“I guess I was right staying behind.” Uncle Saul laughed and enjoyed his moment of foresight. He’d peeled and cut the rest of the sweet potatoes we hadn’t used. “Let’s get going.”
I had never planned to have more than two or three people working inside the Biscuit Bowl at one time. It wasn’t really big enough for more than one person. Four people trying to bake, deep-fry, fill, and finish one hundred biscuits was almost too much.
We managed somehow.
Miguel got back with the supplies. We’d had enough sweet potatoes to get some cooked and mashed to add to the biscuits while he was gone. If I’d been at the diner, it would have been too early to get started. Because the camping oven was slower and smaller, it took right up until noon to get everything ready again.
We’d decided to send Delia out to sell the biscuit bowls on the street. Lunch traffic had begun, with plenty of people on foot making their way to benches and restaurants where they would eat and spend time away from their offices.
Ollie wanted to go with Delia to sell biscuit bowls. I wasn’t sure. But I decided he could take food to her so she wouldn’t have to come back each time she ran out. He was happy with that.
It would be up to me and Uncle Saul to keep food ready for Ollie to take to Delia.
That was my strategy. Smart, right?
It was a relief when we began at last. Ollie was already taking a second, finished group of biscuit bowls to Delia. The bacon and cheese biscuit bowls smelled deelish (made with sweet potatoes instead of shortening). The spicy apple raisin filling had a dusting of powdered sugar and a swirl of white icing.
“It was getting a mite crowded in here.” Uncle Saul heaved a sigh of relief when it was only the two of us. “What is wrong with that boy, anyway? Has he never had a girl before?”
I knew he was talking about Ollie and his disastrous efforts to court Delia.
“Miguel told me that Ollie was actually married before, when he was still in the Marines. His wife was a marine, too. She had PTSD and opened fire on him one morning at breakfast. She shot him twice before he had to kill her. He almost died, too.”
Uncle Saul put a hand to his forehead. “Holy smoke! That boy has been through the wringer! No wonder he’s making such a mess of things. It would only be Christian for me to take him under my wing. I used to be pretty hot with the ladies of Mobile, you know? During carnival, I was the king of hearts.”
He chuckled to himself as he filled five more apple biscuit bowls.
“Maybe you should show Bonnie that side of you.” I grinned. “I’m sure she’d be interested.”
“Are you trying to be a matchmaker or what?”
Everything was going well until we reached the ninety-five biscuit mark. We were so close.
Then one of the cameramen barged into the Biscuit Bowl and knocked over what remained of my apple raisin filling.
I turned to him, angry. “What are you trying to do?”
“Uh—sorry, ma’am. I was—uh—trying to get a close-up of your apples.” He stammered and pulled at his network ball cap.
Uncle Saul slapped his hand on his leg. “Never heard that term for it before!”
We looked at where the cameraman had stopped recording on the screen. It was an in-depth view of my cleavage above the red tank top.
I was flattered—in a lame kind of way. But now we had only the bacon cheese filling. “It’s all we have. It will have to do. We only have five more biscuits to sell. Let’s make this work.”
Ollie was back for more biscuit bowls. “Delia’s kicking butt on sales. You should see her sell!”
“Take these.” I gave him the last bacon cheese biscuit bowls. “How are the customers holding out?”
“The crowds are getting smaller as everyone goes back to work. Good news is that a lot of people are hanging around to see what’s going on.” Ollie grabbed the biscuit bowls and was gone.
The cameraman was done with us—our crisis was past. Had he done it on purpose to create drama?
Miguel popped his head into the food truck. “How’s it going? I’ve got twenty statements from people saying they loved your biscuit bowls. But Pizza Papa just sold their hundredth slice. I guess they win this challenge.”
“Sweet potato pizza—and they sold out?” I turned off the deep fryer. We were done.
“They were selling them really cheap.”
“Don’t they have to sell at their normal price? Isn’t that covered in the rules?”
“Not sure.” He shook his head. “One interesting thing I heard while I was out there—the police are wondering if Reggie Johnson’s death was really an accident.”
FIVE
“What do you mean by that?” Uncle Saul asked him. “The police think someone pushed a refrigerator on top of the man? In that small area?”
“It’s something about a strap that had been holding the refrigerator in place,” Miguel said. “It looks as though it’s been cut.”
I listened as I started cleaning and putting things away. We’d have to move the truck today, and everything had to be strapped down.
How could the police even tell the difference between a strap breaking and a strap being cut?
“I hope that’s not true,” I finally remarked. “Why would anyone want to kill Reggie?”
Uncle Saul laughed. “Maybe it was someone who ate his food.”
“Now that’s mean.” I stored away the remaining flour, baking powder, and shortening. I hoped never to work with sweet potatoes in biscuits again. It was possible to do, but the biscuits weren’t the best I’d ever made.
Ollie and Delia weren’t back yet, which meant they hadn’t sold the last five biscuits. Oh well. I hadn’t expected to win all the challenges. I hoped we wouldn’t be sent home yet, but it was a possibility. Each day, team members who didn’t win the challenge could be sent home.
I took off my hat and let Uncle Saul do the rest of the cleanup. I had a small bottle of cool water that I shared with Crème Brûlée in the front of the truck.
Crème Brûlée rolled on his back, showing me his soft, fuzzy tummy. I tickled it gently while he pretended to swat at me as though he didn’t like it. Everything was a game with him—except looking for his food.
The police were still swarming all over the Dog House right in front of me. I thought about poor Reggie making it all the way here, only to end up under his refrigerator before he had a chance to take the first challenge of the race.
I always checked all of the appliances, shelves, and supplies in the back of the Biscuit Bowl before I moved it from place to place. I made a mental note to double-check from now on. It was always better to be safe.
Courtesy of the Sweet Magnolia Food Truck Race, all the teams would be put up at hotels for the night. The idea was to finish in one location and announce the winners—and losers. Everyone who wasn’t kicked out would go on to Columbia, South Carolina. We’d spend the night there and then face our challenges in the morning on Tuesday.
Mobile felt a long way off. I wasn’t joking about being homesick for my normal, appreciative customers and my friends. I missed my old diner. Being part of the race was exciting, but strange.
Sweet potatoes in biscuits? I was amazed anyone would eat them.
The loud buzzer that sounded could be heard up and down the main street. That meant the challenge was over. Everyone would gather at the cool-down tent again.
“I guess that’s me.” I stroked Crème Brûlée and we rubbed noses. “I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry. I’ll leave the air on for you. No scratching or potty on the seats!”