Death of a Crabby Cook (22 page)

“But now we know Cherry was in on it,” I added. “That's something.”

“Did you get a chance to talk to Dillon? Has he learned anything more?”

I filled Jake in on the fact that Cherry was an illegal, probably from Jamaica. I also told him I suspected Tripp had stolen the recipes for Oliver and then blackmailed him.

“Any evidence to support your theory?” Jake asked.

“No, but it's not exactly easy solving a murder while you're grilling cheese sandwiches and slicing slabs of meat loaf. I did have a thought while reheating a Crab Potpie.” I popped the rest of the cream puff in my mouth.

“What's that?” Jake asked.

“Mmmffiizz,”
I said, then swallowed and licked my lips. “Maybe I've been concentrating too much on Boris's murder and not focusing enough on a motive for Oliver's death. Something doesn't quite fit the mix, like the wrong ingredient in a recipe. I keep wondering what Oliver was planning to do with those stolen recipes if he was supposedly getting out of the restaurant business.”

“Any ideas?” Jake asked, setting his coffee cup down and resting his arms on the back of the bench. If we'd been in a dark movie theater, I would have bet he was about to put his arm around me. Too bad we weren't.

“I need to talk to Cherry Washington again—if we can find her. She may be lying low now. Maybe Tripp had something on her too and made her help him out—like her illegal alien status. Between the two of them, either one could have sneaked into the food trucks when the chefs left for a break. People seem pretty casual around here about locking their doors during the day.”

Jake frowned. “Come to think of it, Cherry did come by my truck one afternoon recently. She asked me a bunch of questions about running a food truck business. Like I told you, she said she wanted to open her own truck one day.”

“What did you tell her?” I said, sitting up.

“All kinds of things. I was happy to help her out.”

“Did you show her your recipe file?”

Jake nodded.

“Did you ever turn your back on her?”

Jake looked at me and frowned again. Of course he had.

“That must be how she got your recipes!” I said, excited about adding another piece to the puzzle. “She
probably took pictures of them with a smart phone. I'll bet she did the same thing at the other trucks—used her charms and then stole recipes when no one was looking. I'll ask Aunt Abby and a few others if Cherry ever came inside their trucks and asked questions about starting a business. We may have our recipe thief.”

Jake eyebrows remained wedged together. “But that doesn't necessarily mean we have our murderer.”

“No, but if we keep on stirring things up, we may just end up with a recipe for murder.”

There was no line at Aunt Abby's School Bus, so I gave myself permission to do a little sleuthing before returning to work. My first stop was a revisit to the Coffee Witch, where I squeezed in some questions for Willow as she served her caffeine-craving clientele.

“Willow, did Cherry Washington ever ask you about running a food truck business?” I asked her as she leaned out to hand over a Witch's Brew to a young guy in a suit.

“Yeah, why?” Willow said.

“Did you let her into your truck?”

“Yeah, but only after I made sure she wasn't planning to open a coffee truck. No way was I going to help any competition.”

Willow took another order, prepared the coffee drink, and accepted the payment, while I stood aside waiting for her to finish.

“Do you have recipes for all of your drinks?”

She paused. “Sure, but I've got them all memorized. I keep hard copies, but I never look at them. Why?”

“Did you happen to show them to Cherry?”

Willow frowned. “Okay . . . what's this all about?”

“My aunt and Jake both discovered some of their recipes were duplicated and found in a Dumpster behind
Bones 'n' Brew. We're thinking maybe Cherry took pictures of them when she came asking questions about the food truck business. I'm checking with a few of the owners to see if she might have visited them too.”

“Wow. If you find out she did that, let me know. I'll kill her!”

A few customers raised their eyebrows at Willow's words. She smiled and said, “Just kidding,” to put them at ease, but she gave me a raised eyebrow that said,
“Half kidding.”

I questioned the chefs at three more trucks. All three confirmed my suspicion: Cherry had asked them for information while gaining access to the inside of their trucks, and had seen some of their recipes.

So if Cherry stole the recipes, would that make her the murderer? And what would be her motive? Why would she kill Boris and Oliver? Because they found out she was stealing recipes? Was her plan to use them for her own food truck? It hardly seemed like much of a motive.

Or was she stealing them for Tripp because he was blackmailing her? And why would Tripp want recipes?

I headed back to Aunt Abby's bus to finish out the day and talk over what I'd learned. About an hour later we had a surprise patron at the window of the School Bus.

Detective Shelton.

“Well, hello, Detective,” Aunt Abby said, flashing her eyelashes like a lovesick teenager. “What brings you by my Big Yellow School Bus? Hungry for one of my Crab Potpies?” Was it really a potpie she was offering?

“Afternoon, Ms. Warner,” the detective said, nodding
his head. “I wondered if I could speak to your assistant there for a moment.” He looked at me.

I wiped my hands, removed my apron, and stepped out of the bus. “I hope you're here to talk about the message Jake left you?” I asked him before he could say a word.

He motioned to the side of the bus. I assumed he wanted to speak in private.

I followed him. “So did you talk to Tripp?”

“I did.”

“Well, are you going to arrest him?”

“No, ma'am.”

“Why not?” I cried.

“Because I still don't have any solid evidence that he's committed a crime.”

“But the ID card—”

He cut me off. “Probably won't have any fingerprints except Jake's and yours. And there's nothing else to prove he was manufacturing bogus IDs.”

“But the warehouse! What more do you need? We were there. We saw the printers. We saw him there with Cherry Washington!”

“Doing what, exactly?”

That stopped me for a moment. “Uh . . . I'm not sure. I didn't exactly
see
them inside the building. But Jake did—”

“Jake said he didn't see anything either, only caught a glimpse of them and heard their voices. And according to him, they didn't admit to making fake IDs, or murdering anyone for that matter.”

“But, Detective, you
know
Tripp is up to something! After all I've told you—the argument he had with Boris,
the possibility he was blackmailing the chef, his connection to Cherry, the fact that he was the one who tied up my aunt and my nephew . . .”

“You don't know that, Ms. Burnett. I can't arrest him on your suppositions or possibilities. I can't arrest him because you
think
he broke into your aunt's home or because he knows Cherry Washington.”

“Did you know Cherry's an illegal alien?” I said, tossing him the latest tidbit I'd learned from Dillon.

The detective scrunched up his face. “What makes you think that?”

I couldn't give away my source—that would only get Dillon in more trouble. “I thought I overheard Cherry say something about being from Jamaica and wanting to get her green card and . . .”

“You're not a very good liar, Ms. Burnett. And, like I said, if you're withholding information on Dillon Warner's whereabouts, you could be arrested for aiding and abetting a person of interest, not to mention illegal trespass in that warehouse, which is private property.”

“That's ridiculous! Somebody had to go in that warehouse to snoop around because apparently you wouldn't.”

“We always follow up on all leads, Ms. Burnett. My officers did, in fact, inspect the warehouse.”

“Oh,” I said, surprised. “Well, did they see the printers and stuff? Did they get fingerprints? Did they thoroughly search the place?”

“Yes, and they came up empty. The printers were wiped clean. And they didn't find any fake IDs like the one you say you found.”

I shook my head. Great.

“What about Cherry Washington's illegal status?” I said. “Did you look into that?”

“INS is on it, but so far she looks clean. Seems to have the proper documentation.”

Crap. What did it take to get someone to solve this case?

“I understand you think a thief may have stolen some recipes,” the detective said.

Finally! He had to admit that was something solid to work on. “Yes! Cherry stole them from Jake, my aunt, and a bunch of other food truckers. She got them by pretending to ask about the food truck business.”

“Well, if she's in possession of them, I could take her down to the station and question her. But Jake said he found the recipes in the trash at Bones 'n' Brew.”

“I think she took pictures of them with her cell phone.”

“Then they're probably erased,” the detective said.

Great. He had an answer for everything. I had another thought—maybe Cherry hadn't stolen the recipes for herself. Maybe she'd gotten them for Oliver, and someone—Livvy—found them and threw them out. But again, why would Oliver want them if he was planning to sell the restaurant? And why would he hide his own recipes under the desk drawer in his office?

“Anything else, Ms. Burnett?” the detective asked.

“I guess not,” I said reluctantly.

“Listen,” Detective Shelton said. “Breaking and entering is a serious crime. Do it again and I'll take you downtown, understand?”

I shrugged. “So is murder,” I said, then headed back to the School Bus.

•   •   •

During the next couple of hours, Aunt Abby and I prepped tomorrow's offerings. My aunt shooed me off around five thirty, but instead of heading home, I returned to Bones 'n' Brew to see if Livvy was around.

I couldn't get those stolen recipes out of my mind.

This time the back door was locked. I went around to the front, knocked, and waited for an answer. The
CLOSED
sign still hung in the window, and when I peered in, the front lobby was dimly lit with only the indirect sunlight as a source. With the dark-paneled walls and heavy, dated fixtures, the restaurant screamed old-school, but not in a cute, kitschy way. If Livvy planned to reopen the place, I hoped she'd change the decor as she planned, along with the menu.

I returned to the back of the restaurant and knocked on the door, on the off chance Livvy—or someone—was in or near the kitchen. Once again, no answer. I glanced around and noticed a single car—a cream-colored Mustang—parked in the lot. The license plate read
BNZNBRW
. Was Livvy here but just not answering the door? Why not?

Thinking of the break-in the previous day, I wondered if she might be in trouble. I peered in through the back windows, hoping I wouldn't spot a body lying on the floor, but saw no life—or death—in the kitchen area at all.

I moved around the building to Oliver's office window, where Aunt Abby had made her famed getaway. The blinds were drawn but a crack at the bottom allowed me a peek in. I felt like a Peeping Tom as I scanned the inside of the office. The room had been tidied up, drawers were back in the desk, papers were piled neatly, and
overturned chairs righted. It was as if nothing had happened in that room—especially not a murder. I wondered if the police had found anything after Livvy called them regarding the break-in. At the moment, my question would have to go unanswered, but I made a mental note to check again later.

I headed back to the School Bus to check on Aunt Abby, wishing I'd bought myself a coffee and scored a cream puff instead of wasting my time at Bones 'n' Brew. Odd, I thought, when I saw the doors to the bus wide-open. Although she rarely locked the doors when she was on the premises, she didn't keep them wide-open either.

I hopped inside.

Aunt Abby was sitting on a stool, bent over the counter and holding her head.

“Aunt Abby?” I said, thinking she was just tired after the long day.

She lifted her head. Her face was as white as her fresh apron. Her pale lips actually looked green. She groaned.

I moved to her quickly. “What's wrong?” I asked, beginning to be alarmed.

“I . . . I think I'm going to be—”

Aunt Abby leaned over the sink and threw up.

“Goodness! You poor thing!” I said to her, feeling helpless as I rubbed her back. “Do you have the flu?”

“I don't know. . . .” she mumbled and wiped the drool from her mouth with her apron. Some of the green from her lips came off on the apron.

“Aunt Abby! Did you eat something?” I glanced around, looking for possible spoiled food.

She nodded, her head still hanging over the sink. “I
just hope I didn't make any of my customers sick. . . .” she mumbled. “My business would be ruined . . . if it got out that I poisoned anyone. . . .” She was speaking almost incoherently. I could barely make out her words.

“Aunt Abby! What did you eat?” I demanded. “Tell me!”

She shrugged. “Everything,” she muttered. “I eat all day long, sampling the food. I don't know. . . .”

Spotting the hint of green color still on her upper lip, I asked, “Was it something green?”

“Uh . . . I don't remember. . . . Wait. . . . A cream puff . . .”

The hairs on my neck stood up. “Cream puff? What cream puff?” I searched the area for a telltale sign of one of Jake's sweet treats. Finally I spotted a small paper baking liner lying on the floor at Aunt Abby's feet.

It was empty.

I picked it up and sniffed it. I recognized it immediately as one of my favorite cream puff flavors—key lime. The green on her mouth and the apron matched the green of the lime sauce Jake drizzled over his key lime–filled pastry shell.

“Was this it?” I held up the paper liner for Aunt Abby to see.

She took one look at it, crossed her eyes, and threw up again.

Resting my hand on her shoulder, I gave her a moment to recover. Then I asked, “Where did you get this?”

She groaned.

“Aunt Abby, where did the cream puff come from?”

“Uh . . . let's see. . . . It was on the pickup counter when I got back from the restroom. There was a note. . . .”

“A note? Where?”

She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. “I didn't want you to know. . . .” she said as she handed the rumpled note to me.

“What are you talking about?”

She moaned.

I opened the folded note and read the neatly printed message:
“Darcy, a treat for my sweet. —J.”

Jake?

“I'm calling nine-one-one,” I said, thrusting the note in my pocket.

“You think it's food poisoning?” she asked, lifting her head from the sink, her eyes glazed and half-closed.

I didn't answer, but I had a knot in the pit of my stomach that told me this wasn't accidental food poisoning. When the dispatcher came on the line, I said, “I need an ambulance. I think my aunt has been poisoned.” I gave the address.

I knew that cream puff wasn't meant to poison my aunt. The note confirmed it.

That poisoned puff was meant for me.