The Toil and Trouble Trilogy, Book One

by Val St. Crowe

  * * *

  I go to the jail to meet with my father for the first time. I think about the last time I was here, talking to Tito about Angelo and whether or not he killed my mother. I realize that even though I know more now about everything, I still don’t know enough. I want my father to give me real answers, not the kinds of things he told me over the phone. I want to find my mother. My father claims he doesn’t know where she is. I believe him. At least I think I do.

  I wait for my father in the visiting area. They bring him out in his orange jumpsuit. He looks the same as ever, except a little older. There are small streaks of gray in his beard. I have memories of seeing him when I was a little girl. Whenever he came home from work, I would sprint out the front door to meet him, yelling, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” He would reach down, pick me up, and swing me around.

  This time I don’t even get up when he comes in, but I do smile at him when he sits down with me. “Hi Dad,” I say. I feel shy.

  “It’s good to see you, Olivia,” he says.

  And that’s it for small talk or for our warm father-daughter reunion. Things are different between us now. There’s business to worry about. I give my father a report on what’s going on with the business. I speak in a code of sorts that Tommy has taught me. It’s all based on baking and cooking terms, so to the casual observer it would sound like we were talking about food.

  When I get finished, my father leans back in his chair. “You seem to be doing quite well. But I do have a few concerns. I’ve heard that you aren’t sticking to the family recipe when you’re making ziti, Olivia.”

  For some reason, ziti is the code word for charms. My father somehow knows that I’m using different kinds of charms than the ones we usually use. “The family recipe makes people get sick, Dad,” I say. “The new recipe is safe, and all the kids like it a lot more.” Kids is the code word for customers or clients.

  “Go back to the old recipe, Olivia. The old recipe is what makes our family unique. I won’t have you messing with that.” His eyes have narrowed, and his voice sounds colder.

  “Why?” I say. “What’s the benefit of the old recipe? Ever since I tried the new recipe, we’ve all gotten lots more pesto.” Pesto is the code word for money. I assume this is because pesto is green and money is green, but I really have no idea.

  My dad chuckles, but he doesn’t actually sound amused. “Humor your old man, okay?”

  No. It’s not okay. I’m not going to start selling our virus-infested charms again. I cross my arms over my chest. “This have anything to do with the fact that our family recipe makes people even sicker than most other family’s ziti?”

  He raises his eyebrows. A small smile creeps across his face. “You impress me again, Olivia.”

  That is not an answer. “Does it have anything to do with Mom? With what she knew?” Or possibly even still knows if she’s still out there somewhere.

  My father scratches his beard. “We don’t have time to get into all that right now. Just promise me that you will be using the old recipe from here on out. It’s important, Olivia.”

  I don’t want to make any kind of promise like that, because I don’t think I can handle having the idea that I’m turning people into berserkers on my conscience. “If it’s so important,” I say, “you’ll explain to me why. My new recipe is working fine. Better than the old recipe, in fact. I don’t see any reason to change.”

  “Don’t be stubborn.”

  I don’t say anything.

  My father surveys me from across the table. We are both quiet for several minutes. Just when the silence is beginning to get awkward, my father leans forward. “I heard you had some troubles with Vincent.”

  “It worked out,” I say.

  “Did it?” He smiles. “He seems to have disappeared, at any rate.”

  Why is my father intimating that I’ve killed someone while we’re in a jail? “Yeah, it’s a little strange.”

  “You know why I didn’t choose Vincent over you?” asks my father.

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “He seemed like the kind of boy who thought he knew better than the family about everything. He seemed like someone who’d make trouble, who’d march to his own drum beat, if you know what I mean.”

  “You were right. He was that kind of person.”

  “You, on the other hand, you’ve always been loyal to our family.”

  Argh. Here it comes. My father is about to stick the knife of guilt into my gut and twist it. “More pesto equals more loyalty in my opinion, Dad,” I say.

  He chuckles again. “All right, all right, Olivia. You can use the new recipe. But don’t phase the old recipe out completely, okay? There are still kids who want that old recipe. You can’t let them down.”

  I suppose he’s right. All we’re selling these days are charms to theater-goers. We do have loyal clients who want the old charms. To not provide to those people wouldn’t be good business. “Of course not, Dad. I wouldn’t want to let down the kids.” Even if I do make them into berserkers.

  “That’s all I’m asking.” And he grins a huge grin.