by Dana Dratch
She reached over and patted my arm. “You eat. Get warm.” And with that, she trundled off toward my bedroom.
Once the door closed, we all sprang into action. “I’m turning up the heat,” I said, running for the thermostat.
“I’m checking the fridge,” Nick called, heading for the kitchen. “Hey, this is in good shape,” he shouted. “The Fudgsicles are still like rocks!”
“Cranking it up to eighty-two!” I yelled from the hall.
“How about some hot chocolate?” he called.
“Oh, sugar, I could use some of that,” Gabby chirped.
Five minutes later, we were clustered around the kitchen table as Nick ladled out frothy cups of steaming chocolate.
“So you really didn’t bounce a check to the power company?” Gabby asked, dropping a handful of mini-marshmallows into her cup.
“I’m playing it a lot closer to the line than I’d like. But this month’s bills are paid, and I have enough squirreled away for the next couple of mortgage payments. And I’m working now. Plus, Peter sent me a check to tide me over.”
“How much?” Nick asked.
“Nicky! That’s none of our business,” Gabby said.
“Hey, he’s my brother, too,” Nick said, reaching for the can of whipped cream. “I’m just curious.”
“Five thousand,” I said. “But I haven’t been able to cash it because the bank has me on some sort of watch list.”
“You just need to find the right check-cashing place,” Gabby said.
“That’s what I told her!” Nick said. “Does she listen to me? Nooooo.”
Gabby patted my hand. “Don’t you worry, sugar. I’ll find you a place, and we can go there together.”
Oh, goody.
Chapter 34
My new hobby: sleeping late.
When I opened my eyes, a wonderful smell pulled me into the kitchen.
Baba was tending a boiling pot on the back of the stove, as Nick slid a tray from the oven.
“Just in time,” he said. “I need a taster. Strawberry tartlets.”
“First, boiled egg,” Baba said. “Make you strong.”
“She already smells strong,” Nick said. “Does that count?”
Baba waved a spoon at him.
I hit the cupboard for a coffee mug. “That reminds me. Nick, don’t plan anything for this evening. You’re going to help me with an errand.”
“Is that cleaning job?” Baba asked, clearly worried.
“No, I’m not going tonight. I’m calling in sick.”
“Sick of the stench of lime cleaner?” Nick said.
“No lie,” I said, spooning horseradish on my plate for the egg. “We can leave here around six thirty, and I promise to have you home by nine thirty.”
“That’ll work,” he said. “I need to spend tonight trying out a few new cookie recipes.”
“Sounds like I picked the right night to skip work.”
“Good girl. Eat egg,” Baba said, dumping a brown egg onto my plate.
Two eggs and three tartlets later, I decided that—if C&W was attacking my finances—it was high time to fortify my defenses.
First, I called the post office and put my mail on hold. From now on, if I wanted my junk mail, bills, and flyers for pressure washing and discount car repair, I was going to have to wait in line and show ID. At least, until I could afford a curbside mailbox with a lock.
Then I checked the calendar and realized the letter scheduling my unemployment hearing was way overdue. I had a nasty feeling there might be a reason for that. I dialed the state’s automated helpline and punched in my Social Security number.
“Thank you for calling the Virginia Employment Commission. The status of your claim is . . . pending. Your hearing is set for April first at eleven a.m.”
Say what? That’s today! In forty minutes!
I hit “0,” and prayed for a real, live human being.
“Employment Commission, can I help you?”
“I have a hearing. Today. In forty minutes. I never got the notice in the mail. Is there any way to postpone it?”
“Ma’am, slow down and give me your name and Social Security number.”
I held my breath as she entered my information into the computer. “No, I’m sorry. This is a contested matter. There will be other parties in attendance. Less than an hour prior is too late to reschedule. And I have to advise you, it’s never a good idea to miss a hearing. That could result in a default judgment.”
“What’s a default judgment?”
“In a contested claim, the matter could automatically be decided in favor of the attending party.”
“Can you at least tell them that I might be a few minutes late? I never got the letter. Someone’s been taking the mail from my box. I even reported it to the post office.” I was babbling.
“I’ll inform the officer that you’re coming. But you need to get here as soon as possible.” She lowered her voice. “They really don’t like to be kept waiting.”
I got directions to the office and hung up the phone. “Nick! Put the tartlets on hold! I need a ride! My unemployment hearing’s today. In thirty-five minutes.”
I didn’t wait for his response. I bailed into the bathroom, ran a brush over my teeth, then locked myself in my room. In my closet, I shoved my body into my last good pair of pantyhose, a conservative white blouse, and my nicest suit. I slapped the makeup mirror onto my dresser, brushed my hair, shaped it into a businesslike twist, and fixed it in place with a little hairspray.
Perfect corporate drone.
I snatched up a lipstick, eyeliner, foundation and mascara from my makeup box, and jammed them into my purse with a wad of Kleenex. I glanced in the mirror, considered the dark circles, and grabbed the concealer, too.
“Come on, Nick, we’ve got to leave now!” I hollered toward the kitchen.
“Can’t! I’ve got an oven full of brioche rolls. Gabby’s gonna take you.”
I ducked into the kitchen in time to see him give her a long, passionate kiss then hand her a thermos, car keys, and a brown lunch bag.
My soon-to-be sister-in-law was decked out in snug-fitting jeans that tapered off into snakeskin boots, and a long-sleeve, leopard-print T-shirt that covered her like a second skin. She topped it off with an orange ski vest that, in the event of a water landing, could be used as a floatation device. Her hair—or today’s wig—was big, blond, and poufy. Harkins, she wasn’t.
But beggars can’t be choosers.
I checked Baba. She had her back to the scene, vigorously stirring something on the stove.
I handed Gabby the directions. “Thanks for doing this,” I said. “The mail’s still going missing, and I just found out my unemployment hearing’s in thirty minutes.”
“No sweat, sugar. I’ll get you there in plenty of time. Grab your check, too. I think I found you a check-cashing place. We can swing by after. This will be fun. We’ll be like Thelma and Louise.”
“Uh, didn’t Thelma and Louise die in the end? In a fiery car crash?”
“Did they? I never saw it. That’s probably why there wasn’t a sequel.”
She gave me a closer look and squinted. “You’re going to do your makeup in the car, right?”
“Um, yeah. That’s why you’re driving.”
“Oh good. I was afraid you were going out like that.”
* * *
I actually made it to my hearing five minutes early.
If Thelma and Louise ever need a driver to take them over that cliff in the sequel, Gabby will have no problem getting the job.
I’d been worried about going up against one of C&W’s silk-stocking lawyers. But after facing down death multiple times on the ride over, I was fresh out of fear.
When we arrived, Gabby elected to wait in the car and eat her brown-bag breakfast. Which seemed like a good idea to me.
So did walking home.
I gave my name to the receptionist, who consulted a clipboard, then escorted me to the bac
k of the office. She pointed to a desk in the corner, where a middle-aged African-American woman was typing notes into a desktop computer.
A plaque on her desk read “Irene Jenkins, Supervisor.” She was wearing a short-sleeved beige silk blouse and had a celery green suit jacket hung on the back of her chair.
“Uh, hi, I’m Alex Vlodnachek,” I said, approaching.
“Irene Jenkins,” she said without looking up. “Have a seat.”
A half-minute of silence later, she finished typing, made some notes on a legal pad, then set it aside.
“All right, do you understand how this works?”
“Not really.”
“Never applied for unemployment before?”
“No.” I looked at the floor. For some reason, the fact that I was applying at all was embarrassing. Shameful.
She gave me the visual once-over. I couldn’t tell if I’d passed or failed.
“Your former employer’s opposing your claim. You’ll give me your side of the story. The employer’s rep will give theirs. I’ll make a decision. If anybody doesn’t like my decision, they can appeal.”
“While that’s going on, what happens with payments?”
“If I decide in your favor, you will receive benefits. But if your employer wins on appeal, you’ll have to give that money back. Likewise, if I deny your claim, but you win the appeal, you’d get any back payments you were due.”
“Seems fair.”
“Any other questions?”
I shook my head.
“OK, why did you leave your employer?” she asked, turning to the computer screen. “Coleman & Walters?”
“I was fired.”
“When?”
“Tuesday, March twenty-third.”
“Who fired you?”
“Benjamin Walters.”
“Did he explain why he fired you?”
“That’s kind of a long story.”
Irene Jenkins put both forearms on her cluttered desk and leaned forward. “Well, your friends aren’t here yet, and I’ve got nothing but time.”
I could tell she was sizing me up.
I took a deep breath. “Friday night, Everett Coleman, Walters’ partner, tried to send me to a hotel with a client. I refused. Coleman was killed in his office Sunday afternoon. Tuesday, Walters fired me. He contends that Coleman had fired me earlier, and that I killed him.”
“Did you?”
“No. And the police will back me up. I’ve been cleared.”
She nodded.
“Walters also alleges that I was still working for the newspaper—that’s where I worked before Coleman & Walters—and that I was doing some kind of exposé on the public relations industry.”
“Were you?”
“No. But I am beginning to wish I’d never switched careers.”
“I can see why. Is that the reason he gave for your firing? That you killed your boss?”
“That and the double-job thing. He also said I didn’t do my job well. And that I wasn’t a team player. I took that for code that I wouldn’t sleep with a client.”
“Have you secured other employment?”
My stomach lurched. I didn’t want to lie to her. I also didn’t want the C&W crowd to know about my cleaning job. For so many reasons.
“Yes. But I’d rather not tell the folks from Coleman & Walters, if that’s OK.”
“That’s fine. It’s none of their concern. What are you doing?”
“Cleaning.”
“Cleaning?”
“I took a job with a janitorial service. I clean offices at night.”
I swear she winced.
“During the day, I’m trying to get freelance writing jobs.”
“OK, what are you earning at the cleaning service?”
“A hundred and eighty dollars a week.”
She checked the computer and shook her head. “It doesn’t show up on your records.”
“They pay in cash.”
One of her eyebrows went up. “When did you start?”
“The same day I got fired. That night.”
“So you’ve gotten at least one check?”
“Cash. But, yeah. I got a hundred dollars for the first week. But I had to give it to Maria and Olga.”
“’Scuse me?”
“I only worked three nights that week, so I only got a hundred dollars. And the industrial bathroom cleaner we use is pretty toxic, so I traded the money with two other workers to let me dust and vacuum for a night. Otherwise, the new workers always have to scrub the toilets.”
She gave me a hard look. I could practically read the words “Am I being punked?” on her face.
“OK, here’s how it works,” she said. “Any money you take home—you have to declare that, cash or not. It’ll be deducted from your benefits for that week. At this point, based on your previous salary and work history, it looks like you’re eligible for about two hundred and fifty dollars a week.”
“I’m not going to be staying at the cleaning service much longer,” I said. “I already got a freelance assignment, and I’m hoping to pick up more.”
“What does that pay?” she asked.
“Anywhere from a few hundred dollars to several thousand, depending on the job,” I explained. “The one I’m working on now will pay three thousand dollars, but I won’t see the money for four to six weeks.”
“Still better than cleaning toilets. So why did you take the custodial job?”
Fudge time. “My younger brother and his fiancée moved in the day before I got fired. Nobody’s working. And Walters is telling everyone in town that I’m a murderer who was doing an undercover exposé for the paper. Other public relations agencies won’t even take my calls.”
“Fair enough,” she said. “Keep a written record of your job search. And be sure to declare every dollar you bring home, the week you earn it. It will be deducted from your weekly benefits, less fifty dollars. And if your earnings are higher than your weekly benefits, you just won’t get an unemployment check that week.”
“You mean I can still get unemployment?” I was so relieved, I felt tears in my eyes.
“Yup.”
I swallowed a couple of times, took a few deep breaths, and tried to maintain control.
She pulled out a Kleenex box and handed it across the desk.
“I’m sorry. I never cry. I swear,” I said, welling up.
“Losing a job is traumatic. I’ve seen grown men cry. Truckers, welders, dockworkers. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It gets better. And it looks like you’ve got some prospects. Clearly, you’re not afraid of hard work. Any other sources of income?”
“My older brother sent me some money. A check. I haven’t cashed it yet. Five thousand dollars.” I was babbling again.
“Nice. I wouldn’t mind having a brother like that. Instead, I’ve got a brother-in-law sleeping on my couch. Been there six weeks. If I didn’t love my sister’s kids, I’d have killed him by now.”
“Do I declare my brother’s check now, or when I cash it?”
“Neither,” she said. “Honey, you only declare income. What you work to earn. Somebody wants to hand you a bag of money, that’s their business. Doesn’t have anything to do with the Employment Commission.”
She glanced down at her notes and back at the computer screen. “Let’s see. Murder. Working two jobs simultaneously. Not a team player. Anything else your employer is going to tell me?”
I shook my head.
“All right, barring anything totally unexpected, I’ll green-light your payments,” she said. “They begin one week after your official separation. That first week is unpaid. So they should cut you a check tomorrow for about two hundred dollars, and you’ll probably receive it next week. You can also elect to have direct deposit, if you prefer. Call in once a week and report how much money you’ve brought home in wages. And keep detailed, written records of your job search. You’ll be eligible for regular payments for up to six months. But it doesn’t sound li
ke you’ll be needing it anywhere near that long. Any other questions?”
I shook my head again, and used the wad of tissue to blot my eyes and wipe my nose.
She glanced over at her computer. “Good, because it looks like your former employer’s people are here.”
I don’t know what I was expecting. One of the firm’s attorneys. Someone from HR. Or some flunky of Margaret’s.
But not Walters himself. In living gray and white. Flanked by a lawyer on each side.
He descended into the only available chair, while the attorneys hovered over him like avenging angels in camel-hair coats. Or muscle in a bad mob film.
Irene Jenkins didn’t bat an eye. She jabbed an intercom button. “Jessie, we’re gonna need a few more chairs back here.”
Walters, ramrod straight and decked out in a charcoal gray banker’s suit and conservative rep tie, handed off his London Fog to one of the attorneys, took in his surroundings, and leaned forward.
“Ms. Jenkins, I’m Benjamin Walters, head of Coleman & Walters. For obvious reasons, I will not be addressing the suspect directly. Instead, I’ll confine any and all comments—those that my legal team will allow me to make—to you.”
He sat back in the chair and pursed his lips.
“Mr. Walters, this is an unemployment-benefits hearing. I’m asking the questions. You’re answering them. Anything you don’t want to answer”—she looked back and forth at the two attorneys—“for whatever reason, I’ll note in the records. And, just to be clear, Ms. Vlodnachek is a claimant, not a suspect.”
I swear he blanched. But since he was pretty pasty already, it was hard to tell.
“Now, is it true you fired Ms. Vlodnachek on Tuesday, March twenty-third?”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“How was her employment with your company terminated?
“My partner—my late partner, Everett Coleman—fired her the previous Friday. That would have been”—he gestured to one of the attorneys, who leaned in and whispered something—“the nineteenth of March.”
“Why?”
“I’m afraid that is an ongoing employment issue and quite possibly the basis of a lawsuit. We cannot discuss it at present.” He gave a thin-lipped half smile.
“Mr. Walters, this is an unemployment office. Ms. Vlodnachek applied for unemployment compensation because she was fired from your company. You requested this hearing to fight her claim. Either surrender your opposition to the claim—permanently—or tell me why she was fired.”