Death of a Crabby Cook (21 page)

“Quick!” Jake slid his hand down my arm and took my hand. He pulled me toward the opening at the back of the warehouse. “We've got to get out of here! Fast!”

There was no way to hurry through the hole. I got on my stomach and began inching my way toward the outside, while Jake pushed my feet in an attempt to help. Just as I pulled my feet through, I heard the front door of the warehouse squeak open.

Oh my God—Jake! He was still inside!

I wanted to call to him but knew that was a bad idea. He was on his own—there was nothing I could do to help him. I just hoped he was able to hide from Tripp behind one of those boxes under the table.

Suddenly I heard voices.

A woman's voice said something I couldn't make out.

Then a man's voice: “Of course I checked everything. Took the laptops, wiped down all the fingerprints, packed up all the IDs and stuff. If that nosy chick calls the cops, they won't find anything linking us to the operation.” Tripp!

The woman spoke again, softly.

“I know that!” Tripp said angrily. “Now, see if you can find it, or we could be in real trouble!”

Uh-oh. Tripp and his partner were about to do a thorough search of the warehouse. It was only a matter of time before they found Jake.

What were they looking for?

And what would they do with him if they found Jake?

The only thing I could think to do was cause a distraction. Maybe that would give Jake the chance to get out of there before being caught by Tripp.

But what?

Yell “Fire!” and hope those two came running out of the building?

No, I had a better idea. Remembering that Jake had changed my ringtone, I pulled out my cell phone. With a shaking finger, I clicked on the ringtone test, turned up the volume, then knelt down and held the phone up to the escape hole. The sound of police sirens reverberated in the mostly empty warehouse and echoed against the bare walls. I just hoped Tripp couldn't tell exactly where the sound came from.

The female said something I couldn't hear.

“The police!” Tripp shouted. “It sounds like they're right outside!”

The woman said something else.

“Shut up!” Tripp yelled back. “There's nothing here to incriminate us.”

“I don't care!” the woman shouted above the siren noise. “I'm getting out of here. They could get us for
illegal trespass or even stolen goods. That stuff didn't exactly come from Amazon.com.”

I couldn't see what was happening, but moments later I heard a window break at the side of the building. I peered around and watched a muscular arm beat out the flimsy frame that had held the glass. Moments later, two figures climbed through the opening, jumped to the ground, and took off running.

I pointed the siren in their direction as they sped to Tripp's Meat Wagon, which was parked in front of the building. Tripp pulled out in a screech of tires and was gone.

I returned to the opening at the back and got down on my knees. “Jake?” I called.

No response.

Then a hand reached out from the opening. Jake!

He slithered through, military-style, barely clearing the small passageway. He stood up, and I started to brush off the dirt from his T-shirt and jeans, then caught myself. It suddenly felt a little too intimate.

“That was
you
making the police siren?” he said, looking at the cell phone still in my hand. “Pretty clever.”

“Thanks to you.”

“Let's get out of here before those two realize they've just been punked and come back.”

Jake led me behind the warehouse next door so we wouldn't be spotted if Tripp doubled back. Then we headed toward the street, still checking for signs of the Meat Wagon truck or its driver. The coast was clear, so we ran to Jake's truck and hopped in. Jake removed the tablecloth that covered his sign and sped off down the road.

“Whoa!” I said, still trying to catch my breath. “That was close.”

“Tell me about it,” Jake said. “I don't know what they would have done if they'd caught me. I'm guessing a guy like Tripp always carries protection.”

For a moment, I thought Jake meant a condom. I blushed. “Oh. You mean a gun or something?”

He nodded. “About all I usually have is a pastry bag. And I forgot it this time.”

I laughed in spite of the fact I was still recovering from the close encounter.

“Well, sorry about the wild-goose chase,” I said. “This was another dead end, just like all the others.”

Jake smiled.

“What's so amusing?” I asked, staring at him.

He didn't answer.

I frowned. “Tell me! Did you find something?”

Jake held the steering wheel with his left hand and used his right hand to dig in his pocket. He withdrew a small card and handed it to me.

“What's this?” I looked it over. On the front of the stiff, laminated card was a photo of a bearded man I didn't recognize. Next to it were his stats—name, address, date of birth, sex, eye and hair color, and so on. I ran my fingers over the signature. The handwriting was raised. “Wow, this looks real. Is it one of the Tripp's fake IDs?”

Jake shrugged. “I'll call Shelton. We won't know for sure until he runs the ID through the identify fraud unit.”

“What about fingerprints?” I asked.

Jake shook his head. “Too late. It's already covered with mine, and now yours.”

“Well, at least we finally have some real evidence!” I said, excited by the discovery. “Tripp thought he cleaned up everything, but he must have missed this.” I held up the card. “Where was it?”

“Under one of the boxes. When Tripp came in, I hid behind the boxes under the table—it was the only thing I could think to do. I'm sure they would have discovered me eventually, but thanks to your police siren, they didn't.” He glanced at me and squeezed my knee. “Anyway, when I moved the box to hide, I saw something sticking out and picked it up.”

“Great!” I said. “If this proves to be a fake ID, that should be enough to get Tripp arrested for fraud or whatever. And hopefully that will lead to some answers about the murders.”

“That's a big leap, Darcy. Printing fake IDs and committing murder aren't really the same. Plus I can't prove where it came from.”

“But it's got to be him! Boris must have told him he didn't want to be a part of the illegal business anymore. Maybe he threatened to expose Tripp and Tripp killed him. It makes sense.”

“The only proof we have—and it's not confirmed yet—is the fake ID business,” Jake said. “We don't have any proof of murder. And we still don't have a connection to Jameson.”

“Then we have to find something, just like we did at the warehouse.”

“And how are we going to do that?” Jake asked, eyeing me. “There weren't any suspicious fingerprints in Boris's truck. Shelton said they were wiped clean. It all comes down to physical evidence.”

“But Tripp was there the night Boris was killed, remember? I heard them arguing.”

“All circumstantial. Not enough to pin a murder on him.”

I thought for a moment as we drove into the Fort Mason parking lot. “What if Cherry Washington is the key to all of this?” I suggested. “Maybe she's hiding something. Maybe she's protecting Tripp. Like you said, everyone has secrets. If I could catch her in a lie and threaten to tell the police, maybe she'd protect herself by telling me what her involvement is.”

Jake parked the van and turned off the engine. He turned to me. “There's one more thing I forgot to tell you,” he said.

“What?” I asked expectantly. “Did you find more evidence?”

“Not exactly. But I did get a glimpse of the woman who was with Tripp in the warehouse.”

“Oh my God. Did you recognize her?”

Jake nodded. “It was Cherry Washington.”

•   •   •

After promising to call Detective Shelton about the fake ID, Jake headed for his truck to get ready for the day's cream puff cravers. I walked over to Aunt Abby's bus and waved to my aunt through the window. I didn't see any sign of Dillon until I entered the bus. Even with him standing right there in front of me, I still didn't recognize him.

“You've got to be kidding,” I said, shaking my head.

“Meet Svetlana,” my aunt said, grinning, her arms elbow-deep in dough.

“This is ridiculous,” I said.

“Sorry, she doesn't speak English,” Aunt Abby said, “but she understands some. And she's a wonderful help to me, aren't you, Svetlana?”

“Madness,” I said.

Dillon adjusted his new wig, a black bob with long thick bangs covered in a hairnet. He was dressed in one of Aunt Abby's blue athletic suits, with the too-short sleeves pushed up and the too-short pant legs hitting midcalf. His ankles were covered by white kneesocks, and he wore a pair of large athletic shoes on his feet. I guessed that Aunt Abby had done his makeup—too much foundation, too much blush, and too much eye shadow. It was enough to make you spew your comfort food.

“I think he looks quite fetching,” Aunt Abby said.

Dillon didn't speak, just shot me a daggered look and continued to man—or “woman”—a pot of water boiling on the stove.

“I think he looks like an idiot,” I said. “He's not going to fool anyone.”

“Now, Darcy. It worked for Mrs. Doubtfire. If you don't look too closely—” Aunt Abby began to protest.

“She's right, Mom!” Dillon said. He pulled off the wig, then grabbed a paper towel and started wiping off the greasepaint. “This isn't working. If the cops come, they're going to know it's me. I gotta split. Darcy can take over.”

Aunt Abby gave me a dirty look that said,
“You just ruined everything!”

Dillon quickly stripped out of the stretchy suit, revealing his folded-up jeans and a Comic Con T-shirt underneath. He pushed the socks and cuffs down, grabbed his laptop from a back counter, and headed for the bus doors.

“You can tell her what I found out,” Dillon said to his mom. “I'll call you later.”

He pulled his hoodie down over his eyebrows, glanced around outside, stepped out of the bus, and disappeared.

“Now look what you've done!” Aunt Abby said, tearing up. “He's gone again.”

“I'm sorry, Aunt Abby, but he really wouldn't have fooled the police in that getup. It's better that he stays away until these murders are solved and the cops aren't around so much.”

“I know,” Aunt Abby said, blinking back the tears. “I just wish this was all over. I miss him.”

I nodded. “I wish it was over too. But don't worry. Jake and I are working on it.” I gave her a hug. “Dillon said you had something to tell me? What did he find out?”

Aunt Abby sniffed and blew her nose into a tissue, then tucked the tissue into her apron pocket. “He said he was on the computer most of the night, trying to learn more about Boris and Oliver and the others on our list.”

“And . . . ?”

She shrugged. “He found out Cherry Washington is an illegal alien from Jamaica, although I don't know how that might help anything.”

“Huh,” I said, thinking a moment. Was that southern accent put on to disguise the fact that she was from Jamaica? “I'm guessing Tripp made her a fake ID, and Boris hired her. But you're right. I'm not sure how that would lead to murder. Unless Boris threatened to expose both Tripp and Cherry to get himself out of helping distribute fake IDs.”

Aunt Abby laid out the hunk of dough and began rolling it flat.

“Anything else?” I asked.

“That's it.”

Hmm. Everything seemed to point to Tripp—except for a link to Oliver Jameson. I had to find a connection. But how?

“Aunt Abby, did Dillon discover anything more about Oliver?”

“No. You already knew the restaurant was up for sale, as well as in Chapter Eleven, right?”

I sat down on the stool. “Yeah, but that's what's odd. Why would Oliver steal all those recipes from everyone if he was planning to sell Bones 'n' Brew?”

“Maybe he was going to start a new restaurant,” Aunt Abby offered. “Or even his own food truck. Maybe that's why he wanted our recipes.”

“But how did he manage to steal all those recipes? None of the food truckers would have even let him inside their trucks, let alone shared their recipes with him. Did he somehow break in during the dead of night?”

“I doubt it,” Aunt Abby said. “Word would have spread like a grease fire around here if our locks had been broken.”

“So,” I said, thinking aloud, “Oliver stole a bunch of secret recipes and now he's dead. Boris may have sold a bunch of fake IDs and he's also dead. The only connection I can think of is that they were both chefs and both worked in the same general area. . . .” Another thought came to me. “I wonder if Oliver had Tripp do the dirty work for him too?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, maybe Oliver got Tripp to steal the recipes for him. Maybe he knew Tripp was not the most honest
guy in town and hired him—or maybe he blackmailed him. Maybe Tripp had his hands in lots of different pies, so to speak. Did you ever see Tripp over at Bones 'n' Brew?”

“I never really noticed.”

“Well, I'm pretty sure we have a motive for Tripp killing Boris—blackmail gone wrong. All we need now is a motive for Tripp to murder Oliver—like blackmail too. Did Tripp have something he could hold over Oliver Jameson?”

“I don't know,” Aunt Abby said, washing her hands in the sink, “but you'd better get your apron on. We open up soon, and we have lots to prep before the crowds arrive. ”

•   •   •

In between slicing bread for BLT sandwiches, heating Crab Potpies, and scooping mac and cheese cups for Aunt Abby's hungry customers, I had little time to think about murder. When the lunch rush slowed, my aunt granted me a much-needed coffee break. I headed straight for the Coffee Witch and ordered two Voodoo Ventis—one for me and one for Jake.

I figured if Jake had been as busy as we were at the School Bus, he'd welcome a stimulant—in trade for today's cream puff special. When he caught a glimpse of me from the window of his truck, I held up the two coffees.

“Lifesaver!” he called out the window. “Be right out.” He finished with the last customer, flipped over the
BE BACK IN 5 MINUTE
S
sign, stuffed something in a small white bag, and met me at the door. We found a bench nearby and settled in.

I started to hand him his coffee, then held back. “What are the magic words?”

He held up the white bag. “Coffee-Toffee Dream Puff?”

“Nailed it,” I said, and traded him a coffee for the dessert bag. I reached in, pulled out the perfect puff, and took a bite. “Wow,” I said, when I could speak again. “Wow.”

“Thanks for the coffee,” he said, taking a sip.

After swallowing a mouthful, I asked, “Did you talk to Detective Shelton about what we found at the warehouse?”

“I left a message. He wasn't in.”

I frowned. “It sure doesn't seem like he's in much of a hurry to catch Tripp.”

“Well, we still don't have anything solid on the guy, other than his illegal printing business and our suspicions.”