by Dana Dratch
The hell with Pilates or spin class. I was going to make a fortune with the Scrubwoman’s Workout. Rubber gloves optional.
I never did get my hands on that recorder. Every time I got near the room, I could hear Mira and Chaz inside, going over the shocking details of “my” life.
After I hauled my aching body into my old Chevy, locked the doors, and cranked the engine to get the heat going, I checked my cell. A message from Trip, ten minutes ago. I hit speed dial. “You rang? How was Margaret’s?”
“I got a few things. I’m almost done here, but I’m starving. Thanks to you, I missed dinner. The grieving drink, but they do not eat.”
“Just like vampires. Waffle Barn?”
“Definitely Waffle Barn. I should be there in about twenty minutes.”
“I’ll be the one who smells like limes.”
When I walked in, Trip was already working on the “bottomless cup” of coffee that’s made Waffle Barn a favorite among long-haul truckers, third-shift workers, and college students.
The pressroom guys—the ones still left after pagination—love the place and pack the booths after the final run, ordering artery-clogging platters of waffles, eggs, bacon, and hash browns.
No reporters, though. Waffle Barn doesn’t serve booze.
I’d stripped off the baggy cardigan and added a little mascara and lipstick. So now I was only moderately schleppy.
At almost 1 A.M., Trip looked the way he always did: like he’d just stepped out of a GQ shoot. He’d removed his charcoal suit jacket, revealing suspenders and the wide, white French cuffs of his lavender shirt—along with a pair of gold cuff links I’d given him for his last birthday. Even after a sixteen-hour day, there wasn’t a blond hair out of place.
“How’s my favorite cleaning lady?”
“Don’t even start,” I said. “And for the record, I didn’t clean toilets tonight. Just dusting, polishing, and vacuuming.”
“Virtually a promotion.”
“You laugh, but I’ve spent the last two nights on latrine duty. Do you have any idea what it’s like to scour a public toilet?”
“Honey, until I moved into my own place after college, I thought toilets were self-cleaning.”
“I forgot who I was talking to.”
Trip’s family has money. Piles of it. His childhood home is a three-hundred-year-old mansion surrounded by five hundred acres of prime Virginia horse country. Anyone else would call it an estate. His family refers to it simply as “the Farm.”
“Think about it,” Trip said. “You flush them all the time, and they’re always sparkling.”
“You didn’t know about the midnight elves with scrub brushes?” I asked.
“Not a clue,” he replied. “I was too busy super-gluing sequins to my Keds. And, for what it’s worth, your name wasn’t mentioned much tonight at Margaret’s.”
“So they don’t think I did it?”
“Oh, they think you did it,” Trip said. “They’ve just taken to calling you ‘that redheaded she-devil.’ As in ‘that redheaded she-devil who killed our beloved Everett.’”
“Great. Just great.”
Trip wrinkled his nose. “What’s that smell?”
“Welcome to my new lime-scented life.”
“It’s not exactly limes,” he said. “More like petrochemicals with a citrus chaser.”
“The latest designer fragrance: Poverty.”
“Can’t say I care for it,” Trip said. “I thought you didn’t do toilets tonight.”
“I didn’t. But they make us wear black smocks that smell like they’ve been marinated in the stuff.”
“Did you at least get the recorder?” he asked.
“No. Walters—at least, I suspect it was Walters—left one of his little flying monkeys behind,” I said. “He was using the conference room to give Mira Myles an exclusive. Apparently, I’m a coke-snorting slut who was sent by the paper to write an exposé on the P.R. industry. I was collecting two salaries and spending the excess on men, drugs, and fast living.”
“That explains tonight’s fashion statement,” Trip said, pointing to my bubble-gum-pink “World’s Greatest Grandma” sweatshirt.
“Hey, this was on sale for $3.99,” I protested.
“You were overcharged.”
“You know Mira,” I said. “She’ll use the stuff with just enough ‘sources believe’ and ‘rumors persist,’ that her paper’s covered. How does she get away with it?”
“She’s essentially a gossip columnist, and gossip sells papers,” Trip said. “That buys her a lot of latitude. Plus, she claims she has corroboration but needs to protect her sources. So her editors allow her to keep those sources private.”
“Private, as in imaginary,” I said.
“Just like her childhood friends,” he added.
Mira had been jailed at least three times for “protecting” her sources. It made her the darling of the local media. The hard-charging reporter challenging the system.
I’d been a big fan, too. Until she was behind bars the second time. I was working the same story, and something about Mira’s information didn’t sit right.
When it was challenged by the subject of her story, a local political aide, she stonewalled, claiming an ironclad duty to her source. A judge tossed her in jail, and the local media—plus several national outlets—went nuts.
Reluctant to keep such a popular D.C. celeb behind bars too long, the judge gave her a severe finger wagging and released her.
A few sparsely attended hearings over the next year resulted in a finding that, while the “facts” in her story were technically wrong, she hadn’t purposely printed lies. Mira and her paper were off the hook. And on to another story.
“Any idea when it will run?” Trip asked.
We were now talking in terms of “when,” not “if.”
I shook my head.
“Ideally, it would be the morning of the funeral,” he said. “But that’s today. So she probably didn’t make the deadline.”
We could both see the page in our heads. My photo, looking like a deer in the headlights. Headline: Killer Employee? (The question mark would give them some deniability.) Or, for those who liked alliteration: Supermodel’s Sister Suspected Slayer.
“It’s got to be soon,” I reasoned. “This murder isn’t getting any fresher. So what did you hear at Margaret’s?”
“Nothing that’ll improve your appetite. Some interesting gossip, though. Any idea how Coleman and Walters got together?”
I shook my head. “Through work, I assumed.”
“Margaret.”
“Margaret?”
“She nursed Walters Sr. through his illness,” Trip said.
“Not too successfully. He died.”
“Well, apparently, Junior doesn’t hold a grudge. Shortly thereafter, Everett P. Coleman married Margaret, became business partners and best buds with Walters and acquired half the agency.”
“That’s odd,” I said.
“Yeah, I thought it smelled, too,” he admitted. “I’ve got some ideas, but I want to do a little checking first.”
“Want to give me a clue, Scooby-Doo?”
“Nah, it’s probably nothing,” he said. “And it might not even be relevant. But in the interest of running down every possible lead . . .”
“Before they run me over with a steamroller.”
“Eggs-actly,” Trip said. “And speaking of eggs . . .”
The waitress appeared, and we both ordered the same thing: the Barn Burner. Two eggs with cheese, onions, and peppers. A side of hash browns. Three slices of bacon. And a giant waffle slathered with butter. They should call it “Heart Attack on a Plate.” But that probably wouldn’t move the merchandise.
When she left, Trip wrinkled his nose again.
“That bad?” I asked.
“We’ve got to get you out of there,” he said. “Which reminds me, you’ve got to call in sick tomorrow. You’re working the wake.”
“What
?”
“Coleman’s wake. Tom made a few phone calls. He knows the guy who runs catering at The Barclay, and he needs a few extra hands to work the event. You’re in.”
“I can’t just pop up there,” I said. “Hell, at this point, if those people could get their hands on me, they’d burn me at the stake.”
“That’s the best part,” Trip said. “You’ll be in disguise. And at The Barclay, the servers are practically invisible anyway. Throw in the dim lighting, a little creative makeup, plus massive quantities of alcohol, and you’re good to go. The real problem is that Tom promised the guy three waiters.”
“The bunch at C&W has already seen you,” I said.
“Yeah. Besides, I want to show up as a guest.”
“You’re going to the wake?” I was truly touched.
“You think I’m going to send you into that shark tank alone?” he said. “Of course I’m going. And if we’re going to learn anything, we need all the eyes and ears we can get.”
“Where are we going to get two more servers to work a wake?” I asked, thinking out loud.
“How many cocktail waitresses do you know?”
“No.”
“Look, I know Nick will help you out,” Trip said. “And Gabby’s got actual experience. Of some sort.”
“I don’t want him mixed up in this,” I said. “Besides, there’s something about her that’s a little off.”
“As opposed to your life, which is running like a Swiss watch at the moment?”
“Point taken,” I said. “But she’s packing five different Social Security cards and matching driver’s licenses. All with different names. All with her photo.”
“And you learned this how, exactly?” he asked.
“Rifling through her purse. But that’s beside the point. She’s also carrying snaps of a boyfriend. And she spends hours in the bathroom with her phone.”
“You’re afraid what she’s really carrying is a torch?” Trip said.
“Why else do you keep a guy’s picture in your wallet?” I said.
“Maybe she’s a hit man, and he’s her next target.”
“Better than what I’m thinking,” I said. “What if she got into some kind of scrape—the mail-order business, the boyfriend, whatever—and needed to book it out of Vegas fast?”
“So she hops on the first Nick out of town?” Trip countered. “Seems a little extreme. I mean, there are plenty of other ways to leave Las Vegas. I believe they even made a movie about it.”
“Yeah, but this would also change her name at the same time. Legally. And it’s not like they took a plane, or a train, or even a bus. Nick drove here in a little used car he picked up in Vegas. So she wouldn’t show up on any travel records. Plus, they’ve been spending nothing but cash. Which means no telltale credit-card receipts. Hell, if Nick checked into the highway motels along the way, she wouldn’t even have had to show a credit card or driver’s license.”
“Sounds like she’s got the driver’s license thing covered,” Trip said. “Have you talked to Nick about any of this?”
“You mean Nick-the-happy-honeymooner who’s convinced he can do anything as long as they’re together?” I said.
“So I’m guessing she’s better looking than an emu?”
“Much. She also sleeps ’til noon, stays up all hours, and moves mountains of mailing boxes in and out of my house. And when she’s not on her laptop, she’s on her phone. I tried to talk with him a couple of times, but things keep coming up.”
“You don’t think the mail-order business is drug-related, do you?” Trip asked, leaning forward.
“Nah, Nick would never get mixed up in that,” I said almost blithely.
“We’re not talking about Nick. We’re talking about a strange woman you don’t know who’s staying at your home.” He paused, studying me. “What did you do?”
“OK, I may have peeked a little.”
“Annnnnnddd?”
“Designer bags. iPods. Smartphones. Jewelry. Exactly the kind of stuff Nick said she was selling.”
“So she’s up to something, but it’s not drugs,” Trip concluded.
“Pretty much.”
“No offense, but we could use a little larceny on our side for a change,” he said.
“So you want me to offer an olive branch?”
He flashed a devilish grin. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
Chapter 20
By the time I got home, it was almost 3 A.M. All the lights were blazing, so I knew Nick and Gabby were up. I just hoped they weren’t up to something.
As I hit the front porch, the door opened and something shot past my legs. Lucy.
“Hey, you’re out late,” Nick called from the doorway.
“I met Trip for an early breakfast.”
Lucy ran back and scampered around my legs, sniffing furiously. The canine equivalent of “What’d you bring me? What’d you bring me?”
I reached down and scratched her head. “Nutty little dog.”
“She is that,” Nick said, holding the door open for Lucy and me. “By the time we got home, she was so hungry, she’d actually eaten one of her chew sticks. I think she’s part goat.”
I glanced down at Lucy. She looked away.
On the sofa, Gabby was typing madly on her laptop. I also noticed that the stack of boxes in the corner had changed. Grown. Pretty soon the pile was going to need its own room. Maybe it could pay rent, too.
Suddenly, I was exhausted. Physically tired, and tired of the way my life was going. I wanted to take a shower and sleep for a week. Instead, I cleared my throat.
“Guys, I could really use your help with something,” I started.
The next ten minutes were a blur. I remember a lot of squealing and hugging (Gabby), and a solid slap on the back (Nick). Bottom line: they were happy to help.
Gabby even volunteered to help me with my disguise. Or “makeover,” as she called it.
“Honey, you’re cute, but you don’t wear nearly enough makeup,” she said. “Lucky for you, I can fix that.”
* * *
Later that same morning, Nick was in the backyard with Lucy, who seemed genuinely intrigued by the idea of peeing and pooping outside. Being a small dog with an even smaller bladder, she was hitting the mark about fifty percent of the time.
But she was getting better. The puddles were closer to the doors. And I noticed she’d started avoiding the carpets, in favor of the hardwood floors or the vinyl in the kitchen. At least if she wasn’t completely housebroken, she was getting easier to clean up after.
It was only a little past 8 A.M. when the phone rang. Say what you want about the bill collectors, none of them ever called before nine. So what kind of bad news gets up this early?
I decided this was a job for voice mail.
Five minutes later, I got up the nerve to check the messages. “Alex, this is Linda in Dr. Braddock’s office,” said a crisp female voice. “The check you wrote for your last visit was returned by the bank. We’re going to need you to come in this morning and pay your bill.”
What?! How? I knew the money was in my account because I’d transferred it from savings right after I wrote the check. I’d moved just enough to cover the dentist and buy some groceries—leaving a hefty twenty-eight-dollar cushion in my checking account. Look out, Vegas, here I come.
Lucy bounded in the kitchen door, tripped over nothing, and rolled. She righted herself, plopped down at my feet, and flipped over, offering her belly for a rub. Of course, she got it.
Why couldn’t my life be that simple?
I walked into the dining room that I’d turned into my home office. What did I need with a formal dining room? The meals I didn’t eat at my cozy kitchen table, I ate on the couch in my living room. Or stretched out in front of the TV in my bedroom.
When I logged into my checking account, I got nasty surprise No. 2. The balance was $476 and change. It should have been either $786 or twenty-eight dollars, depending on whether
Dr. Braddock had cashed his check.
I scrolled down to “recent transactions” and saw a bunch of charges for various bank services, plus six overdraft fees at thirty-five dollars each. Yikes! And more important, how?
I grabbed the phone and started dialing.
“Helicon National Bank. This is Allie. How can I provide great service today?”
I supplied Allie with two pin numbers (for security), and the short version of my story. Unpaid dentist. Twelve mystery charges. No checks outstanding except the one to said dentist. Who still hadn’t gotten his money.
“Let me place you on a short hold while I check your account,” she said.
Three minutes later, Allie was back and a lot less friendly.
“I’m sorry, but the check was returned due to insufficient funds. That’s why you incurred the fees.”
“I had $786 in my account. The check was for $758. How is that not enough?”
“Your balance wasn’t $786 at the time the check was presented. It was $28.32. You made a deposit after 2 p.m. So it didn’t go into your account until this morning, just after midnight.”
“I transferred cash from one account to another. That’s supposed to go in immediately.”
“That was under our old policy. Under the new policy, which went into effect on the first of the month, all deposits made from a foreign ATM before 2 p.m. are processed that evening after midnight. Transactions made after 2 p.m. won’t be processed until the next business day. Since you didn’t have enough money in your account to cover the check, you incurred the NSF fees.”
“That explains one of the charges. What about the other eleven?”
“Actually, six of these are NSF charges. Let’s see, you transferred money through a foreign ATM. So there’s a ten-dollar foreign ATM fee. Then you withdrew one hundred dollars from a foreign ATM. That’s a second foreign ATM fee. Since there were insufficient funds in your account, that also triggered the second NSF fee. You were assessed your monthly account maintenance fee, which is twenty dollars. Since you didn’t have enough to cover that, there was a third NSF fee. Then, there was an excessive savings withdrawal fee, since this is the third time this month you’ve removed money from the savings account. That’s fifteen dollars, plus another NSF fee. And a twenty-dollar charge for printing checks. You did order checks?”