Death of a Crabby Cook (20 page)

It was either Jake or the police. I threw the comforter off and headed for the door in my Cinderella pajamas. After a quick check in the entryway mirror and a hair pat-down, I peeked through the peephole.

Jake. Thank goodness.

He held up a white bag like a police officer flashing his ID badge.

“Good morning,” he said after I pulled open the door. “Cute pj's.”

I glanced down at my sleepwear. I couldn't have looked more ridiculous unless I'd been wearing flannel pajamas covered with cats. Good thing I didn't own a pair of high-heeled bunny slippers.

“Do you know what time it is?” I said, running my fingers self-consciously through my couch hair.

“I'm on bakery time,” Jake said. “My day usually starts at four a.m.”

“Well, I'm in a completely different time zone, so I don't think this”—I started to say “relationship,” then changed my mind—“friendship is going to work out.”

He held up the bag again and headed for the kitchen. “A couple of these will wake you up. Got coffee?”

“Uh . . .” I said.

“Never mind,” Jake said, seeing my deer-in-the-headlights look. “I'll make it. Go do whatever it is you do
in the morning. Everything will be ready in a few minutes.”

Shaking my head to loosen the sandman's leftovers, I said, “I could use a shower. . . .”

“Go!” He helped himself to the bag of espresso beans Aunt Abby kept in the fridge, then began handling the espresso machine as if he'd grown up around one. “By the way, how's your aunt?”

Oh my God! I hadn't even checked on Aunt Abby. I ran down the hall and quietly opened her bedroom door. Basil ran in and jumped on the bed. I tiptoed into the semidark room.

“Aunt Abby?” I whispered as I moved closer to the bed. The covers were in such a mess, I couldn't tell if she was still under there. I touched one of the lumps on the side. It caved in. I poked at another lump near where her head should have been. It fell flat.

“Aunt Abby!” I said loudly, placing both hands on the billowing covers and shaking them.

“Whaaa?” called a disembodied voice. Her bathroom door opened, lighting up the bedroom. Aunt Abby popped her head out, a foamy toothbrush in her mouth. “Wha's wong?” she said through the obstruction.

I let out a breath of air. “Nothing. Just checking on you,” I said.

“Okay,” she said, frowning. “Be out soon,” I think she said. Sounded more like “Vee oud thoon.”

I returned to the kitchen to find three mugs of coffee on the nook table, along with three plates filled with pastries that resembled puffy doughnuts. I started to tell Jake Aunt Abby was fine, but the sweet-smelling doughnut-thingies had taken control of my brain.

“Wow,” I said, gazing at them. “I've never seen anything like these. What
are
they?”

“I call them dossants,” he said, giving the word a French pronunciation. “It's croissant dough, layered and shaped into circles, then deep-fried like a doughnut and drizzled with glaze. They're pretty popular in New York, so I thought I'd try some. See what you think.”

I wanted to lean over and suck the tray of dossants right into my mouth, but I knew that wouldn't be cool. Instead, I daintily picked one up and took a bite.

Suddenly I didn't care what time of day this guy got up or when he woke me, as long as he kept feeding me his awesome sweets.

“Did you find anything in the trash?” I asked Jake after I finished gorging on the goodies he'd brought.

“I thought you'd never ask,” Jake replied, handing me a much-needed napkin.

Aunt Abby padded into the kitchen, Basil at her heels. She was already dressed for another day at her food bus. Naturally everything she wore matched. Today's color choice was purple—purple blouse, purple slacks, purple crocs, and purple eye shadow. I was surprised she didn't have a wardrobe full of matching aprons, but at work she stuck with classic white, tinted here and there with various food stains.

“Good morning, everyone,” Aunt Abby said. She gasped when she saw the coffee mugs. “Darcy? You made coffee?”

I laughed. “Sorry, Aunt Abby. That would be Jake's culinary expertise. You know I'm still working on heating water for tea.”

“I should have known,” my aunt said, settling in a chair at the table. She reached for one of the remaining pastries, studied it a moment, sniffed it, then took a bite, revealing the many layers inside. Her eyes lit up. “Yum! What's this?”

“It's a dossant,” Jake said. “A cross between a croissant and a doughnut. Like it?”

“Love it,” she said, reaching for the last one. “I must have the recipe.”

“Over my dead body,” Jake said, grinning. “Oops. Bad choice of words,” he added, losing the smile.

That sobered us up. I asked Jake again about the trash. When Aunt Abby looked puzzled, I explained the errand I'd sent Jake on last night.

“I went through a couple of trash bags that were at the top of the heap,” Jake began.

“Only the ones at the top?” I asked, interrupting him.

“Hey, no way was I going inside that thing, Darcy. I'm sure it's full of rats.”

I nodded. While I should have been grateful, I found myself a little disappointed that he hadn't been as thorough as I'd hoped. Oh well. At least I didn't have to go Dumpster diving myself. I'd just have to settle for the bags he'd managed to retrieve. “What did you find?”

He shrugged. “Not much.”

My face fell. “Are you sure? Did you go through everything?”

He nodded. “I found your basic trash, but that's about it. Old food. Wadded-up paper towels. A couple of dishrags. A bunch of old menus. Some recipes . . .” He threw out the last couple of words with a slight smile.

“You found recipes?” I said, sitting up. “What kind of recipes?”

“I didn't have time to go through them all,” he said casually. “There was one for crab cakes, another for potpie—”

“Oh my God! Where are they?” I asked, interrupting him.

He glanced around as if looking for them. “Uh, I must have left them in my car. I'll go get them.”

“Jake!” I wanted to smack him for teasing me. He got up and headed for the front door.

Aunt Abby turned to me. “What was that about a potpie recipe?”

Jake returned seconds later, a bunch of rumpled and stained papers in his hand. He set them on the table, then went to the sink and washed his hands.

I picked up the top one, a recipe for potpies.

“Let me see that,” Aunt Abby said, reaching for it. I handed it to her. Her eyes grew wide as she read over the ingredients and instructions. “Hey, this is my Principal Potpie recipe! That rat must have stolen it somehow!”

“Are you sure it's yours?” I asked, figuring all potpie recipes pretty much looked the same.

“It's my handwriting, and it's definitely my recipe. No one else I know makes potpies with tartar sauce added to the mixture except me. That's my secret ingredient.”

Aunt Abby scooped up a handful of the recipes and thumbed through them. “This is my Crabby Cheerleader Grilled Cheese! And my Gym Class Gyro! That thieving, conniving . . .” she sputtered, then threw the rest of the papers on the table in disgust.

Jake glanced down at one of the recipes, then picked it up. “Huh,” he said after looking it over. “This is my Crème Brûlée Dream Puff recipe. How did it end up in Oliver Jameson's trash?” He began sifting through the rest of the recipes. “Here's one for a falafel burger with flax and tahini dressing. I'm pretty sure that's Sierra and Vandy's recipe. It's one of their most popular dishes. And here's another for rabbit stew from the Road Grill truck.
And Chocolate-Covered Bacon from Porky's. It looks like someone's been stealing recipes from all of our trucks, including mine.”

“Maybe it was Oliver Jameson,” I said. “If one of the food truckers found out what he was doing, that would make a possible motive for killing him.”

“But it still doesn't explain Boris's murder,” Jake added.

I agreed. It seemed as if there were two completely different murders here. The only link was that both were chefs, and they were in the same vicinity. We were still no closer to finding the killer.

Frustrated, I dropped my handful of recipes on the table. “I'm a reporter, not a detective. I feel like I'm trying to tie up a bunch of loose ends, but I'm all thumbs.”

We were quiet for a few minutes, sipping our coffees and reflecting on the recent find. Then Jake spoke up, breaking the silence. “Remember what you said last night?”

“No, what?”

“You said we should try to find out what's in that warehouse and collect some real evidence.”

“So why don't the cops just go in there and get it themselves?” I argued. “I told them what I saw.”

“They can't go in without a warrant. They need probable cause. A bunch of computer stuff inside an old warehouse isn't enough to go on.”

I had an idea and looked at Aunt Abby. “How soon do you need me at the bus?”

She looked at her Mickey Mouse wristwatch. “I suppose I can get by until around eleven. If Dillon's back in
the bus, he can put on one of his disguises and help out until you get there.”

“What about your cream puff truck?” I asked Jake.

“I can open a little late if I have to,” he said.

I met Jake's intense stare and said, with a renewed sense of energy, “All right. Let's do this.” I was jazzed. But then again, it could have been the overdose of sugar talking.

•   •   •

I showered, did my hair and makeup, dressed in my usual khaki pants and a T-shirt that read “Will Work for Money,” and was ready in record time—for me. Meanwhile Jake helped Aunt Abby clean up the kitchen and load her stuff into her car. We were all out the door a little before eight, which gave Jake and me plenty of time to snoop around Tripp's warehouse before heading for Fort Mason. Providing Tripp wasn't at the warehouse, of course. My guess was he was out making “deliveries.”

“We'll have to take your van,” I said to Jake. “Triple A towed my car to the auto shop for new tires.”

We hopped into his white van and headed out. On the way, Jake and I developed a plan. I would be lookout while he searched for evidence. Luckily the Meat Wagon was nowhere in sight when we pulled up to the warehouse. Good sign.

In fact, the area was pretty deserted for a workday. Tripp's place wasn't the only warehouse that was in need of repair. Several others sat decaying on their weed-infested, junk-littered lots. Some of the buildings sported
FOR SALE
signs, while others were too decrepit to salvage. Even though land is expensive in the city, these plots apparently didn't hold enough appeal for investors yet.
Gentrification took time and money, and other parts of the city, like Dogpatch, Potrero Hill, and China Basin, were already in the midst of renewal transitions. Still others, like Treasure Island, were on hold for the present and near future.

Jake drove the van to an empty spot along the curb several yards down the street from Tripp's warehouse. The side of his van featured the logo of his cream puff business, and the colorful artwork stood out among the ordinary trucks and vans parked nearby.

I looked at the signage. “If Tripp sees your van, he'll know something's up.”

“You're right. I've got an idea.” Jake opened up the back and pulled out a white tablecloth.

“You carry around a tablecloth?” I asked.

“Just in case I want to have a spontaneous picnic,” he said with a wink. “Actually, when I bring cream puffs to places in the van, I like to have something nice to set them on.” He shook out the cloth a couple of times. Bits of leftover pastry puff went flying. He opened the driver's side door, let down the window an inch, inserted the top of the cloth into the opening, then rolled it up with a press of a button. When he closed the door, the cloth hung down over the sign.

“You don't think that looks a little weird?” I asked, impressed by his ingenuity.

“Better than shouting ‘Dream Puff guy is here!,' don't you think?”

I shrugged. With a last glance around, we headed for the warehouse. I led Jake over to the scratched-out hole in the paint-covered window.

“This is where I peeked inside.”

He leaned in close, squinted one eye, and took a look.

“Is anyone inside?” I asked nervously, scanning the street for any sign of Tripp. I couldn't have looked more suspicious.

“Looks empty,” Jake said. He pulled back from the window.

“What now?”

“Now I have to figure out how to get in,” Jake answered.

“How good are you at breaking and entering?” I asked.

“Not so good. Once I locked myself out of my food truck and had to call a locksmith to get in. Now I keep a spare key.”

I laughed at the thought of Jake standing outside his truck, waiting for assistance. “We could break one of the panes,” I said. The windowpanes were small—maybe five by five inches square—with frames around each one.

“Yeah, but all I'd be able to do is get my hand in. I'm going to look around the outside, see if there are any other options.”

I started to follow Jake, but he held up a hand. “No. You wait here. You're the lookout, remember?”

“Why? Because I'm a girl?”

Jake grinned. “Yes,” he said. “You're a girl. Got a problem with that?”

I shot him some dagger eyes but said, “No.” Someone needed to keep an eye out for Tripp and it might as well be me. I pulled out my cell phone. “I'll call you if I see anything.”

Jake nodded and headed for the side of the building. I watched for any sign of Tripp's truck, hoping I didn't
look too obvious. Hopefully anyone who saw me would figure I was just waiting for someone.

Five minutes later—about the time I wondered if something had happened to Jake—I heard him call from around the corner. “Darcy!”

I walked over to the side of the building and spotted him signaling me from the back corner. “Come on!”

“You found a way in?” I asked when I reached the back of the warehouse. I scanned the area and didn't see any open doors or windows.

Jake pointed down toward the ground. A mesh grate the size of a laptop computer lay on the dirt, leaving a gaping hole at the bottom of the wall.

“You pulled that out of the wall?”

He nodded, grinning proudly at his destructive handiwork. He gestured toward the opening. “After you.”

“Are you kidding me?” I cried. “I'm not going to go crawling around on the ground like a dog. I probably won't even fit through that hole. Besides, I thought I was the lookout!”

“Well, now I need you to be the lookout from the
inside
,” Jake said patiently, “Watch for Tripp through that hole in the front window. And you'll fit through there just fine.” He looked me up and down for emphasis and raised an eyebrow. “It's the only way in.”

“But I'll get my clothes dirty!”

He eyed my T-shirt and pants. “We're trying to catch a murderer, Darcy. I think that's reason enough to get a little dust on your outfit.”

“What if it's booby-trapped?”

“All right. I'll go first. Then you follow. Okay?”

I nodded, reluctantly.

Jake got down on his hands and knees and stuck his head inside the opening. Then he crawled, military-style, through the hole, inching his way through a little at a time. Moments later he had disappeared.

I knelt down on all fours and peered inside. “Jake?” I called.

“Yeah, I'm here. No booby trap. So far.”

That was reassuring. I lay down on my stomach and began to worm-crawl through the rusty, cobwebby opening. All I could think about were bugs, spiders, and rats as I twisted and wiggled my way inside. The moment I cleared the opening, Jake helped me up. I brushed off my clothes, face, and hair, then shivered.

“Come on,” Jake said. “We don't have much time. Let's see what we can find.”

We immediately headed for the computer and printing equipment sitting on four tables. There were half a dozen folding chairs at the tables and at least a dozen cardboard boxes under the tables. Random papers in various sizes littered the floor, along with spent printer cartridges, rumpled sandpaper, and a bunch of fast-food wrappers.

“Where are the cards you saw when you peeked in the window?” Jake asked, glancing around at the tables.

“They were . . . right there. . . .” I pointed to an empty table and blinked.

Jake frowned and opened the lid of one of the cardboard boxes. It was empty. So were the second and the third. “Well, all that stuff is gone now. Just a bunch of scraps left behind. Looks like Tripp took away most of the paper trail. Even the computers are gone. All we've got here are some printers and paper cutters.”

I sighed glumly. “Great. We're too late. Without the evidence, we've got nothing to prove what he was doing here. Looks like we're screwed.”

Jake grabbed my arm. “Listen!”

I froze. “What?”

“A noise,” Jake whispered. “It came from the front door. I think someone's here!”

We'd been in the warehouse only a few minutes—not even enough time for me to play lookout. And now we were about to be caught red-handed.