“I didn’t think of it that way,” Miguel murmured as we got off on our floor. “Maybe he’s right. It is part of a TV show.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think they’d pretend to kill people. Maybe they’d take Dante’s food truck and hack up our power cords. That’s possible. They might have wanted to see how resourceful we are. I think pretending someone was murdered would be too far, even for reality TV.”

I knocked on Uncle Saul’s door. He opened it with a towel wrapped around his arm. “That beast is a menace, Zoe. I don’t know why you keep him.”

I noticed he was covered in soap and water and nursing two long scratches on his arm. “I thought you weren’t going to try and wash him.”

“I wasn’t until I saw what a mess he was. I was afraid he’d get pizza sauce all over the furniture. Next time he can clean himself.”

I apologized to my uncle and went downstairs to get bandages and antibiotic ointment for his scratches. I was lucky that the desk clerk had a first-aid kit.

Miguel had headed on to his room while I was gone. He had to pay for a separate room—he didn’t want to stay in the room with Ollie and Uncle Saul. No doubt he was in need of a shower and clean clothes as well.

“I’m so sorry this happened.” I dressed Uncle Saul’s arm. “He doesn’t like baths. He knows better than to scratch me, but that’s as far as it goes.”

“Why don’t you get a cute little puppy?” he suggested. “Even my alligator isn’t as much trouble as that cat.”

“He isn’t all bad.” I picked up Crème Brûlée. He rolled around in my arms and play-slapped at me with his paws. “Anyway, it’s too late. I love him. I think he loves me. It’s hard to tell. Get some rest. They’ll probably make an announcement about the race at dinner, like they usually do.”

“You think the race will go on?”

“I don’t know. I guess we’ll find out.”

SIXTEEN

I managed to get Crème Brûlée cleaned up and fed in my hotel room and then took a shower and changed clothes before going down for the race dinner.

Dinner at the hotel was a somber affair. Most of the food truck drivers and their team members wore black—even if it was only black shorts and a black tank top.

Sponsors, and the food network show, had already chosen a replacement for Alex. His name was Patrick Ferris. I’d seen him before. He was Alex’s second-in-command. He looked surprisingly like Alex, blond good looks and all. He sounded a lot like him, too.

“This has been a dark day for all of us involved in the Sweet Magnolia Food Truck Race.” Patrick’s eyes were glued on a teleprompter. “The loss of our comrade, Alex Pardini, is a terrible blow to all of us.”

Bobbie Shields snorted loudly. Patrick glared at her, cleared his throat, and continued.

“As I was saying, it’s terrible to even contemplate going on with the race, but we all know that’s what Alex would’ve wanted.”

Patrick sounded all choked up and even wiped a tear from his eye. There were a few snickers from the audience but also a few sobs.

Dante Eldridge abruptly stood up. “What am I supposed to do without a food truck? I want to know what happened to my truck. If you all took it to make the show more popular, I want to know.”

“That’s right.” Patrick acknowledged him. “Another of our companions has had his livelihood brutally ripped away from him. Unlike problems we faced in the past, there are no quick cures for Dante’s truck being hijacked.”

“My fist is gonna cure your face if I don’t get my food truck back.” Dante surged past the other tables to the front stage.

Two security men came out of nowhere to stop him. When he saw they each wore a gun, he went back to his table.

“This is getting really interesting now.” Ollie was excited as he rubbed his large hands together.

“Seriously?” Delia said. “Guns and dead people make the race interesting?”

“Like cars crashing makes NASCAR interesting,” he responded.

Delia frowned and shook her head.

“Shh!” Chef Art was eager to hear what was going to happen next.

“We are going to continue the race.” Patrick picked up where he’d left off. “We’ll be going forward with our double challenge tomorrow morning in downtown Hotlanta!”

Despite the loss of Dante’s food truck, and Alex, everyone applauded. Patrick nodded and smiled as did the sponsors of the race who were onstage behind him.

“There we go!” Chef Art grinned. “That’s what I wanted to hear. Too much money invested for everyone to go home without a winner. It would look bad, you know?”

“Was there some question of whether or not it would go on?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “There were one or two sponsors worried about Alex’s death and what folks would think if we pushed on. Most weren’t so wimpy. We started this. We have to finish it.”

As soon as he’d uttered those fateful words, two pretty young women in pretty blue summer dresses brought out the electronic board they’d had in Columbia earlier that day.

“Let’s look at the board as we go forward.”

At Patrick’s signal, the board flashed and lit up. “This morning there were seven food trucks remaining. Please stand up when I call your names. Our Daily Bread. Shut Up and Eat. Chooey’s Sooey. Stick It Here. Grinch’s Ganache. Pizza Papa. And the Biscuit Bowl.”

The owners of those food trucks were standing at their tables. We all looked exhausted and worried.

“We lost one of our trucks to foul play—Dante, please sit down.”

As Patrick said the words, Stick It Here went off the board.

Dante refused to sit down. “You all are crazy. I’m not hanging around waiting for you to make me feel any worse about this. I’m out of here.”

We watched as Dante strode out of the room, and the doors to the big dining room shut behind him.

“Oooh!” Ollie whispered. “The drama.”

“Shh!” I felt like losing Dante was worse than losing Alex. Not to be indelicate, but Dante was one of us. What happened to him could’ve happened to anyone.

The board flashed a few times, and the pretty girls smiled brilliantly.

“So here we are now,” Patrick announced. “Six food trucks left in the race. Two seemingly impossible challenges for tomorrow. Are you ready for it?”

“I might be,” Bobbie said. “If you go ahead and tell us what the challenges are.”

Patrick dramatically ripped open a large envelope. “The first challenge for Atlanta is making, presenting, and selling your signature dishes upside down.”

We all looked at one another.

Daryl Barbee was the first to speak. “Are you saying we have to make, present, and sell our food standing on our heads?”

Patrick laughed. “No! You misunderstood me.”

“Then what are you saying, son?” Reverend Jay Jablonski asked from the front table.

“I’m saying the food has to be served upside down.” Patrick glanced behind himself for support from the sponsors. All of them shrugged and looked away. “For instance, upside-down cupcakes, upside-down pizza, and upside-down biscuit bowls. See?”

Everyone nodded. After a few comments, Roy Chow asked about the second challenge.

“You’re gonna love this one.” Patrick smiled, showing his perfect white teeth against his perfectly tanned face. “You have to sell one hundred dollars of upside-down product, and all of the money you collect has to be in change.”

“Change?” Antonio asked.

“That’s right. Dimes, quarters, nickels, and pennies.”

“What about those gold dollars and fifty-cent pieces?” Reverend Jablonski asked.

Patrick glanced back again. One of the producers nodded.