MURDER TO GO (Food Truck Mysteries Book 1) (11 page)

However, I was puzzled. The deposits had come in three equal payments that were all just below the $10,000 threshold. If she’d been part of the robbery team, that meant someone else had held on to the money until enough had been collected—or my aunt had stashed the cash until it had grown to the amount she’d needed. All of this spoke to someone else being involved, a mastermind who was smart enough to put all of this together.

The police reports had nothing about the trial of the man with the southern accent, so I Googled the information I needed. He’d been found guilty on all the counts for the robberies. He had maintained his silence throughout the trial and during his time in prison. He was still at the penitentiary upstate; I had no idea how to get in touch with him. However, in the article, I found the names of the lawyers who had represented him. They were from a well-known and very expensive firm in town.

I thought about calling the law firm, but opted to visit them in person instead. It was nearly 4:30, but I knew someone at the law firm would still be available. Lawyers rarely went home early in my experience, not when there were billable hours left in the day.

I actually took some care with my appearance before visiting the law offices. My hair went up in a bun. I put on a nice white blouse and a demure, professional skirt. I looked the part of a budding young lawyer, if I did say so myself.

The offices were on the third floor of the newest skyscraper in town. Even though I was only three blocks off Elm Street, it felt like an entirely different world than my own. I got off the elevator, gave the secretary my card after scribbling the name of the man with the southern accent on the back of it, and asked for it to be delivered to Mr. Smith. Since this was the name of the lawyer and not the client, I assumed it was his real name.

He scurried out in a few minutes, shook my hand, and led me back to his office. “What can I do for you? I don’t suppose you have any evidence that could help Mr. Jenkins’ case?”

“Not really. I recently inherited the food truck that was used by one of the conspirators in the robberies that Mr. Jenkins allegedly committed. I’m trying to rule out my aunt as one of the undiscovered perpetrators of these crimes. Is there a way you can help me?”

He paused for a long time. “Of course, I can’t divulge any information provided to me by a client. You do realize that?”

I took a deep sigh. “Yes, I do. I knew this was a long shot—”

He interrupted me. “However, if you could provide me with the name of your relative, I might be able to state that I’ve never heard of the woman before if, hypothetically, that were the case. Would that be of service?”

I smiled at him. “My aunt’s name was Alice James.”

“Ms. Kinkaid, I can clearly state that I’ve never heard of Alice James. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more service to you.” He shook my hand again and led me to the door. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

But he had been of help. I felt a huge sense of relief as I rode the elevator downstairs. Whatever my aunt might have done to procure the truck, she’d not been a part of a gang of robbers. We really set the bar high in my family for values.

I did wonder, as I drove home, why I hadn’t asked the lawyer about Shirley. Was I afraid of the answer or had I merely not wanted to press my luck? I wasn’t sure I could answer that.

The next morning there was a text on my phone from Land, telling me that I needed to vacate the current spot and move back to my prior location. He actually used the word “vacate” which impressed me. While I had enjoyed the extra cash, if I was going to be working alone, the original Elm Street location would be a better fit for me. I had still gotten up an hour earlier and managed to be at the lot a good 45 minutes earlier than normal. I wanted to have a jump on the morning business.

I drove the truck to its old location. I had begun to chop the ingredients for the condiments when I heard a click at the door. I started to walk that way, and then remembered that Land hadn’t returned his key. There was no other person who could be here at this time of morning. I checked my phone. It was 4:37 a.m.

I visually checked the lock on the door. It was in the proper position. I breathed a small sigh of relief, but then the noise returned. It sounded like someone was scratching outside the door. I wondered if someone was trying to pick the lock on the door. The event seemed unlikely to me. No one left a food truck unattended because the security on these old trucks was weak at best. They were definitely not Brink’s armored cars. That meant that the person who was trying to enter the truck wanted me.

The streets were empty at this time of morning, and no one would notice a person, though in my head it was a man, fumbling with the lock on a food truck. The door had a backup security system of sorts, a metal bar that could be lowered across the door to prevent it from opening. Of course, in my hurry this morning, the bar still stood straight up in the air.

Moving as quietly as I could, I traversed the length of the food truck. I carefully moved the bar and began lowering it inch by inch. The sound of the clicking was louder near the door, and I could see the door’s knob twitch from time to time. I had the bar almost in place when the metal of the bracket nicked my knuckle, and the bar fell into place with a crash.

I winced, realizing that the person on the other side would realize that I’d both figured out what was going on and taken steps to stop it from happening. I started to move away from the door when the sound of a bomb sounded inside of the truck. It wasn’t really a bomb, because the walls and ceiling remained intact, but the sound was immense and overpowering. I dove for the crawlspace under the sink and pulled my body in tight. If the truck were going to explode, then I would be safe from pieces of metal that would fall from the ceiling.

However, nothing fell. I wanted to look out and see what was going on, but before I could locate the origins of the noise, the sound happened again. The small space of the food truck reverberated with the blast. I cowered under the sink and waited. I didn’t know what this intruder planned, but it was not good. The smell of smoke and burnt powder was strong in the small space. I was concerned about the hot dogs and the ingredients for today’s sales. They would stink after whatever the person outside was doing. I didn’t want to have to explain why my food tasted like it had been in a war zone—especially the first day after Land had jumped ship. Could that possibly be what the intruder had in mind—make my food inedible so that Land’s new truck would be the only one on the street?

Of course, that train of thought made me wonder. Was this something that Samples had planned to put me out of business? Without my truck down the street from theirs, they would get my customers as well as their own lucrative business. I hadn’t thought of myself as a threat, but if Tony was resolved enough to kill the patriarch, then I was small change in terms of murders. I rubbed my neck, thinking of Fred’s head on the counter of their truck.

The detonation occurred again. This time I poked my head out and looked toward the door. I had to say that it was still standing firm. The bar was steadfast. The knob was still there. However, at the bottom of the door were a series of holes, evenly spaced and showing the tiniest bit of light through them.

I suddenly realized what was happening. Someone on the outside of the truck was firing a gun into the truck from between the door and the frame. The bullets were entering, not through metal walls, but through the rubber flap under the door that trapped the warm air from escaping the truck.

If I hadn’t been scared to death, I would have been impressed. Except for someone who was hiding under the sink or sitting on the counter in the truck, anyone inside would be vulnerable to a bullet a few inches off the ground. The first shot would likely have knocked me to the floor, and the rest of them would have injured or killed me. It was a more certain manner of bringing down prey than random shots through the wall.

The method seemed too sophisticated for Samples, but I had to give the killer credit in that no one had solved this mystery yet. The killer was smart enough to outwit both the police and me. They’d made away with a significant amount of goods, killed four people, and now were aiming for me.

Another bullet whizzed past me. This one ricocheted and then fell near my spot under the counter. The shots were coming a little too close to me. I wondered how much longer this could last. I’d counted four bullets, but since I had no idea of what type of weapon was being used, I couldn’t predict when the killer would be out of bullets. It could be a Gatling gun with a magazine that stretched down two city blocks for all I knew. However, I knew that was unlikely, and the weapon most likely had some form of silencer since the noise had not roused anyone to save me.

Even so, I was hopeless in knowing which types of weapon took a silencer and which did not. I thought about Googling it, but it seemed pointless and I wanted to save as much of my battery as possible in case I needed it again. I checked the time on my phone. It was 4:55 a.m. I knew that Land would be driving up soon. Since he was going to prepare the Meat Treats truck for its first day of operation, he would need more time.

I texted him about what was going on. I didn’t risk making a phone call. The last time the shooter had heard me in the truck, he switched from trying to enter the truck to shooting holes in it. If he suspected I was still alive and calling for help, he could spray bullets everywhere in hopes of hitting me and putting me out of business permanently. The sound of my voice could have pinpointed my location in a space as small as my truck.

I didn’t understand why someone would put me out of business now. I’d been at Samples location three days ago, but now I was back in my old spot, which no one had even bothered to move into while I was away.

My luck. Land did not respond to the text. I knew he had to be on the way, or at least picking up the truck. The shooter’s time was limited. City workers would be arriving in less than an hour, and Land would be here soon. It was just a matter of making sure I was safe until that time arrived.

The next bullet whizzed by, bounced off the wall, and hit the cabinet just three feet from where I cowered. The acrid gun smoke was getting thicker. I could taste it in my mouth, and while I wanted to cough to expel it from my lungs, I knew that a cough would tell the shooter that I was here and alive just as much as a call to 911. I held my arm over my nose and mouth to keep out the smoke.

Another bullet shot into the room, which made seven shots. I heard the crash of glass and saw a stream of guacamole run down the cabinet, which meant my condiments were unusable now. I silently cursed at the shooter who was ruining my business.

Seven bullets meant that the weapon was not a revolver or the shooter would have to reload. He could have a garrison of ammunition with him for all I knew. So a six-shooter was out of the question, but I didn’t even know if those guns still existed. Apparently, I was going to have to catch up on gun history if I was going to make it in this business. I hadn’t expected to need such wide-ranging knowledge to operate a food truck.

The shots were coming more quickly now. I had no chance to collect myself between each deafening boom in the small space. I didn’t know how much longer I could stand the noise and the stress. The constant assault of the sound against my ears combined with the sound of my pulse pounding in my head made me panicky. I didn’t want to lose it now. I was only 25 minutes or so from help.

I didn’t hear any noise from outside for a while, but I wasn’t sure if that was a trick. I couldn’t risk taking a step on the food truck’s floor if it was prone to bullets at any second. I was going to stay put until help arrived.

However, I wasn’t sure if it would arrive. I started hearing scratching sounds on the side of the truck. They must be trying to pick the lock again. I made myself as small as possible in the space under the sink, even though I knew that a cursory glance inside the truck would show my position. I was startled to realize that the shooter was now so brazen that he would face the street with a gun in his hand and try to pick the locks to the service window.

The noise continued for a few more seconds and then bright light flooded the space. I could see the clouds of gun smoke that circled everything in the food truck. I reached out of the space and quietly opened a door. I found the pans and pulled out the largest one I could find without making noise. I wanted to be as quiet as I could.

I thought I heard the sound of footsteps on the counter of the service window. I cursed that someone was using my clean counter as a launching pad into the truck to kill me. I gripped the panhandle with both hands, knowing that I was going to go out swinging.

The smoke was still thickest to my left, so I darted left out of the space, walking crouched down as far as I could go. I moved quickly to the window and saw the outline of a figure. I swung and struck the figure on the head. The man toppled out of the truck
backward
and hit the ground with a heavy thud.

I looked down from the service window at the figure on the ground. I took a deep gulp and said, “Hello, Land.”

Even though he’d been climbing in the window, I knew that he’d received the text and was here to rescue me. He couldn’t be the killer. I knew that much for certain. He’d had too many chances to do me in while we worked together. A gas line turned on, a mishap with a knife, any number of things could have led to my untimely demise. There was no way that he would have waited until he was gone to decide he hated me enough to kill me.

I jumped out of the truck. Land was out for the time being, so I walked around the truck. People were scurrying along the street to their offices. I wasn’t certain if they were all just running late or if they wanted no part of the scene on the sidewalk. I saw the shell casings on the ground where the shooter had been standing. I threw a dishtowel over them so that nothing would be disturbed. I then turned my attention to Land, who was saying something in Basque. It was probably for the best that I didn’t understand the language.

“What the hell did you do that for?” he asked as he slowly sat up. “I got your text, I was coming to help you and this is how you repay me.”

“There was someone shooting into the food truck. What did you expect me to do when I heard someone open the service window? Just sit there and wait to be killed?” I was talking very fast and breathing hard. A few people had started to congregate around the food truck, but not for the right reasons. They wanted to know what was going on, just as they had previously at Meat Treats. Fortunately, I still had my head attached to my shoulders.

“I did see someone standing by the door when I approached. He ran off when I came near. I tried the door, but it wouldn’t open, so I decided to come in through the window. I wouldn’t have bothered if I’d known I was going to end up with a knot on my head.” Land rubbed at the place where I’d hit him. He was right. He would have a swollen goose egg of a reminder of what I’d done.

“Do you have any idea who it was? Did you recognize him? It was a him, right?” I asked. I had a tendency to talk fast and talk a lot when I was stressed. I hoped that the speed of my conversation wouldn’t be an issue for Land. He was pretty good at keeping up with some of my stressed-speed conversations, but I knew that he struggled with accents and quick talking sometimes.

“I’m pretty sure it was a guy, and I have no idea who it was. I didn’t recognize him at all.” Land continued to rub the bump on his head.

Detective Danvers was in the growing crowd of spectators. He had two uniformed policemen with him. The policemen began to hold back the increasing number of people as he approached us. “What the hell is going on here, Land?” I noticed that he hadn’t even addressed his comments to me.

He pointed at me. “Maeve hit me with a pan.”

My breath caught in my throat. “Hey, tell the whole story. Someone was shooting at me while I was in the food truck. Land came in through the service window and I clocked him with a pan, thinking he was one of the people who were shooting at me.”

The detective looked from me to Land and then back again. “People? How many of them were there? Are you telling me that there’s a conspiracy going on around here?”

Land didn’t speak, so it fell on me to explain the situation. “Land says that he saw someone running away from the scene. Whoever it was had been shooting at me using a gap between the door and the floor. You can see for yourself.” I walked around to the entrance, and Danvers bent down to examine the holes around the door. Each circle was scorched around the edges. The holes looked similar to what I had seen from the inside of the truck with the added decoration of gunshot residue.

“You can’t get in this way,” I pointed out. “I barred the door when I heard someone trying to get in. I just assumed that it was an everyday mugger until he started shooting.” I pointed to the service window. “Land opened the window, and I came out that way. So if you want to see the inside of the food truck, you’ll have to go in that way too.”