Death of a Crabby Cook (8 page)

Jake shook his head at this latest confession. His frown deepened when he looked at me.

Aunt Abby leaned forward, her head between ours. “So should I pack a bag?”

•   •   •

Before we opened the door to the police, I gave Aunt Abby a handful of mints to cover her boozy breath and seated her in a kitchen chair, hoping she'd appear normal. Basil sat in her lap, and she petted him vigorously, as if giving him a dry shampoo. Jake sat next to her, no doubt planning to catch her if she happened to fall over.

“Hello, Detective,” I said to Detective Shelton as he stood on the porch. “Thanks for coming.” I glanced behind him to see if there were other officers with him but under the streetlight, I saw no one else in the parked white car.

“It's just me,” the detective said. “May I?” he gestured toward the inside of the house. I opened the door wider to allow him entry.

“Of course!” I said. “Aunt Abby's in the kitchen. She's always cooking up something,” I added with a nervous laugh. He followed me through the foyer to the kitchen.
I took a seat opposite Aunt Abby and indicated a chair at the head of the table for him. The detective eyed Jake suspiciously before sitting down. I wondered if Jake looked familiar to the cop.

“This is Jake Miller,” I said, introducing him. “He's a close family friend.” It was a small lie.

I turned to Jake and smiled. I was glad he was there. If only he'd brought a cream puff—I could really have used one at the moment. And maybe a sip or two from Aunt Abby's stolen coffee mug.

“Thanks for meeting with me again, Ms. Warner,” the detective said after settling into his seat and pulling out his notebook and pen. “I just have a few more questions.”

Basil growled at him. Aunt Abby resumed her shampooing. “Certainly, Detective.” She batted her eyelashes flirtatiously. No doubt her libido had been loosened by the remaining alcohol still circulating through her body, but at least she wasn't slurring her words. “What would you like to know?”

He got right to the point. “Were you in Oliver Jameson's restaurant yesterday?”

Her hand froze on the dog.

Uh-oh, here it comes.

I shot a look at Jake and shifted in my seat.

“Yesterday?” she asked, as if trying to remember.

“Yesterday,” the detective repeated.

“I may have been. It's not like I never went inside Bones 'n' Brew from time to time. Of course, the food was pig swill. I wouldn't be caught dead
eating
there.”

Did she have to use that turn of phrase?

He drew in a patient breath. “And what about yesterday?”

Jake interrupted. “Aunt Abby, you don't have to answer any questions without an attorney present.”

“You
are
an attorney, Jake,” she blurted. “Besides, I have nothing to hide.”

The detective stared at Jake. “Are you her legal counsel?”

“No, sir,” Jake said, shaking his head and holding his hands up. “I'm just here as a family friend. I don't practice law anymore.”

Detective Shelton nodded. “So you
were
an attorney, but now you're not.”

Jake nodded but said nothing.

“I see,” Detective Shelton said.

Really? What was that supposed to mean?

He turned to Aunt Abby. “Well, Ms. Warner, your ‘family friend' here is correct. You do have the right to an attorney.” I didn't like the way he emphasized the words “family friend.” His sarcasm was clearly evident.

“I don't need a lawyer!” Aunt Abby exclaimed. “I'm innocent!”

The detective cocked his jaw. “Then let me ask you again: Did you go to the Bones 'n' Brew restaurant yesterday, the day of Oliver Jameson's death?”

She rolled her eyes upward, as if thinking. “Yesterday . . . yesterday . . . It was such a hectic day. Yes, I believe I did.”

The detective raised an eyebrow, then made a note. “Why did you go there?”

Aunt Abby sighed. “I, uh, wanted to tell that jerk to stop bothering me. But he wasn't there.”

“By jerk you mean Oliver Jameson,” the detective said, jotting down another note.

“Yes,” Aunt Abby said.

“How long were you there?” Detective Shelton asked.

Aunt Abby shrugged. “Only a few minutes. I looked around a bit. I thought maybe I could find something that proved he'd left a rat in my bus—or anything that would get him to leave me alone.”

I put a hand on Aunt Abby's wrist, trying to stop her from talking too much.

“Why do you think he left a rat in your bus, Ms. Warner?”

“Isn't it obvious? He was trying to run all us food truckers out of business!”

She grasped the dog's fur. I squeezed her arm in an attempt to calm her.

The detective sat back and steepled his hands. “Ms. Warner, the crime scene techs found your fingerprints in Jameson's office—on his desk, his chair, his drawers—all around where the body was found. I'm going to ask you again, what were you really doing there?” He sounded less patient than when he'd first begun his questions.

“I told you. Snooping.”

The detective jotted her comment on the pad in front of him. “And what did you find while you were
snooping
?”

“Nothing, unfortunately.”

The detective took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The tension in the room was so thick, I could have cut it with a dull spatula.

“Ms. Warner, the techs also found your prints in the restaurant kitchen,” he continued.

She shrugged. “I told you, I may have touched a few things in there too, but I didn't poison his soup, if that's
what you're implying. What about his employees? I'll bet it was one of them, fed up with his bullying. Why don't you ask them?”

“We have. But none of their fingerprints were found on the soup bowl in his office.”

“I never touched any soup bowl!” Aunt Abby said, nearly rising out of her seat. Basil yipped and she eased back down.

Was that a smirk I saw on the detective's face? “No, the bowl was wiped clean.”

Aunt Abby looked visibly relieved at his words. But I knew it was a trick question.

“However, we're still looking for the container of bromethalin,” the detective continued.

He watched her carefully, raising an eyebrow.

My heart skipped a beat.

Aunt Abby suddenly looked lost, as if she'd taken a detour on a strange road and had no idea where she was.

Jake rose. “I think we're done here, Detective. If you're going to charge her with something, do it. Otherwise, I'm going to ask you to leave now.”

I could feel my toes go numb. Was this a good idea—challenging the detective like that? It felt as if Jake was practically begging the detective to take my aunt into custody.

The cop's phone rang.

I glared at Jake as Detective Shelton took the call. What had Jake been thinking?

“Shelton,” the detective said, then paused and looked down at his notepad.

I watched the cop's face, wishing I could hear the voice on the other end. His eyes widened, then he
swiveled in his chair, turning away from us. I heard him mumble into the phone: “Where?”

The hairs on my neck tingled. Had they found more evidence of my aunt's possible guilt?

The detective abruptly hung up the phone and looked directly at my aunt. I felt a flash of heat envelope my body.

This was it.

But instead of reading her her rights and whipping out a pair of handcuffs, he simply said, “Sorry to have bothered you, Ms. Warner.” Then he closed his notepad, rose from his chair, and walked out, leaving the three of us stunned.

The three of us remained slumped in our chairs for a few moments after the detective left, not sure how to react.

“What just happened?” I finally asked Jake, dumbfounded at the detective's sudden dismissal of my aunt and subsequent departure.

Jake shrugged and rose. “Apparently, the interrogation is over. No suitcase needed.” When Aunt Abby started to get up, he reached over and helped her. She looked as dazed and confused as I felt.

“Why?” I asked, rising to my feet. “I mean, I'm thrilled he didn't take her away in chains, but I wonder why. It must have something to do with that phone call he got.”

“Maybe telling the truth about being at the restaurant actually helped her case. Or maybe they caught the real murderer and that's what the phone call was about.”

“Well, I say we lock the door before the detective changes his mind and comes back,” Aunt Abby said.

“I'll take you to your truck,” I said to Jake.

“I'll come too,” Aunt Abby said. “I need a few things from the bus.”

We piled into my car and headed back to Fort Mason. Aunt Abby hummed to herself in the backseat as we drove. Jake was quiet, and I caught him gazing out the
passenger window, almost trancelike. I wondered what he was thinking

I wanted to grill Aunt Abby about the container of poison the police found that possibly had her fingerprints, but I decided to save my questions until we were alone. The less Jake knew, the better. Since he wasn't actually her lawyer, she and Jake didn't share attorney-client privilege, and as they say on TV, anything she said could be used against her in a court of law.

Curious as to what was on Jake's mind, I finally broke the quiet.

“Thanks again for your help,” I said to him.

He nodded, still staring out the passenger window.

I tried again. “So why did you quit being a lawyer?”

He turned to me and frowned. “I didn't exactly quit.”

“Really? I thought you said you gave up practicing law.”

“I did. But not because I quit. I was . . . disbarred.”

Oh my God.

The car swerved slightly in response to my surprise. Granted, I hardly knew Jake Miller, but he didn't seem like the shyster type to me. Then again, I hadn't suspected my ex-boyfriend of being a liar and a cheater either.

The question slipped out before I could stop myself: “What happened?”

His brows relaxed and a small smile broke through. “You sure get to the point, don't you?”

“I'm sorry. That was rude—and it's none of my business. Guess I went into reporter's mode. I'm just glad you were able to be there for Aunt Abby.” I glanced at the mirror to check on my aunt. Her head lay back on
the top of the seat and her mouth hung open like a dead fish's.

She was sound asleep!

Jake continued. “I did what I felt was right at the time, but the state bar thought otherwise.”

“What did you do, if you don't mind my asking?”

He took a deep breath before answering. “I was a corporate securities attorney for a big firm. I discovered one of my clients—the head of a major corporation—was bilking investors out of their money. Kind of an Enron thing. Anyway, my client disclosed the privileged information to me in confidence.”

“But you didn't keep it secret?”

“No, I told someone that I wanted to protect. One of the investors.” Jake paused for a moment. “My girlfriend, actually.”

Ah, so he had a girlfriend. I felt a wave of disappointment.

“Half of her portfolio was company stock, so I told her to pull out her money, as well as her parents' retirement nest egg.”

I glanced at him, but he didn't look at me, just stared straight ahead. “That doesn't seem so bad,” I said. “You stopped them from losing a lot of money.”

“Yeah, well, I was indicted for securities fraud . . . disclosing insider information. The feds eventually dropped the charges, but they referred the case to the state bar. When the bar found out I had breached the attorney-client privilege, I was brought up on charges and eventually disbarred.”

“Wow,” I said. Remembering the reporter's oath not to disclose a source—even if it meant going to jail—I
thought I probably would have done the same thing. Luckily, I'd never been put in that position. Most of my stories involved secret recipes, not secret knowledge.

“Couldn't you have gotten reinstated after a while?”

“I didn't even try. I actually felt relieved afterward, like a prisoner who's been set free. I never really enjoyed working in an office every day, wearing a suit, kissing up to clients, doing all that paperwork, tracking those billable hours. I used to bake when I was stressed—something my mom taught me. So when I lost my job, I decided to go into the dessert business, be my own boss, make people happy. Crazy, huh?” He finally looked at me.

I smiled at him. “Not crazy at all. Your cream puffs are so yummy! Almost better than sex,” I blurted, then blushed. Did I just say that out loud?

He grinned at me, raising a speculative eyebrow.

I felt my face grow hot and sensed it was the color of a Dungeness crab's shell. I hoped he couldn't tell in the dim light of the streetlamps. “I just meant . . . you know . . . I'm glad you're making cream puffs now.”

“Me too. I never thought losing everything—my career, my reputation, my girlfriend—would turn out to be the best thing for me.”

My ears pricked up. “Your girlfriend? After all you did for her, you broke up?”

“Yeah. She dumped me for the prosecutor. At first I thought she was just kissing up to him to avoid becoming involved. But she ended up marrying the guy. Ironic, isn't it?”

Hmm,
I thought wickedly. Perhaps there would be a lot more cream puffs in my future.

•   •   •

It was nearly eleven p.m. by the time we reached the food trucks at Fort Mason. I pulled the VW Bug into the area behind the food trucks and parked next to Aunt Abby's Toyota, figuring it was too late at night to get another ticket.

“Thanks again,” I said to Jake.

“No problem. Wish I could have been more helpful. I'd recommend meeting with a criminal law attorney, to be on the safe side. I can put you in touch with a good one. Just let me know.” He reached out and touched my arm, sending a jolt through me. Then he turned and headed for his cream puff truck.

I watched him for a few seconds before waking Aunt Abby. I helped her out of the car and followed her to her School Bus. She was unusually quiet as she picked up a few items and put them in a box. I wondered what was on her mind. She should have been relieved that the detective had let her go, but she seemed more preoccupied than ever. As she reached into a cupboard to retrieve some supplies, I had a thought. I pulled open the high cupboard overhead and peered inside.

“Aunt Abby, where's that container of rat poison that was here earlier?”

My aunt turned to me, her eyes wide. “It should be there. Why?”

“I don't see it.”

“What do you mean? Let me look.” She pulled up a stool and stepped on it to get a better view inside the cupboard. After moving around a can of cleanser, a bottle of disinfectant, and some bars of soap, she pulled her hand back, blinking those thick lashes several times.

“Aunt Abby? What's wrong?”

“The rat poison. It's . . . gone.”

“Did you throw it away?”

“No . . .”

“Did you use it after I left this afternoon?”

“No! No! It was right there!” Her face flushed, she motioned toward the cupboard. “If the cops find it, covered with my fingerprints, they'll think I poisoned him with it. I think someone is trying to set me up!”

This was not good. Was it Aunt Abby's? Covered in her fingerprints?

“Jameson! It had to have been him. . . .” She drifted off, looking bewildered and glancing around the inside of the School Bus.

“You think he stole the poison from you and killed himself? That doesn't make sense.” I looked at my aunt. “Aunt Abby, are you sure you didn't just misplace it?”

“Of course I'm sure!” she snapped. “I may be old, but I'm not senile. That container was there and now it's gone!”

•   •   •

If Aunt Abby's suspicions were right—that someone had somehow sneaked in and taken that box of poison—then it was quite possible that someone was trying to frame her for the murder of Oliver Jameson. But who would do that? And why?

I helped my aunt load up her car while I pondered the missing poison. Had she made other enemies besides Oliver Jameson? Granted, she was eccentric, but she wasn't malicious. Why would anyone want to get her into such serious trouble?

When she'd settled behind the wheel, I asked through the driver's window, “You sure you can drive?”

“Of course. I'm completely sober.” I was pretty sure the alcohol had worn off, but I could tell that something still bothered her. Maybe the seriousness of everything that had happened was sinking in—not to mention this latest development regarding the missing poison. The only saving grace at the moment was the fact that she hadn't been arrested. But that didn't necessarily mean she was off the detective's suspect list.

“To tell you the truth,” she said suddenly, “I'm a little worried about Dillon. I haven't heard from him for hours. It's not like him to disappear for so long.”

“I thought you said he does this all the time.”

“Yes, for short periods, but not this long. At least not without calling in. I hope nothing's happened to him—like before. . . .”

I assumed she was referring to his trouble with the university. He'd dropped out, moved home, and still didn't have a real job other than working at his mother's food bus.

“I'm sure you'll find him in his room when you get back home, working on some online project, oblivious to the outside world,” I said.

Aunt Abby nodded, but I knew she wasn't convinced. Maybe she was right. Maybe something had happened to Dillon. What with all that was going on, anything was possible. The truth was, there was a killer on the loose, and no one would be safe until that person was caught.

“Are you sure you can drive yourself home?” I asked my aunt again. While she had sobered up from the alcohol, I wasn't sure about her emotional state.

“Of course, Darcy. I've been driving since I was fourteen. I'll see you at home.”

Fourteen? Reluctantly, I waved her off and headed for my own car, parked a few feet away. At the moment it was blocked by the Meat Wagon delivery truck, so I glanced around for a sign of Tripp, the driver. It seemed awfully late for a drop-off, I thought, seeing no one.

I headed for the Road Grill truck next door, the Meat Wagon's usual customer. Suddenly I heard loud, heated voices coming from that vicinity. Alarmed, I stopped and pulled back behind Aunt Abby's bus. Slowly I peered around the corner.

Chef Boris was leaning out of the truck's service window and shouting at a skinny man in a black jacket, jeans, cowboy boots, and a knitted cap pulled over the top of his head. He was illuminated only by a light shining from inside the truck, but I saw the man's scruffy dark hair sticking out from under his cap, his ragged goatee, and his irregular sideburns.

Odd. What was Tripp doing dropping off a shipment of meat so late at night?

“I'm telling you, I'm done!” Boris said fiercely in his heavily accented voice. “I did what you wanted, and I'm finished. You got that? Done. Now, leave me the hell alone!”

Tripp leaned in toward Boris. I caught a glimpse of a toothpick protruding from his mouth. He pointed his finger at the chef but spoke so softly I couldn't make out his words. Then, reaching into the front of his jacket, he pulled out a package wrapped in butcher paper, about the size of a loaf of bread; he pushed it through the open window toward the chef.

“I said, no more!” Boris shouted. He shoved the package back. The delivery guy said something I still couldn't make out. Finally the chef snatched up the package.

“All right! But this is the last time. The last! Now, get out of here!” He slammed the window closed.

The delivery guy glanced around, no doubt checking to see if anyone had overheard them. I pulled back out of sight and ducked down, hoping he hadn't spotted me. From my vantage point, I could see his ornate cowboy boots as he stood outside the chef's window. The toothpick he'd been chewing on landed on the ground at his feet, followed by a wad of spit that caught the light. Moments later I watched as the boots moved around the side of Boris's truck and headed for the Meat Wagon truck.

I rose, hearing Boris's angry words ring in my head:
“I'm telling you, I'm done! I did what you wanted and I'm finished. You got that? Done. Now, leave me the hell alone!”

So what had Boris “done” for the delivery guy? And why was Boris “finished” with whatever it was? I had a sneaking suspicion it had nothing to do with a meat delivery.

But did it have anything to do with Oliver Jameson?

I remembered Boris talking about receiving poison-pen letters he thought were from Jameson.

Was it possible that Boris murdered Oliver Jameson?

Surely not just because he'd received some letters. Letters, by the way, that s
upposedly
were no longer available as evidence. Had Chef Boris really received such letters? Or was there something else behind Boris's dislike for Jameson?

Something that involved the deliveryman?

My cell phone rang, startling me out of my muddled murder theory. The “It's a Small World” theme song told me it was Aunt Abby.

I froze. Uh-oh. Had Tripp just heard the ringtone?

“Hello?” I whispered into the phone, still hiding behind Aunt Abby's bus.

“Darcy! Where are you?” Aunt Abby said, her voice strained.