Death of a Crabby Cook (10 page)

I was suddenly panicked, and my heart raced as I scanned the area. Aunt Abby
had
to be here somewhere. I just hoped Tripp didn't get to her before I did—if that was his plan. Now I was certain that he'd overheard me talking on the phone last night. And that meant he knew I'd overheard
him
too, arguing with Boris only hours before the chef was murdered. He probably figured we'd be here, once we heard about the murder, and came looking for us.

Cradling my scraped and bloodied arm, I slipped through the crowd and made my way around the periphery of the crime scene. In spite of the fact that Aunt Abby probably couldn't hear me over the noise, I repeatedly called out her name and searched for her red curls in a sea of mostly brunettes, blondes, and baldies.

Finally I spotted her—in the last place I would have expected. Somehow she had made her way to the middle of the crime scene area and was talking to Detective Shelton!

I let out a sigh of relief. At least she was safe. But then another disturbing thought came to mind: What was she blabbing to the detective?

“Aunt Abby!” I yelled as I ducked under the caution
tape. I broke into a jog, ignoring the pain in my arm. “I thought I'd lost you! You were supposed to stay where I left you!”

Detective Shelton turned to me and said, “I called her over. I needed to talk with her.” He paused and took a good look at me. After appraising my hurt arm, he raised his eyebrows in surprise. “What happened to you?”

“Uh, someone pushed me down,” I said, holding my aching arm close to my chest. The bloodstain on my shirt had grown larger. “I'm fine, really.” I turned to my aunt. “Are you all right?”

“Of course, Darcy,” Aunt Abby said, frowning at my injury. “Better than you, it would appear. You're bleeding, you know.” She pulled some tissues out of her purse and pressed them onto the wound. The bleeding had actually stopped, but dark red dots of drying blood covered the wound. Throbbing had set in, and it hurt to move my shoulder. Still, at the moment, there were more important issues than my scraped arm.

“You need to have someone look at that,” Aunt Abby said.

I ignored her and said to Detective Shelton, “Listen, Detective, I have information you might be interested in.”

“And what's that, miss?” the detective said. His condescending tone was clear. Whatever I had to say couldn't possibly interest him. Nodding at my tissue-covered arm, he added, “Your aunt is right. You need to get that looked at.”

“I will!” I said, exasperated. “But I need you to listen! I overheard someone arguing with Chef Boris last night.”

That got his attention. He studied me. “Really? Who?”

“It was one of his delivery guys. Tripp . . . something. After he and the chef argued, the guy left in his delivery truck.”

“The Meat Wagon?” Aunt Abby asked.

I nodded.

“Yeah, that's Tripp,” Aunt Abby added. “Shaggy looking. Needs a haircut and a bath and some teeth whitener and dental work and—”

“Got a last name?”

Aunt Abby shrugged.

“What did they argue about?” the detective asked me.

“I'm not sure exactly, but I heard Boris say something like he was done with whatever it was he was supposed to do. I couldn't hear the delivery guy very well—he mumbled, had a toothpick in his mouth—but he gave Boris a wrapped package about the size of a man's shoe. At first Boris refused to take it, but then he did, and then he slammed the window shut, and then Tripp left.” I had to take a deep breath after getting all that out.

Detective Shelton clicked his pen. “When did you say this was?”

“It must have been around eleven or so. I was headed for my car when I heard them talking.”

“And how were you able to see and hear all of this?” The detective eyed me.

“Uh . . . I was sort of standing behind my aunt's School Bus.”

“Sort of standing?”

“Well, listening. And kind of hiding . . .”

“Eavesdropping,” the detective confirmed.

I nodded and felt myself blush.

“Did he say anything else?”

“That's about it. After I hid, all I could see were Tripp's fancy cowboy boots.”

“Cowboy boots?” The detective clicked his pen again.

“Yes. I was kneeling on the ground behind the bus and I could see the boots from underneath. Really fancy ones, with gold trim.”

“The boots were under the bus?”

“No! They were on the
other side
of the bus, but I could
see
them from where I was kneeling.”

Detective Shelton pursed his lips. I had a feeling I was losing credibility. “What about Obregar?” he asked.

“As far as I know, Boris was still in his food truck.”

“Did you see or hear anything else?”

“Yes,” I said. “There was someone else in Tripp's truck.”

“Who?”

“Cherry Washington. She's Chef Boris's assistant.”

“Cherry?” Aunt Abby said, eyes wide with surprise. I knew my aunt and the woman were casual friends.

The detective wrote something on his pad. “That's it?”

“Yes. I mean, no! I think the guy who knocked me down a few minutes ago was Tripp, The Meat Wagon guy.”

Aunt Abby blinked several times. “Oh goodness, Darcy!”

“Why do you think that, miss?” the detective asked.

“Well, I'm not absolutely positive it was him, since I didn't actually see his face when I fell. But like I said, I did see his cowboy boots as he ran off. They were black with gold trim. Very ornate.”

“You think they belong to this Tripp?” the detective asked.

“I'm pretty sure.”

Detective Shelton frowned. “Why didn't you tell me right away about this guy bumping into you? He's probably long gone by now.”

“I . . . I was worried about my aunt. I thought she might have gone off looking for her son—ouch!”

I shot a look at Aunt Abby. Had she just kicked me in the back of my ankle? On purpose?

The detective looked at me curiously. “Is something wrong?”

After giving Aunt Abby the stink eye, I shook my head. I wanted to reach down and rub my aching ankle, but I sucked it up. Apparently, my aunt didn't want me saying anything to the detective about Dillon's sudden disappearance.

“Well,” he said, closing his notebook, “Thanks for the information. I'll contact you if I have any more questions.”

“That's it?” I asked, surprised at his lackluster response.

“I'd advise you both to be careful,” he added.

“Detective,” Aunt Abby said, “do you think Tripp Saunders came back and killed the chef?”

He shrugged. “We really don't know what we're dealing with yet, Ms. Warner, but if the same guy who killed Jameson also murdered Obregar, he may kill again. You should keep your bus locked and your eyes open.” He turned to leave.

“Just one more question,” I said, catching him before he escaped. “How exactly did Boris die?”

“Sorry, I can't give out any more information.” He shook his head and walked away. Apparently this question-answer thing was a one-way street.

Aunt Abby and I headed for the crime scene tape and ducked under it, freeing ourselves from the cordoned area. Just outside the periphery, Aunt Abby leaned over and whispered, “I know how Boris died.”

I looked at her. “What? How?”

“Blunt-force trauma caused by bludgeoning—a blow to the head. They won't know for sure until they do an autopsy and see how localized the damage was.”

Blunt-force trauma? Autopsy? Localized damage? My aunt had been watching too many CSI shows. “How do you know all this?”

Her eyes twinkled as she pointed to a young uniformed officer behind the yellow tape who was keeping curious onlookers from breaching the crime scene. “See that hunk over there? He said I remind him of his grandmother.”

“Oh my God, Aunt Abby! You were shamelessly flirting, weren't you? What did you say to him?”

She smiled. “Oh, I just asked him what was going on and told him I was a possible witness. Then I chatted him up for a few minutes, told him I owned the Big Yellow School Bus next to Boris's truck. I offered him a complimentary grilled-crab-and-cheese sandwich next time he was in the area; then I batted my eyelashes at him and asked if he thought I had anything to worry about, what with a murderer on the loose and all. He sort of let the details slip out.”

Whoa. My aunt was more devious than I ever imagined. I could learn from her.

“Did he tell you what the weapon was?”

“Not yet. But wait until he tastes my cooking. . . .” She grinned and batted those Kewpie-doll eyelashes again.

“Aunt Abby, you're shameless!”

“I know, but enough talk about me. You need to have that arm cleaned and bandaged. Let's go to the Safeway across the street and pick up some first aid supplies, since I can't get into my bus at the moment. I'll have you fixed up in no time.”

As we headed for the store, I imagined all the kitchen equipment a murderer could use to off somebody like Boris—a tenderizing hammer, a meat grinder, a lead-filled rolling pin . . .

I shuddered.

The list seemed endless.

•   •   •

Aunt Abby shopped for supplies while I went to the restroom and gently washed my arm. She arrived moments later and took on nursing duties, patting the affected area with antiseptic, which stung, applying some sort of salve, which numbed the pain, and wrapping my arm with gauze and tape. When she was finished, we headed for my car.

As we crossed the street, I spotted my ex-boyfriend, Trevor the Tool-Head from the
Chronicle
. We'd broken up a few months ago, after I found out he'd cheated on me with my competitor at the “other” newspaper. At the moment, he was talking to one of the officers on the sidelines. What was he doing here?

“Wait a minute!” I said, and took a sudden detour, pulling my aunt by the hand.

“Where are we going?” she asked. “I need to look for Dillon!”

“I have to talk to someone.”

I waved to Trevor to catch his eye. We'd been cordial,
since we both worked at the newspaper and had to get along, but it was all fake on my part, and probably his too. He held up a finger, telling me to wait a minute, wrote something down in his reporter's notebook, then thanked the cop and headed over to where I stood a few feet away.

“Darcy!” he said with a false grin. “So good to see you! What are you doing here?” He tried to hug me, but I stiffened, and he got the message and moved back.

“You too!” I lied. I could outfake him anytime, anywhere. But I had to admit, he still looked every bit the rugged journalist in his comfy jeans, button-down camp shirt, and well-worn athletic shoes. Tall, tan, and lean, he always appeared camera ready, like one of those intrepid reporters who covered dangerous missions in war-torn countries. For some reason, he'd never made it to the big leagues, and to his dismay he continued to cover local news. I wondered how many other reporters he'd cheated on over the years.

“So, Trevor,” I said, crossing my arms in front of me, “are you reporting on the murder?”

“Yeah, this is going to be a big case,” he said, brushing his tousled hair off his forehead. “I can smell it. It might be my ticket to the front page.” He reached out a hand and placed it on my shoulder. “Hey, sorry about you losing your job. Have you found anything yet? I hear there are openings at that little online weekly.”

The lack of sincerity in his voice was clear. My pride kept me from telling him I was working for my aunt in her food bus. I changed the subject.

“I saw you talking to that cop,” I said. “Did you find out anything about the murder?”

He eyed me suspiciously. “Why? You trying to scoop my story and sell it to the
Examiner
?”

I forced a laugh. “No, no, I'm working on a book now.”

“Really? A novel? Something literary, no doubt.”

I so wanted to slap the smug off his face. Instead, I forced a smile. “A cookbook, actually. I've collected a lot of recipes over the years doing this job. But back to the murder. Did the cop tell you anything?”

“Why do you want to know?” Trevor asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Just curious. Must be the reporter in me. Plus, my aunt knew the dead guy.” I nodded toward Aunt Abby.

Tripp looked at my aunt, then frowned. “Nothing much. They're being very closemouthed about it, keeping it under wraps, you know.”

Yeah, sure,
I thought, laughing inside at his verbal clichés. His writing wasn't much different. But he made his point—he had no intention of telling me anything.

Well, two could play that game.

“That's what I heard too. But my aunt was talking to some of the other food truckers and she heard the guy was hit over the head with something heavy.”

It didn't take ESP on my part to figure out “bludgeoned to death” meant “hit over the head with something heavy.”

Trevor took another look at Aunt Abby and asked, “How did you get that information? Who's your source?”

“Oh, I don't want to get anyone in trouble,” Aunt Abby said, smiling sweetly. I'll say one thing for her—she caught on fast.

“Okay, listen,” Trevor said, leaning in conspiratorially. “I'll tell you what I know—
if
you'll give me a name.”

I glanced at Aunt Abby. She nodded.

“You first,” I said. “How exactly did Boris die?”

He glanced around at the milling crowd and lowered his voice. “This is what the cop told me. They think Obregar left his truck for a few minutes, probably for a bathroom or coffee break. His assistant, Cherry”—he looked at his notes—“Washington. She was gone for the night. When he came back, he must have discovered someone inside waiting for him. Cops found the place turned upside down. They think the killer was going through Obregar's stuff, but they don't know why. When Obregar caught him, the killer grabbed a can of ground pepper and threw a handful at the chef's face, blinding him. Cops found pepper all over him. They figured the chef bent over, probably in pain; then the killer beaned him.”