by Emmy Grace
DON’T FORGET THE UNDERWEAR!
For a few seconds, I debate ignoring her text. But Regina is my boss. And she is really flexible when it comes to me getting my reports in, which are almost always late because I’ve gotten caught up in drama, somewhere with somebody, that has nothing to do with me. Like now. Although, in fairness, the falling body nearly killed me and there’s a strange reference to luck in the note found on his corpse. I think anyone would agree that it’s okay for me to have a vested interest in who perpetrated this crime and why.
I stop in the doorway and reply. I’M ON IT.
I head back inside to change so that my words weren’t lies. Getting struck by lightning for lying has never been high on my list of things to do, but since having been zapped by an electric fence, it’s risen to the top on my list of fears. Where it should’ve been to start with, no doubt. Probably would’ve been, too, if I were a normal person with normal fears. But I’m not. Being almost impervious to death and mortal wounding has given me what some would call an unnatural gumption. I know I should fear certain things, but I just...don’t.
I go get the underwear from the bathroom. Per the care instructions, I rinsed them before I started dinner and hung them to dry on the clothesline that stretches from one end of my shower to the other.
They’re not bone dry, but I guess they’re dry enough. I shed my clothes, put them on, redress, and am heading back out the door less than five minutes later.
It’s nearly eleven PM when I get to the project site. I drive past it and park down the street. I figure it will be much less conspicuous. I doubt there should be anyone here at night, so a car might stand out.
I walk down the road and out of the cone of brightness from the streetlight. Foot by foot, I blend in with the shadows. I’m wearing solid black again. My wardrobe is black heavy not only because it’s flattering, but because, in my life, I seem to have plenty of reasons to need dark clothing. Beebee calls it my “skulking” attire.
I jump like a scalded cat when my phone blares a wild, Cajun romp-of-a-tune. I really need to change that ringtone, especially if Beebee is going to keep Skyping me at the worst possible times. I take it out of my pocket and stare at debating whether to just ignore her. A stab of guilt prompts me to answer, though. I love Beebee and Momma fiercely, and my move has been hard on them. On all of us. I would never want them to think I don’t have time for them anymore.
I back up against the temporary fencing that surrounds the jobsite. It appears to be dark gray, and in my mind, I blend right in. Like one of those people who paints themselves to look like a brick wall or a stained-glass window. This is me, being silt fence.
“Hey, Beebee,” I answer, holding the phone up so she can see my face.
“Hi, chère. How are— Where are you?”
“Uh, I’m out.”
“Out where?”
“Out for an assignment.” Not a lie. I’m wearing underwear that I’m testing for... I didn’t read the rest of the packet, so I’m not sure what I’m testing and reviewing them for. But they’re underwear, and not of my choosing, so any which way you look at this, it’s work.
“Are you by yourself? It looks dark there.”
“I am, and it is dark here, but I’m okay.”
Beebee’s eyes narrow. They’re eyes that, although having seen seventy plus years, are as perceptive as ever. “What are you wearing?”
I probably should’ve taken the black cap off my head, dang it. My fingers want to pull it off my pale hair, but doing so would only make me look more suspicious.
“Just a hat, Beebee.”
“Hold the phone away from your body. I want to see what outfit that thing goes with.”
With a sigh, I hold the phone away and let her get a look at the rest of my ensemble. The only word I can think is “busted”.
“I knew it! You’re not working. You’re out dabbling in something a young woman has no business dabbling in.”
“I’m not dabb—”
“I might be old, but I know skulking clothes when I see ’em. And them’s skulking clothes.”
It’s probably a good thing I never went through an EMO stage. Beebee would never have understood.
“Women wear all black all the time, Beebee. It’s called fashion.”
“Maybe for other girls, but not for you. Those are your ‘I’m likely to get into trouble’ clothes.”
“I’m not—” I stop myself. I was about to say that I’m not going to get in trouble, but that would be a lie. Knowing me, I probably will. And Beebee knows it. “I’ll be careful.”
Beebee’s lips thin and she makes a clucking sound. I know that sound. It’s the nonverbal equivalent of someone shaking their head and saying, “Lucky, Lucky, Lucky” in that exasperated way that only parents and grandparents can master. “Does Beebee even wanna know what y’er into, chère?”
“I’m looking into a contractor who might be involved in some dirty dealings.”
“Did someone end up dead?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“Because you run toward death and danger like a lunatic, that’s why.”
“I do n—” I stop myself again. No sense lying when we both know it’s true. “I gotta go, Beebee. Call you tomorrow, okay?”
“Don’t forget. And you can tell me all about the mischief you got into tonight.”
“I will.”
“Love you,” Beebee says, making a single kissing noise that sounds like a whopper. Kind of like that big mwah that Shirley Temple used to do.
“Love you right back.”
I hang up and silence my phone before I stick it back into my pocket. I pull my cap down tight and continue my felonious trek onto a restricted job site.
There’s really no security to speak of. I suppose there isn’t anything worth stealing or tampering with yet. When I look up, it’s like staring at a skeleton—its arm-like beams crisscrossing this way and that, all the way up into the moody night sky. But off to one side of the building frame is a white metal trailer. It looks as dark and deserted as the rest of the site, which is perfect for my purposes.
Even though I’m hidden behind the fencing, I still creep across the open yard. In my mind, there could be security cameras and motion detectors and all manner of booby traps between that trailer and me. There aren’t, of course, but the thought that there might be is half the fun.
I walk up the four-step mobile staircase that leads to the door of the trailer. It rocks when I reach the top, like someone didn’t set it on a completely level surface. I stick my lock picking instruments that I ordered from eBay a few years ago into the lock and I start work on the tumblers. They turn fairly easily. I’ve had quite a bit of practice. Not as much in the dark, on a rickety metal staircase, but now I can add that to my list of accomplishments.
When I first got the picking set, I practiced for weeks and weeks on my own locks. Once I got pretty good, I moved on to Momma’s and Beebee’s and Regina’s doors. I got to where there wasn’t a lock in all of Gator’s Cove that I couldn’t pick. Not that it’s a particularly desirable skill, but it’s something I’m strangely proud of.
I push into the trailer and close the door behind me. I flick on my flashlight and have a look around. It’s like walking onto a movie set. This place is just like all the jobsite trailers I’ve seen on television and in the movies. On one end, it has a table and chairs, all of which appear to be circa 1975 and upholstered in an unfortunate shade known as avocado. Right in front of the door are two filing cabinets, and on the other end of the trailer is a desk. The walls around the desk are littered with plans and sketches and permits, all tacked up with colorful pushpins.
I check the filing cabinets first. They’re unlocked, which tells me that there’s nothing too important or too sensitive in them. People lock up important and sensitive. Which leaves the desk.
On top, resting neatly on the blotter, is a ledger. It’s closed, so I flip it open. There are rows and rows, pages and
pages of neat, detailed entries with corresponding amounts in the payable and receivable columns, respectively. Black are paid, red are outstanding. Easy enough to decipher, and nothing jumps out. At first glance, Martin Vickerman and his business aren’t even listed. Maybe because the project hasn’t started.
I move on to the drawers. I try the bottom two first. Both open easily, but when I try the top right one, it doesn’t budge. It’s locked.
Naturally, that’s the drawer I want to get into.
I clamp my flashlight between my teeth and start picking the desk drawer lock. It doesn’t open as easily as the main door, but it’s no match for my formidable skill. When it turns, I pull open the drawer and am rewarded with two investigative prizes.
One is a gun. I’d say many a contractor and foreman keep a gun on sites like these. In New York. Or New Jersey.
But in Stafford, South Carolina?
It’s bigger than Salty Springs, sure, but not a metropolis by any far stretch of the imagination. If there were more than forty thousand people here, I’d be shocked. So why does this guy have a gun? And since his gun is here, does that mean he might reach for, say, an ice pick in a pinch?
I don’t have answers to either of those questions at this point, so I move my attention to the second item. A ledger.
Another ledger.
Why would a business need two?
This screams of cooked books and sketchy practices.
I pick it up and stroke the cover. Already I’m anticipating all sorts of dirty secrets and underhanded dealings, and when I open it up, I’m somewhat gratified, partly because a lot of it is in code.
Definitely sketchy.
Unfortunately, that means I can’t really find anything overtly helpful either.
I flip through the pages, looking for anything that might stand out or ring a bell. I pause on page four when I see a series of numbers and letters at the top of the page. They’re written out CG-429. I’m not sure what it means, but I take out my phone and snap a picture just in case it could be important. Something tells me it is.
I flip through a few more pages, and then return to the front and look more closely at the recent entries. This time, something jumps out at me. Two letters at the end of one unintelligible string of letters and numbers. MV. It could mean something else, of course, but I find it curious that the victim’s initials are MV. Could be a coincidence. Could be suspicious. In the debit column out from that line is an amount. A staggering amount.
Two point one million dollars.
The number is written in red and it’s bold, like someone went over it a few times. There are even deep divots in the paper. If it’s possible to write angry, this is what that would look like.
In the margin, out from that number, it says SHAY, and it’s circled. The first letter isn’t capitalized like a name, which makes me wonder what a shay is. More code? A project name?
I snap a picture of it, too. Just in case. If Vickerman was into DeLuca for that much money, that’s over two million reasons to kill somebody. And shay, whatever that is, might be a vital piece of that puzzle.
As I’m replacing the ledger, I snapshot the gun, too. You never know when you might have to identify a murder weapon. Especially when you’re a true crime fanatic with a penchant for stumbling into trouble.
I close the drawer and take a second to lock it back. When I straighten, my flashlight shines on a man standing a few feet away.
I scream.
Of course. I mean, who wouldn’t? Part of my brain registers the fact that it’s Liam Dunning standing silently in the center of the room, but my mouth reacts much more quickly. As usual.
My flashlight falls out of my gaping mouth and clatters to the floor. I hear the sound of breaking glass and the room goes completely black.
Until a soft pinkish purple glow starts to radiate into the darkness.
“I would ask what you’re doing here, but I’m much more curious about what the devil you’re wearing,” Liam says, his tone as dry and sardonic as I’m sure his expression is. At the moment I’m not looking at his face; I’m looking down at my chest.
The glow is coming from behind the thin material of my top. I chose a wispy shirt because I had to wear black, yes, but I didn’t want to die of heat stroke in this four hundred percent humidity, so my blouse is practically transparent. It’s no match for a white bra, much less glow-in-the-dark underwear. I mean, I might as well be standing here half-naked, my boobs are so bright and well-defined.
I cross my arms over my chest, but the glow doesn’t die off completely. That’s when I realize that the underwear can be seen vaguely through the thin leggings I’ve got on.
Silently, I curse Regina for reminding me to test these tonight. Of all the nights…
“I’m testing a product.”
“Glow-in-the-dark underwear for breaking and entering?”
“They’re not for breaking and entering. And I didn’t know they were glow-in-the-dark. I…I didn’t really read through the packet before I put them on. I was in a hurry.”
Liam just stands there, staring at me. The light is pretty low, but I can still see his face embarrassingly well. I can’t decide if he’s amused or angry. Or maybe a little of both.
I go on the defensive. “Who are you to question me, anyway? What are you doing here? Because unless you have a legit reason, you’re breaking and entering, too.”
“I didn’t break. I only entered. I’m merely a concerned citizen who was driving by and noticed some hanky-panky, and thought I’d have a look.”
That’s a lie. Plain and simple. And we both know it. He’s either here covering his tracks or he’s following me. One of the two.
“Did you really just say ‘hanky-panky’?”
“You’re standing there in glowing underwear. And you’re going to nitpick me?”
“Touché.”
“I don’t suppose I need to ask what you’re doing here.”
“Probably the same thing you are. Checking out some hanky-panky.”
He only grunts, “Find anything worthwhile?”
I don’t answer. Like I’m going to share any information I have with a potential suspect.
He picks up on my silence. And what it means. “You don’t still think I’m involved in this, do you?”
“I can’t rule out anyone at this point.”
“Look, I might as well tell you that I used to work for the FBI, so you can trust me. I’m on the right side of the law here.”
“You’re FBI?”
“Former. Former FBI.”
“Uh-huh. Emphasis on the former. Maybe you got fired for criminal activity. How am I supposed to know?”
“You’ll just have to take my word for it, I guess.”
“Fat chance of that happening.”
“My father is the mayor. I’ve known the people in this town most of my life. You really think that if I were a criminal, I’d be able to hide it? In a town where people know what you have for breakfast sixty seconds after you’re finished cooking it?”
“Whatever. I’m still keeping an eye on you.”
“Do what you want to with your eyes. I just want to know how and why a dead body landed in the middle of my farm.”
I relent. “I found a ledger, but it’s in code. Very suspicious in my opinion. One line had the letters ‘MV’ at the end and was for a big chunk of money. Money owed.”
“How much is big?”
“Over two million. That’s a lot of scratch.”
“‘A lot of scratch’? Who are you?”
“Just a girl, trying to solve a murder.” I debate whether to tell him the rest, but I’m already in this much. Might as well go all the way. “He, uh, also has a gun.”
Liam’s brows shoot up. “A gun?”
I nod. “A handgun. I think maybe a Glock, but I’m not sure. I’m not great with weapons. I took a picture, though.”
“Let me see.” I pull it up on my phone. “That’s a Sig. Nine millimeter.”
“Well, whatever. The guy has a gun. And he wears an eye patch. Is it possible that he’s not into something illegal?”
“If he isn’t, he’s certainly not doing himself any favors. Of course, he probably assumes that his right to privacy will be respected and observed and that no one will find any of this, so…”
“Don’t get all high and mighty on me. You were here to break in, too. I don’t care what you say.”
“I guess we’ll just have to keep each other’s secret then. Deal?” He extends his hand. I know this is his version of an olive branch.
Reluctantly, I accept. The hand and the truce. “Deal.”
We shake and then I replace my hands over my boobs.
“Any information I stumble upon, I’ll share with you if you’ll do the same.”
I snort. Very unattractively. “‘Stumble upon’? Yeah, right.”
“We both want to get to the bottom of this. Why not work together?”
“I can think of half a dozen reasons right off the bat.”
“So can I, but that’s hardly the point. This is an offer I’ll only extend once. Take it or leave it.”
I sigh loudly. “Fine. But if I find out you’re not sharing, I’m done.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll be thanking me soon enough. I have connections. Lots of them. I wouldn’t even bother with bringing you in if you weren’t such a good lock pick.”
“How long were you watching?”
“I may or may not have followed you here.”
“You’re stalking me?”
“‘Stalking’ is such a harsh word. More like keeping an eye on you. You’re new to this place, and already trouble seems to follow you. I’m protecting my own interests. That’s all.”
He must see me as a threat. Or maybe a source of viable information.
I don’t know whether to be insulted or flattered. I mean, to register on a former FBI agent’s radar is probably nothing to sneeze at. Of course, I am registering as an almost-criminal, which doesn’t sound quite so flowery and nice.
“Fine,” I say again. “We’ll share. Get to the bottom of this and part ways. But no more following me. That’s creepy.”