1 Death on Eat Street (25 page)

Ollie was taking orders outside to speed up the process while Chef Art and I cooked and bantered for the radio station that had set up shop right outside the Biscuit Bowl.

“I’m going to have to close.” I couldn’t believe it. “No more biscuits.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Chef Art said. “You can make more biscuits in my motor home. I’m sure I have plenty of supplies, and there’s a double oven onboard. Ollie and I will hold down the fort here while you work—if he can keep from killing me while you’re gone.”

“Sorry. He kind of has a crush on Delia.”

“Really?” He looked absolutely surprised. “She’s a beauty. Does he think he has a chance with her?”

I thought about that as I left the Biscuit Bowl and stepped out into the sunshine to look for Chef Art’s motor home. It wasn’t hard to find. His face was colorfully painted on the side of the fifty-foot-long motor home. It was so big, I could’ve driven the Biscuit Bowl right into it.

Once I reached it, two of Chef Art’s assistants greeted me. They took me into the huge, stainless steel kitchen that was equipped to feed massive numbers of people. They asked what I needed and took out flour and vegetable shortening. There wasn’t enough they could do for me.

When I was set up, and baking four trays of biscuits (love that double oven), the two assistants left to take pictures, sending them to Twitter and other social media outlets. It was awesome what could be accomplished with enough people and money.

I set the timer for the biscuits and prepared the next four trays. This was like being on a reality TV show where your fondest wish came true. I wasn’t sure about Chef Art being the innocent party in what was happening with Delia, and I felt guilty enjoying the spoils of his largesse knowing she was still out there in danger.

Still, I couldn’t help wallowing in the success a little, and dreaming about someday attaining Chef Art’s following for my food.

The ovens made a chiming sound, letting me know the biscuits were ready. I got up to take out the pans and put the next four in.

The sliding glass door to the motor home opened, and Don Abbott stepped inside.

“You!” he said with a sneer.

“You!” I looked for the rolling pin I’d seen in one of the drawers.

“Where’s Chef Art?”

“He’s in my food truck. What do you want?”

“I guess now the two of you are in cahoots.” Don looked around the kitchen.

“I’m not sure what that means.”
Who says cahoots, anyway?
“He’s helping me promote my business today.”

“Yeah. Like I care.”

“Well, I don’t care what you think, either. You can go find him.”

“I have the recipe,” he said with a wide grin.

“Good for you.”

“You better believe it’s good for me. I’ve worked hard for this piece of paper.”

“How much is he paying you?”

“Not enough. Why? I’m not cutting you in, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“That’s fine.” I didn’t wait any longer. I took the biscuits out of the oven, thankful that none of them had burned. I couldn’t help it anyway. I was distracted. “You can give Delia back now.”

He looked blank for a minute. “I don’t have her.”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t try to set up a meeting to swap her for the recipe.”

“I didn’t set up a meeting. I don’t have her. I don’t need to swap anything for the recipe. It’s mine now.”

“You know that’s stolen property, right? If you sell that to Chef Art, you’ll be selling stolen property that was involved in two murders. You could go to prison for life.”

I hoped I sounded knowledgeable. I wasn’t sure I had any ground to stand on with those charges, but he didn’t know.

“With the money Chef Art is going to pay me for the recipe, I’ll be going away for life, but not to prison.” He stroked his dirty, stubbled chin. “I’m thinking Tahiti, or one of those other islands that don’t have extradition.”

I acted like it was nothing to me as I put in the four new trays of biscuits. “Fine. Go on then.”

“All right. I will.”

But before he could leave, I had to ask about Delia. “If you don’t have Delia, who does? It must be part of this whole thing. Someone wanted to trade her for the recipe. Who else is involved in this besides you and Chef Art?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. You should ask Chef Art. He might’ve hired more than one person to find the recipe.”

It seemed like a good answer. He left the motor home. I took a deep breath, glad to see him leave. At least he wasn’t brandishing a gun this time.

Someone else knew about the recipe—and what it was worth—if Don was telling the truth. I was probably a fool to believe him. He might’ve killed Terry. What was a lie to him?

When the biscuits had cooled, I took the first four trays to the Biscuit Bowl. It was surrounded by people. They formed a sea around it that made it tough to get inside. Chef Art’s security people created a path for me.

“Glad you made it back in time,” he quipped when he saw me. “I was afraid these people might turn on me if we completely ran out of biscuit bowls. Any thought on replacing the fillings?”

I put down the trays of biscuits. This had to stop.

“I just saw Don Abbott at your motor home. He said he has the Jefferson recipe. He also said he has no idea where Delia is, or who could have her.”

His eyes lit up when I mentioned the recipe. “That’s good news.”

“For
you
,” I reminded him. “I know you don’t think much of Delia, but she’s my friend. I want her back.”

“I want her back, too. And I never said I didn’t think much of her. She’s a wonderful companion.”

The whole time he was talking, he was taking orders from Ollie and filling biscuit bowls with amazing speed. He worked like he’d done this exact job all of his life. Somehow, it made me even angrier.

“Look, if Delia was ever good to you, you owe her something for getting her caught in the middle of your hunt for the recipe. She’s a person, too. She has dreams and goals, just like you do. Think about it. Did you hire more than one person to bring you the recipe? If so, who was it?”

“I think you need to talk while you fry up more of those bowls,” he reminded me. “As for Delia, let me check into it. You’re right. I hired a few people for the operation. As I said, I’m a collector. The Jefferson recipe means a lot to me.”

“That’s fine. Just come up with an answer or I’m going to call the police, and you’ll have company when you get that recipe from Don.”

His eyes widened comically. “You
wouldn’t
! After all I’ve done for you today? I’ve put you on the food truck map in Mobile.”

“And I didn’t tell the police that you kidnapped me to ask me about the recipe. I think we’re even.”

“There’s that,” he admitted. “Trust me. I didn’t mean Delia to be involved in this. I knew she was dating Terry, but that was only a point of interest. We’ll find her. Now, get to frying.”

I did as he said. I wanted to help Delia. I wasn’t sure what to do except make sure that the people who seemed to be the players in the theft of the recipe knew that she wasn’t forgotten. I planned to have another talk with Detective Latoure before the end of the day.

What a day it was. We ran out of everything, including serving boxes and plastic forks and spoons. There was nothing left to eat or drink when we finally closed the doors to the Biscuit Bowl.

I felt like a limp rag, just waiting for someone to come and put me in the hamper. I’d done three interviews by myself and five with Chef Art. I had to empty the cashbox five times and had more credit card receipts than I’d ever seen before. It was amazing what publicity could do.

“
Whoo-eee!
” Chef Art was still full of energy. His white jacket was as clean as when he’d stepped into the food truck. He’d done plenty—I couldn’t have done it without him. His white hat was still at the jaunty angle on his head.

I could tell he loved all of this. I was a mess and wanted to go home and take a nap. Ollie had taken orders and passed out menus until they were gone. He looked as exhausted as I felt.

“I don’t know what to say,” I admitted. “It was wonderful. I never knew people could eat so many biscuits in one day.”

“And that’s just the start for you, Miss Zoe Chase,” Chef Art said. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, you’re on the rise. Your business will continue to grow. Don’t do anything stupid, now, hear?”

“You mean like
you
did?” Ollie asked.

“You could say that. Still, I live in a thirty-six-room mansion with three guest cottages, a swimming pool, and tennis courts. I travel around the world on my own private jet, and my yacht is anchored out there in the bay. I think it worked out all right, don’t you?”

Even Ollie, who wasn’t a fan of Chef Art, had to admit he lived a good life, despite his mistakes. Ollie kind of growled his agreement. He left the Biscuit Bowl to get the chairs and tables from outside.

“Now, what are we going to do about Delia?” Chef Art tapped his chin. “And where is Don Abbott with my recipe? That was hours ago that he told you he had it. I didn’t want to draw attention, but I have my limits of patience.”

“I don’t know. He was at your motor home when I was there. He left before I did. Maybe he decided to sell it to someone else.”

His eyes narrowed a little in his always pleasant face. That was the only hint of any anger about my words. “Let’s go take a look around, shall we? You don’t have to bother taking those biscuit pans back. One of my assistants will get them.”

I decided to go with him. If nothing else, I’d be a witness to Don selling the Jefferson recipe to Chef Art. I could use my cell phone to record it. Maybe I could use that as some kind of leverage to get Delia back. What else could you expect when you offered so much money for something? There were bound to be people who would do anything to win the prize.

As Chef Art and I left the Biscuit Bowl, it was starting to get dark outside. The parking lot was almost empty at police headquarters. There was no sign of the crowds that had been there that day.

Suzette’s Crepes and the Dog House were closing up, too. I had no doubt some of that business Chef Art’s promotional team had generated went to them, too. Their owners looked pleased, even if my food truck had been the hit of the day. We all knew it was staying in the game that mattered. It didn’t hurt that people would associate the Biscuit Bowl with Chef Art from now on. It was what I did with that valuable association that would affect me in the long run.

“I don’t see him,” I said to Chef Art. “I was only kidding about him selling the recipe to someone else. It seems odd that he knew there was a big payday coming when he sold you the recipe, and didn’t stick around.”

“Yes it does.” He scratched his beard. “Maybe he’s feeling shy of you watching our deal, my dear. Maybe you should wait in your food truck.”

I wasn’t happy with that idea, but I knew it probably wouldn’t do any good to argue. I figured I could tell him I was going back to the Biscuit Bowl and then wait outside his motor home until Don made his appearance.

I knew Chef Art wouldn’t stand around waiting for Don. He’d want to go inside and relax. Despite his vigor, he had to be tired.

“Okay. I guess I’ll take off. Thanks again for all your help.” I shook his hand.

“You’re very welcome. You’re coming to the benefit dinner, right? I assume after that we’ll be square?”

“That’s right,” I agreed. “I’ll see you then.”

Chef Art made a few more friendly remarks about the dinner and our association. I noticed he was looking around the whole time, like a cat stalking a mouse. He might not have appeared to be aware of what was going on, but he was alert to every movement.

I left him at the sliding glass door to his motor home. I started to walk briskly back to the Biscuit Bowl until I knew the coming darkness and the scattered vehicles left in the parking lot would obscure me from his gaze.

Then I doubled back to the side of his motor home where I could watch the door.

I was standing at the back end of the motor home, the beginning of Chef Art’s giant face painting. There were large propane tanks attached here, as well as miscellaneous scooters and a few pieces of lawn furniture. It was a big, rolling house for an important man, as he’d pointed out to Ollie earlier.

I saw two of Chef Art’s assistants carrying the biscuit pans and other items that had migrated to my food truck during the day. They were talking and laughing as they walked through the parking lot.

I moved back a little farther into the shadows, not wanting them to see me spying on their boss. My foot came down on something squishy that I prayed wasn’t dog poop. How bad would that be in my surprise showdown with Chef Art and Don Abbott if I smelled like doggy doo-doo?

I lifted my foot carefully and smelled. No poop odor. I looked to see what I had stepped on and gasped.

There in the shadows of Chef Art’s motor home was the lifeless body of Don Abbott.

I didn’t scream, though I had to bite my lip not to. I’d seen quite enough dead bodies in the past few days. I hoped this would be the last one.

Calmly, I dialed the number for police headquarters, instead of 911, and asked for Detective Latoure. When she got on the phone, I told her about Don.

“Where are you?” she demanded. “I told you not to get involved any further in this, Zoe.”

“If you call ‘getting involved’ walking to the back of Chef Art’s motor home, I guess I’m guilty. I’m out in the parking lot. You can’t miss Chef Art’s giant face. I’ll be waiting for you. Is there anything I should do?”

“Anything like what? What did you have in mind?”

“I don’t know. Cover the body with a tarp, or something. Direct traffic away from it.”

“No. Don’t touch anything. Don’t move. I’ll be right out. Just keep Chef Art from leaving, if you have to.”

“You don’t have to worry about that.”

Patti Latoure was true to her word. She was downstairs with two uniformed officers in five minutes. They brought floodlights with them and lit up the area where I was standing like it was part of a Christmas pageant.

“Zoe.” She shook her head, her face very grim in the sudden bright light.

“Patti.”

“You seem very calm about all this.”

“Well, you know how it is. When you’ve seen one dead body outside a coffin, the next one isn’t such a big surprise.”

“Whatever you say.” She took out her notebook. “How did you find the victim?”

I described walking back there to wait for Chef Art to finish his business with Don. “I didn’t realize he was right here, and probably wouldn’t meet with Chef Art tonight.”

She grimaced. “Could we have a little respect for the dead, please?”

“It seems wrong to accord him respect now that I didn’t give him when he was alive. He held a gun on me and threatened to hurt people I care about. He probably kidnapped Delia, and I think he trashed my diner and food truck.”

“We have a missing persons report out on your friend, Delia Vann. I have no reason to suspect Abbott of kidnapping her. Do you?”

“No reason?” I put my hands on my hips and stared up at her. “He was involved in stealing the Jefferson recipe. He planned to sell it to Chef Art tonight. That’s why I was standing over here. I wanted to witness that transaction so I could use it against him.”

“And I think I heard something on TV about your mother looking into a ransom note for Miss Vann. No one else told me anything about
that
.” Patti raised one brow. “Is that your idea of not getting involved in this mess? I should arrest you right now for being an accessory. You were supposed to come to me if you so much as heard or saw anything related to Terry Bannister’s death or this recipe.”

Good thing I had Miguel on speed dial. “I was only waiting and watching. And I would’ve come to you as soon as Delia was safe.”

“And I’d arrest you except that it would mean another visit from your mother and father. Not a good thing for me.”

Patti crouched down close to Don’s body and checked his pockets, pulling a wallet, and something else, from them. She opened the piece of paper she’d found carefully and read it before she handed it to me.

“Is this what you’re talking about?”

I couldn’t believe she was giving it to me. I had no gloves, no training to handle what might be an important piece of evidence.

Instead of taking it from her, I looked at it closely. The scrawling handwriting at the top of the page said,
Crème Brûlée by Thomas Jefferson.
A man who used to be president.

“Well, that’s not it!” I was very clear on the subject. “That has to be the worst forgery of anything in the world.”

“What’s going on back here?” Chef Art’s voice broke up our conversation.

“Chef Arrington.” Detective Latoure was courteous and careful in her handling of him. “I’m afraid a man has been murdered right here at the back of your motor home.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” Chef Art took a step forward and peered at the man on the ground. “Did you . . . uh . . . find anything unusual?”

Before Detective Latoure could speak, I jumped in. “She found a really bad forgery of the Jefferson recipe. We both know that’s what you’re looking for.”

Chef Art held his head high and straightened up. “I’ll admit to having an
interest
in a certain recipe. I’ve done nothing illegal. The recipe is a collector’s item, and I am a collector.”

I could tell Detective Latoure didn’t want to get involved in that issue. With me speaking up about it, she had no choice.

“Did you know that recipe—the real one—was stolen from a museum in Virginia?” she asked. “The man who took it was found dead in his motel room in Atlanta—without the recipe.”

“I had no idea.” Chef Art managed to look completely innocent. He was as fine an actor as he was a cook. “I’d heard that the recipe was up for sale. I arranged with a man I’d never met to sell it to me. That’s it.”

Before Detective Latoure could answer, Chef Art sent one of his assistants to fetch his lawyer.

“That could be a logical assumption on your part,” Patti finally said. “There was no way for you to know the recipe was stolen.”

“True,” Chef Art agreed. “I haven’t seen it as yet. I would’ve authenticated it right away. If I’d learned that the recipe had been stolen—heaven forbid—I would’ve
immediately
turned it in to the police.”

It was the biggest load of hogwash I’d ever heard. I couldn’t believe Detective Latoure was buying it, but she was nodding and looking serious, as though it made perfect sense.

“We think this man, Don Abbott, might be a part of the theft. His partner, Terry Bannister, was murdered. Whoever is interested in owning the Jefferson recipe, not an upstanding businessman like yourself, of course, has gone to extreme lengths to get their hands on it.”

The medical examiner arrived. We were forced to move away from the motor home. The area was blocked off just in time. A TV crew arrived to see what all the fuss was about.

“Did you see the recipe?” Chef Art whispered to me while Detective Latoure was talking to the medical examiner.

“It wasn’t the real recipe.” I told him what it said at the top of the paper. “I’m no expert, but I don’t think that was even remotely close to an antique document.”

“So it’s still out there, somewhere.” He sighed as though in relief.

“Did it ever occur to you that you could be a suspect in this murder? In Terry’s murder, too, for that matter? It looks like Terry was killed because he wouldn’t hand over the recipe. He hid the location of it in some beads that he gave Delia. Maybe when Don showed up with this impossible forgery, you killed him, too.”

“Looks can be deceiving.” Chef Art dared a quick glance at Detective Latoure. “I definitely didn’t kill Don Abbott. You’re my alibi for that, Miss Chase. Do I need to remind you that I haven’t been
anywhere
without you for the last eight hours?”

He was right. We’d either been doing interviews or cooking since I’d seen Don last. I wasn’t sure about what had happened to Terry, but Chef Art was clear of Don’s death.

“Sorry.”

“That’s all right.” He sniffed and looked away, as though he was hurt by my supposition. “You young people. No matter what anyone does for you, you turn on them like a snake.”

I started to remind him again why he’d helped me today, and that he was probably the catalyst in the deaths, if not the actual killer, of both men. His willingness to pay top dollar for the stolen recipe made him the accessory Detective Latoure was looking for.

Detective Latoure finally came back toward us. Chef Art gave me a warning look. He didn’t have to worry. What could I say that I could prove?

“It looks like Mr. Abbott may have been killed with the same weapon used on Terry Bannister, a .22 pistol.” She shrugged. “That is to say that they were both shot with the same caliber, anyway. We’ll know more once the ME has some time to examine the body.”

Chef Art shook his head. “Bless his soul.”

Patti turned to me. “You didn’t notice anyone else around the back of the motor home when you got there?”

“No, but it was dark already. I saw Don earlier today when I was making biscuits in the motor home. He told me he had the recipe Chef Art was looking for and asked me where he was.”

“He didn’t threaten you again, or act aggressive in any way?”

“No. I guess he thought he had what he needed. He didn’t need to threaten me.”

I could tell the way Detective Latoure turned to Chef Art that she disliked questioning him. Her brow was deeply furrowed, and there was a cautious tone to her voice.

“This recipe you wanted to buy—you say you didn’t know it was stolen. How did you come to hear about it?”

“An antique dealer told me about it,” Chef Art said. “He always keeps a lookout on that kind of thing for me. He knows I collect antique recipes. I had no idea we were dealing with the criminal element, Detective. Believe me, I would’ve immediately told the police if I’d been aware.”

Patti’s smile was hesitant as her pen hovered over her notebook. “I’m sorry to have to ask you this, Chef Arrington, but can you remember your whereabouts last Tuesday night?”

“I can indeed,” Chef Art said readily. “I was in the company of a beautiful young woman. You can certainly check with her.”

“And her name?”

“Miss Delia Vann.”

Patti glanced at me. “I was afraid of that.”

“I know Miss Vann has been kidnapped,” Chef Art said in what seemed like a last-minute attempt to clear himself. “I had nothing to do with it, and even offered my assistance to Miss Chase in trying to find her.”

“Chef Arrington, I’m going to have to ask you to accompany me inside and answer some questions.”

“What? That’s ridiculous!” Chef Art’s flair for the dramatic brought his voice to a feverish pitch. “I won’t stand for being treated this way, Detective. You know who I am.”

Patti’s expression was one of long suffering. “I know. Believe me, if there was any other choice, I’d take it.”

“You’re not arresting me, are you?”

“No, sir. We need to verify a few things, that’s all. I’m sure you’ll be free to go in no time.”

Chef Art seemed to accept his fate. He walked alongside Detective Latoure toward police headquarters.

“What’s going on?” Ollie asked as a huge wave of reporters followed Chef Art toward the building. “Are they arresting him?”

“Probably not. He already called his lawyer.” I looked back at where the crime scene people were doing their job. I realized that finding Don’s body had affected me more than I thought. “Let’s go home, Ollie. I think that’s all I can do today.”

I felt a little guilty leaving Chef Art that way. I reminded myself that he probably had a dozen lawyers on retainer. He didn’t need my help. If Detective Latoure had questions about me being with Chef Art all day, I could answer them when they came up.

We drove back to the diner, with Crème Brûlée making terrible sounds. He was hungry and tired. It had been a longer day than usual for him. I hoped he’d get used to staying at the diner while I was out in the food truck. He was better off at home with his food and litter box.

“That was one awful day, Zoe, except for the biscuit sales. You kicked butt on those!” Ollie said as I parked the food truck in the space by the diner. “There isn’t any food left. Everyone is gonna be disappointed about that.”

Another thing for me to feel guilty about.
I had an answer for this one. As tired as I was, I didn’t think I could sleep yet. Cooking something would make me feel better. I decided to make some biscuits and sausage gravy for everyone.

Ollie and I got the food truck cleaned out, and I locked it up for the night. I’d taken Crème Brûlée inside first. By the time we were done, he was asleep on my bed, his little white paws sticking up in the air. I stopped for a moment, and rubbed his soft tummy. He didn’t even wake up enough to do more than hiss at me.

I laughed and went into the kitchen. Ollie had gone to the homeless shelter to gather the group and tell them I was making food.

Is it over now?

I thought about the whole series of events that had led to Don’s death today. I knew it was more than possible that Chef Art would convince Detective Latoure that he had no idea that the Jefferson recipe was stolen. Maybe he was even telling the truth.

Detective Latoure obviously didn’t want to charge Chef Art with anything. That would probably be the end of that aspect.

Still, three people had died, and Delia was still missing. The recipe was out there, too. I wasn’t sure where it would go from there.

I had nothing to trade for Delia. If the killer had her, he probably also knew the recipe Don had was a fake. What else could I do to help my friend?

Miguel stopped by. He’d heard about what had happened to Don. “Did you get a look at the recipe?”

I told him it was a fraud. “I don’t know how we’ll find it.”

“I don’t, either.” He sipped the coffee I’d poured him. “And I don’t see any way to get Delia back safely without it.”

I thought about it while I took out one pan of biscuits and put in another. I stirred the sausage gravy. “What if we could make the killer
think
we have the recipe? He must be thinking the same thing we are—the recipe is there, but he doesn’t know where. If we assume he knows the recipe Don had wasn’t real, it could work.”