Death of a Crabby Cook (14 page)

“I was wondering . . .” I said.

“What?” she said, frowning.

“Uh, Jake mentioned that you might be taking over Boris's truck. Is that true?” I tried to keep my tone light, as if I were rooting for her rather than trying to root out information.

“Yeah, maybe,” she said, shrugging.

“Oh, well, if there's anything I can do to help . . .”

“Who're you again?”

“Darcy. I've been helping out in Abby Warner's Big Yellow School Bus next door.”

“Oh yeah. I seen you around, haven't I? You always over at Jake's place. Got a thing for cream puffs, doncha.” She eyed me as if waiting for my reaction to this deep, dark secret.

“They are pretty delicious,” I said. “So, are you going to keep the menu the same if you take it over? Or do something else?”

She stuck out a hip. “I wanna do my own thing, you know, but I haven't decided what, yet. Maybe Cajun. I'm from N'Awlins. I'm thinking I'll call it Creole Voodoo. My
grand-mère
's got some magical recipes that'll cast a spell on anyone who tries them. But I'm looking for a silent partner, you dig? You interested?”

“Oh, no, sorry. I'd like to help, but I just lost my job. That's why I'm working for Aunt Abby.”

“She your aunt, eh? Maybe she interested?”

“I doubt it. But good luck. I hope you find a backer. Maybe one of Boris's contacts?”

I was hoping she'd mention Tripp, the delivery guy I'd seen her with, but she raised a well-drawn eyebrow and just nodded. When she started to close the door again, I
held it fast. “Hey, what about Tripp, from the Meat Wagon? Didn't I see you talking to him the other night? Maybe he could invest a little?” It was a long shot, but I had to find a way to get her to talk about him.

Her eyes narrowed. “Yeah, maybe. Look, I gotta get back to cleaning up. Lemme know if your aunt's interested in a good business deal, y'hear?”

“Will do,” I said as she closed the door.

I turned around and nearly bumped into the maintenance man I'd nearly bumped into earlier.

“Whoa!” I said. “You startled me!”

Avoiding eye contact, he mumbled something under his thick gray mustache that I couldn't make out and shuffled off, sweeping the surface as he went. I collected myself and headed next door, mentally summarizing what I had learned to share with Aunt Abby. One, Cherry Washington was interested in owning the truck. Good motive for killing off your boss. And two, she had raised a telltale eyebrow and had abruptly ended the conversation when Tripp's name came up. Why? Because the two were in on something together and he killed Boris for her?

I had to talk to Tripp—if I could find him. Meanwhile, I could have used some help from Dillon. I had a feeling he could get on the computer and find out all kinds of things about Cherry Washington and Tripp Saunders, not to mention everyone else on my list.

Where was a computer nerd when you needed one?

“Aunt Abby?” I called as I stepped into the Big Yellow School Bus. I didn't want to startle my aunt. There'd been enough of that lately.

“About time,” she said, busily sprinkling a dash of paprika on the tops of her crab potpies, which she'd named “Coach Crabbies.” “We open in twenty minutes. Where've you been?”

“Snooping around,” I said, helping myself to a slice of cheddar cheese that sat waiting for the onslaught of grilled-crab-and-cheese sandwich orders that were sure to come.

Aunt Abby stopped what she was doing and looked me over. “What did you find out?”

“Well,” I said, slipping on an apron. I tried a couple of times to tie it the way Aunt Abby had taught me, but I only managed to wad it up around my waist. It was a lost cause. “First I stopped by Jake's to get some breakfast.”

Aunt Abby's Kewpie doll eyebrow shot up. “I'll bet.”

I took an air-swipe at her. “Stop that! Actually, he was full of information. I found out Cherry Washington wants to take over Boris's truck. That could be a motive for killing Boris.”

Aunt Abby indicated the loaves of fresh bread on the
counter, then handed me a large, familiar knife—the one she'd waved at Oliver Jameson just before his death. The way things were going, I was surprised the police hadn't confiscated it for evidence.

“But that wouldn't explain Oliver's death,” Aunt Abby said, making a sawing gesture so I'd start slicing.

“No, but if I do a little more digging, I might find a connection. I've only talked to her once.”

“How'd you find her?” Aunt Abby asked. She began placing the paprika'd pies in the oven.

“Jake saw her going into Boris's truck. The crime scene tape is down. She was inside cleaning up. At least, that's what she said she was doing.”

Aunt Abby pulled out another rack of pies and proceeded to “decorate” them with the red-orange spice. “Huh. I assumed that truck would close and another truck would replace it.”

I nodded. “I saw a few vying for the spot, but they may not have a chance if Cherry finds a backer for her plan.”

Aunt Abby's eyes lit up. “She needs a backer?”

I nodded and replaced the slices of bread back in the plastic bag.

“I have an idea,” Aunt Abby said. “Why don't I offer to be her backer?”

“What? I thought you barely made enough to keep this place running.”

“That's true, but I could at least
offer.
That would give me a chance to ask her some questions, like what's her credit record, does she have any criminal history, stuff like that. Of course, Dillon could do all that online . . . if he were here.” Her face fell at the mention of her absent son.

“I'm not so sure that's a good idea, Aunt Abby. What
if Cherry turns out to be a murderer? If she thinks you're looking into her background, she may try to stop you.”

“Who? Little old innocent me?” Aunt Abby batted those eyelashes again.

“Yes, you. You're not as invincible as you think you are.” I pulled out another loaf and began whacking away again.

“Did Jake say anything else?”

At the thought of how the meeting had ended, a heat wave seared through me. “Uh . . . not really.” I busied myself with the loaf of cheese bread.

Aunt Abby stared at me, hands on her hips. “Darcy. What did you do?”

“Nothing!” I shrugged. “My purse . . . fell open. Accidentally. Jake may have seen my suspects list. . . .”

“Oh, Darcy, no! He was our only real ally besides Dillon. Now he thinks we suspect him of murder?”

“I'll fix it,” I said, sawing at the bread. Sawing, sawing, sawing.

“Oh, really? How?”

“I don't know yet. But I can't live without those cream puffs of his, so I'll make it better.”

We worked in silence for a few minutes. The clock was ticking and in less than five minutes it would be time to open the service window and greet the growing line of customers for their late breakfasts or early lunches.

Finally, Aunt Abby finished wiping the counter and turned to me. “Well, we still don't have our killer. So what do we do next?”

“I need to talk to Tripp Saunders and find out what he and Boris were arguing about—and what's up with him and Cherry.”

“Oh, is that all? How do you expect to do that?” Her words dripped with sarcasm.

“I'm a reporter, remember?” I said. “Or at least I was until a few days ago. I'll pretend to interview him. I don't think he knows that
I
overheard him. He just knows
someone
did—someone with a personalized ‘It's a Small World' cell phone ring.” I shot her a look. I really needed to change that tune.

Before I could continue, Aunt Abby opened the window and began taking orders. I filled them as fast as I could and made only four mistakes the whole morning. Most of the customers wanted the Custodian's Special at this hour—bacon, egg, and hash browns on a biscuit. How people could eat such a loaded combination of fat, salt, and cholesterol was a mystery to me. I liked my breakfast food simple—like a cream puff.

The rush kept us both busy until around two, when things settled down enough for me to take a break and get a coffee.

“Want anything?” I asked my aunt.

She raised her bottle of peach Snapple, took a swallow, and shook her head, then went about cleaning up the latest mess.

I headed for the Coffee Witch, walking slowly past Jake's truck, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, judge his mood, and see if he could take a coffee break. Unfortunately, he was still dealing with a line of customers, mostly women. Attractive women. Oh, well. After putting Jake on my list of suspects, I could pretty much cross him off my list of future dating material—a list of one. So much for that list.

There was only one person in line for Willow's coffee
truck—the maintenance man. As I stood behind him, I wondered if he'd seen anything related to Boris's murder. I hadn't really thought of him before, but then, people who work in the service business are often invisible. They become part of the background, overlooked or ignored. Yet they're often in a position to see and hear all kinds of things the rest of us miss.

“Excuse me?” I said to his back.

No response.

I tapped his shoulder. He turned around. He had a thick, unkempt mustache that matched his bushy eyebrows, and deep lines in his weathered, dark-skinned face. A cap that read “SF Maintenance” was pulled over his graying hair.

“Hi, you're the maintenance man, right?” I asked, stating the obvious.

He mumbled something I couldn't understand, then turned back to the coffee window to await his turn.

Was he speaking another language? He looked somewhat Middle Eastern, so maybe he hadn't understood me. I moved up beside him and tried again, speaking slowly and using gestures. “I'm Darcy,” I said, pointing to myself. “I work at the Big Yellow School Bus with my aunt.” I waved an arm toward the bus. “I noticed you work here and I wondered if you might have seen or heard anything about the murder the other day. I'm doing a story for the newspaper—” I gestured writing with an invisible pencil in my palm.

The man turned his back on me and stepped up to the service window. Moments later Willow handed him a black coffee. He reached into his deep overall pocket, pulled out a wadded handful of dollar bills, and placed
them on the counter. Willow gave a “no charge” wave of her hand. The man collected his money, nodded, and shuffled away.

Leaving my place in line, I ran over to him. “Excuse me, sir. Did you hear what I said?” I was becoming irritated at his rudeness. Even if he didn't speak English, he could have said something. Once again, he turned away.

I stood there, openmouthed. “What a jerk!” I said loud enough for the man and everyone around me to overhear me. I returned to the Coffee Witch, garnering odd looks from the people in the recently formed line, but the maintenance man didn't even turn around. I shrugged and said to no one in particular, “I just wanted to ask him some questions.”

When it was my turn to order, I looked up at Willow and asked, “Do you know that guy?”

Willow slid a rumpled note over to me. The words were scrawled in block letters and read:
“Deaf. Black coffee. How much?”
Apparently he'd handed her the note when his back was turned to me.

I felt my chest tighten. Crap. I had been trying to talk to a deaf man and had even called him a jerk. I could only be glad that he hadn't heard me say that.

“I feel like an idiot!” I said to Willow.

“You didn't know,” she said. “Your usual? Or do you want to try my new tiramisu-flavored frap? I call it Jake's Bane. Jake gave me the idea.”

Oh, really?
I thought. Maybe there really was something going on between Willow and Jake. Even with all the piercings, tattoos, and hair art, she was attractive, but I had a hard time seeing her with ex-attorney Jake Miller.

“Oh, you talked to Jake today?” I asked casually.

“Yeah, he came by this morning for his usual.”

“Are you two pretty good friends?” It was hard trying to sound uninterested.

She shrugged. “We went out a couple of times, if that's what you're asking. But I was seeing someone else at the time, so it got to be too complicated. You know how it is.”

I didn't, but my ex-boyfriend probably did.

Willow's grin suddenly spread, revealing her pierced tongue. “OMG, you're totally hot for him!”

“No, I'm not!” I said, glancing around, hoping no one heard her. “I was just asking. I'm trying to find out more about the people who work around here. Somebody's got to solve these murders and the police don't seem to be doing anything but falsely suspecting my aunt and my cousin.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, clearly not convinced. “Well, I doubt it was Jake. He's too nice a guy.”

I shrugged. “Sure, but everyone has a skeleton or two in the closet.” I wondered if Jake's disbarment was his only skeleton.

“If Jake has one, I'd be surprised. You're more likely to find skeletons in the other food truckers' closets. . . .”

My eyes lit up. “Really? Like who?”

Willow glanced behind me. “Can't talk now. I've got customers.”

I turned around. More than half a dozen people had lined up to get their favorite concoctions from the Coffee Witch. I quickly ordered the tiramisu frap on her recommendation, then paid her and waited for the drink while scanning the circle of food trucks, wondering what secrets they all held.

I thought about stopping by Jake's truck and
apologizing again, but this time the window was closed and a
BE BACK IN
5
MINUTES
sign was pressed against it. I wondered where he'd gone. And when he'd be back.

Moving on, I made a mental note to chat up the vegans as soon as possible and check in again on Cherry Washington. And I still needed to find Tripp Saunders. There were fast becoming too many cooks in the kitchen. I wondered which ones were just red herrings.

I headed for the School Bus with my drink. Maybe my aunt knew more than she realized about everybody's business.

“Aunt Abby?” I said as I stepped inside. “What do you—”

I stopped cold.

Aunt Abby stood facing me in the narrow bus aisle, holding her favorite knife.

Opposite her, with his back to me, was the deaf maintenance man.

He held something in his raised hand. It looked like a large can of black pepper.

I screamed, nearly forgetting the deaf man wouldn't hear me.

I only hoped someone would.