Death of a Crabby Cook (9 page)

“I'm about to leave here. Why? What's wrong? Where are you calling from?”

“Hurry, I need you!”

The line went dead.

“Aunt Abby?” I said into the phone. I cursed and slipped the phone back into my purse. Aunt Abby sounded as if she was in trouble—again. Was she already at home? If so, I needed to get over there before anything else happened to my poor aunt.

Checking to see if the Meat Wagon was gone, I peered around the corner—and froze again. The truck was still there. The driver's window was down, and in the dim light I caught a glimpse of Tripp's face. He was sitting in the driver's seat and staring in my direction, a frown creasing his brow.

He must have heard my cell phone ring.

That meant he probably knew I'd overheard him arguing with Chef Boris. I wondered if he knew what a big Disney fan Aunt Abby was. If so, he might have figured out who called me from the ringtone.

I peeked again. The window was up, and Tripp had started the motor. But before backing out, he turned to the passenger side.

Someone was in the truck with him.

I waited, hoping to get a glimpse of the passenger when Tripp finally pulled out. Instead, the passenger door opened, lighting up the interior of the delivery
truck. To my surprise, Cherry Washington, Boris's assistant chef, stepped out and closed the door behind her.

Instead of returning to Boris's truck, she headed toward the overflow parking lot adjacent to the food truck area. Tripp opened the driver's side door. For a moment I thought he was going to come looking for me. Instead, he slammed the door shut and sped off. The sound of screeching tires filled the air.

So what was Cherry Washington doing with Tripp the delivery guy?

I didn't have time to think about it at the moment. Aunt Abby needed me.

I got in my car and drove to my aunt's Victorian home, arriving in record time.

“Aunt Abby?” I called after letting myself in the open back door. “Where are you?”

“In here,” she called from down the hall. Her voice sounded raspy. “Dillon's room.”

I headed for her son's room and found her sitting on Dillon's unmade bed, reading a note written on binder paper.

I eyed Dillon's pet rat, then went in cautiously, giving the cage a wide berth. Rats seemed to be a common theme with this family. “What happened? Where's Dillon?”

Her eyes filled with tears. “He's gone!”

“What do you mean, gone?”

Aunt Abby pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped her nose. “He left this note. Something terrible has happened, I just know it.” She held out the torn slip of paper for me to read.

Mom, got into a bit of trouble and have to lay low for a while.

I'll be in touch.

—
Bugbyte

I looked up at her. “Bugbyte?”

“That's his avatar name.”

I shook my head, puzzled at the message. “What kind of trouble is he in?” And how bad could it really be for a twenty-five-year-old man-child with no responsibilities? Was it nonpayment of student loans? Overdue cable bill? Video game addiction?

Aunt Abby glanced at Dillon's dark computer screens. “Darcy, there's something you don't know about Dillon.”

Uh-oh.

“He didn't actually drop out of the university. He left because he was caught hacking into their computers. The truth is, he was being investigated by the FBI. I think he's in serious trouble this time.”

“The FBI?” I said, stunned.

“He said he only did it to prove a point. He wanted to show the school officials how vulnerable their computers were. He was hoping to be hired as their IT guy. But the feds were called in and they didn't see things the same way he did. He was kicked out of school and placed on probation for a year. He's lucky he didn't go to jail. But he's not even supposed to go near a computer.”

“Obviously he's ignored that,” I said, rolling my eyes.

Fresh tears formed in Aunt Abby's eyes. “But this sounds even worse,” she said, sniffling. “Now he's really disappeared!”

I rested a hand on Aunt Abby's shoulder. “You said he's done this before. Any idea where he might have gone?”

Aunt Abby shook her head. Tears spilled from her eyes. “I just hope he's all right.”

I sat down next to Aunt Abby on the crumpled comforter and put my arm around her. “I'm sure he's fine. He'll probably check in soon. He's smart—at least, tech-wise. He'll figure out a way to deal with whatever the problem is. Who knows? Maybe the FBI or the DOD will hire him after all.”

Aunt Abby pulled another tissue from her pocket and dabbed her eyes. “I hope he hasn't done anything really stupid. But whatever it was, I know he was only trying to help me.”

I looked at Aunt Abby. “What do you mean? Does this have anything to do with Oliver Jameson?”

She pressed her lips together, then finally answered. “He . . . He said maybe he could remotely break into Jameson's personal computer and dig around, see if Jameson was hiding something. I told him not to do anything illegal. . . .”

Wow. Had Dillon actually hacked into Oliver's computer? More importantly, had he found anything? So what had caused him to disappear? And where the hell was he?

•   •   •

After reassuring Aunt Abby and putting her to bed, I returned to the RV and fell into my own bed like a zombie. Things would look better in the morning, my dad always used to say. Of course, he was high most of the time, which probably helped.

The theme song from
Jeopardy
woke me from my dream about food. The call wasn't from Dillon or Aunt Abby. I checked the caller ID but didn't recognize it.

“Hello?”

“Darcy?”

The warm, low voice was familiar. “Jake?” I smiled, then had a thought. How had he gotten my cell phone number?

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Uh . . . sure. Why?”

“What about your aunt?”

“She's fine—as far as I know.” I was growing alarmed. I decided to check on my aunt and grabbed my robe. “Why? What's wrong, Jake? You're starting to scare me. Is this about Dillon?”

Dead silence on the other end.

“Jake? Jake!”

“Sorry. Things are crazy over here. I just wanted to make sure you two were safe.”

“Jake! What's going on?”

I heard him take a deep breath, then: “There's been another death.”

Oh God, no.

“Dillon?” I whispered, praying I was wrong.

“Chef Boris. He's been murdered.”

When we arrived at Fort Mason at the crack of dawn, a crowd had already gathered around the perimeter of the police tape. The cops had cordoned off the area near Boris's truck, along with three trucks on either side of him, including my aunt's Big Yellow School Bus. Curious chefs and customers were being kept at bay, no doubt dying to know more about this second murder. All I knew was that Chef Boris had been murdered sometime during the night. I wanted to know more too.

While I was relieved that it hadn't been Dillon they'd found dead, I was still concerned about my nephew, and I knew Aunt Abby was too. He hadn't come home last night and there'd been no word from him this morning.

Where could he be?

Was there any chance it had something to do with him looking into the murder?

The parking area behind the food trucks was blocked by yellow police tape, and the adjacent lot was full, so I parked my car in the Safeway grocery store lot across the street and escorted Aunt Abby to the blocked-off area, now a crime scene. There was no sign of Jake, but I spotted Sierra and Vandy standing shoulder to
shoulder outside the yellow caution tape. I headed in their direction to see if I could find out more information about Boris's death. Maybe they had heard or seen something suspicious before they left their vegan truck last night.

“Come on,” I said, dragging my bewildered aunt by the hand. “Let's see if the vegans know anything.”

“Oh dear,” Aunt Abby mumbled as she trailed along. “This is not good. Not good at all.”

Sierra turned around just as I stepped up beside her.

“What's going on?” I asked, playing dumb.

“Chef Boris was murdered last night,” she said. She began chewing on a fingernail that had already been bitten to the nub.

“Wow,” I said. “How was he killed?”

Sierra shrugged and glanced at Vandy. Vandy shot her partner an ambiguous look and began playing with the necklace around her throat. It was a picture of a cow inside a red circle with a line through it. On the back of Vandy's hand was a tiny tattoo—the letter
V
. For Vandy? Or for vegan?

I turned my attention to the activity behind the police line. Uniformed officers and a few men and women in suits were talking to one another, some holding baggies of what I assumed was evidence, others just guarding the crime scene. Even with his back to me, I recognized Detective Shelton immediately, dressed in a black suit and shiny black wingtips, his curly black hair hatless and glistening in the morning light. He appeared to be questioning someone, but his sizable frame blocked my view. When he finally shifted his weight, I caught a glimpse of his interviewee.

Jake Miller.

Dream Puff Guy looked as if he hadn't slept. He wore what appeared to be the same jeans and Dream Puff logo T-shirt he'd had on yesterday, and his blondish brown hair was disheveled. I wondered how long he'd been here.

“Why are they talking to Jake?” I asked Sierra. She pulled her fingernail away from her mouth long enough to answer. “I don't know. It seems like they're questioning all of us food truckers.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Vandy let go of the necklace she'd been playing with and nudge her partner. Sierra jerked her head around to face the woman. “What?” she snapped, clearly irritated.

Vandy shook her head. “Let's go! We don't have time to stand around here all day and wait for the cops to ask more questions.”

“Then go!” Sierra barked.

Vandy's eyes narrowed. She abruptly turned and disappeared into the crowd of looky-loos. Sierra didn't watch her go, too interested in the goings-on by the trucks. She returned to her nail biting and continued to watch the crime scene drama.

“Any idea what happened?” I asked, hoping she'd talk more with her partner out of the picture.

“He was murdered, Darcy!” Aunt Abby piped up next to me. “Remember?”

I rolled my eyes. I was trying to play ignorant to gain more information from Sierra, but Aunt Abby hadn't caught on. I started to whisper to her, but she had already returned to her conversation with another gawker beside her.

I turned back to Sierra and smiled. “So, any idea how it happened? Or who did it?”

She shrugged and nibbled again on her nail. I wondered if fingernails were on the list of approved vegan foods. They were certainly organic.

“I heard he was killed right there in his food truck,” came a voice behind me. I glanced back to see a teenage girl holding up her cell phone and taking pictures of the scene. I wondered how quickly she'd Instagram them and post them on Facebook.

“Prob'ly poisoned,” said another bystander holding a Coffee Witch paper cup in his hand.

“How did you get that coffee?” I asked, dying for a much-needed jolt. “I assumed the Coffee Witch was temporarily closed.”

He nodded at Willow's truck. Sure enough, it was just outside the cordoned area. Her line was at least twenty people deep. I'd have to get my Witch's Brew later when things died down—and see if I could find out what Willow knew about the murder.

“Poisoned. That's what I heard,” said a hefty man nearby, talking into his cell phone and to the general crowd around him at the same time. “I knew these food trucks were health hazards.”

“No, stabbed, I heard,” came another rumor from a middle-aged man wearing a Giants baseball cap.

“Huh-uh,” said the woman with him, wearing a matching Giants cap. “That black lady over there next to the cop—she said he was killed with a meat cleaver.”

I looked over to see whom the woman was referring to. Cherry Washington, Boris's assistant, stood just
outside the Road Grill truck, talking to a man in a suit. “You heard her actually say that?”

“Sort of,” the woman said. “I read her lips.”

Sierra shook her head, clearly disgusted by the wild guesses. She turned to me and said, “Obviously no one knows anything yet. The cops haven't told us what happened. They're asking a lot of questions, but they're not giving out any answers. It's been totally frustrating. I'd like to know when I can get back to work.”

“Did the cops talk to you already?” I asked.

Sierra nodded. “Like I said, they asked a bunch of questions.”

“Such as . . . ?” I prompted.

“The usual. Where were we between the hours of midnight and five a.m.? How well did I know Boris Obregar? Did I have any ‘beef' with him—the cop's words, not mine. Did I know who might want him dead? Typical TV cop show stuff.”

“What did you tell them?”

“The truth, of course,” she said flatly. “Neither of us saw anything, heard anything, or had anything to do with this.”

I noticed how aloof, almost angry, Sierra seemed. I wondered if it was the inconvenience of the murder and how it might affect her business. Or was it connected with that nudge/look Vandy had given her before she stormed off? I had a feeling Sierra wasn't sharing everything she knew. What could she be holding back?

“Who found him?” I pressed on.

“I heard it was Jake,” she said, nodding toward Dream Puff Guy. He was still talking with Detective Shelton.

So Jake had found the body! He hadn't mentioned that when he'd called. Then again, maybe it wasn't the appropriate time.

“When did he find him?”

Sierra sighed. “I don't know. You'll have to ask him. All I know is this is going to suck for business. The Vegematic can't afford bad publicity, not the way things have been going lately.”

Before I could ask her what she meant, I heard Sierra's cell phone chirp. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and read the text. “I gotta go.” With a last glance at the crime scene crowd, she walked off in the direction her partner had gone.

That was odd. No,
they
were odd—Sierra and Vandy. It was clear I wasn't going to get any more information from the vegans at the moment. But I had a hunch those two were hiding something—I just wondered what it was.

I searched the crowd for other familiar faces, hoping I could glean a few more details about the crime. The murder had occurred right next door to my aunt's School Bus. If this was random, the victim could easily have been her. And if not, who knew? Maybe she was next on some killer's list.

I spotted Livvy Jameson from Bones 'n' Brew standing on the sidelines and away from the curious masses. Today she was wearing her chef's whites.

“Stay here!” I said to Aunt Abby, adding for emphasis, “Don't move!” My aunt nodded absently and returned to her conversation. I headed over to see Oliver Jameson's sister.

“Livvy?” I said, approaching her. She appeared to be
engrossed in the crime scene activities and hadn't noticed me until I said her name.

She turned to me looking puzzled, frowned, then smiled when she recognized me.

“Oh, hi. . . .” she said, no doubt searching for my name. I could tell she'd forgotten it.

“Darcy,” I reminded her “We met yesterday when I came by your restaurant.”

“Of course. Sorry. This whole . . . situation . . . It's been . . .” she stammered, then collected herself. “Well, it's all too familiar.”

I nodded sympathetically. “I know how you must feel. First your brother, now Chef Boris. Any idea what happened?”

“Not a clue,” she said. “What about you?”

“Not much,” I lied. “Only that Boris was murdered.”

“Well, his death shoots my theory all to hell,” she said.

“You had a theory?”

She shrugged and continued to watch the crime scene area. “I thought Boris had something to do with my brother's murder.”

I blinked, surprised at her revelation. “You thought Boris might have killed Oliver?”

“Boris hated Ollie,” Livvy said. “Everyone around here knew that.”

Odd. Boris was certainly unpleasant, but I thought Oliver was the one everyone hated, after all the things he'd done to the other food truck owners—including my aunt Abby. But as a reporter, I'd learned to ask questions, not give out my own theories.

“Why did Boris hate your brother?” I asked.

“Competition,” Livvy said. “Boris was trying to run
Ollie out of business and corner the market with his bizarre meats. He accused Ollie of buying cheap cuts and calling them prime. I think he was afraid Ollie might get into the exotic-meat business in order to attract more customers.”

I frowned, puzzled at this latest tidbit. “But I thought I heard Boris say that your brother had threatened
him
. He'd even written poison-pen letters telling Boris to move his truck elsewhere or he'd put him out of business—permanently.”

Livvy stared at me, openmouthed. “That's ridiculous! Bones 'n' Brew is a landmark in this city. Everyone knows that! Ollie had no reason to threaten Boris, or anyone else. Yes, my brother could be surly at times—and stubborn—but that was just his personality. He was so much like our father. But it was Boris who was doing the threatening, not Ollie. I overheard him telling my brother that he'd get even with him someday.”

Wow. This was a surprise. The pot was calling the kettle black. So who had really been threatening whom?

Livvy glanced at her watch. “Listen, I gotta get back. I still have a lot to do before we reopen.” She started to go, then turned to me. “Will you let me know if you hear anything? Anything at all?”

“Of course,” I said. She nodded, satisfied with my answer, and headed across the street to her restaurant.
Poor woman,
I thought.
Her brother is dead, and now another chef has been murdered
—one, she said, who had threatened Oliver. She had to be as interested in finding out the truth as I was.

I wandered back to where I'd left Aunt Abby but found her AWOL when I arrived. No surprise, really,
knowing her attention span. I glanced at the crime scene area and saw Detective Shelton, but he was no longer talking to Jake. I wondered what Jake had told the detective. And what had he learned from the detective about the murder.

I was concentrating so hard on finding my aunt that I didn't notice someone running toward me until just before he rammed smack into me. He hit me hard, knocking the breath out of me. I slammed against the rough pavement, landed on my side, and gasped for air. As I fell, I managed to catch a glimpse of the man's shoes as he ran off: ornate black cowboy boots with gold trim and silver tips.

I'd seen those cowboy boots before. Tripp, the Meat Wagon guy.

Someone bent over and tried to help me up, but my shoulder ached and my arm stung from the pain. The woman helped me to a sitting position.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

I nodded, too winded to talk. After a few recovery breaths, I managed to whisper, “My arm . . .”

She and the man next to her eased me up to a standing position. I glanced at my arm and grimaced. My shirt was torn at the shoulder and blood had seeped through the cotton fabric where I'd scraped it on the pavement. Tiny dots of blood freckled my bare arm.

“You need to have that looked at,” the woman said.

“That jerk who hit you didn't even stop to find out if you were all right,” the man said.

“I'll be okay. Thanks for your help.”

I had to find Aunt Abby and make sure she was all
right. From seeing those boots, I was pretty sure Tripp had knocked me down.

On purpose?

Why? I didn't know. But I had a feeling Aunt Abby might be in real jeopardy.