His bright blue eyes were worried. I could tell because his left one was all twitchy. “There’s a lot of money riding on this thing, Zoe. Don’t screw it up. I like you. I really do. I like my money better. Leave Alex alone, and stay away from the police. Let this thing play out.”
“I will.” I thought about Helms and Marsh. They probably weren’t too happy with me right now after I’d ignored their summons.
They were supposed to wait for my reports on the race, I considered sulkily, not call me every few minutes. How was I supposed to keep our arrangement a secret if we met in the lobby all the time?
Everyone had ordered their drinks and dinner. I was working on my second margarita. It was almost nine when Alex addressed the crowd. I was beginning to think he was born with a microphone in his hand.
“It was a good challenge today, people. Tomorrow will be even better.”
“What about the dead guy?” Daryl Barbee yelled out, still wearing his oversized cowboy hat.
“And our money that we lost in the vandalism,” Roy Chow from Chooey’s Sooey called out. “My power is still not on in my truck.”
Roy was dressed conservatively in a suit and tie. When he was in his food truck, he and his three-man team wore matching New York Yankees baseball uniforms, down to the cleats on his shoes.
Not sure what that was supposed to mean to his customers, but he was from New York.
Alex grinned and took their questions. “We’re working as closely as we can with police to find the answers to what happened with Mr. Johnson in Charlotte. You know, Charlotte has a high crime rate, right? I personally think someone tried to rob him. Anyway, we’ll find out soon enough.”
“And the power?” Dante, from Stick It Here, asked.
“Dante, your truck and Roy’s are the last two still being worked on. I promise they’ll be ready for tomorrow.”
Alex made promises like he was running for elected office.
“That won’t give us much time to get our supplies ready,” Roy reminded him. “How about you give us a few minutes’ head start?”
“Or extra points,” Dante suggested.
“You two are a couple of jokesters, aren’t you?” Alex laughed, but I could see him sweating in his nicely cut tuxedo.
Lucky for him, dinner was served before things got any uglier. Not that I blamed Roy and Dante for being upset. A lot of work went into their food each day. The vandalism had caused them extra work with no guarantee that they’d be ready tomorrow when the rest of us were.
There was some good-natured joking between tables about people singing as they sold their food for the next challenge. Everyone was worried about the taste challenge. I thought that was the easy part.
To make the rest of us feel even more insecure about singing in public, Reverend Jablonski and his fellow ministers from the Our Daily Bread food truck got up and performed several hymns for us.
“They sound like the freaking Vienna Boys Choir,” Ollie remarked. “How are we supposed to compete with that?”
Chef Art squirmed in his chair. His usual white linen suit seemed to fit a little tighter than normal. “I’d say the singing isn’t going to sell biscuits. Zoe doesn’t have to be a great singer tomorrow. She needs to show a little cleavage and a lot of leg. The biscuit bowls will do the rest.”
Everyone turned to me. No pressure. I sighed and started eating.
I had to resign myself to doing whatever was necessary to win the money. It was my food truck, after all, and my idea to be here.
The sliced roast beef was dry and the gravy was lumpy. I longed for a good burrito but was too exhausted to go out and find one. It was unfortunate that there was no food truck in the challenge tomorrow with Mexican food.
Delia was working hard to impress Ollie. She was looking at him like he was a chocolate-covered donut.
Maybe that was the part I was missing with Miguel.
Chef Art looked unhappy and impatient. He left before dessert. I went with him. Four A.M. would come early, and I was ready for today to be over.
We talked about my menu plans for tomorrow, and he reminded me how important it was to keep the food ideas fresh.
“Everyone is trying to come up with great ideas, sensational eats,” he warned. “I hope you are, too, Zoe. You know how essential that is to the food truck business. Don’t pay any attention to Saul on this. He’s got his food brain stuck in the 1980s.”
I agreed with him before the elevator chimed as it reached my floor. “I’ll see you in the morning, Chef Art.” I borrowed a page from Alex. “You know I’m all about the food.”
“I hope so. Good night, Zoe.” I got out of the elevator. The doors had closed before I saw Helms and Marsh standing in front of my room.
“Zoe, it’s important that we talk to you right away.”
ELEVEN
I let the two detectives into my room. I should’ve known they wouldn’t leave me alone just because I’d ignored them. I shouldn’t have agreed to help them.
Miguel’s threats of possible dire consequences for my actions were running around in the back of my mind.
I sat on the edge of the bed. Crème Brûlée hadn’t moved from his perch on it since I’d left. Helms took the soft chair and Marsh took the chair by the desk.
“What’s wrong?” I was hoping this would be over quickly and I could go to bed.
“We know you have to be up early—so do we, of course—to go out with the food trucks.” Helms smiled at me. She was really a very attractive woman.
“Something has happened that you should be aware of.” Marsh leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “We have a possible suspect in the death of Reggie Johnson. Our person of interest may even be involved with Detective McSwain’s death.”
“Who is it?” I was ready for anything.
“We think Miguel Alexander is involved.”
Okay. “What in the world makes you think that?”
“Mr. Alexander got a sizable deposit in his bank account the day he left Mobile.” Helms stared at me as though I should immediately understand what that meant.
“Are you monitoring all our bank accounts?” That shocked me more than the stupid idea that Miguel had anything to do with the deaths in Charlotte.
They exchanged glances.
“We needed to keep track of a few accounts, yes,” Helms agreed. “There were some standouts in the group. We aren’t keeping track of yours, Zoe, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Actually, I was more worried about Uncle Saul’s bank account, if he had one. My dad always said his brother was into a few shady dealings.
“I’m sure Miguel got paid for a job,” I shot back. “He does a lot of work on credit. I think you should pick another suspect.”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars is a lot of credit,” Marsh said.
“Have you been to a lawyer lately? That’s like two hours of work.” I wished they’d go away. I didn’t want to hear any more.
“The money was wired to him from an account in the Caymans,” Helms continued. “That’s what raised the red flag for us. We can’t tell whose account that was. We’ll have more information in the next twenty-four hours.”
“I don’t believe Miguel has any ties to the people putting on the food truck race.” I yawned, hoping they’d take the hint. “Why would he kill Reggie?”
“He does have two ties,” Marsh said. “You and Reggie Johnson. We think he may have exploited the tie with you to get involved with the race so he could kill Mr. Johnson.”
“Why is he even here, Zoe?” Helms’s face was earnest. “Have you asked yourself that question? He’s not an official member of your team. He doesn’t work for you.”