Death of a Crabby Cook

Book 1: A Food Festival Mystery

by Penny Pike

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

First in a new series!

At the San Francisco Seafood Festival, someone is steamed enough to kill a cook....

When restaurant reviewer Darcy Burnett gets served a pink slip from the San Francisco Chronicle, she needs to come up with an alternative recipe for success quickly. Her feisty aunt Abby owns a tricked-out school bus, which she’s converted into a hip and happening food truck, and Darcy comes aboard as a part-timer while she develops a cookbook project based on recipes from food fests in the Bay Area.

But she soon finds someone’s been trafficking in character assassination—literally—when a local chef turns up dead and her aunt is framed for the murder. The restaurant chef was an outspoken enemy of food trucks, and now Darcy wonders if one of the other vendors did him in. With her aunt’s business—and freedom—on the line, it’s up to Darcy to steer the murder investigation in the right direction and put the brakes on an out-of-control killer….

RECIPES INCLUDED!

Release date: August 5, 2014

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 336

Sample

PRAISE FOR THE PARTY-PLANNING MYSTERY SERIES BY PENNY PIKE (Writing as Penny Warner)

ALSO BY PENNY PIKE (Writing as Penny Warner)

 

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Life sucked.

Forget counting calories. I needed this cream puff.

It would have been the perfect spring day in San Francisco—no fog, sunshine, with a light, salty breeze coming off the bay—if it weren’t for the news I’d just received from my editor at the San Francisco Chronicle.

“Darcy, I’m afraid we have to let you go,” Patrick Craig had told me moments after I’d arrived at my soon-to-be-former desk. “As you know, times are tough in the newspaper business.”

As a parting gift, he’d promised to give me some freelance assignments from time to time, the first being a review of the San Francisco Crab and Seafood Festival, which was being held for the next two days at Fort Mason. My assignment: write up a critique of the festival and an article about the Oyster Shuck-and-Suck Contest. I hated oysters. The slimy things made me gag. But as a now-unemployed restaurant critic, what choice did I have? If I didn’t take this gig, I’d soon be living on Top Ramen.

I sat on a bench near the daily food truck gathering at Fort Mason, trying to figure out tomorrow’s story angle as I watched the prelunch crowd gather. Hungry gourmands were queuing up at the dozen colorful food trucks that were parked each day in the prime spots. The names were almost as entertaining as the decorated trucks themselves. Road Grill, a bright red truck with giant grill marks painted across the front, served “exotic meats” and was by far the biggest crowd-pleaser with the longest line. The Yankee Doodle Noodle Truck, yellow, with images of noodles the size of octopus tentacles, had its fair share of fans, as did Kama Sushi, blue and covered with tropical fish, and the Coffee Witch, featuring a sexy cartoon witch stirring a cauldron of steaming brew. No food truck stop was complete without a bacon truck—this one called itself Porky’s.

But my favorite was a truck called Dream Puff, featuring a giant chocolate-laden cream puff painted on a vanilla background. The cream puffs, everything from strawberry mocha to pralines and cream to lemon meringue, were to die for—not to mention the “Dream Puff Guy” who served them.

But it was the Big Yellow School Bus, a former school bus converted into a food truck, that got most of my business on my lunch breaks. I was a frequent diner there, mainly because it was owned and operated by my eccentric aunt Abby, and she gave me free food.

Currently soothing the news of my job loss with a Caramel Espresso Dream Puff, I was interrupted by the sound of shouting coming from the middle of the circular food truck court. I recognized the fortysomething, balding man as Oliver Jameson, the owner and chef at Bones ’n’ Brew, a brick-and-mortar restaurant across from Fort Mason. The seasoned place had once been a popular dining spot in the city, but business had fallen off over the past couple of years, and the quality had gone downhill too. I’d written a review last year about how the restaurant hadn’t changed much since Jameson’s father, Nigel, ran the place thirty years ago. In his many letters to the newspaper’s editor, Oliver Jameson had blamed the “inundation of rat-infested roach coaches that had set up shop across the street from my distinguished dining establishment” for his business losses. But as a restaurant critic—or former restaurant critic—I had a hunch it was because Jameson hadn’t updated his menu or decor in decades.

“Get outta here, you old bag, or I’ll call the police!” Jameson yelled at the petite sixtysomething woman opposite him. The big balding man gestured threateningly at her with a meat tenderizer as he bellowed, “Take your botulism-riddled bus and go park it in the Tenderloin where it belongs!”

As for the “old bag” in question, well, that would be my aunt Abigail Warner. After retiring from her job as a high school cafeteria cook last year, she’d bought an old school bus and converted it into a portable eatery featuring her specialty—classic American comfort foods with a gourmet twist. I was a big fan of her Crabby Cheerleader Mac and Cheese, filled with local crabmeat.

“It’s a free country, you hash-slinging fry cook,” my aunt yelled back at the towering man. “You’re losing business because your fat-saturated menu is out-of-date, and your fried food is overpriced. Don’t blame me for your bleeding cash problems.”

Aunt Abby waved a knife at him. In her small hand it looked like a deadly Samurai sword.

“And if you plant one more dead rat anywhere near my truck, I’ll take my Ginsu knife to your dangling—”

“Aunt Abby!” I yelped, rising from the bench. I hurried over to the battle site, hoping to run interference before my aunt was arrested for assault, battery, or improper language in public.

Aunt Abby lowered her menacing weapon when she saw me approach. I knew she was feisty—she had to be in order to survive serving “meat surprise” to a bunch of surly teenagers for all those years—but I didn’t know she had a murderous streak. Still, I didn’t blame her. Ever since she’d started her food truck business six months ago, she’d encountered nothing but problems, everything from permit red tape to parking tickets to jealously competitive restaurant owners.

“Come on, Aunt Abby,” I said, prying the knife from her tight grip. The growing number of gawkers slowly went back to their handheld meals as I dragged my aunt to her neon yellow bus a few feet away. Nothing like a little drama to whip up an appetite, I thought.

Among the creatively decorated circle of trucks, Aunt Abby’s bus stood out. Not only was it big and blindingly yellow, but she’d hung schoolroom chalkboard signs on the outside offering her famous fare: Teacher Tuna Casserole, Principal Potpie, Science Experiment Spaghetti, and other old-school comfort foods.

I followed my aunt through the accordion doors and up the steps, listening to her curse under her breath—words she’d no doubt learned from her high school students. “Dillon!” I called out to her six-foot, twenty-five-year-old son, who was working the service window. “Keep an eye on your mom, will you?”

“I don’t need to be watched,” Aunt Abby snapped, scowling as she retied her food-smeared apron in a complicated double fold. “What I need is rat removal—from Bones ’n’ Brew.”

“What happened?” I asked.

She took a loaf of bread and began slicing it with the knife she’d been waving.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said.

I shot Dillon a look and mouthed, “Watch her!” Then I stepped out of the bus in search of Oliver Jameson to see if I could find out what all the fuss was about. Unfortunately, he’d disappeared, no doubt back to his restaurant across the street. I thought about going after him but didn’t have the energy. What I needed was another sugar boost to help my job-loss morale, so I wandered over to the Dream Puff truck for another medicinal cream puff, this time cappuccino cream.

Jake Miller, the Dream Puff Guy, as I called him, was just about as delicious-looking as his cream puffs. I couldn’t help but notice him when he stepped out of the truck to refill the napkin dispenser or the sprinkle shakers in his formfitting blue jeans and muscle-hugging white T-shirt. I’d heard from my aunt that he’d once been a successful attorney, but for some reason he’d given up the Italian suits and lawsuits to whip up heaven in a puff pastry. Luckily for me.

Unfortunately, I’d gained five pounds just trying to get to know him.

When I reached the window, I saw the small sign: BE BACK IN 5 MINUTES. Bummer. The cream puff—and eye candy—would have to wait.

Glancing around at the circle of wagons, including the latest ones that had set up temporary shop—the India Jones truck (Masala Nachos), the Conehead truck (Garlic Ice Cream), the Humpty Dumpling truck (Great Balls of Fire!)—I suddenly realized an idea was staring me in the mouth. Now that I’d been laid off, I could write that cookbook I’d always wanted to pen.

Granted, I wasn’t much of a cook, but I was a total foodie and had tasted thousands of gourmet meals and written hundreds of restaurant reviews for the paper. As a reporter, I knew a hot trend when I saw one. Nothing was hotter than the food truck/food festival phenom currently sweeping the country. All I had to do was go to a bunch of food festivals, interview the food truck chefs, gather some recipes, and type them up in a breezy style, and I’d find myself on one of those cooking shows hawking my bestselling book!

I saw only one stumbling block. How was I supposed to support myself until the book royalties poured in? Not even a dreamy cream puff could fix that.

“Darcy!” Aunt Abby called from the service window of her bus.

I headed over, hoping to substitute one of Aunt Abby’s freshly baked chocolate-pecan-caramel bars—aka Bus Driver Brownies—for the cream puff. But as soon as I stepped inside, she handed me an order.

“Dillon had to go do something, and I need a BLT, stat,” she commanded, meaning I was to make one of her most popular menu items right this minute! In spite of my lack of culinary skills, I figured I could manage a sandwich assembly. Heck, I could even do a microwave reheat in an emergency. But that was about it.

“He left you during lunch rush?” I asked as I dutifully washed my hands, then slipped on a fresh cafeteria-lady apron. I struggled with the fancy double fold, gave up, and simply tied it around my waist. “What was so important he had to run off?”

Aunt Abby shrugged and tossed me a bag of multigrain bread. “He said it was something urgent. I swear, that boy will be the death of me. Good thing I caught you on your lunch hour. When do you have to get back to the paper?”

“I’m in no hurry,” I said, not ready to tell her the truth. But the fact that Dillon had just left her on her own really bothered me. Ever since he’d dropped out of college to “find himself,” he’d been living at home and working part-time at his mother’s food truck. When he wasn’t at the truck, he was holed up in his bedroom, playing on his computers. It seemed as if sudden disappearances were becoming typical of the boomerang computer whiz. What could be so important that he had to leave in the middle of the lunch rush? An urgent update on his Facebook page? A lifesaving tweet? I almost said something snarky but stopped myself. After all, he was Aunt Abby’s son—my cousin—and if it weren’t for my aunt, I’d probably be homeless.

I opened the bread package and removed two soft slices; they smelled both sweet and savory. As I assembled the sandwich—thick, apple-smoked bacon, vine-ripened tomato slices, leafy green lettuce, ripe avocado, and aioli spread on multigrain bread—I half listened to my aunt complain about the war between the food truckers and the brick-and-mortar chefs. She’d had more than one run-in with Oliver Jameson, as had several other truckers at Fort Mason. But in the past year, Aunt Abby had also butted heads with the health department, the chamber of commerce, and what she called the “parking enforcement goons.” My aunt wasn’t the easiest person to get along with, but I admired her sassy attitude and endless energy. I think it’s what kept her going after her husband, Edward, died last year.

As long as I didn’t have to work with her for longer than a few hours. Then I’d be a nut case.

I wrapped the sandwich in butcher paper and handed it to my aunt. She shot me a look, rewrapped it, then called a name out the window and passed the sandwich to a guy talking on his cell phone. “Here,” she said, handing me three more orders. “You make them; I’ll wrap them.”

Two hours later the line finally thinned out. “Thanks for your help,” Aunt Abby said. “I don’t know where Dillon’s got to, but you saved me.” She glanced at her Minnie Mouse watch. “Uh-oh. I hope I didn’t make you late for work. You’d better get back to the newspaper before you lose your job.”

I started to tell her what had happened—that I was now on a permanent “lunch break” from the paper—but I decided to wait until a more convenient time. Like never.

I sighed. “Okay, well, I guess I’ll see you at home.”

Aunt Abby frowned at me suspiciously, as if I’d just eaten all of her prized brownies. “Everything all right?” she asked, her pencil-thin eyebrow arched in question.

I nodded and stepped out of the bus. Okay, so I’d explain everything tonight, after I’d had a glass of wine. Or two. I knew I’d feel better after eating the chocolatey brownie I’d just tucked into my purse. Free food was one of the perks of being related to Aunt Abby. Through the open window of the bus, I heard her break into a rousing rendition of Disneyland’s “It’s a Small World.” The earworm would no doubt haunt me the rest of the day.

•   •   •

I stopped by the Coffee Witch and grabbed a Love Potion Number 9—a latte made with a melted 3 Musketeers bar—then enjoyed my sugary treats as I drove “home”: that being my aunt’s thirty-five-foot Airstream currently parked in the side yard of her Russian Hill home. It was the perfect location, close to the Marina District, Ghirardelli Square, and Fisherman’s Wharf. In desperate need of shelter after my breakup with Tool-Head Trevor, a reporter at the Chron, I’d moved into her rig “temporarily.” That was six months ago. Now, with no more money coming in, my plans to eventually move out would have to be put on hold.

My widowed aunt had lived in her small Victorian home for most of her adult life, ever since she’d inherited it from her parents. Today the house would be worth a fortune, but she had no intention of selling it. Although she was my mother’s sister, I’d hardly known her when I’d asked to rent the RV. She was considered the black sheep of the family, but no one had ever told me why. As I’d gotten to know her better, I found her charming, clever, and creative—and so different from my discerning mother and hippie father. My parents had divorced soon after I went away to the University of Oregon to study journalism, claiming they each wanted “new beginnings.” My dad moved to New Mexico to live in the desert and smoke dope, while my mom headed for New York in pursuit of culture and romance.

And Aunt Abby was supposed to be the crazy one?

I parked my recently purchased convertible VW Bug in her driveway and headed around to the side yard, where she kept the Airstream. A Disneyana fanatic, Aunt Abby had decorated the interior of the rig with friends of Walt. I wiped my feet on the Grumpy doormat, checked the Cheshire Cat clock on the wall inside, and dropped my purse on the sofa bed, which was covered with a Minnie Mouse throw.

Still depressed from the job news, I changed out of my black slacks and red blouse into khaki pants and an ironic “Life Is Good” T-shirt and lay down on the Tinker Bell comforter in the bedroom for a quick nap. As I dozed off, I hoped to dream up some ideas for extra cash until my fab book deal came through. With pending unemployment benefits meager and short-lived—and car payments coming due—I had a feeling food truck leftovers would be my staple for the next few months.

•   •   •

The theme song from “It’s a Small World” woke me from my nightmare—something about eating a poisoned apple. Probably heartburn from overdosing on sweets and coffees. I knew the call was from Aunt Abby. Dillon had programmed personalized ringtones to alert me to some of my callers’ identities. That way I could ignore my ex-boyfriend, who hadn’t given up on getting back together. His tune was appropriately “Creep” by Radiohead. I fumbled for the phone, saw Aunt Abby’s dimpled, smiling face on the small screen, and answered the call.

“Come in the house,” she commanded. “I want you to taste something.”

I checked the Cheshire Cat clock on the wall: four p.m. I’d slept for more than two hours! Craving another brownie, I fluffed my bed hair, then stepped out of the Airstream and walked across the patio to the back of the house. I entered the dining area through the sliding glass door and called out to her.

“I’m in the kitchen,” she yelled back. Passing through her cozy family room, I headed for her favorite place in the house and found her busily rolling small balls of dough in her hands. Basil, Aunt Abby’s long-haired Doxie, wagged her tail at my aunt’s Crocs-covered feet, no doubt hoping for a dropped morsel.

“I saw your car. You got off work early?” Aunt Abby asked. She’d changed out of her cafeteria-lady apron, khaki pants, and white T-shirt into a pink athletic suit that clashed with her curly red hair but matched her pink lipstick perfectly. The ensemble was covered by a “Cereal Killer”–emblazoned apron.

I nodded and glanced around for something to eat.

“Everything all right?” As a former cafeteria worker—she preferred the term “food service chef,” never “lunch lady”—she often bragged she could make sloppy joes for five hundred. Only problem was, she had trouble cooking for fewer than that. At the moment, it looked like she was preparing enough dough balls to feed the San Francisco Giants and all of their fans. I leaned over and inhaled a whiff of her current experiment.

“What is that—a cheesy cake pop?” I asked. I spotted a rigid foam block filled with round balls held aloft by lollipop sticks. Before she could stop me, I popped one into my mouth.

It took only one bite to realize this was not the cake pop I’d been expecting.

“Blech!” I said, spitting the contents of my mouth into the sink. “What was that?”

“A Crab Pop,” she said, grinning at my reaction. “My specialty for tomorrow’s festival. They’re tiny cheese biscuits filled with crab and dipped in white cheddar cheese.”

“Good grief!” I fanned my mouth as if it were on fire. “I need an antidote!”

“For goodness’ sakes, Darcy, it’s not that bad. I thought you liked crab.”

“I do, but not as a surprise when I’m expecting something sweet!”

“Have a brownie. They’re over there.” She nodded toward a foil-covered plate on the counter.

I picked up a square and stuffed it in my mouth as if it were chocolate crack. “That’s more like it,” I said as soon as I’d swallowed the delicious, chewy mass.

“So, now, tell me,” Aunt Abby said as she continued inserting lollipop sticks into the newly formed balls. I tried not to watch. “Why were you home early? Rough day of restaurant reviews?”

I decided to get it over with and tell her the truth. “You could say that. The Chron laid me off today. I’ve been reduced to a stringer.” Another wave of anxiety swept over me as the reality of the statement set in.

Aunt Abby stopped what she was doing and looked at me sympathetically. “Oh, Darcy. I’m so sorry.” An instant later she perked up again. “But you know what they say: ‘When your soufflé falls, turn it into a pancake.’”

My aunt was full of these crazy food sayings. Maybe that was one of the things that had driven my family members crazy.

Without missing a beat, she continued. “So why don’t you come work for me part-time? The food truck business is getting busier every day, what with all the local festivals popping up. There’s practically one every weekend.” She counted them off. “The Ghirardelli Chocolate Festival is right around the corner. Then the Gilroy Garlic Festival, the Santa Cruz Fungus Festival, Isleton’s Spam Festival, Oakdale’s Testicle Festival—there must be over two dozen of these fests every year. And I could really use the help. Especially since Dillon has been leaving me in the lurch so often. I’ll definitely need you tomorrow at the Crab and Seafood Festival. They’re expecting a hundred thousand hungry people at the two-day event.”

“As long as you’re not serving any oysters,” I said.

“Oysters are actually good for you,” Aunt Abby said, shaking her head at my resistance to all things mollusk related. “They’re full of zinc, iron, calcium, vitamins. They boost your energy. And your sex drive.” She raised an eyebrow at me.

That’s all I needed, a boost to my sex drive, after being boyfriendless for months.

“Just the thought of eating something that slimy is disgusting.”

“You don’t have to eat them raw,” Aunt Abby said, shaking her head. “You can eat them smoked, boiled, baked, fried, steamed, or stewed.”

“No, thanks. I will not eat them baked or fried. I will not eat them stewed or dried. I do not like oysters or clams. I do not like them, Sam-I-Am.”

“Chicken,” my aunt said.

“I’ll eat chicken,” I replied, “but I refuse to swallow anything from the mollusk family. Besides, I heard oysters can contain bacteria.” I pulled out my cell phone and asked Siri to call up “death by oysters,” then read aloud an excerpt from the site. “‘In the past two years, thirty-six people have died after consuming oysters.’”

“You’re talking about Gulf Coast oysters that get warm and spoil quickly,” Aunt Abby said. “We don’t have that problem here in the cold San Francisco Bay. But don’t worry. I’m not making anything with oysters. Just crab.”

“You know I’m not much of a cook, Aunt Abby,” I said. “Besides, I’m planning to write a cookbook using recipes from food trucks and festivals. That should keep me busy for a while.”

Aunt Abby raised that damn questioning eyebrow again. It was her signature look. “Darcy, you just admitted you don’t cook and you’re planning to write a cookbook?”

“I’ll admit the art of cooking eludes me. Eating, on the other hand, is one of my passions.” It was true. I read food magazines and cookbooks as if they were romance novels. “And writing a book filled with popular food festival recipes doesn’t take any culinary talent.”

“Maybe not, but what are you going to do for money until your book is published?”

I slumped down onto a kitchen stool, feeling the lump of chocolate in my stomach turn to raw dough. She was right. I needed money. Now. I shrugged. “Work for you, I guess.”

“Work for who?” rumbled a low voice from behind me.

I turned around to see Aunt Abby’s son, Dillon, looming in the doorway. He towered over his five-foot-two mother. He was dressed in a threadbare “Zombies Ate My Sister” T-shirt and ridiculous Captain America flannel pajama bottoms. His curly dark red hair was in desperate need of a comb and some gel and scissors, and the two-day growth of stubble on his face looked more like an oversight than a fashion statement. He pulled a box of Trix from a cabinet and poured some directly into his mouth, dropping several colorful balls on the tile floor. They were quickly lapped up by Basil, who always acted as if he were starved.

“I asked Darcy to help us out in the food truck,” Aunt Abby said.

“Wait. What?” Dillon said, his open mouth full of fruity colors.

I didn’t relish the idea of working with a slacker like Dillon either, but I didn’t see much choice.

“Well, you keep disappearing,” Aunt Abby said to Dillon. “And with Darcy’s help, maybe we can get ourselves on that TV show The Great Food Truck Race and win fifty thousand dollars.” Her bright eyes twinkled.

Yeah, right.

“Seriously,” she continued, after seeing my disbelieving reaction. “My business is booming, thanks to all the work Dillon has done promoting us on Twitter and Facebook and those other sites. Right, son?”

“Yeah, but—” Dillon began, but before he could finish, the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” Dillon said; then he lumbered out of the kitchen for the front door, still holding the cereal box.

Seconds later, he yelled out, “Mooooom!”

“I’m coming!” she yelled back. “That boy. Can’t he even sign for a delivery?” She wiped her hands on a towel, untied her apron, primped her curly hair, checked her lipstick in the microwave oven reflection, and headed for the door.

Moments later Aunt Abby returned to the kitchen. Her Betty Boop smile drooped, the color had left her Kewpie-doll face, and even her pink lipstick seemed to have faded. Dillon appeared behind her, frowning.

“Aunt Abby?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”

“That was the police,” Aunt Abby said, sounding dazed and staring at her clasped hands.

“The police?” I repeated. “What did they want?”

She shook her head. “I’m not sure. They want me to come down to the station with them.”

I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “Why?”

Aunt Abby looked up at me but her eyes were unfocused. “Oliver Jameson is dead.”

Chapter 2

“What?!” I blurted when I heard the news.

Aunt Abby shook her head woefully, her perky curls barely bouncing. “I don’t know why they want to talk to me, but there are two cops waiting outside to take me to the station.”

I flashed back tp the scene I’d witnessed earlier—and the knife my aunt had been wielding in her hand.

Uh-oh.

“Mom?” Dillon said, staring at his mother.

Aunt Abby shifted her glance out the kitchen window. “Oh, I . . . may have said something to Oliver Jameson that could be taken as a threat.”

“Like what?” Dillon asked, his mouth hanging open.

She shook her head. “I don’t know. Something about a knife . . .”

She’d been so furious with the chef from Bones ’n’ Brew that she’d actually threatened him with that ginormous kitchen knife.

“Mo-om!” Dillon whined, his face looking whiter than his usual indoor pallor. “A knife? Seriously? You didn’t hurt him . . . did you?”

“Of course she didn’t!” I answered for her.

Another impatient rap at the door interrupted me from defending her further.

Aunt Abby shook her head. “I told the two officers to give me a few minutes so I could change clothes. I can’t wear this loungewear to the police station. And my hair’s a mess. I need to freshen up.”

I could tell she was trying to keep her tone light, but her voice cracked, giving away the stress that lay beneath the surface.

“I’ll need my purse . . . and a sweater . . . maybe a bottle of water . . . and a snack. . . .”

My aunt was rambling. She was probably in shock. I wrapped an arm around her.

“Don’t worry, Aunt Abby. Dillon and I will go with you.”

“Darcy, they’re not going to let us ride in the cop car with her,” Dillon said, the voice of doom.

“We’ll take my car and follow her,” I said, then asked Aunt Abby, “Did the police say when Jameson was killed?” I wondered if she had an alibi for the murder. Hopefully she was in her School Bus serving comfort food to the city’s starving citizens.

“I don’t know. . . . He must have been killed sometime after I . . .” She hesitated.