MURDER IN THE SPOTLIGHT (Food Truck Mysteries Book 2) by Chloe Kendrick
Authors: Chloe Kendrick
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you sure? I’m the competition, and you’re the police. You’re more likely to be impartial than I would be. Tracy might think that I’m trying to pin the crimes on her because I want to win the contest for myself.”
Danvers looked at me with a new emotion that might have actually been respect. “Good point. You can still do the interview, but if you think I could have a different response, let me know, and I’ll try to follow up on it.”
I said my good-byes and headed back out of the station, only getting lost once on the way out.
Tracy Jones lived north of town in an area known for its ritzy homes. I was a bit surprised by the address. Food truck owners could earn a living at what they do, but it wasn’t likely to be so lucrative as to get rich. The address that Danvers gave me led to a McMansion in one of the nicer neighborhoods in that part of town. I let out a low whistle as I drove past several of the homes.
I pulled into the driveway. The mailbox did have “Jones” on it, so I thought I must be in the right place. I parked the car, and headed to the front door, which was an elaborate affair with sidelights on both sides of the door.
I rang the bell and waited, spending the time looking through the glass to the marble-floored entryway.
Finally, a young boy came to the door and opened it. He looked at me and slammed the door in my face. At first I thought I had been rejected, but I heard him shout, “Mommy, someone’s at the door for you.”
I heard some voices but I couldn’t distinguish what was said, and then Tracy came to the door. Tracy was nothing like me. She was a petite blonde woman who looked more like she should be on one of the beauty pageant shows than a reality show about food trucks. Her hair was flawlessly coifed, and she was wearing a blue dress that matched her eyes. She always looked perfect on the show. I just thought that she had an in with the make-up and wardrobe people. I doubted that I could remember the last time I wore a dress to answer the door to a stranger.
Her face went through several different expressions before she settled on surprise. “Maeve, what are you doing here? Is something wrong?”
I shook my head. “I’m kind of looking into all the problems the show has been having with the poison pen notes and the pranks. I was trying to talk to everyone about it and find out what I can.”
Her brows knit together, making a thin arched line. I noticed that her forehead didn’t move, and I wondered if she’d had Botox injections on her face. “Nothing like that has happened to me. I thought I told you that at the show.”
“You did, but I just wanted to make sure that I’d heard you correctly. It’s just that—” I let the sentence hang, hoping to get a reaction.
“Well, sorry that you had to come all this way, but you heard correctly. Nothing like that has happened to me. Either no one hates me enough to write notes to me, or they all just think that I’m going to be out in the next round and don’t even need to bother with me.” In the background, I could still hear a few voices, but I couldn’t place any of them. One sounded familiar, but I couldn’t put a face with it.
“That’s just odd. I mean…” Again, I let the sentence hang, but this time she took the bait.
“What’s so odd about it? The pranks have only been done on a few people. Not everyone is hated like you and some of the others.”
I widened my eyes for effect. “Well, that’s just it. Everyone else has either received a note or had things stolen or taken—or both. Everyone except you. Why do you think that is?”
I watched her face closely. I wanted to see if she would betray some emotion or give a tell that would allow me to figure out what was going on with this situation. But her face was stone. No emotion, no tells, nothing. Botox ruined another possible confession.
“Well, I guess you’d better find this person and ask them, because I don’t have the
Danvers looked at me with a new emotion that might have actually been respect. “Good point. You can still do the interview, but if you think I could have a different response, let me know, and I’ll try to follow up on it.”
I said my good-byes and headed back out of the station, only getting lost once on the way out.
Tracy Jones lived north of town in an area known for its ritzy homes. I was a bit surprised by the address. Food truck owners could earn a living at what they do, but it wasn’t likely to be so lucrative as to get rich. The address that Danvers gave me led to a McMansion in one of the nicer neighborhoods in that part of town. I let out a low whistle as I drove past several of the homes.
I pulled into the driveway. The mailbox did have “Jones” on it, so I thought I must be in the right place. I parked the car, and headed to the front door, which was an elaborate affair with sidelights on both sides of the door.
I rang the bell and waited, spending the time looking through the glass to the marble-floored entryway.
Finally, a young boy came to the door and opened it. He looked at me and slammed the door in my face. At first I thought I had been rejected, but I heard him shout, “Mommy, someone’s at the door for you.”
I heard some voices but I couldn’t distinguish what was said, and then Tracy came to the door. Tracy was nothing like me. She was a petite blonde woman who looked more like she should be on one of the beauty pageant shows than a reality show about food trucks. Her hair was flawlessly coifed, and she was wearing a blue dress that matched her eyes. She always looked perfect on the show. I just thought that she had an in with the make-up and wardrobe people. I doubted that I could remember the last time I wore a dress to answer the door to a stranger.
Her face went through several different expressions before she settled on surprise. “Maeve, what are you doing here? Is something wrong?”
I shook my head. “I’m kind of looking into all the problems the show has been having with the poison pen notes and the pranks. I was trying to talk to everyone about it and find out what I can.”
Her brows knit together, making a thin arched line. I noticed that her forehead didn’t move, and I wondered if she’d had Botox injections on her face. “Nothing like that has happened to me. I thought I told you that at the show.”
“You did, but I just wanted to make sure that I’d heard you correctly. It’s just that—” I let the sentence hang, hoping to get a reaction.
“Well, sorry that you had to come all this way, but you heard correctly. Nothing like that has happened to me. Either no one hates me enough to write notes to me, or they all just think that I’m going to be out in the next round and don’t even need to bother with me.” In the background, I could still hear a few voices, but I couldn’t place any of them. One sounded familiar, but I couldn’t put a face with it.
“That’s just odd. I mean…” Again, I let the sentence hang, but this time she took the bait.
“What’s so odd about it? The pranks have only been done on a few people. Not everyone is hated like you and some of the others.”
I widened my eyes for effect. “Well, that’s just it. Everyone else has either received a note or had things stolen or taken—or both. Everyone except you. Why do you think that is?”
I watched her face closely. I wanted to see if she would betray some emotion or give a tell that would allow me to figure out what was going on with this situation. But her face was stone. No emotion, no tells, nothing. Botox ruined another possible confession.
“Well, I guess you’d better find this person and ask them, because I don’t have the
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