Death At The Diner (A Moose River Mystery Book 7) Page 9

  “That's exactly right,” he said, nodding. “Exactly right. So when it first started happening about six months ago, I just mentioned it to him in passing. That we couldn't have the vehicle sitting there for extended periods of time. A few minutes? No problem with that. We can all live with that. But thirty minutes? An hour?” He shook his head. “That's a problem.”

  That made perfect sense, and sounded fair. “Number one, you don’t want to block the fire lane. And number two, you don't want other people to start seeing that and assume that it's okay to park there, too.”

  He nodded vigorously. “Yes, again, that's exactly it. It's two-fold. And it's not like I just started writing him citations. I mentioned it the first time. Then when I saw it parked there one day for about half an hour, I went in and reminded him. I told him that if it was going to be there that long, I'd have to cite him. He assured me it wouldn't happen again, that he'd find another place to park and move the food into the restaurant.” He frowned. “Two days later, it was there for almost forty-five minutes. I didn't have a choice.”

  “And I take it he didn't like it?”

  “He did not,” Ted said. He rested the half-full water bottle on his belly and sighed. “I went into the restaurant to find him and to tell him I was going to ticket him. He told me it would just be a few more minutes, and I told him that I'd already discussed it with him twice and given the length of time it had been there that day, I didn't have a choice.” He shrugged. “So I gave him the ticket. He was...not happy.”

  “So he's been mad about the one ticket?” I asked.

  Ted shook his head. “No. That time, he was just angry that I wrote him one, despite my explaining why I gave it to him. I did my best not to give him one, but he gave me no choice.” He shook his head again, his shoulders drooping and his expression looking almost regretful. “No, I think he's just as mad about the six I've given him since.”

  “Six?” I asked, a little disbelieving.

  Ted nodded. “Six more. Total of seven. The week after that first ticket, I was coming back from breakfast and his truck was parked there again. I didn't just write him the ticket. I went in and asked him to move it. He said he would when he was done. I told him he needed to do it right then. He got unbelievably angry with me, but went out and moved it. So I came back here. About fifteen minutes later, I got a call and had to leave.” He paused. “The truck was back in the fire lane. I called in another officer to take the call I was headed to, got out, and issued him another citation.” He sighed. “We've been averaging one every couple of weeks now.”

  “Wow,” I said, when he was done. “But why? Why would he keep doing it after you gave him so many chances?”

  “I honestly don't know,” he said. “He has a loading dock in the back. He told me it was difficult to get to, which is probably true. The alley is narrow and with the dumpster back there and the parking spaces that run parallel, it can be a tight squeeze, especially if you’ve got a truck you’re trying to pull through. And like I told you at the beginning, if it was just for a few minutes, I'd be willing to let it slide. That’s where Brad has to park when he makes his deliveries down there and we don’t make a fuss. But it can't sit there, and that's what Bjorn has insisted on doing. The last one I gave him was last week and I nearly had to arrest him.”

  “Why? Because of so many tickets?” I made a mental note to read up on the penal code. Perhaps there was a maximum allowed before being cited for a misdemeanor.

  “No, because he was threatening me,” Ted said. “I'd written him a citation and he came out of the restaurant, screaming at me. I asked him to calm down and he would not. I was about to put him in cuffs before one of the dishwashers came out and took him back inside.” He took a deep breath. “So when Elsa said that's where she wanted to have dinner, I was a little nervous about it. I didn't want to cause a scene.”

  I didn’t blame him. If I’d had multiple confrontations with the owner of any business while doing my professional duties, the last thing I’d want to do was visit them as a patron.

  “We went, though. I…I didn’t want to upset Elsa and that’s where she suggested we go. If he knew I was there, though, he didn't say anything.” Ted rubbed his forehead, closing his eyes as he did so. He looked—and sounded—exhausted. “But he was the person making the food, and if you'd heard how mad he was at me the other day, I don't think it would be all too surprising that I'd think he might've been the one to try and poison me.”

  He was right. Given everything he'd just told me, Bjorn certainly seemed to fit the profile of the prime suspect. He was holding a grudge, and he had the ability to mess with Ted's food. It still seemed like a brazen thing to do, but it was hard to argue with after everything Ted had just revealed.

  “I'm still waiting to hear from the hospital,” Ted said. “To hear exactly what kind of poison it was. That'll probably determine what I end up doing about it.”

  “Do about it?”

  “If I learn that it was something that had no business being in my food?” Ted sat up a little straighter. He tried to look stern, resolved, angry. It wasn’t very effective. “You can bet your bottom dollar that Bjorn Born is going to have some explaining to do.”

  EIGHTEEN

  “Why are we having a date night?” Jake asked. “And why are you driving?”

  I'd finished my work at the station and spent the afternoon with the kids at home. The two younger girls and I weeded the garden and pulled vegetables. Rather, I weeded and they squealed over earthworms and chased butterflies that flitted by.

  Emily spent the day with Andy, and Will was downstairs working on building a new computer. It was a pleasant afternoon after what seemed like a somewhat chaotic previous couple of days. By the time I came in from the garden, I didn't feel like making dinner and I wanted to spend time with Jake, so I ordered the kids a pizza and told him we were going out to dinner when he walked through the door. The kids groused about not being able to go, but they knew we tried to get ourselves out the door at least one night a week. I ordered extra breadsticks with the pizza and that seemed to pacify them. It took Jake fifteen minutes to get himself changed and I was already in the car waiting for him when he came outside.

  “I need a reason?” I asked, glancing at him. “To take you to dinner?”

  “Well, no. But usually there's more planning involved.”

  “I'm working on being more spontaneous.”

  He settled into the passenger seat. “You are professional at being spontaneous. But, seriously. Why are you driving? You never drive.”

  “I was just trying to be...helpful. So we could go as soon as you were ready.”

  He eyed me suspiciously. It seemed like he was always eyeing me suspiciously.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “Um...to dinner,” I said.

  “Where to dinner?”

  “I thought it would be fun to go some place we've never eaten before. Doesn't that sound fun?”

  “Daisy?”

  “Jake?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Why are you so suspicious?”

  “Because you won't answer my questions. And usually when you won't answer my questions, it's because you know that the answers you give me will make me start yelling.”

  “You are very yelly sometimes.” I turned the corner and saw our destination up ahead. “It can be a little obnoxious.”

  “I am not—” he said, then caught himself. He leaned forward in his seat, craning to look ahead. “Are you serious?”

  “About eating? Always. I know how much you love food.”

  “You're taking me to Tiny Papa's Tacos?”

  I smiled at him. “I was dying for something new.”

  “Sure you were,” he grumbled, shaking his head.

  I pulled into the small parking lot. The asphalt looked fresh, as did the bright red paint on the building itself. It was a stand-alone building, immediately adjacent to the service road that looped t
he businesses in a massive strip mall. There were a couple of fast food places on the same stretch, but they were chain restaurants. Tiny Papa’s stood out: not just the bright color of the building itself, but because it was unexpected.

  “You know, if Emily finds out we came here for dinner, she might move out,” Jake said, making no move to unbuckle his seatbelt.

  I glanced at the restaurant. A large sign was mounted out front, a yellow and green one that showed a small cartoon man holding a giant cartoon taco on it. Through the sidewalk to roof window, I could see small tables inside, most of which appeared to be occupied. Apparently other people were curious, too.

  “She doesn't have that much money saved up,” I told Jake, turning the car off. “She's stuck with us.”

  “Why are we here, Daisy?”

  “Because we like tacos,” I said. “And because my friend Ted was poisoned and there's lots of weird stuff going on.”

  “It's Moose River. There's always weird stuff going on,” he pointed out.

  That wasn't inaccurate. There did always seem to be weird stuff going on in Moose River. But there was something about having talked with Ted and his confusion over what had happened that was sticking in my gut. I wasn't sure that having dinner at Tiny Papa's was going to fix that, but I was hoping that, at least for the moment, it might satisfy my own curiosity.

  “Come on,” I said, grabbing my purse. “If you're nice, I'll buy you a beer and a taco.”

  “What if I want two?”

  “I'm sure we can get you two tacos.”

  He finally unbuckled and opened his door. “I meant beers.”

  The inside of Tiny Papa’s was just as cheery as the outside. The interior walls were painted bright yellow and green. A garland made of Mexican flags ringed the walls, and there were posters for a variety of Mexican beers; I didn’t know if this was just to provide décor or if they actually served all of them.

  The set up of Tiny Papa's was a little different. It was part sit-down restaurant, part counter service. The menu was on the wall and customers ordered at the counter, but servers were milling about the dining area, bringing chips and salsa and refilling drinks.

  An overly cheerful teenage girl with a Twins hat on took our order. I asked for the two taco special, and Jake ended up ordering a carne asada burrito and his beer. The girl rang us up, then handed us a plastic number inserted in a metal stand. We found a table by the front window and another teen brought us chips and salsa and our drinks.

  Jake immediately went to work on the chips.

  “These...are good,” he announced, halfway through the basket and his beer. “Like, really good.”

  “I know,” I said. I’d already wolfed down at least a dozen. They were warm and crisp, with just the right amount of salt. The salsa wasn’t too bad, either: not chunky, and not too spicy, either. “I think they might be homemade.”

  “Score one for Tiny Papa.”

  “We are not here to compare,” I told him. But secretly, I was in agreement.

  “Then why are we here again?”

  I gave him a look “Stop asking so many questions.” When he opened his mouth to object I added, “Look, the more time you spend talking, the less chips you’ll get to eat.”

  We both eyed the half-empty basket and reached for one.

  Our food showed up a few minutes later. My two tacos were on an oval plate, complete with rice and beans. Jake's oversized burrito was in the center of his dish, also surrounded by rice and beans. We dug into our food and neither of us said anything for a bit.

  “Holy crap, this is good,” Jake finally whispered. “This is like real Mexican food.”

  “I know,” I whispered back. “I should've gotten a third taco.”

  Jake took another bite of his burrito. “I'll never be able to eat at Big Mama's again,” he said after he swallowed it down.

  My eyes widened. “Don't say that.”

  “You'd say that, too, if you were eating this burrito.”

  “Give me a bite.”

  He held out the burrito and I took a bite. The flavor of the meat combined with the sour cream and cheese exploded in my mouth.

  “Wow,” I said, my mouth still full.

  Jake gave me a triumphant look. “See what I'm saying?”

  “And how is the food tonight, folks?” a voice above us said.

  We both looked up. Arnold Eck was standing next to our table, smiling. He wasn’t exactly towering, considering his small stature, but we were seated and he was not so it did feel a little as if he was looming above us. He wore a tight-fitting golf shirt that showed off his muscles. There was a little logo design on the shirt, and I noticed immediately that it was the same image as the one on the sign out front.

  “It's wonderful,” I said. “Thank you.”

  He started to say something in response, then stopped. Recognition flashed through his eyes. “You...you were at Big Mama's the other day.”

  I nodded. “I was. I’d been at the nail salon earlier and heard…” I stopped in mid-sentence. Did I really want to tell him that I’d come in because I’d heard he and Bjorn screaming at each other? “Anyway, I'm Daisy and this is my husband, Jake.”

  They shook hands and Arnold looked very uncomfortable.

  “Our daughter works at Big Mama's,” I said, as if this might explain why I walked into the restaurant that day.

  “Oh, I see,” he said. But his brow was still furrowed, his jaw set. “Well, I should apologize for what you saw. The argument with Bjorn...it shouldn't have happened, and I'm embarrassed by it.”

  “Not our business,” I said lightly, plastering on what I hoped was a pleasant smile. “No explanation needed.”

  “He's very angry with me,” Arnold said.

  I didn’t know what to say to this so I just nodded.

  “For leaving,” he added.

  “You used to work there?” Jake said.

  I shot him a look, but he avoided meeting my eyes. He was asking it conversationally, as if he didn’t already know this to be true.

  Arnold nodded. “Yes. I enjoyed it very much. I love food. I love cooking food. It was always my dream to own my own restaurant. Much of what I learned, I learned from Bjorn. So I had hoped that he'd be more supportive of my leaving.” He sighed. “But he was not.”

  “I'm sorry,” I said. “That's hard.”

  He nodded. “It was. Bjorn was good to me. I had no complaints. I wasn't leaving because of anything he did. I only left because I wanted...” He waved his hand around the restaurant. “This.”

  “Sure,” I said. It seemed off to me that he was telling us his restaurant origin story, but maybe that was part of his marketing plan. Or maybe it was simply because he knew I’d witnessed the fight and felt like he had to explain it.

  “And I've always wanted to make Mexican food,” he continued. “It's my favorite, and I love experimenting with it. But he now thinks I'm stealing from him. That I took all of his recipes and am duplicating them. Nothing could be further from the truth.”

  I believed him. Because what Jake and I were eating tasted nothing like Big Mama's food. The cuisine at Big Mama's wasn't bad, but it was your typical restaurant fare. It was fine. But this food at Tiny Papa's? It was miles better than fine.

  “And I've let my temper get the better of me,” Arnold admitted. “When I named this place, I did it because I was angry with Bjorn. It was a shot at him. I should've cooled off and done something different. But I'm not changing it now.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Given what he has been saying about me, I feel like we are in an arms race now. Let's see who can serve the best taco in town.”

  I bit back a smile as I stared at Arnold with his folded arms and puffed up chest. It sounded like a statement that might be made on one of those celebrity chef cook-off shows.

  “I don't think it's going to be much of a race,” Jake murmured, cutting into his burrito again.

  “I appreciate that,” Arnold said to him. “But it's no
w about honor. If Bjorn doesn't wish for us to peacefully coexist, there is nothing I can do about that. Except make better food than he does and dominate the local taco scene.”

  It was a defiant statement on his part. Not that I blamed him for making it, based on what he was saying happened between him and Bjorn. I was picturing billboards now that had Arnold and Tiny Papa's lauding how they were dominating the local taco scene.

  I didn't even know Moose River had a local taco scene.

  “I've taken up too much of your time,” Arnold said, backing away. Perhaps he’d finally realized he’d spilled more than the average restaurant owner checking on their patrons. Or maybe he just needed to move along so he could serve up the same statements to the next table. “Please enjoy, and let me know if there's anything I can do for you.”

  We both thanked him. I watched as he left, but he didn’t hit up any more tables. Instead, he disappeared into the kitchen.

  Jake looked across the table at me. His beer was empty and his burrito was a bite away from being finished. “You know what he could do for me?”

  “I'm afraid to ask.”

  “He could come to our house every night and make us one of these burritos,” he said. “Every single night.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Honey,” he said, offering me a smile, “I love your cooking. But this?” He motioned to what remained of his meal. “This is genius.”

  I made a mental note to either poison his food at home or learn how to make carne asada burritos. Considering I truly did love him, despite his preference for Tiny Papa’s food, I was leaning toward the latter.

  “I think you misunderstood him,” I said. “He wants to dominate the taco scene. He said nothing about the burrito scene.”

  “Whatever,” Jake said, popping the last of the burrito into his mouth. “If he keeps making food that tastes this good, I am totally Team Tiny Papa.”