Death of a Chocolate Cheater: A Food Festival Mystery (15 page)

Jake headed over to the school bus to talk to Dillon, leaving me to check out the food truckers who had been offered bribes by the deceased.

“I’ll be right here,” he’d said before we’d parted. “Just whistle . . . or scream . . . if you get into trouble, and I’ll come running. You do know how to scream, don’t you?” He grinned.

“Of course,” I said, recognizing his reference to the Bogart/Bacall film. I thought about the time I’d been trapped by a killer, my mouth duct-taped so I couldn’t scream. Not gonna let that happen again.

Since the lights were still on inside the four trucks, it was a toss-up, so I eeny-meenied between Frankie, Monet, Harrison, and Griffin. Frankie Nudo won.

I knocked on the door to the Choco-Cheese truck, wincing at the sight of the giant chocolate-dipped cheeses that covered the outside. The window slats were closed, so I couldn’t see inside. As soon as Frankie opened the door, the smell of cheese and chocolate hit my nostrils—a very odd combination. One was savory, the other sweet. While that worked in some cases, like
chocolate-covered peanuts, I wasn’t sure it worked with chocolate-covered cheese.

“Yeah?” Frankie said, looking down at me from the doorway. His black curly hair was disheveled and his five-o’clock shadow looked scruffy, not trendy. He wore khaki shorts and a thin white T-shirt, both covered with an apron that was speckled and smudged in what I guessed—and hoped—was chocolate. On his feet he wore once-white athletic shoes, also decorated in brown splats. He held a pair of chocolate-dipped tongs in one hairy hand.

“We’re closed,” he said, snapping the tongs.

Apparently he didn’t recognize me.

“Hi, Frankie. It’s me, Darcy Burnett, from the Big Yellow School Bus.” I gestured toward Aunt Abby’s bus.

“Oh, yeah, yeah. Sorry. Been a crazy day. You know how it is. What can I do you for?”

“I wondered if you had a minute. I’d like to talk to you about something. May I come in?”

He paused for a second, glancing back into his truck as if to see whether there was room enough for me. Or was he worried about something else?

“Uh, sure. You don’t mind if I keep working? Got a lot of balls to dip.”

Balls, eh?

“Great, thanks.” I stepped up and inside the truck. The place was a chocolate mess. All the counters and the sink were smeared with chocolate, as well as some of the cupboard handles, utensils, and even his cell
phone, which lay near the service window. Cheese balls the size of Ping-Pong balls where laid out over giant cookie sheets and shoved into a metal rack that held more than a dozen trays. Another rack behind it was also filled with chocolate-covered cheese balls.

“Looks like you’re making progress for day two of the festival,” I said, nodding toward the completed racks.

“Yeah, only a few thousand more and I’ll be done,” he said, grinning. “Are you and your aunt ready for tomorrow?”

“I hope so,” I said. Although Aunt Abby had been stockpiling and freezing her whoopie pies for the past two weeks, I had a feeling we’d all be working late into the night finishing up anything more she figured we might need. “Although my aunt is pretty upset about what’s happened.”

Frankie tried to look sympathetic as he picked up a cheese ball with the tongs and dipped it into a pot of melted chocolate. “I know. I know. It’s terrible about Polly. But at least they caught the person who did it. Your aunt should feel a little better about that.”

“Do you really think Wendy Spellman could have murdered Polly?” I asked, taking a seat on a nearby stool after wiping it clean of chocolate smears with a paper towel.

He shrugged. “Who knows what someone’s capable of, right? Even a woman. Women murder people all the time, just like men.”

That was an odd thing to say, I thought. “Did you know Polly very well?”

He dunked another cheese ball into the pan, then set it on the tray next to him to cool and firm up.

“Polly?” he said, not making eye contact. He shifted his weight and wiped a chocolaty hand on his apron. “No, no. I mean, sure, we ran in the same circles. How could we not, in this business? Everybody knows everybody, you know? But I didn’t really
know
her.”

If Jake was right about people having tells, Frankie was loaded with them. I didn’t believe him for a second. No eye contact, rambling, repeating himself.

“What about Wendy? How well do you know her?”

He shook his head. “Again, same circles, but her business is, how should I say, meh. Dipping candy into chocolate? It’s amateurish. For kids. My chocolate cheese balls, for example, they’re for the mature palate.” He turned to me with a freshly dipped ball in his tongs. “Here. Try one.”

Before I could refuse, he plopped the ball into a tiny paper baking cup and handed it to me.

“Tell me honestly. What do you think?”

Uh-oh.

I looked at the ball, smiled at Frankie, then steeled myself as if I were about to take poison. I started to nibble off a little of the chocolate when Frankie said, “No, no! Pop it in. Like this.” He stuck a chocolate cheese ball in his mouth, closed his eyes as if he were in ecstasy, and moaned. After he swallowed the mass, he said, “You need the flavors to kiss.”

Kiss?

I forced another smile—probably my last—and slowly pushed the ball into my mouth. The moment
the morsel hit my tongue, it began melting into a cheesy-chocolaty goo that I can describe only as, well, ecstasy. I couldn’t help myself. I closed my eyes and savored the delectable blend of tastes.

“Incredible!” I said after I’d swallowed the last bit.

Frankie beamed with pride, displaying a charming gap between his teeth. “I know. I know. Right?”

“Amazing that two such different flavors could go so well together. What kind of cheese do you use?”

“That one was Brie. But I use all different kinds of cheeses.”

“Actually, that’s why I’m here. I’m writing a cookbook featuring food truck recipes and wondered if you’d like to contribute one of your chocolate cheese ball recipes.”

Frankie shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

“Great!” I dug into my purse and pulled out my reporter’s notebook and a pen.

“First you have to find a Brie with some fat, but not too much fat, or the cheese won’t hold its shape and will get leaky.”

I wrote down “Brie—fat—not too much—leaky.”

“Then you gotta freeze the cheese for half an hour or so, so you can cut it; otherwise it’s too soft. Meanwhile, you temper the chocolate so when it firms up, you got this shiny coat. Tempering—that’s the secret.”

I raised my pen. “Sorry, but what’s tempering?”

Frankie frowned at me. “You don’t know what tempering is? Huh. Tempering makes the chocolate smooth, snappy, and shiny. It’s not hard to do, just takes time. You chop up your chocolate block—good-quality chocolate,
like Guittard or Scharffen Berger. Don’t use chocolate chips—they have additives and don’t temper right. Put some of the chopped chocolate in a double boiler—water in the bottom half, of course—heat and stir until it’s a hundred and fifteen degrees. Be careful. You can burn it, so keep an eye on the temp. Keep adding chocolate until it’s all melted. Then cool it to eighty-eight or -nine degrees. That’s it. The chocolate should be shiny and smooth.”

I wrote frantically to keep up with his directions. By the time I was done, I’d decided I’d never try to temper chocolate. When I craved chocolate, it was much easier to just buy a Mars bar and eat it.

“Okay, so once the chocolate is tempered,” I said, “then what?”

“Roll the cheese into balls or cut them into squares, dip them in the melted chocolate, put them on waxed paper to cool, and voila! You can add sea salt if you like. It’s trendy now. Then keep the balls at room temperature or refrigerate them. I prefer my balls at room temp.”

“So the secret is tempering the chocolate,” I recapped, underlining the word in my notes.

“And using the best chocolate and cheese you can find,” he added. “Luckily, San Francisco has lots of choices. You wanna try one of my chocolate goat-cheese balls?”

I patted my stomach. “That last one was so rich, I think I’m good for a couple of hours.”

“Yeah, they’re rich, all right. So you gonna put that recipe in your book?”

“If you don’t mind. You’ll get some free publicity and a free copy.”

“No money?” Frankie Nudo frowned and grew quiet. He set down the tongs. “You know, I think I changed my mind. If anyone can make my chocolate cheese balls, I could lose business.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s going to happen. Most people don’t even try the recipes.”

“Then what’s the point?” Frankie said. Something in him had changed. He’d been so animated while talking about his recipe, but once money was mentioned, he’d turned cool to the idea of being included in the book. “Naw, sorry. No recipe. I’m in this business to make money.”

I slid off the stool. The party was over. Frankie moved closer to me, no doubt to encourage me to leave, and I began backing toward the door. I really hadn’t expected such a negative turnaround, but Frankie was obviously all about the money.

“Frankie,” I said as I neared the door. I wasn’t done asking him about Polly, and I wasn’t going to leave until I did. “One quick question. There’s a rumor going around that Polly promised her vote to one of the contestants in exchange for half the winnings. Did you know about this?”

Frankie’s frown deepened. His dark eyes narrowed on me, as if he were trying to see through me. “I heard nothing like that. No way. Polly would never do something as stupid as that. Never. I’ve known her for years and—” He stopped, his eyes wide.

I caught his mistake immediately. “Earlier you said
you didn’t know her that well, yet didn’t you just say you’ve known her for years? I’m confused.”

“Look, I’m busy here. It’s time for you to go,” Frankie said, his voice low. “But I will tell you this. I do not associate with people who spread rumors, and if you say that to anyone, you’ll regret it. You get me?”

Was he threatening me? I had a feeling if he’d had a rolling pin instead of a pair of tongs in his hand, he just might have used it. Was it time to scream?

I opened the door and flew down the steps, then looked back to see if Frankie was going to follow me. Instead, he stood at the top, glowering down at me. “One more thing I think you should know, lady. I’m gonna win the contest tomorrow, fair and square. I don’t need no bribe to win. My cheese balls are the best in the world. And tomorrow you and everybody will see that!”

He slammed the door shut, leaving me with a bitter aftertaste.

*   *   *

I thought about giving up on this whole investigation/interview thing. I’d gotten nowhere with Frankie, not even a recipe that I could use in my book, and in fact might have made things worse. He probably wouldn’t talk to me at all now. If Dillon didn’t find out more dirt on him, I just might find myself at a dead end . . . or worse.

I was about to go drown my sorrows in one of Aunt Abby’s whoopie pies—and check on Jake and Dillon—when I heard a woman’s loud voice coming from the truck next to Frankie’s. It was Monet’s I Scream Cake
truck, painted with inviting ice-cream cones and cupcakes that almost looked good enough to eat. The lights were still on, but the blinds were down, so I couldn’t see inside. I wondered who she was screaming at—and why.

I remembered her heated discussion with Frankie earlier and figured she had a bit of a temper. How much of a temper? I wondered. Enough to make her murderous? I recalled hearing that Frankie and Monet were once married but were now divorced. It sounded as if there was still some passion between those two, even if it was on the negative side. Why had they broken up? Too many cooks in the kitchen? Too competitive? Too temperamental?

I’d once done an article on the temperament of chefs, and while the stereotype portrayed the chef as someone who yells at his staff, throws pots and pans, insults customers, and storms out in the middle of a dinner rush, most of the chefs I interviewed weren’t like that. If they had been, they’d probably be spending their days in court, not the kitchen, defending their tantrums when being sued. Yes, they’re passionate—about food. It’s their pride and joy. But when you take into account the fact that they have to deal with long hours, low pay, bloody fingers, and questions from customers like “Does the vegetarian burger have beef in it?” “How is the grilled chicken cooked?” and “Can I have everything on the side?” it’s a wonder we don’t have more murdering chefs, what with all those sharp knives at hand.

I glanced around to make sure no one would catch me eavesdropping, then stood just below the open
louvered window so I could hear better. Maybe Monet was upset about Polly’s death and how it might impact her winning the contest. Or had something else made her angry?

After a few seconds of silence, I heard Monet’s loud voice again.

“You were sleeping with her!” she yelled.

I wondered who she was talking with.

I couldn’t hear the response, only the sound of someone slamming doors and tossing utensils around. Then came, “You sleep with everyone, you pig! You have no standards! You’re a man-whore. I knew it the minute I met you!”

Wow. Someone had really pissed off Monet, and it sounded like a lover—or ex-lover. Someone in the food truck business? Specifically, the chocolate-making business? Aunt Abby had said it was a very small world. Lately it had become even smaller.

“I hope you choke on your own food!” Monet cried. “You’re a fool! Didn’t you know she was practically sleeping with everyone? You probably killed her when you found out you were nothing special to her.”

More slamming of drawers, cupboards, and utensils. I wondered what the inside of her truck looked like at that moment.

“No! I don’t want to see you. Never again! If you come around, I’ll bash your head in with my blender and scramble your brains with my mixer—what’s left of them!”

Bash his head in? Wasn’t that how Polly was killed?

I listened for a few more minutes, but I heard nothing more. I was dying to know who she’d been talking to, so I took a deep breath, collected my courage, and knocked on the door, ready with my cookbook spiel. I only hoped she wasn’t too angry to see me and answer a few questions. Then again, maybe in her state of mind, she’d spill everything, just to vent her anger. A woman scorned often liked to share the details.