Chapter Four

Instincts perked, Pruitt eyed her carefully. “You believe you’ve antagonized someone?”

The ice cream vendor crinkled her cute little button nose and sighed. “Maybe my words were too harsh, but location is everything in the food truck business. I’m an early riser so I tend to get here first and park in what everyone considers the prime spot.”

She nodded toward the other end of the boardwalk, anchored by the Ice Goddess shaved ice truck at the far point. “A lot of tourists never make it to the last truck before they make a food choice. I make sure I’m near the parking lot and bathrooms; that way, everyone who comes to the beach travels by my business.”

This was an interesting development. Pruitt had learned to be thorough and chase all leads, no matter how far-fetched. “Whose feathers exactly are ruffled?”

As she climbed back into her truck, Aphrodite followed. “Just about everyone I suppose. Mr. Crabby Cakes, Hal the hot dog guy, the shawarma chicken-on-a-stick woman, the rice bowl couple. I'm guessing Barbie at the Ice Goddess truck wishes she arrived sooner today instead of getting the last-choice spot. Any given day, I’ll get a comment.” She shrugged her shoulders. “There are rules of engagement for food trucks though. First come, first served. The others can set an alarm clock to get here earlier if location is that important to them.”

He studied her set jaw and serious mien. This was a determined businesswoman, willing to fight off the competition to earn a living. Had she goaded a rival into a brutal act? But if that was the case, why would another food truck vendor target Mick and not Rosella?

Her eyes lost their serious look and were now twinkling at him. “You look very somber, Detective.”

“I was just wondering…”

“…whether someone would kill for a parking spot? That’s a little improbable, don’t you think?” She began refilling toppings—cocoa nibs, crushed nuts, fresh fruit.

Most people had no idea the petty reasons that incited murder. The prisons were full of felons who made rash decisions based on momentary anger and faulty reasoning.

“We had a case last year where best friends came to blows over a last slice of pizza. Ended up in murder. Then there was the road-rage incident over a fellow on his phone, and another where a customer didn’t say thank you to a waitress having a really bad day. When it comes to human behavior, I believe anything’s possible. And…”

Her gaze was on his face and for a moment he enjoyed the warmth of her attention. Those beautiful sea-glass eyes focused only on him was intoxicating.

“And?” she prompted.

“I’m a little worried about you, angering the entire food truck line-up.” He glanced down the boardwalk at the other rolling businesses. It would take just one unhinged, petty personality to take the leap into murder.

“This is about Mick, though. Not me.” She grabbed a towel and scrubbed at a sticky stain on the counter. “Any more ideas about Mickey Mouse?”

He felt she was making fun of him, which smarted a bit. The truth was, however, that theory hadn’t panned out. Sometimes he was too smart for his own good. “I ran his name through our system. Mick E. Rodente, that was his real given name. Nothing more on him other than three unpaid parking tickets. No family. Apparently he was an inventor with lots of patents. Only one was successful—a type of bendy straw that a number of big fast food restaurants bought.”

“Hmmm.”

“Was that a comment?”

A whisper of a smile edged her full lips. “I was just humming a tune.”

He chuckled, not sure why, even though he wasn’t often prone to laughing at his own mistakes.

“Oh, how could I almost forget,” she gasped, and ducked behind the counter. A split second later, her head popped back up. “I was thinking about you last night and couldn’t get to sleep.”

Warmth flooded low in his belly and the saliva in his mouth dried up. Truth be told, he’d been thinking about her the night before, too.

“I have something special for you,” she added, her hands busy behind the counter. A moment later, she flourished an ice cream cone at him. “Lactose-free lemongrass toffee coffee.”

“You made this, special, for me?” He accepted the cone; it had been years since he’d had ice cream, though he wasn’t sure about the lemongrass. Her gaze was on him as he touched his tongue to the ice cream scoop.

The icy confection slid over his tongue, the flavors merging in a strange and wonderful manner. A lactose-free ice cream created just for him. There was no denying there was something very special about this woman. “This is delicious. How do you do it, figure out what works together?” He licked at the cone and then took a bite to take more of it in his mouth.

“Second nature now.” Her pink tongue showed between her even, white teeth as she considered. “I suppose culinary school opened my eyes, and sharpened my palate. Mainly, I try not to be prejudicial when it comes to sweet and savory. Food doesn’t always have to be either-or. There’s a middle ground, and that’s where my flavors triumph.”

Head held high, curly auburn hair waving in the breeze, her beauty and confidence left him dumbstruck for a moment. He wanted to ask if there was someone special in her life, but he was behaving like a teenaged boy on a date. He had a job to do.

“Thank you for the ice cream, and thinking of me,” he said, after he swallowed the last of the cone. “Now I’d like to speak to your rivals down the beach.”

****

“How would I have seen or heard anything?” The Crabby Cakes man, Roald, practically took Pruitt’s head off with the first question. “I was running late that day, busy opening my truck to get ready for customers. Terrible day for business as it turned out. Not many tourists want to hang around a place where a murder took place.” He lowered his eyebrows and stared pointedly at Pruitt. “Or where a killer is on the loose.”

Pruitt shook his head as he jotted notes on his pad. “We will bring the guilty party to justice, don’t you worry. We’re doing everything we can.”

“Like eating ice cream?” Roald stared pointedly at the stain left by a dollop of ice cream and smirked. “I thought doughnuts were more to your taste.”

He ignored the jibe; he’d heard it often enough. “Nothing out of the usual on the boardwalk that morning, when you first arrived?”

“Like I said, I was one of the last to get here, hence my poor location. I have kids at home to get ready for school. I’m a single father, just trying to get by. Ever fed three kids breakfast, when one won’t eat eggs, another only eats white bread and peanut butter, and the little one dumps everything on the floor? I love my kids but I have to make a living, too.”

“And the kids’ mother?”

“Dead. Last year. Cancer. Not that that’s any of your business.” Roald’s jaw tightened and he blinked rapidly. “Anything else you need, Detective?”

“No, I think you’ve answered everything.” He snapped the notepad closed, now noting the crayon pictures hung inside the food truck. “But if you recall anything at all, let me know.”

The Crabby Cakes vendor turned his back and the clatter of pans rose above the roar of waves. Pruitt edged away from the truck and the visceral sadness within. A single father grieving a dead wife would be unlikely to commit murder, in his opinion. Even with financial pressures and the annoyance of a less-than-optimal parking spot, a man would not risk prison and losing his children over such a trivial grievance. A man like Roald would shroud his private wounds under a grouchy countenance. But surely all bark, no bite. Pruitt eyed the next stand, Bowl Me Over, which featured stir-fried vegetables over rice.

“Good day,” he greeted the plump woman within.

“Detective Pruitt.” The woman’s tone was brusque. “We haven’t met but my husband, Rick, and I wondered when you’d stop by. Your police friends were terribly rude the other day and we’d like to file a complaint. Not to mention, they chased our business away.”

“I’m sorry to hear you didn’t have a pleasant experience. They are hard-working officers and had to deal with an ugly situation, as you know.”

“There’s never a good excuse for being rude.” She raised her eyebrows. “I’m Mims, by the way. I’m assuming you’ve caught the murderer or are close to an arrest. The mayor stopped by earlier and said ‘persons of interest’ were being interviewed.” Her eyebrows rose even higher. “I certainly hope we’re not considered those ‘persons’.”

“No, ma’am. I hope you might help with the investigation. Did you see anything unusual around opening time yesterday? Anything at all.”

“The ice cream gal had a dog tied up at her food truck. That was unusual. I didn’t know she had a dog. But she didn’t kill him. After all, the two of them were partners in crime.”

A pit opened up in Pruitt’s stomach. Partners in crime. It wasn’t possible Rosella was involved in criminal activity. “What do you mean by that?”

A rotund man appeared next to the woman inside the truck, a huge carving knife in one hand and a stalk of broccoli in the other. “That strange man set out big orange traffic cones to save the parking spot for the ice cream truck,” said the man, apparently Mims’ husband, Rick. “I saw it with my own eyes. We arrived early that day to secure a good place, but there was that man, blocking the way. It’s one thing to get here at the crack of dawn with your truck, but it’s another to send a friend ahead.” He waved the knife. “Saving spots is against the food truck code.”

Pruitt’s gaze followed the flashing blade which appeared wickedly outsized for dicing vegetables. The murder weapon hadn’t been found, but it was likely most of the food trucks would contain razor-sharp knives. Was the murder weapon being used at this very moment to prep tourist fare? Statistics whizzed through his mind: ninety percent of murders were perpetrated by men; women were as prone to use a knife as a man in a murder.

He glanced between Rick and Mims. “You’re saying the dead man saved a parking spot for the ice cream truck. Did he do that often?”

“Twice,” the woman said.

“No, at least three or four times,” the knife-wielding man corrected her. “Roald said it happened last week, and Hot Dog Hal saw it the week before.” He puffed up his chest. “We all witnessed it.”

“Nia at Steak Sandwich Ahoy would have gotten the spot on Friday if the cones weren’t there,” the woman added. “Nia was far from pleased to discover that ridiculous man saved the site for little miss ice cream. Not fair play at all.”

Pruitt’s instincts went on high alert. Rosella and Mick had riled the food vendors more than she comprehended. Now he was certain one of the vendors had killed Mick E. Rodente. There was motive. With all these food trucks, there were plenty of possible stabbing weapons near at hand, sharpened and primed for a crime of passion. And there had been plenty of opportunity that quiet morning before a steady pulse of tourists and beachcombers hit the seaside district.

At the vibration of his cell phone, Pruitt turned to walk away, fishing it out of his pocket. “Pruitt here.”

His sergeant’s voice rumbled through the line. “Detective, we need you back for the afternoon briefing. The chief wants a report on the boardwalk murder. He’d prefer it was wrapped up, stat. I sincerely hope you have news to share.”

“Um, I have a theory.”

“Theories don’t go to prison. Murderers do. The chief wants to make an announcement by the end of the week, when the town council meets. Understand, Detective?”

Politics. “Yes, sir, I understand completely. I’ll be in shortly.”

A bead of perspiration trickled down his brow and he swiped it away. The long row of food trucks stretched down the beach, a potpourri of scents merging on the sea air. French fries, curry, hot dogs, crab cakes, chicken shawarma, barbecued steak. A buzz of conversation and laughter drifted along the walkway, and in the background, always, was the roar of the surf. For most, this was a delightful setting for a day filled with tasty food, welcoming rays of sun and gorgeous scenery.

For Pruitt, danger lurked. Somewhere inside one of these trucks hid a cold-hearted killer and he needed to rout the perpetrator out quickly. Other lives—and his career—depended on it.