LunchTime Murder: A Food Truck for Hire Cozy Mystery

Lunchtime Murder A Food Truck for Hire Cozy Mystery Sydney Tate CAR Publishing Copyright © [Year of First Publication] by [Author or Pen Name] All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. Contents 1. Chapter One 2. Chapter Two 3. Chapter Three 4. Chapter Four 5. Chapter Five 6. Chapter Six 7. Chapter Seven 8. Chapter Eight 9. Chapter Nine 10. Chapter Ten 11. Chapter Eleven 12. Chapter Twelve The End Other books by Sydney Tate About the Author Chapter One T he sun was dazzling and warm that morning as it shone down, sunning Ginger O'Connell's bare neck. Her wavy, strawberry blonde hair was pinned up out of her face as she worked to string soft bulb lighting across the front of a large white truck; Decadent Side Dishes was emblazoned across the front of it in big purple letters. They attached a menu next to it, each letter written painstakingly in shimmery gold fine-point dry erasers; each letter of "Amaretto Tarts with Whipped Cream," "Pink Pomegranate Cake Squares," and "Rosewater Cream Lattes" ended in a flourished tail. Two enormous pot planters, each a deep jewel-toned shade of green, were placed on either end of her truck. She had purchased them, hoping the foliage would invite customers to her truck. Ginger was painfully proud of her food truck and the dishes she sold. Her food was eclectic in taste and used the coziest and most comforting of spices, seasonings, and presentations: brisket meatballs on thin edible parmesan plates, assorted melt-in-your-mouth cookies, chocolate squares, and signature sour cocktails and dark, robust coffees; there was pure, delightful indulgence for everyone, and Ginger wanted to make sure the outside matched the coziness of her food. Satisfied with her work hanging up her string lights, Ginger stepped back, placed her hands on her hips, and beamed. "Lookin' good, girl!" shouted a voice from across the street. Ginger whirled around and saw a woman standing on the sidewalk outside a café, waving. It was Mrs. Martin, who owned the café on the town square, excitedly dancing around in her oil-stained Converse over Ginger's freshly decorated display. Glancing over at the other food trucks around her, she saw that most people had done similarly, but not quite as embarrassingly elaborate as she. Her food truck had an official spot, parked at the large field in the center of the town square where only a small, centuries-old courthouse sat. Little Brook, Oregon, was a quaint, quiet town surrounded by local shops and boutiques, and all year round, the Food Truck Circle sat parked in the middle of it all. It was the best-smelling part of town. People who might normally pass through a small, insignificant town like Little Brook now stopped specifically for their Food Truck Circle treats. Ginger was giddy with excitement to now be one of them. It made her feel like a part of something important. Ginger waved back to the woman, who was now wiping her hands off on a smudged white apron. "Thank you, Mrs. Martin!" Ginger called back with a renewed burst of encouragement. Turning to Ezra, the owner of the Burger Baby food truck, third down from hers in the Circle, she placed her hands on her hips and made a face at him. "See?" she said. "It's not too much." Ezra threw his hands up in mock exasperation and laughed. "It'll definitely grab the most attention!" Ginger couldn't help but laugh with him. Ezra was over-the-top with his own shiny black burger truck. He had a striped awning across the entire length, with festive string lights shaped like ketchup bottles hung across the top. As Ezra specialized in veal burgers, he painted a dancing calf across the front of the truck. Ginger looked back at her truck. A big smile came to her face, and she sighed happily. While she loved her truck, and what she made, she didn't love how she got her wheels. She had dropped out of psychology to pursue her dream of working in culinary arts and moved back home. Her mother, who was rich enough to have a controlling thumb over Ginger at most times, bought the truck for her without ever consulting Ginger. At first, she'd refused to accept it. Then she spent three months looking for a job and living miserably in her parent's home, which, while even more decadent than the dishes Ginger sold out of her truck, was never big enough to escape the sounds of their arguing. So, she accepted the truck, on the condition that her mother did not convince her rich friends to come around and bombard her with purchases—she was determined to earn her customers' business. Another agreement was that her mother did not come around and bother Ginger, insisting she come to family dinner every Friday evening. "So, how about it this year?" inquired Ezra, and Ginger gave him a puzzled look. "Don't tell me you've been out of town for so long you don't even remember the best festival in the county!" Ezra joked. It dawned on Ginger then. She rolled her eyes, disbelieving she could forget her favorite weekend out of the year. In Little Brook, Oregon, they held the annual "Best Buttered" Food Festival and invited the entire county to come and sample their rides, craft booths, and, most of all, the local cuisine. Add a splash of the odd, but well-meaning, townsfolk, and it was Ginger's favorite place to be. In the past, she had only ever attended as a festivalgoer, but this year was different. This year, she'd compete in the "Best Food Truck" competition, where only the deranged—and Paula Deen—dared to compete. While Paula Deen had never accepted the yearly sent invitation from the mayor to make an appearance, Ginger was just crazy enough to think that, with her new truck and the last year's worth of