Death of a Crabby Cook (17 page)

And if anyone tried to follow me inside and attack me, there would be plenty of knives around to use to defend myself. After working in Aunt Abby's School Bus
kitchen for the past couple of days, I was beginning to know my way around sharp instruments.

I got out of the car, made sure to lock it, then started for the back door. I paused a moment when I reached the Dumpster, still wondering what was in those bags of trash that had just been tossed. Maybe something that would offer a clue to the mystery? But I wasn't about to go digging around in there alone, now that it had gotten dark. Not with a killer on the loose.

Maybe tomorrow.

I knocked on the door and waited.

No answer.

Glancing around to make sure my stalker wasn't stalking me at the moment, I turned the knob.

It opened. I entered.

“Hello?” I called, walking down the small hallway toward the kitchen. The place was empty and deadly quiet, but the overhead lights were on. So where had the person I'd seen disappeared to?

I moved through the kitchen, passed the dining area, and headed to Oliver's office. The door was ajar. I pushed it open slowly and looked inside the room, lit only by a small desk light. I tiptoed in. The place was empty, but something felt odd. I stepped to the desk where Oliver had been discovered, slumped over his crab bisque.
Brr
. Had a ghost just passed through me or was it cold in here?

I scanned the desk. A mess of papers were scattered about. I walked around to the front of the desk and froze.

All the drawers were pulled open. Several of them had been dumped out onto the floor. There were papers everywhere.

Someone had obviously been searching through Oliver's stuff.

For what?

I heard the office door creak and whirled around.

A figure stood in the doorway, one arm raised, a large knife glinting in the upheld hand.

I was trapped like a rat in a dead man's office.

“Get out of here!” the figure screamed, stepping into the room. “I have a knife!”

I recognized Livvy immediately. Apparently she hadn't recognized me.

I held my hands up. “Livvy, it's me, Darcy. We talked the other day, remember? I'm the one writing a story about your brother and the restaurant.”

She squinted at me, then lowered the knife. “What are you doing here? You scared me half to death.”

“I'm sorry. I knocked but no one answered. The door was open. . . . I saw the lights on and thought I could ask you a few more questions. I didn't mean to frighten you.”

“Well, you did. I wasn't expecting anyone to just come waltzing in uninvited.” She moved a few more steps inside and set the knife on the desk.

“I know. Sorry.” I glanced around at the ravaged office. “What happened?”

She shrugged, then bent down, righted Oliver's overturned swivel chair, and dropped into it. “Someone tossed it, obviously. Probably looking for cash or employee paychecks. It was like this when I got here a few minutes ago.”

A few minutes ago? Then who was the one I saw carrying out the trash?

“Did you call the police?”

“I was just about to. I thought I'd look around and see if I could figure out if anything is missing.”

“Is there?”

“That's what's weird. It doesn't seem like anything's been stolen.” She yanked out the already open top drawer and riffled through the contents. “Even his keys are still here.” She held them up and twirled the key ring. It flew off her finger and landed at her feet. She slid off the chair and knelt to retrieve the keys. On her way up, she bumped her head on the open desk drawer and sat down again.

“Ouch!” she said, rubbing her head. “Stupid drawer!” She reached up and viciously shoved the drawer with the heel of her hand in an attempt to close it, but the drawer caught on something and didn't budge. This time she massaged her hand.

“You okay?” I asked, looking down at her.

She nodded and shook her hand. She started to get up but stopped and studied the drawer a moment. Frowning, she reached up with her other hand and gently tried to push the drawer closed. It still wouldn't budge.

“Something's stuck. . . .” After she'd run her hands under the drawer, her eyes widened. Suddenly she yanked the drawer out from the desk and turned it over on the floor.

Duct-taped underneath was a legal-sized manila envelope. Livvy dug at the tape and ripped the manila envelope from the bottom of the drawer. Peeling off the tape, she reached inside and pulled out a handful of loose papers.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

“What are those?”

She flipped through the papers, then looked up at me. “They're recipes! Ollie's secret recipes for all his signature dishes. He would never tell me where he kept them. He was so paranoid someone was going to find them and steal them. He had his chef memorize them so no one would be able to copy them. This must be what the thief was looking for!”

“Wow, he really was paranoid, wasn't he? Hiding them like that. Who was he afraid would steal his recipes?”

“Everyone, but lately he was obsessed with Boris Obregar. He was sure Boris wanted to put him out of business.”

Oliver felt threatened by Boris? “Do you think Boris might have killed Oliver to get the recipes?” I asked.

“I don't know. I suppose he could have been the one who poisoned my brother, but stealing recipes doesn't seem like much of a reason to kill someone. And besides, how do I find out for sure, now that Boris is dead too?”

Was this the link I was looking for, the connection between Oliver Jameson and Boris Obregar? Hard to believe it was all about recipes. Were Oliver's recipes really that valuable? Or was there something more to it? And if Boris killed Oliver to steal them, then who killed Boris? I felt like a beater turning in circles in a mixing bowl, from Boris to Oliver to Boris. . . .

Who was the third ingredient in this bizarre recipe?

“What will you do with them?” I asked Livvy as she flipped through the recipes.

“Lock them in the safe, I guess. I wasn't planning to
use them when we reopen. I'm offering a whole new menu.”

I was puzzled by the odd timing of the break-in and said aloud, “Well, Boris didn't break in here, because he's dead, and you said you just found it this way.” I glanced around for signs that the lock had been damaged, the door had been busted, or a window had been smashed, but I saw nothing to indicate a break-in. While the office had been turned upside down, the door and windows seemed secure. Except for the back door, the way I'd come in.

“Livvy, was the office locked?”

She thought for a moment. “Uh . . . yes. After what happened to Ollie, I wanted to make sure his things were safe.”

“I'm no cop, but I don't see any signs of forced entry. Are you sure you locked it?”

Livvy paused again. “I . . . suppose I could have forgotten this time. The door was open when I got here about an hour ago, and the room was a mess.”

“Did you see anything or hear anything?”

She shook her head. “I went straight to the office to see if there were any phone messages and found it like this.”

“Well, you need to call the police. Do you want me to call them?”

“No, I'll do it,” Livvy said, retrieving her cell phone from her apron pocket. She stepped out of the room to make the call. At that moment, my phone played a familiar Disney tune.

Aunt Abby! Was she all right? Had Dillon arrived to make sure she was safe?

“Aunt Abby?” I answered, alarmed. “Are you okay? Is Dillon there?”

Silence.

“Aunt Abby!? Are you there? Has something happened?”

More silence.

“Aunt Abby! Talk to me!”

The line went dead.

I punched
REDIAL
. The call went to voice mail.

“Something's wrong,” I said, more to myself than to Livvy as she stepped back in the office. I looked at her. “You called the police?”

She nodded. “They're on their way. What's the matter?”

“My aunt . . . I've got to go. Will you be all right by yourself until they get here?”

“Yes, I'm sure they'll arrive in a few minutes. Go.”

I ran from the room and out the back door, headed for my car. I hoped Livvy would be safe, but my priority was Aunt Abby. And the way things had been going, I didn't want to take any chances. Even if Dillon was there, he was no Superman, unless it involved virtual fighting.

As soon as I arrived at my car, I knew something was off. I glanced down at the front tire. It was flat. I checked the back tire. Also flat. As I rounded the car, I was sure I'd find two more flat tires.

Obviously someone knew I was at the restaurant and had sent me another message, this time by disabling my car. Whoever it was had probably stuck a knife in the tires to flatten them.

Great. Now what? I could call AAA and get a tow, but that would take an hour or so, time I didn't have to
spare. I could ask Livvy if I could borrow her car, but she was going to be dealing with the police. And if they came while I was here, I'd have to answer all kinds of questions. Again, I didn't have the time. My only other option was to hail a cab.

I walked down a couple of blocks, searching for a taxi, but all the ones that passed by were occupied, most likely by tourists. I finally caught one on Columbus and gave the driver directions to my aunt's house. We passed the bustling Fisherman's Wharf and North Beach areas, where the tourists were out in full force, sampling crab cocktails and checking out shops along the brightly lit street. I kept calling my aunt and Dillon, but the calls continued to go to voice mail.

Totally panicked, I dialed 9-1-1.

A voice came on the line. A recorded voice.

I was put on hold.

Seriously?

I hung up, frustrated, then had a thought. I could call Jake. He'd offered to help if I needed it. I pulled his business card out of my purse, flipped on the interior cab light, and punched in his number as quickly as I could. I misdialed twice; third time was the charm.

“Hello?”

“Jake! It's Darcy! I think my aunt is in trouble. . . . I just got a call from her and—
Watch out!
” I called to the cabdriver, who was trying to squeeze the car between a bus and a truck.

“Darcy?”

“Sorry. I'm in a cab headed for Aunt Abby's and . . . Never mind. Anyway, can you meet me there as soon as possible? I think something's seriously wrong. . . .”

“You sound out of breath. Slow down, and tell me what happened.”

I took a deep breath and explained everything I knew—the phone call from Aunt Abby, the four punctured tires, the unanswered call to the police. “Can you come?”

“I'll be right there.”

“Hurry!”

I hung up and told the driver to hurry too. He stepped on the accelerator and took the corners like Vin Diesel in one of those
Fast and Furious
movies. I felt the tires skid a few times and heard the squeals, but I said nothing, too frantic about my aunt's well-being. And Dillon's.

In spite of the cabdriver's race-car maneuvers, it was nearly seven when we reached Aunt Abby's house, thanks to the congested streets and crowds of pedestrians. All in all, I'd lost a lot of time.

I got out of the cab, paid the driver, and ran up the driveway of my aunt's home. The house was completely dark. Not good. Was there any chance Aunt Abby had decided not to go home? If so, then where would she have gone? Where was Dillon? And why had she called?

I debated about whether to call the police again, decided to try, and gave up when I was put on hold once more. I had no choice. If my aunt was inside, she could be in real trouble.

I tiptoed up to the front door, peering into the dark window. No sign of anyone.

Suddenly I heard barking. Basil!

I tried the door. It opened.

That wasn't like my aunt. Even though she left the sliding glass door in the back unlocked for me, she never left her front door unlocked. I supposed Dillon could
have done it—he's that absentminded. But under the circumstances . . .

Slowly, I pushed the door open. Basil barked wildly until he recognized me, but he still seemed agitated.

“Aunt Abby?” I called before stepping inside.

“Mmmphlrph!”

At the muffled sound, I broke into a sweat, but I listened, trying to determine where the sound came from.

“Aunt Abby?” I called again, glancing around for a sign of an intruder. I glanced down at Basil. “Where is she, boy?”

A thud came from the kitchen area.

I switched on the entryway light and ran toward the sound, then switched on the kitchen light. Basil was at my heels.

The room was empty.

“Aunt Abby!” I screamed, looking around for her. Basil made a beeline around the kitchen island.

I heard a moan. From behind the island.

I sped around the corner of the island and spotted my aunt. She was lying on the floor, tied up with duct tape, bound to a kitchen chair, with a flour sack over her head. It looked like she'd fallen over backward. Basil continued barking.

“Hold on!” I said and knelt down, frantic to free her. I pulled off the bag and tugged the duct tape from her mouth, trying to reassure her. As soon as I cleared her airway, she coughed.

“Aunt Abby! What happened? Are you all right?”

She rolled her eyes, appearing dizzy and disoriented. Finally her eyes cleared and she spoke, “Darcy . . . Thank God you're here. Find Dillon!”

“As soon as I get you untied.” I worked at the tape that bound her hands and legs to the chair, then grabbed a large kitchen knife and cut through the tape. Moments later I had her free. She reached over and picked up her small dog.

I helped her to a sitting position on the floor. With Basil on her lap, she rubbed her wrists, then massaged the back of her skull. “Oh, my head,” she said. “I fell over trying to scoot to the phone.” She lifted the dog and tried to get up. “I've got to find Dillon. Dillon!” she called.

We both heard a muffled noise coming from the hall closet.

“Help me up!” Aunt Abby said, putting the dog on the floor. I gave her a hand and she staggered for the closet. I followed, holding the knife in case I needed it for more than cutting through duct tape.

Aunt Abby pulled open the closet door. Dillon was seated on the floor, his arms taped behind his back, his legs folded and taped together. His head was also covered with a flour bag. As soon as I pulled off the bag to reveal his duct-taped mouth, his wide eyes spoke volumes. While Aunt Abby removed the tape, I cut through the bindings that held his arms and legs. We had him free minutes later.

“Dillon! What happened?” Aunt Abby knelt beside him, while Basil licked him.

“I'm fine, Mom,” Dillon said as he pushed himself to standing. He helped his mother up and looked her over. “Did they hurt you?”

She rubbed her head. “No. I bumped my head when I fell over in the chair. I was trying to get to the phone.”

“What happened?” I asked, relieved they were both alive and apparently well.

Aunt Abby looked down at her hands. “I . . . guess I left the back door unlocked.”

“What? I told you to lock up!” I cried.

“I know, but I knew Dillon was coming over. Sometimes he doesn't have his key. . . . I didn't really expect . . .” Tears welled in her eyes. “Anyway, I thought it was Dillon when I heard the door slide open, so I called out to him. A few seconds later someone put a bag over my head and tied me up. Then they duct-taped my mouth. I was so scared.”

Dillon gave his mom a hug. “It's okay, Mom. We're all right.”

“Great watchdog you are, Basil,” I said to the dog. I turned to Dillon. “You didn't see or hear anything when you arrived?”