“Wow. He’s a big fella,” Helms said.
“He’s a little sensitive about it.” I put the empty tote on the bed and massaged my arm. I loved my cat, but he was hard to carry around. “Every time I take him to the vet, he suggests Crème Brûlée should lose weight. He’s not crazy about that idea.”
Helms sat on the edge of the bed as I fed my cat. “I’m surprised they’ve let him in all of these hotels.”
I glanced up at her. “You’re not the cat police, right?”
“No. Not at all. But I am looking for a killer, Zoe.”
“I know. What can I do to help?”
“I’ve thought about what you said to McSwain. Now that we know your friend Reggie’s death wasn’t an accident, I’ve been trying to figure out what McSwain said to someone that got him killed.”
“And have you come up with anything?”
She nodded. “The only thing that makes sense to me is that McSwain knew the other person Alex was plotting with. I don’t know if that means he was a friend of McSwain’s or what. I think that’s why the second person had to kill Reggie.”
“And Alex? Surely he wasn’t plotting his own death?”
“I don’t think so. I know that Tina has a lover—and I don’t believe it’s Miguel like Marsh does. I think Tina’s lover may have killed Alex for her. And he may have killed McSwain because they knew each other.”
Her cell phone buzzed, and she looked at it. “That’s Marsh, complaining because he can’t find me. He thinks I have to be close by all the time. I hope we get something from Tina that leads us in the right direction.”
She got to her feet, and I saw her to the door.
Helms put her hand on my arm. “I don’t trust Tina. Something’s not right with that girl. Look out for her.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
I closed the door and locked it when she was gone. I talked on the phone with Uncle Saul for a few minutes about our food list for tomorrow and what we were going to do if Miguel couldn’t shop.
Uncle Saul told me not to worry about it. “Chef Art and I have that under control. He had his car brought up here from Mobile for tonight. If you trust me, I’ll shop and get something amazing for tomorrow.”
I laughed. “Of course I trust you! Thanks for thinking of it. Please thank Chef Art for me, too.”
Crème Brûlée was done eating. He was trying his best to get on the bed. I picked him up and lay down with him, snuggling into his soft fur.
“Between the race and the murders, it’s enough to drive a person crazy.”
He softly meowed and bumped his head against mine. We fell asleep that way.
– – – – – – –
My cell phone woke me up about an hour later. It was my mother again, checking on me. She wanted to know all about Alex’s death and my involvement.
“When is all this supposed to be over, Zoe?”
“I’m in Birmingham today. I’ll be in Mobile tomorrow. One way or another, it will be over Friday.”
“Well that’s good news at least.” She started to say something and changed her mind. Instead, she questioned, “What do you mean one way or another?”
“I mean, either I’ll win or I’ll lose.”
“What about that poor dead man? Bless his soul. He was good-looking, wasn’t he?”
“And he wanted to ruin his ex-wife’s life.”
“You know, I hear those kinds of things all the time. Sometimes it’s not as bad as it sounds.”
I looked at the time. “I have to go, Mom. I’m going to be late for dinner. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Okay. Be careful out there. You never know what those other food truck people are thinking.”
I got up and dressed quickly. I’d brought a nice pair of white pants and a matching halter top. It looked good with my summer tan, and even my curls cooperated. I slipped my feet into matching white sandals and was ready to go.
I had to sort out Crème Brûlée before I left. It wasn’t easy. He was tired of the whole experience and didn’t want to cooperate. I finally coaxed him into drinking some water, and then he rolled over and ignored me.
“You’re the one who’ll be sorry later when you’re lonely,” I promised him.
Ollie, Uncle Saul, and Delia had all called me, wondering where I was. They were already downstairs. I slipped into the large room booked for dinner that night and took my place at the table as though I’d been there the whole time.
“Where have you been?” Uncle Saul asked. “I was afraid they were going to disqualify you. I hope the cameras didn’t catch you coming in.”
“I was only a few minutes late. Mom called. You know I had to talk to her. We’re close enough that she could’ve driven up here.”
Patrick Ferris started messing around with the microphone, which meant we were about to get started. Ollie asked me where Miguel was. I started to explain, but Chef Art shushed me.
“Is this thing on?” Patrick asked with a laugh.
There were a few snickers from the greatly reduced group sitting at the big tables.
“Good evening, foodies. It’s nice to see some of you still in the race—at least until tomorrow. Birmingham is gonna sort out the winners from the losers before we move on to Mobile.”
“Yeah. Yeah,” Bobbie Shields said. “Let’s get on with it. Where’s dinner?”
Patrick kept his million-dollar smile in place. “I think I see dinner coming right now. I’m hungry, too. But first, I’m sure you’re all dying to know what’s in that pretty package in the middle of your table.”
I hadn’t even noticed the package until he’d said something. I had a lot on my mind. I saw the elaborately wrapped package and reached for it—too late. Chef Art grabbed it first.
“Now what do you think is in here?” He pulled at the beautiful lavender-colored ribbon.
“Like he doesn’t know,” Ollie muttered.
When the package was unwrapped, he read the card inside, as everyone around us was reading their cards. Waiters began serving the meal. Chef Art finally passed the card to me.
“Now that you’ve had a chance to see your personal information,” Patrick said, “I’m going to explain what it means.”
My card said: Do it in the red. I had no idea what that meant.
“We’re gonna get cutthroat here, campers! That personal message you received is your tag for tomorrow’s challenge.”
“What kind of tag?” Ollie snatched the card from me.
“What does it say?” Uncle Saul asked.
“What do you mean by tag?” Reverend Jablonski asked from his usual table at the front.
“Tag. You’ll understand better when we talk about the next part of tomorrow’s challenge. Two food trucks are going home tomorrow before we head to Mobile. They won’t pass go, and they won’t collect fifty thousand dollars. Remember that when you figure out what your tag is all about.”
That brought a round of applause from everyone at the Biscuit Bowl table, Shut Up and Eat, and Grinch’s Ganache. I didn’t applaud, and neither did the team at Our Daily Bread’s table.
“We don’t understand, Patrick,” Reverend Jablonski said. “Could you be clearer?”
Patrick laughed a trifle like a bad guy in a B movie. Kind of bwahaha. “That’s up to you, Our Daily Bread team. No one will force you to use your tag. However, a word of warning: I’m sure the other foodies in this room will use theirs. Especially once they hear the challenges for tomorrow.”
I stared at the empty chair next to me where Miguel should’ve been sitting. I wasn’t a bit interested in the dried-up chicken, green beans, and rice on my plate.
It was hard to get into the spirit of the race knowing that the police were questioning Miguel again. I wished there were something I could do to help. Sitting here and playing games wouldn’t make any difference. It made me want to give up and go home.
That’s not a bit like me, but I hadn’t been sleeping well in the hotel rooms, and the stress of being part of this race, let alone a murder investigation, was beginning to take its toll on me.