Death of a Crabby Cook (24 page)

Dillon split moments after I told him about his mom. I assumed he was headed for the hospital—and avoiding the cops. Good thing. The police arrived five minutes later. While Jake talked to Detective Shelton, Willow cleaned my leg wound with water and antiseptic and covered it with coffee filters, which she said were better than gauze. How she knew this was a mystery to me. She taped the filters on my body with good old duct tape.

After she fixed me up and told me I was going to live, I explained to the curious food truckers and straggling onlookers what had happened inside the School Bus—that Livvy had attacked me with a knife, that I'd fought back by throwing everything but the kitchen sink at her—including rat poison—and that she'd admitted to killing her own brother as well as Boris.

Jake drove me to the hospital and waited in the cafeteria while the doctor treated my leg wound. It was just superficial, and I was out of the ER in thirty minutes. I joined Jake in the cafeteria and we spent the next forty minutes drinking bad coffee that tasted like hospital antiseptic while we waited to see Aunt Abby when she got out of recovery.

While Jake got us some water, I glanced at my cell
phone, willing it to ring. The nurse had promised to call, and I was dying to hear how my aunt was doing. More than that, I wanted to see for myself that she was all right.

“So how did you figure it was Livvy?” Jake asked.

I took a sip of water. “It was Dillon's ringtone that clued me in when Livvy was in the bus. I called his number and it rang in her pocket. That's when I realized she was the one who had attacked Aunt Abby and Dillon and took their cell phones to call me.”

Jake reached out and patted my hand. The warmth of his touch gave me a tingle that distracted me from the pain in my side.

“So,” I said, trying to wrap up the details swimming around in my head. “Livvy attacked my aunt and cousin to scare me off, then stole their phones and called me with Aunt Abby's phone, pretending to be my aunt so I'd go to her house and discover that she'd been attacked.”

“Pretty much. She probably did it to get you out of the restaurant before you discovered any evidence, and meant it as a warning.”

“Did the police say anything about her motive?”

“Yeah, Shelton said she confirmed what she told you—that she killed her brother because he wanted to sell the restaurant and she wanted to keep it.”

“Greed?”

“More like control, I think,” Jake said. “Maybe recognition. You said she said she did most of the work, yet their father gave the majority of the business to Oliver. She probably always felt she deserved it. Turns out she isn't a chef, only the kitchen manager. But she'd planned to hire a new chef and needed those original recipes, plus
the food truck recipes, to update the menu. I guess she'd made photocopies of the stolen recipes, then tossed out the originals into the Dumpster to cover her tracks. Only, I'd happened to see her with the bags of trash.”

“But why did she pick on us—first my aunt Abby, then Dillon, then me?”

Jake shrugged. “Maybe you wrote a bad review of the restaurant in the past, and she never forgot it.”

“Very funny,” I said. But Jake was right. I
had
written a poor review after hearing from several people that the place wasn't good anymore. I'd wanted to see for myself, and it was true. The place had gone downhill.

“Well, I'm glad Willow or the vegans weren't the murderers. If they can't kill animals, surely they can't kill human beings. And just because Vandy ate a hamburger doesn't mean she's a murderer. But I kept them on my list because they didn't get along with Boris.”

“Like you kept me on your list,” Jake said, looking at me with those dark eyes.

I smiled weakly. “Sorry about that, but I never really suspected you.”

Jake shook his head. I wondered if he'd ever forgive me.

My cell phone ring broke the awkward silence. I picked it up and said, “I'll be right there!” After I hung up, I said to Jake, “Aunt Abby is out of ICU. I need to see her. You want to come?”

“Sure,” Jake said, rising from the table.

We tossed our drink containers into the recycle bin and headed for the elevator. Getting off on the third floor, we made our way through the labyrinth of
hallways to Aunt Abby's room, where she was still recovering from having her stomach pumped. She was sound asleep when we entered. To my surprise, Dillon was sitting in a chair by her bed. He was working on his laptop—not a surprise.

“Dillon!” I said, actually glad to see him. I was even more delighted to see him dressed in his own clothes and not like a tourist, in spite of the fact that his faded jeans were holey and his threadbare shirt sported a picture of Sheldon Cooper from
The Big Bang Theory
.

“What? No nurse costume?” Jake teased.

“Very funny,” Dillon said.

I shushed both of them. “She's sleeping!” I turned to Dillon and whispered, “Seriously, what are you doing here without a disguise? Aren't you worried about being arrested?”

Dillon looked at Jake.

“They dropped the charges,” Jake answered for him.

“What?” I said.

Dillon nodded. “Jake talked to the detective. Told him I'd practically solved the case with my computer. Shelton let me off, since obviously I didn't kill anyone.”

“What about the feds?” I asked. “All that computer hacking?”

He shrugged. “I still have to deal with them. But I think I'm pretty safe here. For now.”

I sighed. “Well, at least Aunt Abby is okay.” I looked down at her and gently held the hand without the IV. “Has she been asleep the whole time?”

“Pretty much,” Dillon said. “She opened her eyes and smiled when she saw me, then faded. Doc said she'll be
fine. But I think she's off cream puffs for a while.” Dillon actually cracked a smile at his own attempt at humor. I hadn't known he had it in him to make a joke.

“Well, let's let her sleep. I'll come by later and see her. I've got a crime scene cleaner coming to clear out the poison I threw all over the inside of the bus, so I wouldn't recommend you crash there tonight, Dillon.”

“I'll be fine here for now,” he said. “I'll go home later, maybe.”

I bent down and gave my cousin an awkward hug; then Jake and I stepped out of the room.

We ran into Detective Shelton just outside the door.

“What are you doing here?” I asked him, surprised at the visit.

“Just wanted to see how your aunt was doing,” the detective said, his hands clasping a bouquet of flowers. “She's been through a lot.”

“That's so sweet of you,” I said, grinning. “But she's asleep right now.”

He nodded. “I'll just leave these and let her sleep,” he said. Was that a blush beneath his mocha complexion?

I moved aside to allow him in. He took a few awkward steps and entered the room.

Hesitating, I heard a flirty but raspy voice say, “Why, hello, Detective Shelton. . . .”

I turned to Jake. “That little faker!” I started to go back in, but Jake caught my arm and stopped me.

“Come on. Let's give them some privacy.”

“But Dillon's in there!” I argued.

Seconds later, Dillon appeared in the hall, a sheepish grin on his face. “Guess I'll head home after all,” he said. “Mom seems to be in good hands at the moment.”

I smiled at Dillon and took his arm.

“How about we head home together?” I suggested as we walked to the elevators.

“You two want to come over to my place for some cream puffs?” Jake offered. “I've got a loft in the marina with a great view of the bay.”

I shook my head. “Sounds lovely, but I'm exhausted. I have to go home and feed Basil. And explain to my ex-boss why I never got that review of the festival or that article on the contest written for the newspaper. And start writing my cookbook. Besides,” I added, patting my stomach, “I really need to lay off the puffs for a while.”

“I hear you,” Jake said, smiling, although he looked a little disappointed. “Need a ride?”

“I've got mom's car,” Dillon said.

Jake nodded and walked us to Aunt Abby's car in the hospital parking lot in silence. But as soon as Dillon was behind the wheel, Jake pulled me close.

“Rain check,” he whispered, gazing into my eyes.

And then he kissed me.

Aunt Abby's Crab Potpies

¹
/
₂
cup plus 2 tablespoons butter

3 cups chopped onion

1 cup chopped celery

1 cup chopped carrots

1 cup frozen peas

¹
/
₄
cup flour

2 cups peeled and diced potatoes

2 cups clam juice

2 teaspoons lemon zest

1
¹
/
₂
teaspoons seafood seasoning

¹
/
₂
teaspoon salt

1 pound crabmeat

1 (14-ounce) package refrigerated piecrusts

1 egg, beaten

1 tablespoon water

tartar sauce (secret ingredient)

Preheat the oven to 375°F.

Melt 2 tablespoons of the butter in large pan over medium heat.

Add the onion, celery, carrots, and peas, and cook for 5 minutes.

Stir in the flour and cook for 1 minute.

Add the potatoes, clam juice, lemon zest, seafood seasoning, and salt; bring to boil.

Cover, reduce the heat to low, and simmer for 15 minutes, until the potatoes are tender.

Remove from the heat.

Melt the remaining
¹
/
₂
cup butter in a frying pan over low heat; cook and stir for 3 minutes until golden brown.

Combine the butter and crabmeat, add to the vegetable mixture, and stir.

Unroll the piecrusts, place 6 ramekins on the crusts and cut out circles of piecrust the same diameter as the ramekins to cover the pies.

Spoon the crab mixture into the ramekins.

Whisk the egg with the water and brush the cutout piecrusts with the egg wash.

Place a crust circle, egg wash side down, over each ramekin of crab mixture and seal the edges of the crust to the edges of the ramekin.

Pierce the crusts a few times with a knife or fork to create vent holes.

Place the ramekins on a foil-lined baking sheet.

Bake for 25 to 30 minutes, until golden brown.

Top with tartar sauce.

S
ERVES
6

Jake's Tiramisu Dream Puffs

¹
/
₂
cup water

4 tablespoons butter

pinch of sugar

pinch of salt

¹
/
₂
cup flour

2 eggs, beaten

1 teaspoon instant coffee

¹
/
3
cup heavy cream

2 tablespoons powdered sugar

3 tablespoons mascarpone cheese, at room temperature

¹
/
8
teaspoon vanilla extract

1 teaspoon grated semisweet chocolate

powdered sugar or chocolate syrup

Preheat the oven to 350°F.

Combine the water, butter, sugar, and salt in medium pan and bring to a boil.

Remove from the heat and add the flour.

Place back on medium heat and stir well with wooden spoon for 30 seconds.

Remove from the heat and pour into a heatproof bowl; stir for 1 minute.

Combine the eggs with the flour mixture in four additions, stirring constantly until the batter is smooth.

Add the instant coffee and stir until well mixed.

Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

Scoop the mixture into balls and place on the prepared baking sheet, leaving 2 inches between puffs.

Bake for 30 minutes, until golden brown, light, and crisp; cool on a rack.

Beat the cream and powdered sugar until firm peaks form.

Add the mascarpone cheese, vanilla, and chocolate to the whipped cream and fold in gently.

Cut off the top half of each puff, fill the base with 1 teaspoon of the cream mixture (or more, as needed), and replace the top.

Sprinkle with powdered sugar or drizzle with chocolate syrup.

M
AKES
8
TO
12,
DEPENDING
ON
THE
SIZE
OF
THE
PUFF

Willow the Coffee Witch's Cara-Magical-Cino

2 shots espresso

3 tablespoons sugar

1 cup low-fat milk

2 cups ice

3 tablespoons chocolate syrup

3 tablespoons caramel sauce

pinch of cinnamon

whipped cream

Combine the espresso, sugar, milk, ice, chocolate sauce, caramel sauce, and cinnamon in a blender.

Blend on high until the ice is crushed and the drink is smooth, 30 to 45 seconds.

Pour into two glasses and top with whipped cream.

Drizzle extra caramel and chocolate over the whipped cream, if desired, and serve with straws.

S
ERVES
2.

Turn the page for a sneak peek

at the next Food Festival Mystery,

 

Death of a Chocolate Cheater

 

Coming from Obsidian in summer 2015.

“Darcy, did you know chocolate is a valuable energy source?” my aunt Abby asked as she handed me one of her “homemade” lattes. By homemade, I mean she'd used her instant one-cup machine, pressed a button, and voilà. “I just read that one chocolate chip can give you enough energy to walk a hundred and fifty feet.”

“Great.” I took a sip of the freshly made hot drink and washed down a bite of a day-old brownie I'd found in the refrigerator. “I'm gonna need about seven billion of them to get going this morning.”

Aunt Abby settled onto the empty barstool at her kitchen counter with her special “Lunch Lady” mug and continued reading from the San Francisco Chocolate Festival brochure. It was a good thing I'd found the brownie, or I would have run out and bought a bag of chocolate chips. Just the word “chocolate” made my mouth water.

“And it says here that chocolate has great health benefits,” Aunt Abby said as she continued reading. “It helps alleviate depression, lower your blood pressure, reduce tumors, relieve PMS. . . .” She glanced at me.

I eyed her. “Are you hinting that I've been crabby the past few days?”

She raised a perfectly drawn brow at me. “I'm just saying chocolate supposedly increases serotonin and endorphin levels, in case they happen to be low.”

I knew she was referring to my recent dark mood. Ever since I had been let go from the
San Francisco Chronicle
three months before, I'd been helping my sixtysomething aunt serve comfort food from her Big Yellow School Bus food truck. Her “busterant,” as she called it, was parked at Fort Mason, not far from her Russian Hill home. I was working there to make ends meet now that I wasn't collecting income from my reporter's job—and it was likely to stay that way until I sold my future bestselling cookbook featuring recipes from food trucks, the culinary phenomenon that had recently swept the country. Then I would move out of my aunt's RV, which was parked in her side yard . . . if I ever planned to get on with my life-after-Trevor, my cheating ex-boyfriend.

Unfortunately, life wasn't progressing the way I'd hoped. I was beginning to think I'd be serving Principal's Pot Pies and Custodian's Crab Mac 'n' Cheese for the rest of my days. The only respite from the daily food truck workout was my budding relationship with Jake Miller, the dreamboat from the Dream Puff Truck. The only trouble was, I'd been sampling so many of his creamy concoctions that the result was beginning to show around my waist.

Until recently, that was. I hadn't had a cream puff in a couple of weeks. Jake had been acting oddly, and I hadn't seen him much lately.

I yawned, trying to wake up, and took another sip of the latte. “Are you sure this isn't decaf?”

Aunt Abby shook her head, her face buried in the brochure. Her Clairol-colored fire-engine red curls swung back and forth. “Chocolate contains caffeine, you know. Maybe you should pour some chocolate syrup in that cup.”

“I'd have to add the whole jar to get the same amount of caffeine that's in a cup of coffee. Maybe I'll just have another brownie.”

“True,” Aunt Abby said. “There are even more benefits to chocolate. Did you know it contains iron, helps prevent tooth decay, and has antioxidants that help minimize aging?” She patted her porcelain skin. The only giveaways to her age were the tiny laugh lines around her eyes. I wondered how much chocolate she'd consumed over the years.

“Stop!” I finally said, holding up a hand. “I've gained five pounds from eating all of Jake's chocolate cream puff samples, especially those Mocha Madness ones. No more talk about chocolate! Just hearing about it is making me fat.” I put down the brownie and sipped my coffee.

“Well, you'd better get used to it,” Aunt Abby said, “because I have a surprise.”

“Oh?” I asked warily, peering over my coffee mug. It was too early in the morning for one of Aunt Abby's surprises.

“I just signed us up for the Chocolate Festival Competition!”

I set my mug down with a clink. Coffee sloshed inside
it like a mini tsunami. “But your specialty is comfort foods, not chocolate.”

Aunt Abby frowned at me. “
Hmph
. Are you forgetting my Chocolate-Covered Potato Chips? My Chocolate–Peanut Butter Sandwiches? My Chocolate Pasta? My Chocolate Pizza? I've seen you sneak plenty of those chocolate leftovers at the end of the day.” She eyed the half-eaten brownie.

She was right. Aside from her usual fare of American comfort foods with school-themed names such as Cheerleader's Chili, Coach's Cole Slaw, and Bus Driver's BLTs, my aunt Abby had put her own chocolate twist on classic cuisine. Her chocolate-dipped, raspberry-iced Twinkies were to die for.

I loved just about everything on my aunt's School Bus menu, but I wondered whether her chocolate offerings were good enough for the prestigious San Francisco Chocolate Festival. The annual event featured renowned chefs from around the world competing for some hefty prizes. It seemed out of my aunt's league.

“Don't you think my chocolate goodies are worthy of awards?” Aunt Abby asked.

I cleared my throat and backtracked, worried I'd hurt her feelings. “Oh, sure they are . . . but it's a tough competition. Remember last year's winner, George Brown? He owned his own gourmet chocolate shop and took home the grand prize with his chocolate-covered bacon. Which, by the way, wasn't bad.”

“Yes, I remember. This year he's one of the judges. But nothing beats the creation I've come up with this year.” She smiled mysteriously. “Not even chocolate bacon.”

“Really? You've got something new planned? What is it?”

“Top secret. If I tell you, I'll have to—”

“I know, I know—kill me. Just give me a hint, then. Chocolate-covered snickerdoodles? Chocolate-dipped Danish? Chocolate-frosted cinnamon buns?”

She harrumphed. “Very funny. Now you'll just have to wait and see.”

I shrugged in response to her secretiveness. “It's going to be a lot of extra work, you know. Are you up to it, in addition to running your busterant?”

For that matter, was I, as one of the A-team assistants? I didn't have time for a lot of extra work. I had a book to write, a career to develop, a life to begin.

“What extra work?” came a low voice from behind me.

Dillon, Aunt Abby's twenty-five-year-old son, sauntered barefoot into the kitchen. Tall and slim like his deceased father, he wore a thin, shaggy robe over his bare chest and Superman boxer shorts. His curly brown hair looked as if it hadn't seen scissors, gel, or even shampoo in days, nor had his face seen a razor.

He went directly to the pantry, opened the door, and stared at the loaded shelves. “Mom, you're out of cereal.”

“Yes, dear,” Aunt Abby said to her boomerang son. Dillon had been “asked” to leave his university because of some suspected hacking activity and had moved home to “reconfigure” his life goals. In other words, to sponge off his mom and play computer games.

“Got any more of those chocolate whoopie pies you made last night?”

“Dillon! Those were supposed to be top secret.” Aunt
Abby shot a look at me. “Well, Darcy, now you know my secret weapon for the chocolate competition—my newest creation: Killer Chocolate Whoopie Pies. But both of you need to keep quiet about this. I don't want anyone to find out and steal my idea before the contest begins.”

“Killer Chocolate Whoopie Pies?” I asked, stunned at her entry choice. I wasn't even sure what a whoopie pie was.

“It's my own recipe,” Aunt Abby said, as if she'd read my mind. “Instead of using cakey chocolate cookies, I use brownie cookies. And instead of vanilla filling, I use chocolate buttercream frosting. And then I dip the whole thing in melted chocolate and add sprinkles.”

It sounded like overkill, but when it came to chocolate, maybe there was no such thing.

“So where are they?” Dillon said, opening the refrigerator door.

“I hid them in the crisper section,” Aunt Abby said. Dillon opened the refrigerator drawer, hauled out a plastic container, and set it on the counter. After withdrawing an Oreo-sized “pie,” he popped it in his mouth.

“Want to try one, Darcy?” Aunt Abby asked. She picked up the container and brought it over to the kitchen island where I sat. Dillon followed her like a hungry puppy and plopped down on the barstool next to me, licking the chocolate off his lips.

I reached in and took one of the chocolaty spheres. Taking a tentative bite, I let the sweet morsel dissolve in my mouth. The flavor flooded my tongue.

Wow. Chocolate heaven.

“This is incredible!” I said when I could talk again.

“Awesome,” Dillon agreed, then popped another one into his mouth. He smiled, revealing chocolaty teeth.

“You may actually have a shot at winning this thing,” I said. “What's the prize?”

“Den fouszen dollars,” Dillon said with his mouth full.

“Ten thousand dollars?” I repeated. I was used to Dillon's food-obstructed speech.

“And a chance to appear on that Food Network show
Chocolate Wars
,” Aunt Abby added, batting her mascaraed eyelashes in excitement.

“Wow,” I said again. “That's a lot of money.” I knew Aunt Abby's dream was to appear on one of the many cooking shows on TV, but the money would certainly come in handy as well. “When's the festival?”

“In two weeks,” Aunt Abby said.

I gulped. “Well, we'd better get to work!”

•   •   •

Half an hour later, I was on my way to Fort Mason to help Aunt Abby in her Big Yellow School Bus and begin the day of serving comfort food to hungry patrons. I hoped to see Jake, since he'd seemed too busy the past few days to stop by or meet after work. I wanted to tell him about Aunt Abby entering the Chocolate Festival competition.

As I drove down Bay Street to the marina, I thought about the annual festival and competition. Although I'd covered the event for the newspaper, this would be the first time I'd get to see it from a contestant's point of view. The festival was held near Ghirardelli Square, home to one of the original chocolatiers of San Francisco. Last year, fifty thousand people had paid the entry fee to taste the mouthwatering wares of two dozen
entrants. I'd learned from Aunt Abby that any legitimate vendor could participate, as long as he or she offered something chocolaty—and could make enough for fifty thousand people! Each entry in the competition would be judged by a select panel of experts in the chocolate industry. And while the thought of tasting all that chocolate had my heart beating faster, it was the winner's ten-thousand-dollar check that really excited me. Aunt Abby had promised Dillon and me each a third if we won.

I pulled up to the permit-only parking lot at Fort Mason in my VW Bug and headed for the circle of food trucks parked in an adjacent lot. The area was home to a dozen permanent vendors, including my aunt, but other trucks came and went, depending on how popular they were. There was always a long list of new trucks vying for the few nonpermanent spots. My aunt had been fortunate—her comfort food menu was a hit with people who longed for “mom's home cooking.”

I spotted Jake outside his Dream Puff Truck, and I swung by to say good morning, tell him about Aunt Abby, and see whether I could snag one of his Dream Puffs of the Day. The hand-printed blackboard sign read
TODAY'S SPECIAL: CHOCOLATE RASPBERRY
MOCHA MOUSSE
.

OMG. It was all I could do to keep from drooling down the front of my “Big Yellow School Bus” T-shirt.

He was filling bowls with toppings for his dreamy delights.

“Do you have anything with no calories?” I asked, coming up behind him.

He whirled around and gave me that adorable, toothy grin. “Darcy!”

“Morning, Jake,” I said, unable to stifle my own smile.

“It's been awhile,” he said, looking me over. “You look . . . really nice.”

I ran my fingers self-consciously through my shoulder-length auburn hair. “You've been busy,” I said.

I'd told myself that Jake had been too busy with his food truck to do much socializing, but in truth, I was beginning to wonder if his interest in me was starting to wane.

“Yeah, sorry about that, Darcy. Things have been unusually hectic,” he said as he arranged the condiments on the outside shelf. He looked incredible in his white “Dream Puff” T-shirt and faded jeans.

“Oh, I know how it is. Me too. You know—lots of stuff going on. . . .”

Yeah, right.

“Actually, I've been dealing with something the past couple of weeks,” he said, brushing his sun-lightened brown hair off his forehead, “but, hey, if you're free later tonight, how about we get a drink and catch up?”

“Sounds great,” I said. “I've got some news to share.”

“Really? What's up?”

“I'll tell you tonight,” I said mysteriously. I just hoped Aunt Abby hadn't already blabbed her news about entering the Chocolate Festival competition. She had a habit of sharing everything—including details of my personal life—with anyone who would listen.

“I'll look forward to it,” Jake said. He reached in through the open truck window and pulled out a two-bite cream puff nestled in a paper doily. The delicate puff was filled with a pinkish mocha-colored cream, drizzled
with dark chocolate, and topped with a red raspberry. “Want to try my latest?”

I smacked my lips. “Love to! Is it today's special?”

He nodded. “Let me know what you think.”

I took a bite. The creamy mixture spread over my tongue and melted away in seconds, leaving me the crunchy shell to savor.

Jake reached over and with his fingertip wiped away the raspberry mocha mustache I apparently wore. Then he licked the tip of his finger.

Whoa. I suddenly felt dizzy. I didn't know which had my heart racing so fast—Jake's dreamy cream puff or the mustache removal I'd just experienced.