With everyone else packing up in back, and Crème Brûlée snoring in the front seat, I took a towel and dried off a pretty ornamental bench that was close to where the Biscuit Bowl was parked. We sat there as the heavy storm clouds moved slowly above us, promising more rain.
“I haven’t heard anything from Miguel since he left with the police early this morning.” I watched her face and eyes for any sign of what she was thinking.
She broke down sobbing. I went to the truck and got her a couple of napkins.
“I never meant for anything like this to happen when I asked him for help.” She thanked me and wiped away her tears.
“What did you expect?”
“I thought he could help me keep my daughter. I didn’t care anything about the money or the property. I haven’t worked in years, but I’m a lawyer. I can make my own way. Alex was vindictive and wanted to destroy me. Miguel has always been a good friend. I realize now that everything I’ve done has made me look guilty of Alex’s murder, and now Miguel is being blamed for it, too.”
“So you didn’t realize that putting twenty-five thousand dollars into Miguel’s bank account could make him look guilty of killing your husband?”
“No, of course not. I never dreamed someone else hated Alex enough to kill him.”
Someone else? I caught her meaning. She hated him enough to kill him.
“Did you kill him, or get someone else to do it, knowing Miguel would take the fall for it?”
Her face never changed. “I’d never do something like that to Miguel.”
“Have you told that to the police?”
Her eyes shifted away from me. “I’ve talked to the police. They’ve asked me a ton of questions about Alex’s death.”
“But did you tell them that you put the money in Miguel’s account for him to represent you?” I had to pin her down on this.
“They never asked me.”
I stood up, anger propelling my legs like springs. “We have to go and tell them.”
“All right. I can do that.” She sniffled, getting slowly and gracefully to her feet.
The producers and sponsors of the race sounded the buzzer. I knew I had to go to the stage for the last phase of the Atlanta challenge. That wouldn’t take more than a few minutes.
“I have to take care of something, but I’ll be right back. You can wait here or wait in the Biscuit Bowl. Then we can go to the police and get Miguel out of this mess.”
“I’ll wait. I don’t want to hurt Miguel.”
She looked sincere. She sounded sincere. All I could do was trust her.
Unless I found out better.
Ollie, Uncle Saul, Delia, and I walked over to the stage area. Chef Art met us there with a smug smile and a twinkle in his eyes.
“Are we going to Birmingham?” I asked.
“I think you’ll be pleased with the outcome.”
“Good morning, again, foodies!” Patrick yelled out.
There was a loud screech in his microphone. We winced and covered our ears.
He frowned at the technicians, who quickly made adjustments.
“Let’s try this again. Good morning, foodies! The challenge is over, and we have a new board. Can we see that now?”
The same two women smiled and brought out the electronic board. After it was in place, it lit up briefly—then shut down again.
Knowing Tina was waiting, and that we could help Miguel, made me impatient. But I knew I had to be there to continue the race. Two more minutes. Two more minutes.
“Okay,” Patrick said. “After these glitches, everything should be a snap.”
They turned on the board again, and this time it stayed on.
“We have our winner—Our Daily Bread. Let’s hear it for them.” Patrick applauded, and everyone in the street in front of the stage applauded, too.
“No one won the first challenge because of the rain, but there were teams who worked hard despite the weather. A tie between our top two teams was settled, and we’re ready to move on to the next stop in our race: Birmingham, Alabama.”
Everyone applauded enthusiastically.
“Let’s take a look at the new standings on the board, and who will be going on to the next leg of the race.”
The numbers came up on the board. They were the same numbers as when we first got here. The group was silent as we waited for the decision of the producers as to who would go on.
The board went off again for a moment and then came up with the names.
Patrick read them off. “At the top is Our Daily Bread. Consistent high points. You guys rock.”
“I wish he’d get on with it,” Delia said.
“Me, too.” I took a quick peek back at the Biscuit Bowl. The large biscuit on top was spinning, but I couldn’t tell if Tina had waited for me or not.
“In second place, the Biscuit Bowl.” Patrick located our little group with his gaze and pointed to us. “This team must try harder because they’re always in second place.”
Everyone applauded.
Ollie was offended by the statement. “What does that mean?”
“Shh,” Delia said.
“The third team moving forward is Shut Up and Eat. In this weather, their sandwiches have become looser than ever.”
“Is he supposed to be a comedian, too?” Uncle Saul demanded.
“If he is, I don’t think he’s very funny,” Bobbie Shields said.
“And in fourth place, we have Grinch’s Ganache.” Patrick finished out the lineup. “Pizza Papa and Chooey’s Sooey will not be joining us for the next leg of the race.”
The cameras panned on the two losing teams. They moved into the cool-down tent for their final interviews.
“You all made it!” Chef Art cheered. “You’re going to Birmingham.”
As soon as I got the word and the cameras were off the group in the street, I ran back toward the Biscuit Bowl.
“Where are you going?” Uncle Saul yelled.
“I’m going to help Miguel. Take the food truck to Birmingham.”
“Zoe, there’s not enough room in there for the three of us,” Ollie reminded me.
“I’ll go with her.” Delia ran after me.
“What’s going on?” Chef Art was losing his happy expression. “What are you doing, Zoe Chase?”
“I’ll meet you in Birmingham,” I promised. “There’s something I have to do.”
I looked at the bench. Tina wasn’t there. She also hadn’t waited in the food truck. She was gone, and her testimony about her relationship with Miguel was gone with her.
It didn’t matter. I was going to talk to Helms and Marsh anyway. Maybe Tina was too scared to tell her side of the story. I wasn’t.
As soon as Delia and I were in Miguel’s Mercedes, I started the car and we hit the street. I explained to her about Tina.
“What are we going to do without her?” she asked.
“I’m not sure yet. Someone has to hear what she told me. I guess that’s what I’m going to do.”
We managed to find the downtown police station with only a few wrong turns. My clothes were still damp and uncomfortable from the rain. I didn’t even want to think what my curly hair was going to look like that afternoon when I took the scarf off. There wasn’t time to worry about it. I didn’t plan to leave Miguel in Atlanta.
The police officer at the front desk was less than welcoming. “Have a seat over there. I’ll call your name if someone can help you.”
There were several people already waiting, but Delia and I managed to find two hard wooden chairs to sit in. Most of the others around us waiting were soaking wet, too. Someone smelled strongly of whiskey. One man had a large cut on his forehead, which he was holding a napkin to while blood oozed out on his hand.
“I hope they hurry,” I said.
Delia told me to relax. “It could be a while. Just take a deep breath and think of something else. What are you planning to make for your biscuit bowls tomorrow?”