He glanced around the kitchen. “Fine. I’ll be your extra team member until we can get out. Don’t think about trying anything. I know how this whole thing works. Where is that other guy who was working in here? Who’s selling the biscuits?”
“I’m selling the biscuits,” Ollie said.
“Okay. You go wait outside until everything is ready.” He jammed the gun in my side. “And don’t tell anyone what’s going on if you want Zoe to live to see her prize.”
“Just take it easy,” Ollie said. “There’s no reason for anyone to get hurt.”
“You’re right. Do what I say, and no one will get hurt.”
Ollie stared at me as though he was trying to devise a plan.
I nodded. “Go ahead. Open the window and I’ll hand out the food.”
“What about the other one?”
“You mean our other team member who had to go to the restroom?” I filled in quickly.
“Zoe! I hear you’ve lost your carrots.” Chef Art walked right into the middle of our mess.
“You’re the other team member?” Marsh looked at him in surprise, probably taking in the white suit that didn’t look much like something anyone would cook in. “Get in here. Ollie, you get out. Keep in mind that Zoe will die before I do if you give me away.”
Ollie agreed and went outside.
“What’s this?” Chef Art asked. “What’s going on? I don’t recall this being part of the challenge. Who are you, sir?”
“I’m the new Biscuit Bowl team member.” Marsh smiled, painfully shoving the gun deeper into my side. “Let’s all get our aprons on and do some cooking, shall we?”
“That’s not my job today. I’m a sponsor. It would look bad. You two sort out your problems. Zoe—win the race.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Marsh told him. “Didn’t you hear what I told the giant? I have a gun in Zoe’s side. You do what I tell you until we can leave. You got it?”
Chef Art put down his cane and took off his jacket. “I think I understand now. What do you need me to do, Zoe?”
I tried to stay calm. Panic wouldn’t help. My heart was racing, and the greasy breakfast I’d eaten was threatening to come up.
“Ollie was going to fill the sweet biscuit bowls.” I forced my tone to sound normal as I pulled up another basket of fried biscuit bowls and put another one down. “I’ll bake biscuits and fry them. Marsh will put the barbecue into the savory biscuit bowls.”
“I don’t have to do anything,” he told me. “I’m the one with the gun, remember?”
“Not putting out any biscuit bowls will give you away,” I snarled. “There are television cameras, producers, and assistants crawling around here like ants on a watermelon. You made Ollie leave. I need your help to get through this.”
“All right,” he said. “Just don’t forget that I could kill you.”
Chef Art glanced at me with his white eyebrows raised. “You need to hire better team members.”
We were getting the first biscuit bowls ready to go in the awkward silence. It was almost seven A.M. I was trying to think of something clever to do that could save us all—well—mostly me since the gun was on me. Nothing came to mind right away.
Ollie lifted and secured the order window from outside.
“Look who I found waiting outside to see you, Zoe.” His voice was only weirder than the look on his face. “Your mom and dad are here to wish you well.”
“Hi, Zoe!” Daddy waved and grinned at me. “I think you’re going to win this thing. It’s been exciting hearing about it.”
“I’m glad you’re home again.” My mother was dressed, as always, in an expensive suit, lavender this time, her blond hair perfectly framing her determined face.
“Hi, Mom.” I smiled. “Hi, Daddy. It’s good to see you. We’re very busy.”
Daddy looked surprised when he realized Chef Art was in the kitchen with me. “I had no idea you were getting help from a celebrity.”
Chef Art smiled. “I want to see Zoe win the race, too.”
“Do you have time for your old man to come in there and give you a quick hug for good luck?”
Daddy was taken aback when Chef Art and I both shouted “No!” at the same time.
He glanced at my mother, who shrugged and walked away.
“Okay,” he said. “We’ll see you later for your victory dinner.”
“Okay.” I waved and smiled like a trained monkey. “Bye-bye.”
When they were gone, Marsh wasn’t happy. “We’re too exposed this way. Close the window.”
“I have to get the biscuit bowls through here,” Ollie said. “Read the rules. If we don’t do what they say, we’ll be disqualified.”
“Like I care.” He shrugged.
“You will,” he promised. “Didn’t you notice the big interviews they do with the food trucks that are disqualified? They want you to go off about how unfair everything is. I can show you the YouTube video from when Our Daily Bread was disqualified.”
I knew there wasn’t a rule about serving the food through the window, and no YouTube video. Everything would be aired with the show, whenever that would be. But it was a good play on Ollie’s part. Marsh wasn’t familiar with the rules. He didn’t know Ollie was lying.
“Okay. Whatever it takes to get me out of here.”
“Right now, it takes getting these biscuit bowls out on the street so he can sell them.” I handed Ollie my cell phone, which doubled as a credit card machine, and gave him twenty dollars in cash to start with. “Good luck. Sorry I don’t have anyone to run the food out to you.”
“That’s okay.” He glared at Marsh. “Just be careful.”
“We will,” Chef Art promised.
We made more biscuit bowls after he was gone. It seemed he was back very quickly. With everything that had been happening, we were behind on having our food ready.
“Come on,” Ollie urged. “Come on! Delia is out here hardly trying to sell anything and selling more than we are.”
“We have a few unusual problems,” I reminded him. “Let’s worry about getting through this. If we lose, we lose.”
“Don’t even say that,” Chef Art said. “We can still win this thing.”
There was a knock on the back door before it opened. “Hey, I’m from the producer. He wants to know if you’re up for having a crew in here taping while you work.”
Beneath the glasses—which I think she got from Chef Art’s assistant—and the food truck race gear was Detective Patti Latoure. She was smiling, but I saw her sharp blue eyes zero in on the gun Marsh was holding.
THIRTY-FIVE
I knew from the look on Ollie’s face that he’d gone to get her. I hoped they had a plan that didn’t involve me getting shot to get Marsh out of the food truck.
“Biscuit Bowls?” Ollie said. “Are any ready yet?”
That took Marsh’s attention away from Patti, who was still in the doorway pretending to wait for my answer.
“I have one tray of sweet ready.” I handed it to him. As I put the tray up to the window, Marsh’s hand moved with me. I didn’t see any way to get out of this mess.
“What about the cameras?” Patti was as persistent as the real assistants.
“Sure. That’s fine. Whatever it takes.” I glanced at her. She winked when Marsh was looking away.
“I’ll be right back. Don’t do anything different. We want to catch you off guard, at least as far as the audience is concerned.”
It seemed as though there was a kind of code in her words. I hoped so anyway. They wanted us to act normal so they could catch Marsh off guard. I held it together by focusing on what I was doing.
“You should’ve said no,” Marsh said when Patti was gone.