He looked up and around the small interior. “Where’s Delia?”

“She’s getting herself together. She might be down already.”

We were getting in the Biscuit Bowl and Miguel’s car when Delia came running from the elevator with a police officer by her side.

“Were you all about to leave me?” she asked breathlessly.

“Of course not! Get in. Let’s go!”

“Okay! See you there.”

I started the food truck. The engine kind of clunked. It was running. That was all that mattered. Ollie had made sure everything was tied down in back before he’d left with Delia and Miguel. We were off!

We drove through the not-so-quiet streets of Atlanta toward the heart of downtown. There was actually traffic out at that time of morning. The orange glow of streetlights directed us, and we followed the other food truck drivers.

“I hope our potential customers have a lot of change in their pockets,” I muttered.

“As to that,” Uncle Saul started with a chuckle, “I had an idea.”

He went on to explain that his friend who’d brought the fryer from home was also a vending machine operator. “He had a bagful of change, Zoe. I bought it off him with the rest of the twenty-five hundred you gave me for the deep fryer. I was thinking that we could make change for people who don’t have it.”

I was amazed at the sneaky idea. “I wonder if that will be okay?”

“I already checked with Chef Art. He said there weren’t any rules pertaining to it. I think we got his blessing.”

“You have a devious mind.”

“Thank you. I needed one growing up in the Chase family. All those rules and regulations weren’t for me. Your father liked rules, I think. He still does.”

I laughed at that. He was right. My mother was the same way. That’s why Uncle Saul and I got along so well. That and the curly hair.

I saw the big white lights illuminating the area where the food truck event would take place. One of the assistants told us where to park and pointed out the cool-down tent and stage.

Miguel was right behind us as I pulled the Biscuit Bowl into the parking place designated for it. The space was a little tight, which made me a lot nervous, but I got it in.

We hopped out of the front of the food truck to begin setting up for the day. I waved to Miguel. Ollie, Delia, and I went around back to open the door.

I didn’t see where they came from. It was like one minute, it was all food truck vendors, and the next, Detectives Helms and Marsh were there with what looked like an army of Atlanta’s finest.

As Miguel reached us, the detectives stepped forward.

“Miguel Alexander, we need you to come with us.”

EIGHTEEN

“What’s this about?” Miguel asked.

“We’d like to have a talk with you,” Helms said. “The Atlanta PD has been gracious enough to allow us to continue to pursue our suspects from Charlotte and Columbia. They’re also letting us question you.”

“What are you questioning me about?” He seemed completely at ease.

I wondered if he had a lawyer he called when he needed help.

“We want to discuss the deaths of Reggie Johnson, Detective McSwain, and Alex Pardini. Will you come with us, please?”

Helms’s stern gaze said she was ready for a fight. She also looked like she hadn’t slept. Had she managed to get information from Tina about Miguel?

“Am I under arrest?” Miguel asked.

“No. Not at this time. You’re a person of interest in our investigation,” Marsh snarled. “It would be to your advantage to come with us and answer our questions.”

Miguel’s gaze searched for mine. “I might be gone for a while, Zoe. You should have everything you need.” He gave me his car keys. “If you need the car, take it. I’ll see you later.”

Marsh and Helms walked at the front of the pack. Two officers escorted Miguel until they reached the large group of police cars at the back of the food truck area. I couldn’t see him after they’d reached all the flashing blue lights.

“What’s up with that?” Ollie asked. “What do they want with Miguel?”

“They think he had something to do with what happened to those people.” Uncle Saul shook his head. “Any ideas why, Zoe?”

I glanced at my watch. As much as I wanted to go with Miguel, I knew I wouldn’t be able to help him—at least not then. I pocketed his keys and hoped for the best.

“We’ll have to talk about it while we work if we want to stay in the race,” I reminded them. “These upside-down biscuit bowls aren’t going to make themselves.”

– – – – – – –

I brought my team up to speed on what was happening with Miguel as we made biscuits, chicken salad with pistachios, and fresh strawberry filling.

Space was definitely at a premium in the kitchen area of the Biscuit Bowl. We had to make do with what we had, and walk all over one another’s feet to do it.

Uncle Saul chopped up the ingredients for the chicken salad. It was his recipe. He had Delia helping him, making sure the chicken was cut up into tiny shreds. I made the biscuit dough, and Ollie baked tray after tray of biscuits in the tiny oven. I worked on the strawberry filling between trays of biscuits.

“This was bound to be about a woman,” Ollie quoted with deep insight and a wicked grin at Delia.

“I don’t think Miguel is involved with this woman other than being friends.” Delia smiled, reassuring me with her gaze as she said it.

“That doesn’t mean she can’t mess him up anyway,” Uncle Saul said. “I don’t like it. I can tell you that. Here we are, away from home. Who’s gonna help him out of this scrape?”

There was a knock on the back door. It was one of the producer’s assistants telling us that we needed to go to the stage.

Except for frying up the biscuit bowls, we were ready.

Chef Art joined us, taking my arm as we walked across the street to see what was going on. “What’s this I hear about the police arresting Miguel?”

“Not arresting,” I replied tersely. “They’re only questioning him.”

“Still,” he mused, “it won’t look good for something like this to get around.”

“He’s not guilty of doing anything wrong—except maybe trusting an old friend he shouldn’t have trusted.”

He patted my hand as he drew it through the crook of his arm. He smelled like lilac water and bacon. “All I’m saying is that appearances are everything. The media hasn’t said anything about this yet. They’re still too busy talking about the murders, and asking if there’s a curse on the food truck race.”

I laughed as we approached the stage, where Patrick Ferris was getting his hair and sound checked. “Well, there you go. I think our reputation is safe.”

“Unless you win the race, Zoe. Then they’ll come down on you like a ton of bricks for having a killer on your team.”

I stepped away from him and stared hard at his friendly, famous face. “I’m not abandoning Miguel. I also have a homeless man, a waitress, and a man who lives with alligators in the swamp on my team. There will always be something if you want to find it.”

He shrugged and peered up at the stage as he leaned on his cane.

“Do you want to withdraw your sponsorship?” I asked.

“No.” He glanced back at me. “I still think you can win this. What happens to Miguel won’t hurt me. It could make or break what happens for you from all of this. Will you be famous, or infamous?”

Our conversation was cut off by Patrick finally finishing his sound check. The cameras were on, and the producers’ assistants urged all of us to applaud and cheer.

“Good morning, foodies!” Patrick’s welcome was as bright and cheerful as if we weren’t all standing in the middle of a dark street while most people were asleep. “Welcome to Hotlanta, and our third day of the Sweet Magnolia Food Truck Race. Just to remind everyone of our standings, can we have the big board out here?”