Rebel Without A Clue

by Carolyn Scott

  "No, some annoying drunk guy will get lucky, and you'll call me in the morning feeling sorry for yourself and I'll feel bad for not making sure you at least scored the cute drunk guy."

  I gave her a smile that sort of slipped at the edges. After a few drinks, everything felt lopsided. "Great. Sounds like a plan. You're the best friend a girl could have."

  Gina and I became friends when we were two pig-tailed little girls with a passion for dressing up in her mother's fake diamonds. Nothing much had changed since then. We both still liked dressing up and neither of us could afford the real bling. And Gina still looked better than me in a halter neck dress.

  Her family moved into my neighborhood when we were both seven. I instantly connected with the friendly girl who liked everybody, even the kids who teased her for having an unpronounceable last name.

  I suppose the teasing made me feel sorry for her at first, so I took her under my wing, but our friendship quickly developed thanks to her infectious personality and her large, multicultural family. They were so different than mine.

  Growing up, dinner at home had been a quiet time to reflect on the day's achievements. Since my achievements never included winning in athletics carnivals, winning the state spelling bee or winning the Teacher's Pet award (like my brother), meal times were tortuous. To avoid Dad's probing questions about the latest science/math/geography/whatever test, I made sure my mouth was always full and my eyes averted.

  In contrast, dinner at Gina's house was chaos. I loved it. With her parents, grandmother, four brothers and one sister all talking—and sometimes shouting—over each other, and with the TV turned up loud enough for the benefit of partially deaf Nonna, it was Heaven to a noise-deprived child.

  The first time I visited, I thought they were having a family argument and I slunk into the corner, embarrassed. They talked decibels above anyone in my household and they talked about stuff my parents wouldn't dream of discussing around a visitor, and often around their own children. Like money problems, work problems and even sex problems.

  In contrast, my family just didn't stack up on the excitement meter. From then on, I tried to eat at Gina's place as much as my father would allow.

  "Cat, I should tell you—" Our drinks arrived and she waited until the waitress left.

  "What?" I swallowed half my drink in one gulp.

  "That I went to see Will after work tonight."

  "You did what?" A few of the suits looked at us but I didn't care. I blinked at Gina, unable to understand her betrayal. So much for my so-called best friend. "You didn't tell him I want my job back did you?"

  "Do you?"

  "No!" I think.

  "Then no, I didn't."

  I wasn't sure whether to believe her. Gina was a wily fox—

  Whoa, wait a minute. Gina was a fox. A sexy one. And I bet Will noticed it too, just like every guy in Code Red had when she sashayed in. And since she'd already expressed an interest in him…

  Ugh. Not enough alcohol in my system to erase that image. I downed the rest of my drink and waved at the waitress to get her attention.

  "Cat, slow down," Gina warned. "You don't want to get drunk tonight. You've got to find a new job tomorrow."

  "So you didn't talk to Will about giving me my job back?" I didn't want to probe, but like a motorist passing a car crash, I felt compelled to find out more.

  Gina avoided my gaze. "Not exactly."

  She squirmed in her seat. Yep, definitely something going on there.

  "Hello, ladies."

  We both turned to the man dressed in an expensive pin-stripe suit holding an imported beer bottle. He was blond, okay looking with perfect teeth. I knew about the teeth because he gave me a face-splitting smile. He turned to Gina and the smile grew even wider.

  "Can I buy you lovely ladies a drink?" he said to Gina's breasts.

  "No thanks," I said before Gina said yes. I love her but she has a problem saying no to men. She thinks if she says no, she could be turning away The One.

  "I was asking this lady," the blond said.

  "Actually you were asking us both while looking at her breasts. Now push off."

  He ambled away, mumbling something under his breath about stuck-up bitches.

  "Cat!" said Gina. "That wasn't very nice."

  "Well, he was rude. We were in the middle of a conversation." I crossed my legs and smoothed my skirt so the side split didn't ride high and flash too much flesh. Suddenly I didn't feel like picking up men anymore.

  "Right, where were we?" she said. "Ah, yes, Will."

  "I don't want to talk about him." I held up my hands. I needed time to get used to the idea before I heard the details.

  She looked reluctant to let the subject go, so I quickly said, "I met this cute guy the other day." I frowned into my empty glass. "Actually, he's not cute, he's more…scary. He's got this horrible scar over one eye and he—"

  "Is he good in bed?"

  "Don't know, but something tells me he could teach even you a few moves."

  She laughed. "So where did you meet him?"

  "He's an undercover cop. I met him while working on Roberta Scarletti's case."

  "A cop. Wasn't Will a cop once?"

  I nodded. "They know each other. But something must have happened between them because you could have cut the tension with a butter knife. Maybe I should ask Will. Oh."

  Gina covered my hand with hers, and frowned sympathetically. "Cat, ask for your job back. He's not that mean."

  "He fired me, remember. If he wants me back, he has to come begging."

  "That's not what I heard."

  "You don't know the full story." And she'd probably believe everything Will said if they were bonking partners.

  The night deteriorated after that. A couple of guys hit on us, and when I sent them packing, a couple more took their place so I threw a drink over one. Since I didn't have any more money and no one offered to buy me another after that display, I suggested we leave. Gina looked only too happy to get out of there.

  We caught a cab and she woke me up when we reached my place. She made sure I got inside okay then returned to the cab and sped away into the night.

  The last thing I remember was looking down at my shoes and wondering how I was going to bend down and take them off without falling over.

  Hangovers are God's way of punishing you for being wicked the night before. Except I felt cheated because the previous night couldn't be classed as wicked, not in a fun way. I'd sort of argued with Gina, passed up on a couple of potentially good dates, and I still had a mental image of Gina and Will writhing naked on my desk.

  I cracked open an eyelid to look at the bedside clock. Nine. Too early for a Saturday. I tried to fall back to sleep but I couldn't stop thinking about Lou and the jewelry. I'd called Roberta the night before to inform her of my freelance status and she'd seemed fine with that. As long as I got her jewelry box, she didn't care who I worked for. But she did want to know if I would be charging less since I didn't have the name of Knight Investigations backing me up. I'd agreed since I didn't have anything backing me up, like equipment, co-workers or experience.

  I rolled out of bed and noticed I still had my shoes on. And all my clothes. A quick peek in the bathroom mirror told me I still had my makeup on too, and it was now smeared around my eyes in a panda bear imitation.

  I stood under the shower until the hot water ran out then scrambled to wash my hair before I froze. I dried, wrapped a towel around my hair, and swallowed some Tylenol.

  I didn't feel like food but I knew from past experience I had to eat something to soak up the alcohol sloshing around my system. Dried toast was about all I could stomach.

  When the Tylenol finally kicked in, I felt ready to face the day. I dried my hair, attempting the sexy, messy look but only achieving the messy part. I dressed in stone-colored Capri pants, a fitted white top with skinny shoulder straps and white mules. Stylish yet casual and practical for a day of snooping.

  I headed
out the door and looked to the heavens. Dark clouds had rolled in overnight, bringing thick, cloying air and the threat of a downpour. I drove east to Lou's apartment. It was deserted except for the crime scene tape, so I continued past. I was close to the office and part of me wanted to stop to have a chat with Carl, but I kept going, turning north onto High.

  Fifteen minutes later I parked in front of Valerie Stuwicki's neat blue house in Kingfield, a part of Renford where hard-working, respectable people sat on the front porch on weekends and watched the world go by. Most of the families had grown up kids who'd moved out and started families of their own, while the parents had retired to putter around their gardens and gossip to the neighbors.

  I knocked on the door of Valerie's place and a sixtyish woman as wide as she was tall answered.

  "Yes?" she said. "What do you want?" Cheery.

  "Is Valerie home?"

  "Val! Someone here to see you!" she shouted over her shoulder.

  A younger version of the same woman appeared. She had a pretty face with a pert nose, glossy black eyes, reddened from crying, and equally glossy hair hanging around her shoulders. She was attractive but her body could best be described as pear-shaped. Her hips were way out of proportion to the rest of her. She looked like she had a cushion stuffed down either side of her track pants.

  "Who are you?" Guess manners weren't big in the family.

  "My name's Cat Sinclair. I'm an investigator. Valerie, I know this is a traumatic time for you, but I need to ask some questions."

  Don't ask for ID, don't ask for ID.

  She hesitated and I put on my sympathy face. Actually, I did feel sorry for her. Not because she looked visibly upset but because she obviously had no idea what a loser Lou had been or she wouldn't be taking his death so badly.

  Finally the door widened. I went inside and was directed to a comfortable living room. A gray-haired man sitting in a recliner looked up from the television.

  "Another cop," he muttered, then turned back to the TV.

  I saw no reason to correct him.

  "She's already answered a million questions," Valerie's mother said, standing in the doorway, her arms crossed under a very large bosom.

  "So you live here with your parents?" I asked Valerie.

  She nodded. At least that solved the mystery of why Lou never stayed the night. Her parents must have known he visited but it probably wasn't until after they went to bed that the lovers performed.

  "Of course she does," Mrs Stuwicki said. "She's a good girl."

  "Motherrrr," Valerie whined. "Haven't you got washing up to do?"

  Mrs Stuwicki humphed. "Make it quick," she said and scuttled away.

  Valerie seemed to relax a little with her mother gone. "What do you want to know?"

  "Did Lou ever talk to you about some jewelry?"

  "Jewelry?" Her eyes lit up then teared up. "Do you mean… He was going to ask me…"

  "Um, no." Her face crumpled and she started to cry so I quickly added, "Well, maybe he was going to. I mean, maybe something in this missing jewelry box could answer that."

  The tears stopped. She dabbed her eyes with her knuckles. "You see, if we was engaged, even promised to be engaged, then I'd be a widow, right? And a widow has a certain status in the community, right? People look up to widows. Widows get respected." She screwed up her nose. "Now that bitch of a wife gets to be the widow. I hate her. Bitch."

  Oh-kay. "So you haven't seen any jewelry at Lou's lately? Or a jewelry box?" I described the box.

  "No. Why?"

  "Sorry, that's classified."

  She made an O with her lips and nodded knowingly. "Do you know who whacked him yet?"

  People outside of mob movies say whack? "Everything is being done to find Lou's killer," I assured her. "But I'm going to need your help."

  Valerie's hips rolled forward in the chair. "Anything."

  "Can you describe his patterns, routines? What did he do, who did he see, that sort of thing."

  She stared blankly at me.

  "Did he take a walk at the same time every day, for example?"

  "Lou never walked anywhere."

  "Okay, so he drove." If only I could get into the Camaro. "Where did he drive to on Mondays?"

  She cast her eyes to the ceiling, thinking hard. "Most week days he worked at Doors Galore. They sell doors."

  I took out the notepad and pen I'd thrown into my handbag and wrote down the details as she gave them to me. The owner of Doors Galore was a cousin of Lou's cell mate. He'd given Lou a temporary job when he got out which had turned more permanent either because Lou couldn't find other work or doors were selling like hotcakes.

  I also learned that he ate takeout from Mama's Pizza or the Chicken Run except for Wednesday nights when he ate at his mother's and Sunday nights when he ate at Valerie's. I asked her about The Grotto and any other bars he might have frequented and she just gave me a blank look. She also didn't know much about his friends.

  "I think they're still locked up," she said.

  I thanked her and returned to my car. I drove back the way I'd come then headed to Blue Vale, a northern suburb gentrified away from its blue collar roots by young families caught in the DIY craze. I found Doors Galore on Blue Vale Road between a McDonalds and a chain hardware store.

  I waited until the attendant finished with a customer then approached him. "Barry Grimes?"

  He checked me over. "Not another fucking cop." Grimes was forty-something, in good shape with a fake orange tan and receding bleach blond hair. He looked like a middle-aged man trying to recapture past glory, but only succeeding in looking like a middle-aged loser.

  I didn't think I could pull the wool over Barry's eyes and pass for a cop so I came clean. "I'm Cat Sinclair. I work for an investigation firm hired by Lou Scarletti's wife. I need to ask you a few questions."

  "Yeah? And I need you to piss off. You and the cops are bad for business."

  I looked around the empty store. Usually a Saturday morning would bring in the DIYers. "I think the hardware store next door is probably more of a threat, but I'm no expert on doors. Neither was Lou Scarletti, except when it came to breaking them down. Why did you hire him?"

  Barry took a step back and cast his eyes over me again. His slippery gaze lingered and I felt like I'd just been slimed Ghostbusters style. Yech.

  "You're a fiery little thing, aren't you?" He snorted a laugh. "I hired Scarletti because my cousin said he needed a job. I helped him out until he got back on his feet. No harm in that, is there?"

  "Three months is a long time to be getting back on your feet, don't you think? You weren't growing tired of him sponging off you?"

  "Not enough to kill him, if that's what you're saying." He looked more amused by my line of questioning than offended. Not the effect I was going for but I could work with it.

  "Did he have a locker here? A desk?"

  "No desk, but he stored his stuff in the office through there. Suppose you want to see it."

  I followed him through the back door to a small room containing a desk and not much else. No cupboards or hidey holes to store a jewelry box.

  "So the cops have already been in here?" I asked.

  "Yep."

  "And you couldn't have told me this before we came back here?"

  Barry leaned in close and leered. I recoiled and took a step back, banging into the desk. He rubbed his palm along my bare arm leaving behind a trail of goosebumps. "Wouldn't have been as much fun then, would it?" he said.

  What he meant was, I wouldn't have gone into a small room with only one exit with a creep like Barry Grimes if I didn't think I was getting something out of it. He must have tried it before. Shit.

  "Well, thanks for your help," I said, edging toward the door. "Gotta go now." I turned and walked fast. I reached the door but he grabbed my arm and jerked me round, hard, slamming the door shut. He hustled me backward against it.

  He wasn't a big man but he was bigger than me. And a lot stronger. I wo
uldn't be able to fight him off so I didn't try.

  "I'll help you out some more, Gorgeous. I got some moves to make girls like you beg." He pressed his body into mine and licked my neck.

  Eeewww. I tried not to breathe but the smell of stale cigarettes and sweat was so potent it infiltrated my nostrils anyway.

  I turned my head away and tried to wriggle out of his grip but I couldn't move. "I have some powerful friends at my agency," I said, desperately trying to think of something clever to frighten him off. "If you so much as lick me again, they won't like it." I sucked at threatening. Truth was, my heart pumped so hard I had trouble thinking over the noise. I tried to calm down, but breathing was near impossible because of his stench and my fear.

  Barry zoomed in for another lick and I braced myself. "Mmm, you taste good," he murmured against my neck.

  That's it! Enough with the licking! "What are you, a fucking dog?" I shoved at him but that only seemed to appeal to his sick sense of humor.

  "You're a fun one. I love when they fight back."

  The implication that other women had endured the same treatment, and possibly more, sent my stomach into major turmoil. It had calmed down since the morning's hangover but suddenly it gurgled, then churned and rose and—

  I threw up all over Barry Grimes.

  "Fucking stupid cow!" He leapt back, arms akimbo and looked down at the mess dripping off him from chest to toe.

  I ran out the door and jumped into my Civic. I drove all the way home on autopilot and had another shower. When skin flaked off my neck, I finally felt clean, but the shaking didn't stop. I put on my bra and underwear and made myself a salad sandwich in the kitchen. But I couldn't eat it. The smell of Barry Grimes remained with me, spoiling my appetite.

  I hadn't factored in my personal safety when I took on Roberta's case. Will and Carl never got attacked on the job, so I'd figured being a P.I. was just a matter of asking a bunch of people a bunch of questions and putting the pieces of the puzzle together to find out whodunit.

  Then again, being a woman was an automatic disadvantage. People like Barry Grimes weren't used to being interrogated by women, so he reacted aggressively to cover his own inadequacies, or guilt.