Secondhand Stiff (7 page)

I jabbed my finger at the computer screen. “I saw this truck featured on a local news show not too long ago. It's a very tragic story.”

Mom looked at me with interest. “What happened?”

I combed my memory for the details. “The mom and dad were involved in a hit-and-run accident several years ago. The father died, and the mother was badly injured and unable to work. Shortly after, the family was evicted from their home and scraped by with only part-time jobs held by the two boys, who were in their teens at the time. The eldest quit school to support his mother and younger brother.”

Mom shook her head with sadness. “That is tragic, but it looks like they recovered.”

“That's what the news story was about. Seems a local anonymous businessman heard about what had happened and came to their aid. He gave them a place to live and helped out so both boys could finish high school. The mother had always wanted to open a restaurant, so when she was well enough, he gave her the money to start one. She decided on the food truck business since that was starting to grow. Now Comfort Foodies pays it forward by going down to skid row in Los Angeles once a month and feeding the homeless lunch from their truck.”

“What a lovely story.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “And from these reviews, it seems Bob Y loves Comfort Foodies and frequents it.”

I toggled over to the Comfort Foodies website and checked to see their schedule. Today they would be at two places. They were going to a food truck rally tonight at a Home Depot parking lot up near LAX, but from eleven to three they would be at a farmers' market in Manhattan Beach. I checked the time on my computer screen. It was almost twelve thirty and time for lunch. If traffic on the 405 Freeway cooperated, it would take about thirty to forty minutes to get there. Timing would be everything. If they were busy with a lunch crowd they may not have time to talk to anyone, but if I got there around one thirty or even a little after, there might be time to chat with someone from Comfort Foodies and see if they had any idea who Bob Y might be.

“Mom, I may have to go out for a bit.” After sending more items to the printer, I closed my laptop and got up from the table. “You okay here by yourself? I think there's still some chicken salad for your lunch. Or you could heat up some soup.”

“You don't fool me, missy.”

That again.
I sighed.

Mom shook an index finger at me. It was the second time in two days she'd said those words and made that gesture. If she did it again, I was going to bite her scrawny finger off at the first joint.

“You're going to find that truck, aren't you?” The finger stayed pointed, and I noticed it was shaking a tiny bit.

“I just need to run an errand.” I did some quick calculations in my head. “I'll probably be gone two hours. Maybe only ninety minutes.”

“You never were a good liar, Odelia. Must have gotten that from your father.”

Fehring had also said I wasn't a good liar. I didn't know whether to be insulted or pat myself on the back.

“Dad was not a liar.” I lightly stomped my right foot on the concrete of our patio to make my point. I felt like a kid defending my father to a bully on a playground.

“My point exactly. If you'd taken after me, you'd be good at it.”

Speechless, I stood rooted to the ground, trying to sort out what Mom had just said. Was she condemning me because I was a bad liar, like I'd brought home a C instead of an A in duplicity on a report card? Or was she slyly acknowledging that she had not exactly been up front with the people in her life?

The real question was, when in the hell was Clark coming to get Mom and take her home?

The accusing finger was lowered, and my mother got up from her chair. “If you leave this house, you're taking me with you,” she insisted. Next to her, Seamus yawned and stretched, then settled back down to nap again. He wasn't asking to go anywhere.

“It will be boring, Mom. You'd enjoy yourself more if you stayed here and read or watched TV.”

“I can do plenty of that when I get back to New Hampshire.”

Traffic on the 405
moved along at a nice pace. We weren't able to go the posted speed limit but neither were we crawling, which was often the case during the week. Next to me, Mom looked out the window, taking in everything with eagle eyes as if she were on a life-or-death mission. No matter how much I'd tried to convince her, there was no way she was going to let me leave her behind.

Fine. Arguing with her was wasting valuable time.

“Just let me run to the ladies' room first,” she'd said. She must have caught on that I was contemplating sneaking out and leaving her behind because as she started to go down the hall to the guest bath, she turned to me and said with a point of the annoying index finger, “And don't you even think about running off without me. If you do, I'll simply call a cab and follow you.”

“Mom, Manhattan Beach isn't around the corner. A cab would be exorbitant.”

“You're forgetting, Odelia, I'm loaded, and although I'm not as spry as I used to be, I'm still quite capable of doing things on my own. I also have my iPad with me. I'm sure I'd be able to find all the information I need on it.” With those words, my mother gave me a sharp nod to signal the end of the conversation. That settled, she shuffled down the hall.

Once Mom was out of earshot, I had a brief and quiet tantrum laced with swearing. I knew I was beat. Thanks to her first husband, who was also her third husband and Clark's father, Mom was very well off. But this was the first I'd heard about the iPad. She'd been here a week and I'd not once seen it. I was learning, albeit at a slow pace, that it was easy to underestimate my mother. Her corkscrew gray hair, sensible shoes, and shuffling frame belied a tough and conniving cookie, just like she'd been when she was younger. My mother wasn't a doddering old fool whom Boy Scouts needed to help across the street. She was the sort of geriatric who ended up in the news for beating an alleged assailant with her cane.

I glanced over at Mom, then put my eyes back on the road. “So when did you get the iPad? Did Clark buy it for you?” The question was a combination of small talk and curiosity.

“I bought it myself,” she answered with an irritated sniff in the air. “When Lorraine, Clark's youngest, dropped by to visit this past summer, she had one with her. That old hand-me-down laptop I had from the house was about to die, so I asked Lorraine if she'd take me to the store so I could get one like hers.” Mom turned to me. “We had a grand time, Lorraine and I. Before she left, she set it up and showed me how to use it.”

“Don't they have computers at the retirement home for you to use?”

“Yes, a few, but there's always some old fart on them and our time is limited. This way I have my own.”

“If I'd known you needed a new computer, we would have gotten you something like that instead of the Kindle.”

“I like that Kindle just fine. It's smaller and easier to take with me when I just want to read.”

This time I gave her a smile. “Between the iPad, Kindle, and that new phone Clark got you, you're one hi-tech granny.”

Mom squeaked out a chuckle, something she didn't do very often. “That's almost word-for-word what Lorraine called me.”

I checked the car's GPS to see how soon before we arrived at our destination.

“You're kind of hi-tech yourself,” Mom noted, “with this fancy new car and all.”

In March, my old car had been destroyed by an out-of-control van with a crazed driver behind the wheel. We'd replaced it with a new one—a hybrid—decked out with the latest in gizmos. The thing not only told me how to get someplace, but it synced with my phone and music and had a rear-view camera. It basically did everything but drive for me.

We rode along another mile in silence before Mom said, “Why are you so interested in this Bob Y? Shouldn't we be visiting those secondhand stores?”

We?

I swallowed a terse knee-jerk retort and replaced it with a nicer reply. “It's just a gut feeling. Bob Y might be a lead the police don't have. I'm sure they'll be all over the stores owned by the witnesses. Their first thought would be that a competitor might have killed Tom.”

“I'd think Ina would be their first suspect.”

“True—then they would be thinking about the competitors.”

“What about the folks who owned that locker? Someone had to get Tom in there, and it didn't look like it had been broken into, did it?”

I tried not to show surprise at my mother's thinking. She was really looking at this from all angles with surprising clarity. Her body might be slowing down, but her mind was sharp as a tack.

“I overheard Kim Pawlak telling one of the officers that the storage unit had been rented to some people who'd left the area to find work. They ended up in North Carolina. They'd stopped paying for the locker and said they didn't care about the stuff in it.” I put on my left turn signal and changed lanes. “I'm sure the police will give them a call.”

“Whoever killed Tom had to know that locker was up for bidding.”

“That's what I'm thinking too, Mom. But I don't think the lockers are known to anyone except for the storage company employees until the actual auction.”

Mom and I glanced at each other at the same time.

“That Red guy and Kim,” my mother noted.

“And others,” I pointed out. “Elite Storage is a big place, and I'm sure they have many employees. I'm sure the police are going over all that with a fine-toothed comb.”

“So you're hoping this reviewer guy will give you some information the police don't have?”

“You never know. If Tom was killed by a competitor and this Bob Y has been in all those stores, he might be able to supply us with some telltale gossip that could shed some light on who and why.”

“Like who got along with who and who didn't play well with others?”

“Something like that.” I saw our exit was coming up and slowly moved toward the right-hand lane to take the ramp. “And if it's a bust, at least we'll get a nice lunch out of it.”

eight

Our timing appeared to
be perfect. By the time Mom and I reached the farmers' market in Manhattan Beach, it looked like the bulk of their business was winding down. We found parking with no problem.

For two to three blocks, booths lined the street like a makeshift shanty town of canvas and tables. Some were fancy, some basic, with most having overhead covering to guard against the sun. We made our way down the middle first, passing booths offering clothing and crafts. Next came a booth selling orchids and other live plants, and two offering up baked goods. Finally came the organic fruits and vegetables. The booths selling sandwiches and fresh cooked food were situated just past the produce booths. Glancing down the street, which had been closed off to traffic for the event, I saw two food trucks parked at the far end. One was Comfort Foodies; the other was a truck specializing in Asian food that I remembered from the reviews. A few plastic tables and chairs were set up in front of them for folks to sit and eat.

I backtracked a bit, stopping at a fruit stand to check out some pears. Grabbing a plastic bag, I dropped a few into it and handed them to the man behind the counter to weigh. I did the same with some oranges and squash.

“You're shopping?” Mom hissed. “Now?”

“It looks more natural than just barging up to the truck.”

“I'll have to remember that.”

I couldn't tell if the remark was serious or sarcastic.

Once the items were purchased, Mom and I slowly made our way to Comfort Foodies. The truck was large and shiny, painted in cheerful colors in a quilt motif. Facing us were two large rectangular windows through which food was ordered and picked up. There were two customers ahead of us, but by the way the nearby trash cans were overflowing, it looked like they had done a booming business earlier. The Asian truck's trash was equally filled.

The menu was written in colorful chalk on a blackboard. I looked it over. Mom stepped closer to the board and viewed it along with me. “See what you want, Mom?”

“I'd love some macaroni and cheese, but I don't eat fried foods.” She pointed to an item—fried mac and cheese balls. The item below it had been erased, a sure sign of a sellout.

“We can serve the mac and cheese unfried if you like,” said a voice behind us.

We both turned to see a young man of about twenty with an order pad in one hand and a pen in the other.

“Is it any good?” asked Mom.

“My mom's mac and cheese is the best,” he said with confidence. “We sell out every time. Today we also had lobster mac and cheese, and it went like crazy.”

“Paulie,” called a woman's voice from the service window. “We have one more order of the lobster mac and cheese left if she wants it.”

“Lobster macaroni and cheese,” Mom repeated with near reverence. She stepped closer to the window. “Is it made with real lobster or that fake stuff?”

“Mom,” I hissed. “Be nice.”

Mom scowled in my direction. “I have a right to know if I'm going to eat it. So much of it isn't real now. Take crab, for instance. You can get real crab spelled with a C or fake crab spelled with a K.”

A woman's head poked out from the window. Her hair was somewhere between silver and blond and pulled back tight from a wide face that resembled that of the young man waiting on us—minus the skimpy moustache. “She's right,” the woman said. “A customer has the right to know.” She gave Mom a broad smile, showing uneven teeth. “Nothing fake anywhere in this truck, except maybe my boobies.” She gave us an exaggerated wink.

“Then I'll take it,” said Mom with enthusiasm.

“Are you allowed to eat that?” I asked my mother. “Don't you have a cholesterol problem, like Clark?”

Mom turned on me and said loud enough for the woman and her son to hear, “You don't see me counting
your
calories, do you, Chubs?”

I swear, if there had been a bat close by, I would have been tempted to take a swing. I'm not sure at what, since I wouldn't want to rot in jail for matricide, but surely I could find something to hit that would only result in a vandalism charge.

I stepped up to the window. “Make hers a double, extra cheese and butter.”

The woman shook her head and laughed. “Mothers. They always have a hold on us, don't they?”

“Tell me about it.” It was the young man who spoke. Through the window, his mother shook her finger at him but was sending him a warm look of love while she did.

“And what would you like?” she asked me.

I looked back over at the chalkboard, then at my mother. “What's the most fattening thing you have?”

“That would probably be the fried mac and cheese,” answered the woman, “although the lobster mac and cheese is no slouch in the calorie department. The meatloaf wrap will also put the pounds on.”

“I'll take the meatloaf wrap,” I told her.

“Mashed potatoes and gravy are also in the wrap.”

“Even better.”

I turned to Mom. “What would you like to drink, Mom?”

“Coffee, if they have it.”

“We sure do,” answered the boy. “All the other drinks are lined up in this other window.”

I checked out the offerings. “Coffee for my mother and a lemonade for me.”

“I thought you usually drank iced tea,” Mom commented.

I took a deep breath. “I'm living on the edge today, Mom.”

The boy gestured to one of the plastic tables. “Why don't you two ladies have a seat while Mom fixes your food.” He scribbled our orders on his pad even though his mother had already taken them. “We'll call your name when it's ready.”

“Put it under Odelia.” I paid him and followed Mom to the closest table.

While we waited, I checked out the line at the other truck. A couple customers were lined up to order food.

“Who knows,” said Mom, pointing at the customers. “That Bob Y might even be one of them. He could even be a she.”

“True, you never know, but from the wording in his reviews, my gut tells me he's male, young, and more likely to hang out at the bigger food truck events like the ones held at night in trendier spots.”

A few minutes later, the woman from the truck came over with three paper boats of food. She walked with a noticeable limp on her left side. Behind her came her son with our drinks. They placed everything on the table in front of us. It smelled heavenly, and the portions were far from skimpy.

Mom leaned over her food and took a deep whiff. “My, that certainly smells wonderful.”

I pointed at the third boat. It contained a single golden, crusty orb the size of a golf ball. “Is that the fried mac and cheese?”

“That's it, or at least a sample.” The woman wiped her hands on her food-splattered apron. “I thought you might like to try it.”

I nearly swooned. Macaroni and cheese is one of my favorite foods. I hadn't ordered it because my plan was to pinch a bite of Mom's. Meatloaf is one of my other favorite foods. So now I had both of my faves on one table. I was a happy girl, even if Mom did call me Chubs.

A shout came from the other food truck. They'd finished serving their last customers and were closing down their service windows. One of them was waving in our direction. “We'll see you tonight, Heide. Later, Paul.”

The woman and her son waved back with promises to keep the deep fryers burning.

Heide turned to her son. “Guess we might as well wrap it up and get ready for tonight too.”

“We'll take care of closing up, Mom. Why don't you sit down a bit?”

“Yes, please,” I encouraged. “Grab a seat and join us.”

Just then another young man hopped out from the truck. He was a bit older than Paul and had darker hair. “What's this ‘we' business, little bro? I'm outta here.”

“Eric,” Heide said to him. “Can't you stick around long enough to help your brother?”

“I've been slaving over a hot grill, Mom. Let pretty boy get dirty for a change.” He lit up a cigarette and blew out the smoke. “Besides, I've got people to see.” As Eric walked away, he pulled the hood of his navy blue sweatshirt over his head.

Paul yelled at his brother's back, “Make sure you're back in time for tonight's gig—Mom can't cook all by herself.”

Without turning around or changing his stride, Eric raised the hand not holding the cigarette and extended his middle finger high into the air.

“At least,” his mother called after him, “use that finger to give us a call if you're going to be late.”

Heide plopped herself down into one of the plastic chairs at our table. Her shoulders sagged with weariness. “I don't know what I'm going to do with him. Eric's really a nice kid and a whiz in the kitchen. I'm trying to get him to go to culinary school and become a first-class chef, but he won't listen. He cooked the food you're eating.” Mixed with Heide's concern was pride.

Mom had a mouthful of lobster mac and cheese, so I made the introductions. “I'm Odelia Grey and this is my mother, Grace Littlejohn. She's visiting from the East Coast.”

Mom swallowed her food. “New Hampshire, actually. I used to live in Massachusetts, but now I'm in an old folks' home in New Hampshire.”

“I'm Heide van den Akker,” she said. “That's my youngest son, Paul, cleaning up. The older boy is Eric.”

I took a bite out of my meatloaf wrap and wanted to swoon with meat and gravy bliss. It smelled so good, I wanted to dab some behind my ears.

“You like it?” Heide asked.

“Mffhmmfgff,” came out of my stuffed mouth along with a vigorous nod of my head.

“Mine's wonderful, too,” added Mom.

“Glad you ladies are enjoying it.” Heide beamed with pleasure at having her food appreciated.

“We don't have anything like this where I live,” said Mom after wiping her mouth with a paper napkin that had been provided with the food. “I'm blogging about my trip to California and thought it would be fun to see one of these things. Catering trucks are a lot different now than in my day.”

Blogging?
I stopped chewing and stared at Mom through bulging eyes.

Heide leaned forward with interest. “You have a blog, Grace?”

“Yes, I do. It's called An Old Broad's Perspective.”

Heide laughed. I nearly sprayed mashed potatoes across the table.

“It's nothing much,” Mom continued. “Just the ramblings of an old woman with time on her hands. At first a lot of the old folks where I live were the only ones reading it. Now I have about fifty or so regular readers. Sometimes more than two hundred people view it in a month.” Mom straightened in her chair with pride. “I thought it would be fun to blog about my trip. So far folks seem to be enjoying it. I've blogged about the flight, Thanksgiving Dinner, shopping—things like that. Even about Odelia here taking me and her mother-in-law to see
The Nutcracker
on Sunday afternoon.”

I was waiting for Mom to add finding a dead body to her list of
What I Did On My Vacation
, but she seemed to be staying off that topic. Maybe she was right—maybe I did get my defective fibbing gene from my father, because she was lying like a champ.

“And you wanted to blog about a trip to a food truck?” asked Heide.

“I'd seen trucks like yours on TV, so when Odelia asked me what I wanted to do today for lunch, I mentioned it.” Mom looked to me to pick up the thread of deceit. I guess she wanted to get back to her food. And, of course, I'd just taken another big bite of mine.

After nearly swallowing my food whole, I said to Heide, “I went on About Town to look up reviews on local food trucks and remembered seeing a story on the news about your truck and how you got started.”

“Odelia told me what happened to you and your husband,” Mom chimed in. “I'm very sorry.”

“Thank you.” As she said the words, Heide's friendly face clouded. “But we're doing fine now, as you can see. Doctors told me I might never walk again, so I'll happily live with this gimpy leg.” She slapped the thigh of her injured leg.

“Odelia's husband is in a wheelchair.” The way Mom said it, I wasn't sure if she was bragging or looking for pity on my behalf.

Heide looked at me with similar confusion. “Really? A car accident?”

I shook my head. “It was an accident, though. A stupid stunt when he was a kid that almost turned deadly.”

“But he's amazing,” Mom added as if writing a review of Greg's skills for About Town. “Nothing stops him from doing what he wants.”

“That's true,” I agreed. “My husband is very athletic and competitive. He can do almost anything a man with working legs can do.”

Heide gave me a lascivious wink. “Anything?”

“Anything,” I assured her with the blush of a schoolgirl.

Mom pushed her paper boat away. She'd eaten most of it, which surprised me. She loved to eat, as I did, but didn't have a big appetite—unlike me. “Before we go, do you mind if I take a picture of you and the truck for my blog?”

“No, not at all, Grace,” beamed Heide, regaining her prior cheerful composure. “And if you don't mind, could you e-mail me when it's posted? You'll find my e-mail on our website. But finish your food first. And don't forget the fried mac and cheese.”

I cut the fried ball open with the side of my fork and popped half into my mouth, where it melted in cheesy goodness.

Mom looked at me with disgust. “Did you just moan?”

I nodded while the last bit dissolved in my mouth. “It's fantastic,” I gushed to Heide. “My husband would have an orgasm over these.”

“Odelia!” snapped Mom.

“Don't worry, Grace.” Heide laughed. “It's not the first time someone has said that.”

I saw the perfect segue and grabbed it. “That reviewer on About Town was right about your food.” I speared a bite from Mom's abandoned plate. The lobster mac and cheese was incredible, although I preferred the fried sample.