Chapter Four

 

In late summer, Tori opened her post office box, stuffed to the brim. While sorting through junk mail, she found a letter. No return address, but she recognized her mother’s handwriting. “Dear Tori, we were given this address through Mick Coley. We’re happy to know you aren’t serving a life sentence for a crime you didn’t commit.”

She had read the entire letter before a tremor began in her fingers. Stunned, she began again, her eyes widening with sick horror. Her parents owed Seamus McGinn one million dollars. For what, her mother wrote, she didn’t know. If he found them, he’d kill them.

Tori couldn’t read any further, ripped the damning evidence to shreds, and dropped them into the wastebasket. No one could know where they were. Her eyes closed against nausea caused by shock, dread, and the sickening feeling of dying hope. How many lives had McGinn ruined?

Her hands were still shaking when she picked through more junk mail to find an envelope from the Long Beach Truck Society. The thought of facing more bad news made her shrivel deep inside where she protected her tender dream to run a food truck. Would she be a dead duck or a sitting one that had to submit more paperwork and wait? If the society knew she was an ex-con, she’d be a gone goose. A cooked goose. Whatever simile she used fit.

She opened the envelope and read the first line, “Welcome to the Long Beach Food Truck Society.” Tori read the notice once, then twice, and closed her post office box without letting go of the business license packet. Completing this first step filled her spirit like a tropical smoothie, but she wouldn’t gain anything by putting off the second step. In a way, she’d laid the groundwork. For a solid two weeks, she’d driven her pickup from her apartment to the lot for lunch.

The clock on the wall said it was half past noon. Her heart lurched into a fast, heavy pounding that made her feel as if she’d been running. Tension knotted her stomach. Oh, damn, she needed to talk to people at the truck yard. She stepped out of the post office and took deep breaths.

The breeze still retained the rainy night’s chill. Before the August afternoon sun blazed, she’d drive to Alameda Street Eats and face step two – the no-open-door-policy of food truck lots.

Within minutes, with mail on the passenger seat, she settled into her pickup and drove, managing, just barely, to not break the speed limit. The last thing she wanted was to have this time at the truck lot interrupted by a ticket. Truth be told, she hadn’t had a traffic ticket in ten years, but she’d been incarcerated, after all.

Years of reading people in prison paid off. Never appear to need anything from anyone. Never plead. She looked at her watch and anticipated the winding down of the lunch crowd.

She pulled into a parking space, blinking back tears. Stop. Don’t cry. Act like nothing matters. Coming up on the food truck, Farm to Table, she stood at the window. “Anything left?”

“Maybe, Tori, just maybe.” Adam, the middle-aged man she’d come to know, gazed down at her. “What do you have in mind?”

“The Kale Yeah Bowl. You’ve got it on the menu. You’d better have it,” she teased, and handed the entrepreneur a five-dollar bill.

“You’re a worthy recipient,” Adam said.

“Where do you get your ingredients?”

“Local farmers.” He boasted a broad grin. “Would you believe people grow food on rooftops?”

“I would,” she said, eager to win a friend. “I took a class from Dr. Winter.”

“He’s famous around here.” Adam turned away to prepare her salad.

As she waited, she noticed an empty space between Asian Fusion and Little Lotta’s Donuts.

Adam handed her the salad. “You must live around here.”

“Not far.” Her post-prison life meant freedom to go where she wanted and do as she pleased, but she had nowhere to go. “A food truck business is awesome. I hope to run one myself.”

“Blood, sweat, and tears. We only take Mondays off.”

“I know how hard you work.” Was she having a ten-minute conversation with a guy taking her order? She braced herself. Maybe this was the time to ask.

“What type of food?” he asked.

“Deep fried,” she said. “It doesn’t compete with any truck here.”

There was only a slight hesitation before he said, “We have an opening. Veracruz Tacos pulled out.” He paused and arched a worried brow. Time slowed to half speed. “If you want it, there’s one requirement.”

She inched closer. “What’s that?” Her hands tightened around the cardboard bowl.

“We’re expected to pay a quota,” he said, “levied by Irish crooks.”

“I see.” The Irish mob, just what she’d been waiting for. The air punched from her lungs, leaving her in a light-headed, light-hearted state. No one at the lot fought this, but she didn’t want to patronize him. “How much?”

“Two hundred a week. If this is okay, you’re in.”

“I can do that.” She reached up and shook his hand. “Anything else I should know?”

“The Veracruz family’s cat disappeared when they pulled out. A gray tabby named Goodie.”

“I’ll keep an eye out.” She huffed from the excitement and texted Maeve. “I’ve got a space in the food truck yard.”

“Endgame realized,” Maeve texted back. “Now for the food truck!” Triumph burned in the investigator’s words. “Time I put wheels in motion. Pardon the pun.”

Tori knocked aside Maeve’s fanciful comment and called Ebony to share her news, but the embalmer didn’t pick up.

Hours later, she threw open her apartment windows to the purple sky, breathed salty air, and watched the growing crescent rise close to Jupiter. A sailboat banked off the westerlies. In her mind’s eye, she imagined Vivienne skipping stones over the waves with eyes full of mischief.

She powered up her e-reader to begin her evening ritual. Getting lost in a story helped her mind separate her sleep time from the stresses of daily living. After twenty minutes of winding down, she fell asleep.

* * *

August turned to September, and Maeve came through with her promise to put food truck “wheels in motion”. With Finn and Amy Donahue at her side, Tori landed in San Antonio for a tour of Cruising Kitchens. Grabbing her carry-on, she followed them off the plane.

Amy turned and grinned with a wink. “We’ll take the escalator to baggage.”

Tori smiled back, but in baggage claim her head throbbed, and nerves in her stomach tightened when she picked through similar pieces of black luggage on the carrousel. Without discussion, she read luggage tags and breathed relief when she found hers. Once she stepped outside, the nervous knots all slid away. The humid night air was scented with magnolias and damp earth, making it sultry. The moon flirted with the cloud cover, and her blood pulsed with eagerness. Soon they’d meet with the king of food trucks, Bob Decker. Presto, change-o, how much wonderful could a girl take?

It was evening when the trio arrived by taxi. Bright light poured out the large windows of the showroom onto the parking lot, highlighting mums planted in large barrels under the windows. Surrounding a Tex-Mex food truck, bistro tables matched its red and yellow color scheme. She imagined the owner had a hand in the display.

Finn, seated in front, pulled out his wallet and paid the driver.

Next to her in the backseat, Amy turned to her and flashed a grin. “Have you ever seen the interior of a food truck?”

“Nope, only on brochures.” Her heart did a little jig. “Today I can. Pinch me. I must be dreaming.” She clutched the dog-eared renderings of every layout.

“You’ll put your degree to work.” Amy had arranged her online classes. “You don’t need to thank me again.” She put her hand up.

With that, Tori just smiled. “Tell me. Did Grady put you two up to babysitting me?”

“Don’t be silly. We’re desperate for a vacation.” Amy paused for a second. “Grady is—”

“—chained to his desk.” Finn ground out words of assurance.

“I last spoke to him on the day I left prison.” Why did the void weigh her down? Not that she needed him. Her lawyer had done right by her but had also touched a place of craving deep inside her. His voice caressed nerve endings she hadn’t known existed.

Amy said, “Okay, yes. Grady asked us to accompany you.”

Tori’s heart clenched at this sign that Grady kept an eye out. Except for the day of her release, he hadn’t seen her in any clothing but orange. She let out a breath of gratefulness for the effort he made. “You Donahue cousins do favors for each other.” Finn had pushed Grady to appeal her case. Or had Maeve issued an edict for him to see this through? In any case, damn, he had. “You two coming with me means so much.”

“Truth be told, Tori,” Finn interjected, “you’re doing us a favor.” He opened his pregnant wife’s door, took her hand, and plastered a kiss on her lips. In her sixth month of pregnancy, Amy continued to lead hikers around Lake Arrowhead.

She and Vivienne had first met Amy on a hike, and then a second time at their wedding. Back then, terrorists were the enemy. After terrorists had massacred her escaping family, the dust had settled into a sorrowful stillness until she’d faced murder charges. Her heart beat against her sternum at the memory. Being trapped like a caged animal was an extreme low. This was a high, but she craved a steady, even-keeled existence.

Stars shone overhead, a slight breeze brought a smell of bluebells, and the moon bathed the truck in a soft glow. To give the lovebirds a little space, Tori lingered a few steps behind them. She heaved a sigh and gazed at the moon, a habit she’d developed while in prison. Moonlight followed her everywhere and mirrored her moods. Tonight, it was silvery, waxing with hope.

Ahead, at the entrance of the building, Amy and Finn waited for her.

She stepped quickly. “You left your kids at home. I’m sorry.”

Finn laughed like it was the most hilarious thing he’d ever heard. “Daddy gets some appreciation.”

Amy clapped her hands in applause. “We don’t get out much. Can you tell?” She had a magic touch with people.

Finn rocked back on his heels. “It will be tougher for grandparents to care for three.”

Amy shifted toward the massive gallery. “Look at all those food trucks, Tori.”

“Goosebumps are running up my arms.” She stuffed her ragged leaflets into her purse and brought out a notepad.

“Here comes the owner.” Finn had power of attorney with all the Rourke family trust accounts. With interest accruing during her jail-time, he’d shared that her worth was three million. At her disposal, anytime, he’d assured her.

Tori ambled toward the middle-aged entrepreneur and made introductions. Having spoken with him several times, she anticipated his hill country drawl.

“We proudly stand by our work.” Bob Decker stood beside a truck and opened his mouth, about to speak.

Amy cut him off. “You paint them, correct?” She placed two hands over her watermelon belly. “Tori brought paint designs.”

“Painting is custom, whatever you desire.” Bob shifted his gaze toward Tori. “Interested in our new builds? We have financing available.”

Finn said, “That won’t be necessary. Insurance will be.”

“We use a local firm. Keep an agent in-house. What equipment do you need, Miss Morningstar?”

“A thirty-five-pound double basket fryer, a thirty-six-inch flat griddle, under-counter refrigerator, stainless steel table, and stainless triple compartment sink.” Tori rattled off a couple more things. “I want a file cabinet and a blackboard mounted on the outside.

“Sounds like our Big Mouth model.” The truck’s wide grill covered the motor in the front of the truck.

“Oh, jeez, this is nice.” Tori smoothed a hand over a space between two window openings. “Plenty of room for a blackboard.”

“Excuse me for a few.” Amy gave a little wave and scurried for the ladies’ room.

Bob attempted to hand Tori a brochure of the various sizes.

“Like these?” She held them up.

“You come informed.”

“You have no idea.”

He laughed and swaggered toward a longer model. “There’s more space for a blackboard on this one.”

“Perfect for my big menu.” She swallowed hard and held the brochure tighter. “What does the expansion contain?”

“A sleeping berth with a bathroom. A chest of drawers is tucked under a single bunk.”

She savored the rare experience of getting what she wanted. “Sounds workable.” Her apartment felt too big, and she longed for a smaller space.

Amy returned, soon swamped by her husband’s hug. “What did I miss?”

“The longer truck calls my name.” Tori planned to live in her food truck. She looked forward to secure sleep nestled in the truck’s bunk bed. Another woman might use the word magical to describe safety. Tori didn’t believe in magic or destiny. Bad things happened and left a barren feeling in her heart. Good healing happened on its own accord.

“Go ahead, Tori,” Bob said. “Step up. Go inside.”

“I’d love to.” She skipped up, and as she gazed around the efficient interior, her breath snagged in her throat. She hunched to look out the windows. Situated above people below, she’d spot the scumbags she hoped to attract with her carnival-style food.

Everything hinged on her search for Vivienne, and she twitched over the possibility a sadist kept her for his thrills. Worry echoed through her soul. She sensed Vivienne’s fear and ignored the nerves that ambushed her stomach. She vowed to find her, no magic involved.

With Maeve’s help, she’d taken a firearms class, proved good citizenship, gave a reason she needed to protect herself, and obtained a concealed weapon permit. Tori let out a shaky breath. The Irish mob played rough. She’d get her gun which hadn’t seen the light of day for ten years.

She gazed at the corner where cabinets joined; a perfect place to hide her Glock 43. Loaded with seven bullets in the magazine and one in the chamber, her gun and lined-up Beanie Babies would make this truck her home.

She barely touched the doorknob when Bob opened the door.

“Ready for a decision?” he asked.

“I want this one.”

Finn and Amy followed her into Bob’s office to complete the purchase and painting details.

“Your design?” Bob asked.

Tori hyperventilated. “I’d like Deep Fried to Taste scrolled across the sides of a pistachio green truck, with hand-painted beachy images in mango and yellow.”

“Your truck will be a trendsetter.” Bob smiled, approval hovering on his lips. “Anything else?”

“A bistro table, chairs, and umbrella to match the truck.”

“Happy and bright.” Amy turned to her, gave her a hug. “You’ll make your mark in the culinary world.”

Tori placed a hand on Amy’s arm and squeezed. “I want a steady income. No limelight. A green savings account at Wells Fargo would be nice.”

Finn’s grin broadened. “So, you’re keeping the bulk of your trust money invested with me?”

“I am. It’s safe with your company.”

“Prudent.” Amy smoothed a hand over her blonde hair. “No tossing money out the window of your truck.”

“Ha. Yes. I want a simple life.” Tori liked the idea of refraining from indulgence.

“I meant to tell you,” Amy said. “You look very professional.”

“Thanks.” Her short, layered hairstyle helped. “When I cook, I’ll tie on a bandanna like chefs do.”

“You like no-fuss attire. Plain, fitted T-shirts with cap sleeves go nicely with well-cut capris.” Amy often talked about clothing, an interest she had as a sportswear designer.

“I hope I’m not interrupting.” Bob tapped his foot.

Tori turned her attention to Bob as he wound up delivery details.

Finn stuck out his elbows with hands planted on his waist. “Ladies, allow me to escort you to the River Walk.”

“Why, thank you, sir.” Amy took an arm. “His other arm is yours.”

Tori glided over and hooked her arm though his. “You’re fulfilling your gentleman requirements.”

On their way to dinner along the river, Finn shared other news. “Vivienne withdrew her money. Every penny, within a week of your arrest.”

Tori’s heart pounded in her chest. She looked past Finn to Amy and then back to Finn. Did this mean Viv was on the run? “Did you meet with her?”

“No, I spoke with her by phone.” Finn stopped abruptly in front of a restaurant. “I sent her documentation. Vivienne signed and initiated a transfer into her account.” Regret softened his voice. “Burner phone. Could have been from anywhere.” His tone reminded her of Grady’s, as soft as gentle rain, a contrast to her family’s pounding staccato. Finn’s father, Mick, had a brother and sister who was Grady’s mother. Grady’s hair was russet, not dark like Finn’s. He gestured for everyone to sit.

“Tori, you’ll like this place,” Amy said. “Bella on the River specializes in eggplant Josephine.”

“And paella, sweetheart,” Finn said.

Tori asked, “What about my parents? Any withdrawals?” She kept her voice tone neutral, having learned the value of self-control. As a prisoner, a hot temper wasn’t the problem. She’d worn bruises as the result of defending herself.

“Clarissa and Thomas Rourke.” Finn hunched forward. “No withdrawals. I moved Thomas Junior’s money to theirs.”

Her heart jackknifed at hearing his name. Her deceased older brother, Thomas Junior, had been the embodiment of light. Much like Vivienne, he’d lit up the room. A wave of emptiness closed over her. Her conversation came to a halt, and the silence pressed against her eardrums. She missed her parents even more after having read their letter. Not that they were perfect.

Her tornado of a mother left messy emotions in her wake. Her father drank too much, but this was what mobsters did when facing trouble. Please, God, let them be safe. Tears came to her eyes, but she blinked them away.

“Your parents inherited the house in Cobh, Ireland. Don’t know if they unloaded it.” Finn didn’t need to tell her the massacre took place there.

“Just wondering, do my parents live there?” Tori inherited their paranoia, and this personality trait qualified her as an undercover sleuth.

“I know a guy,” Finn said. “He works the desk at the Garda. He’ll make time. Check on the house.”

“Hope he’s not too busy.” Frenzy built inside her, but she contained the anxious steam.

Amy glanced his way. “Finn?”

“Now, fine.” He pulled out his cell and punched in numbers. "Finn Donahue. Hello, Rob.

While the men spoke to each other, Tori’s mind whirled. Her head throbbed as she listened to Finn asking his friend to check on the Rourke home in the town of Cobh.

Finn leaned forward, listening with one ear plastered to his cellphone. “Right, the historical residence.” He waited. “Sold? Okay. Any real estate purchases made by Clarissa and Thomas Rourke?” A moment later, he ended the call. His cell pinged with a message. “I’ll be. Your parents bought a detached Tudor in Carlow Town. 459 Oak Park Road. I’ll Google Earth, get the aerial view.” He handed his phone to Tori.

Tori blew out a breath of relief and looked at photos on the realtor’s website. Exclusive neighborhood, quiet cul-de-sac. One-car garage in back, flower gardens, stone privacy wall, trees, hedges, and a spacious lawn with a backyard picket fence. Her mother grew up in County Carlow.

“May I backpedal just a bit?” Amy put a hand on hers, squeezed, and let go. “When we heard you landed in jail, we didn’t know what to do—”

“—until Grady told us about his practice,” Finn said. “His practice is unique.”

“It sure is. I wouldn’t have known who to call either. You two helped me so much. I finished a college degree all because of you. And then you found the perfect lawyer.” Tori held Grady in high esteem, one part admiration and the other a crush she needed to tamp down.

A waiter dropped off menus. A second later he set down icy mason jars and poured water. “Be back in a sec with the wine list.”

“Thank you.” Amy smiled at the waiter and picked up her glass.

“How is Grady these days?” Tori twisted in her chair, not sure if it were her place to ask.

“Cynical and sardonic,” Finn said. “He’s going through stuff.”

Amy pressed her lips together and then said, “Grady’s custody battle eats at him.”

Finn sipped water. “Don’t know what worries him the most. His personal life or appealing cases.”

“Both perplexing, I’m sure.” During the last month of her trial, she’d learned Grady’s heart was both soft and tortured. Soft for the marginalized and secluded population. Tortured by his ex-wife’s stringent rules for visitation with his son.

“Let me tell you about the teenage Grady,” Finn said. “What a rabble-rouser growing up. He and another cousin, Danker Donahue, wrestled in high school.”

“Your dad told me all about their escapades.” Amy’s lips turned up at the corners. “They’d get the opposing team to go after each other.”

“Clever strategy,” Tori said. Her brother used to say if you can get the enemy to turn against each other, it works out well.

“Grady’s ex bought a franchise. Build-a-Bikini, I think it’s called. She sells them but needs to commute.” Amy glanced at her husband. “Up to Moonlight Cove, isn’t that right?”

“Yup. I hope her employer has a eucalyptus spa waiting.” Finn heaved a heavy sigh as if they’d spoken of this before.

“Not to mention the ayurvedic massage.” Amy looked at Tori. “Here’s the situation. Susanne landed a job as costume designer for a reality TV series, Bikini Babes.”

“I’ve watched it. Filmed up near Carpenteria, Moonlight Cove.” A glamorous image of Susanne formed in her mind. Outgoing, flirty, curvaceous. “A costume designer must be…sexy.”

“Sex.” Finn snapped his fingers. “I don’t mean sex as in sex. Her bikinis help create the tension, the sizzle, the make-the-viewer-want-something, the rising excitement.”

“Uplifting,” Amy said. “I mean, Susanne is in the uplifting business. Bikini Babes is one of those crazy fun shows.”

Finn yawned, tired of the Susanne topic. “Not fun for their son. If Shane has to move again—”

“—that’s tough on a kid,” Amy said.

Tori had forgotten she had her glass in her hand, and water sloshed out. Thankfully, most of it went onto her shoes, not all over the table. She knew enough about Susanne to want to dump ice water on her head.