Cleanup on Aisle Six

by Daniel Stallings

  The bath was ready. Always ready. Jason never knew what sinister potions the monster mixed into the water, making it look as clouded as an eye with cataracts. The smooth porcelain walls of the tub became walls of unblemished ice, slippery surfaces without any handholds to escape from the corrosive geothermal spring they shielded. Jason knew if the water was white, it would be a bad night.

  The monster, chuckling, said it was time for Jason’s nightly session in hydrotherapy.

  The acid ate into his skin. Liquid fire singed and surged over his arms and legs, chewing and burning the sensitive bits. Little Jason screamed, the squeal of slaughtered pigs. How could anyone sleep through that? Why wouldn’t anyone come and save him? His squeals ripped open the night.

  The monster stood there. The Monster laughed. The Monster shoved Jason’s thrashing head into the liquid fire, bellowing with laughter as he watched the water eat into the boy’s eyes, watched screams turn into bubbles. The bubbles shrank … slowed … stopped.

  The world continued to sleep.

  Jason, at twenty-five, didn’t know he got out of bed and stood in the bathroom, gazing as the bathtub filled with water, water cleaner than any conscience on Earth. But to Jason, it would always be cloudy. Water of death.

  Was he sleepwalking? Was he acting out his dream?

  The tub gurgled when it finished filling. Jason, blind and deaf to the outside world, slid out of his baggy pajamas. He stuck a leg into the water, wincing at the imaginary burn. Skinny as a sea serpent, he slithered into the tub, water rising up to his chin. He hissed at the heat, picturing the vat of acid.

  What was he going to do? The monster owned him. The monster controlled his every breath. Someone had slain the monster, leaving Jason to starve. What could he do? How was he going to survive? He knew next to nothing about the world beyond this icy prison.

  Forgive me, Monster, for I have sinned. I must seek penance.

  Jason dipped his head under the water. He opened his mouth to drown.

  Li shambled into his tiny studio apartment. His eyes swung to his alarm clock. Ten p.m. Well, this day had taken a bizarre turn. Several bizarre turns, in fact. Weapons, eavesdropping, unexpected guests, huge emotional scars. Groaning, Li realized he hadn’t even worked at Esther’s Family Grocery for a week. With all this drama, maybe he had to rethink his career choices.

  Right now, he just wanted to kick off his sneakers and crumple into bed. No dreams. No ideas. Just emptiness.

  Li set his finished, printed essay on the kitchen counter and forced his thoughts from the dead to the living. What was he going to do about Jason? His soul had been scraped raw by his father’s actions. He was a wounded animal. And wounded animals could be the most dangerous. What could Li do to help Jason move past this point, to start sweeping up the storm debris and rebuilding his life? But how could Li be any assistance when he himself hadn’t come to terms with his dad’s death three years ago? And there was the headache again, back to scatter his loosely strung thoughts.

  The healing wound on the back of Li’s head was a sharp reminder, however. Anxiety trickled from his brain to his quickening heartbeat. He shuffled to the closet, flung it open, and peered into his emaciated wardrobe. Nothing. No twitching shadows. No phantom men swinging baseball bats. For an extra measure, he checked behind the door. Not even a stray dust mote. Good.

  Leave it alone for now. You’re going to pass out. See that bed? Use it.

  The hairs on the back of his neck tingled. He could feel the air pressure change in the room, a sudden density to the atmosphere. The sense of extra bodies. He felt the intruder before he heard the sandpapery voice.

  He had forgotten to check under the bed, that place where monsters dwell.

  “Hello, Liam. The Lady wants to invite you to tea.”

  Lights out.

  CHAPTER 13

  Tea Time

  Fade from black.

  A groan wormed between his lips. Why was he always getting hurt? He was far too aware of the way his blood pounded through his body. His head throbbed, reawakening the dormant wound from Monday. He should really invest in a bubble wrap suit of armor at this point.

  “Lapsang souchong, dear?”

  Li lifted his aching head to see Mrs. Mayor, The First Lady of Shorewood herself, Constance Henderson pouring him a cup of steaming tea.

  What the—?

  Li tried to stand, but a rough, unfriendly hand shoved him back into his seat. His eyes searched the room, but it was kept dark, a cellar of shadows, a black void. The only things there were Li, Constance, the table they sat at, a tea set, and a disembodied hand acting as a bodyguard. A lamp on the table provided a soft glow, but seemed to accentuate the shadows rather than cut through them.

  Constance nudged the full teacup toward him. A black business suit draped around her figure and melted, along with her mostly black hair, into the darkness. The lamplight caught the bolts of silver in her hair, giving them an electric glimmer like distant lightning. A wide, smooth, faultless smile—the easy grin of a politician—glided across her face.

  “Hello, Liam. I was hoping to talk to you.”

  Li glanced at the cup, but did not pick it up. “Mrs. Henderson?”

  She laughed lightly, but there were too many shadows to reveal the truth of her eyes. “It’s been so long since someone has called me that. Do you care for sugar? Milk? Cream?” She decanted tea into her own china cup. The design on it was a swirl of black roses. “I am glad you do know who I am. It saves on introductions.”

  “Why am I here? Why did you kidnap me?”

  Constance enjoyed a slow sip of her tea.

  “What’s going on?”

  She took extra care to reunite the cup and saucer.

  “Have you been the one trying to kill me?”

  “You like to strike right at the heart of a situation, don’t you?” Her voice reminded him of a cello concert he heard once: deep, rich, velvety notes. “Getting straight to business, asking blunt questions, down to brass tacks. It’s an unconventional way to make friends, isn’t it? You hack and chop and slice your way to the roots without appreciating the curves of the branches. What happened to nuance, subtlety, finesse?” She stirred a grain of sugar into her tea. “I do so want to be your friend, Liam.”

  Or you’d make one hell of an enemy. Li pulled his tea toward him and sniffed it. Though how was he supposed to know what poison smelled like? “Friends?”

  Her smile, already dominating her face, widened a degree. “Yes. Friends make things so much better, don’t they? I do believe in making friends the old-fashioned way. Really getting to know the person.” She leaned forward, the light washing over her eyes. Li saw a tiger sizing up a field mouse. “Let’s play a game. A game of questions. We’ll alternate asking each other something. We have to answer every single one honestly. This way we’ll get to know all about each other. Sounds like fun?”

  Li thought playing tag with a scorpion sounded more fun. And less dangerous. “I suppose.”

  “Now we have to tell the truth, and only one question at a time. We must play fair. You might win a game of chess by swiping your hand across the board and knocking off all the pieces, but you’ll learn nothing from the experience. Do you understand?”

  So Mrs. Mayor wanted to play a round of chess, eh? “Yes.” Li was about to ask a question when Constance cut him short.

  “I’m sorry, but when you came here, you asked four questions right off the bat. We’ll address those questions of yours first.”

  Li felt the bottom of his stomach drop. Constance played a mean game.

  Her dark eyes glittered, the tiger playing with its food. “We’ll let you go first. Why are you here? Simply put, I wanted to talk to you. Now my question.” She cleared her throat with a petite cough, a nice dramatic pause. Li wasn’t fooled. “Why did you decide to move to Shorewood?”

  “I lost my last job and wanted to live closer to my family.”

  “Very well. Your next question: Why were yo
u kidnapped? Well, I’m afraid Morley has rather unconventional invitations to my tea parties, don’t you, Morley?”

  The disembodied hand gave a hard squeeze on Li’s shoulder. Li gulped.

  Constance sipped her tea. “My next question: How did you get the money to move here? It’s rather expensive these days.”

  “I … I got a check from a friend I helped out at my last job.”

  The hungry gleam in her eyes told Li she already knew what happened during that final cruise. “Let’s see. Your next query was ‘What’s going on?’ I believe we’re playing a game of questions. Isn’t this fun?”

  Li scowled. “Your next question, Mrs. Henderson?”

  Constance cooled that spark of greedy satisfaction. “How did you get your job at Esther’s Family Grocery?”

  Li told her the story as quickly and unemotionally as possible.

  “You’re a lucky boy, Liam. Your fourth question, I believe, was if I’m the one trying to kill you. Now of course I can’t speak for others, but I know I am not. Last I checked murder is still illegal. Now as to a few incidents …” Her politically perfect smile shone on her face, a beacon of honesty and righteousness and downright hooey. “You were never in any danger with the car. I am an excellent driver. And I cannot account for Morley’s behavior. He acts as he sees fit. And now … what do you know about Oscar Lindstrom’s death?”

  Ah, they were reaching the nucleus of this strange meeting. Li decided he had no secrets and outlined everything he knew. He watched Constance’s intelligent face grow still and remote, downloading all the information he gave her into that computer brain of hers. When he finished, he saw her smile spread in slow inches across her features again. It wasn’t her glib politician’s grin. It was sly.

  Li knew he had to play smart. This was chess. You didn’t ask what the opponent planned to do or how they figured things out. You had to know. You had to think ahead. He had to out-strategize a woman whose clout could rename Saturday to Constanceday.

  Constance watched him, the tiger growing tired of its toy. She was peckish for a Li-sized snack. “Your question, Liam?”

  Li unleashed his own smile, deadly as a dagger aimed at a beating heart. “What do you know about Bauer?”

  This, he knew, she never expected, never calculated. The measliest flicker of unease flitted across her face. “Bauer was a fine restaurant. Germanic cuisine. Chef Felix Bauer was a genius at taking these simple, homey dishes and making Michelin stars out of them. He had to close when Oscar Lindstrom wrote a negative review after his latest wife got sick from the food. It was a huge scandal. I take it that explains your interest in it.” She studied his expression, hunting for cracks. “My turn. What did you overhear on the night Oscar died?”

  Li needed no more confirmation that “Connie” was Constance. “An interesting discussion between Connie and Frank about Oscar, his resignation, and how they followed him there. Maybe they wanted to reason with him. Maybe they just wanted to see what he was doing. I got the impression Oscar was holding a secret over their heads.”

  Constance’s eyes tightened into scratches on her clear skin. “I see. And what do you think that secret is?”

  “Uh-uh-uh, Mrs. Henderson. It’s my turn to ask something. We have to play fair, remember?”

  Her nostrils flared.

  Li’s eyes glinted like swords raised for a charge on an enemy camp. “My question: What can you tell me about your time as Oscar’s second wife?”

  It was one heck of a long shot. Like pole vaulting over Everest long. But Li had a feeling Constance knew Oscar far more intimately than she expressed.

  He caught her off guard. There was an instant, swift as a shutter release, of surprise in her face. Then her features softened and warmed into a smile far friendlier than her running-for-office grin. The question must have amused her, and he hoped she would humor him.

  “That’s ancient history. Not many people remember me as Mrs. Lindstrom. I’d like to keep it that way.” She settled further into her chair, taking deep, satisfying sips of her tea. Everything—from the line of her shoulders to the intensity of her eyes—seemed to relax. These memories must not have held any danger for her. They were far removed from murder. “Oscar was a man with ambition and drive, two things I rather enjoy. He also had early success with his first two books, Full Plate and Empty Plate, so he certainly piqued my curiosity. I like a man who’s going somewhere, making a name for himself. I can’t abide obscurity.” Her tone became reflective. “I met him several years after his first wife died. He was angry at the world, angry and hurt. He blamed everyone for killing his beloved Nancy. But I could see he was a gifted food writer who had one ruling passion above all others: finding absolute perfection in the world of haute cuisine. I became his assistant and helped him return to the world of food writing. I like to think his highly successful third book, Fill My Plate, was largely my idea.” She tittered. “Naturally, we got married.”

  Li had to phrase this carefully. Not a question. A statement. “Jason Lindstrom must have been excited to have a new mother.”

  Constance smirked. She must have noticed his cautious phrasing. “I wouldn’t put it like that. I didn’t really have the patience to be his mother. And Oscar blamed him most of all for Nancy’s death. I could see that Jason needed to get away from his father, or the damage would be irreparable. I arranged for him to go to one of the finest boarding schools in the country as far from California as I could manage. I also arranged that his visits home were few and far between. Most probably thought this was callous, but Jason needed to be independent from his father. Oscar wanted to dominate his son, and the school gave Jason an opportunity to develop outside of Oscar’s influence. I think it did him a world of good.”

  “Too bad it didn’t last forever.”

  Constance’s shoulders rose in an unconcerned shrug. “Nothing does. Oscar had rather antiquated views on women, probably stemming from some abandonment complex he suffered after Nancy died. He wanted his wives to stay at home and be ‘the women behind the man.’ That I can’t allow. I was not his subordinate. I would never be subordinate to a man. And it became clear that Oscar had become settled in his position on The Gazette. Divorce was only natural, as natural as when we got married. We saw our marriage through to its conclusion. There were better prospects out there.” She poured herself more tea. “Irreconcilable differences. That was the official verdict. Of course, I knew he had been cheating on me throughout our marriage. Always chasing the ideal of perfection whether it was Peking duck or partners in life. I wonder if his latest model knows about his little side projects. She’s just one in a long line of women. Fidelity isn’t important to a man in constant pursuit of perfection.”

  “But why would—?”

  The political grin returned. “You’ve already asked your rather detailed question, Liam. Remember the rules. Let’s see … How do you know Oscar Lindstrom?”

  Li told the story about the grocery store visits. “That’s basically it. He was a customer. I know his son because we’re in the same English class. However, I didn’t know Jason was Oscar’s son until tonight.” He jumped to his question without giving her time to react. “What do you know about The Shorewood Gazette?”

  Her expression became withdrawn, shuttered—the face of access denied, of need-to-know basis. “The Gazette is an institution in Shorewood. Been around nearly as long as the city. A fair and just publication. Frank Dixon, the current editor, runs a tight ship. Next question: You mentioned a secret Oscar knew. What do you think that secret is?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You swore to tell the truth, Liam.”

  “I am. I have no idea what secrets he might have known. My turn. Since it’s clear you and Frank Dixon were at Esther’s Family Grocery that night, did either of you see or hear anything that you can recall that was suspicious or out of place?”

  Constance, now a tiger at rest, stirred her tea with a spoon, but did not drink it. Her black eyes bo
red into Li’s face. “I can’t speak for anyone else. I had nothing to do with it. The only suspicious thing I noticed was a young man with a bad habit of sticking his nose into private business.”

  Morley’s hand clapped Li hard on the shoulder, pinning him in place.

  The sly smile curled her long lips. “You play a good game, Liam, but you haven’t had the years of practice that I have. I suggest you learn to forget all about tonight. Move on with your life. It can be very difficult keeping a job in Shorewood. Very difficult.” She drained the tea from her black rose cup. “I’m satisfied with his answers. Thank you, Morley.”

  The lights went out again.

  Sunlight sliced through the window blinds.

  Li moaned, the only sign he was still alive. Blindly, his hands clawed at his surroundings. Soft. Plush. Fabric. He wrestled open an eye. He was in his bed. Fully clothed. Flung face-first. He didn’t sleep so much as enjoyed unconsciousness.

  He flopped onto his back and watched his apartment ceiling undulate until his stomach protested. He pinched his eyelids shut, fighting the battery of blood against the knot on his skull. When he managed to conquer his seasickness, he turned to his alarm clock. Ten a.m. Wednesday morning. Twelve hours since his abrupt invitation to tea with the Queen of Shorewood. Had it only been twelve hours? Come to think of it, had it only been five days since he was hired at the supermarket? Li shoved his face into the meat of his pillow and screamed. This was just the first week. Could he survive any more?

  It was at least his official day off. Maybe he could sleep until class tonight. Then sleep in class. Sleep forever. Just until this damn headache disappeared.

  But as his headache mutated into a brain-eating migraine, robbing any chance at rest he had, Li heaved himself out of bed. Maybe caffeine would help, given how his whole head throbbed. He stood, and the room spun. That was when he noticed his shoes.

  His brand-new sneakers, gifts from his new friends.

  His currently slashed and shredded sneakers, victims of an enthusiastic blade, with a note pinned on them. One word.