge would be selling our normal menu but on roller skates. It also included singing and a taste challenge.

“I'm not doing that.” Delia made her feelings plain. “I don't dance and I don't sing.”

We were each given vouchers for meals and hotel rooms for our teams. I reserved judgment on the singing and roller skating until tomorrow.

I'd been a roller-skating carhop when I was in college. That had been so many years ago that I could hardly remember. I wasn't even sure I knew
how
to skate anymore. And singing was really not my forte.

At least we were able to serve our normal menus! I wasn't worried about a taste challenge. I felt sure we could beat anyone at that.

Everyone left the area after that. Police were waiting to reopen the downtown streets we were taking up. When we got back to the Biscuit Bowl, I saw a tow truck hooking up to the Dog House.

I wondered if there would be an investigation of what had happened to Reggie. Had he been murdered or was it an accident?

Despite my feelings about him, it was hard to imagine someone had followed him up here from Mobile to kill him. What were the chances he knew someone here who hated him that much?

I felt the police would figure out it was a simple accident once they'd had a chance to look into it.

Packing up so many food trucks was noisy and messy. There was a lot of shouting as things went wrong—Fred's Fish Tacos had a flat tire, and Stick It Here lost their outside menu board.

Everyone was free to do what they wanted for the rest of the day. We could hang around in Charlotte and take in the sights or go on to Columbia. The only thing that mattered was stocking up and being ready for tomorrow when the next challenge began.

“Do you want to give me the list of supplies that you'll need?” Miguel asked as I was checking the Biscuit Bowl one last time before we left.

“Let me talk to Ollie and Uncle Saul later in Columbia before we plan what we're going to make tomorrow, now that we know we can serve our normal menu.” I shifted Crème Brûlée's bed to the back of the food truck. There had to be room up front for Ollie to sit. Delia and Uncle Saul were riding with Miguel.

Ollie nudged me in the side before we left the kitchen. “I want to ride in the car with Delia and Miguel.”

“Okay. That's fine.”

“I'm not letting your uncle take up all of Delia's time. This was supposed to be an opportunity for Delia and me to get to know each other.”

“Okay. I'm good with that. But maybe you should have told Delia that's what this was supposed to be.”

He frowned. “Why?”

“Have you even told her that you
like
her?” I looked into his big face and had to smile. He was totally clueless.

“No. It's not necessary. When someone likes you, you can tell.”

“Maybe
you
can. Most people need a hint. If you don't give Delia a hint about the way you feel, she'll never know.”

He made a sound somewhere between a
humph
and a snort. “Like I should take advice from
you
. You haven't told Miguel the way you feel about him. I'll do things my way—in the car with Miguel.”

“Okay. I'll see you in Columbia.”

“That's right.” He started to walk out of the kitchen and suddenly turned back. “And I'm not roller skating or singing in Columbia.”

I laughed at that. “You got it.”

After Ollie was gone, I got Crème Brûlée set up in his bed and gave him a little kiss for the road. Luckily the kitchen area was air-conditioned. It was only going to get hotter the farther south we went.

I made sure everything was secure, no falling refrigerators or microwave ovens. I closed the back of the Airstream and turned around to find myself face-to-face with a stranger.

He flashed his police badge at me and nodded. “Zoe Chase? I'm Detective John McSwain of the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department. Could I have a few moments of your time?”