Look What You Made Me Do

by Elaine Murphy

  “How long is this going to take?” I mutter when we get to the produce section and she picks up a mangosteen. I know she has no idea what it is, even as she tests its weight and firmness.

  “As long as it needs to,” she replies.

  “I thought you said I was boring.”

  “You are,” she confirms. “I’m not. Everyone in this store is talking about me. It won’t be much longer until he comes out.”

  “Who?”

  “Nikk with two k’s.”

  “Who?”

  She sighs and puts down the mangosteen. “How’s it going to look if we just barge in here and demand to talk to Nikk?” she asks reasonably.

  “I don’t know. What if we just walked in normally and asked normally to talk to him? Normally.”

  She yawns. “The answer is suspicious. If someone’s watching this place and they see me ask for Nikk, they’ll know we’re investigating. But if Nikk just happens to be working and we just happen to bump into each other, it’s a happy coincidence.”

  There are thirteen people who would argue that “bumping into” Becca is the worst thing that ever happened to them, but they can’t say anything because they’re dead.

  Still, all I say is, “How do you know he’s working today?”

  “Because I called. Start pretending you’re actually going to buy something. You look like a shoplifter.”

  I open my mouth to argue and then close it, putting two dragon fruit in a compostable plastic bag. “How do you know Nikk with two k’s?”

  “Promise me you’re not going to be this annoying when he gets here.”

  I roll my eyes. “Promise.”

  “And act cool when he does.”

  “I’ll aim for normal.”

  “He beats up his wife,” Becca says.

  I nearly drop the dragon fruit. “What?”

  “Yeah. And then he apologizes with diamonds. I’ve sold him a lot of stuff. We’re friendly.”

  “My God, Becca! Why are we here?”

  “Don’t judge people, Carrie. It’s bad form. Plus, if you really want to know who Footloose is, look closer to home.”

  “You’re Footloose?”

  “No, idiot. It’s obviously Graham.”

  I bristle. “It’s obviously not.”

  “I’m too-good-to-be-true Graham!” she says, opting strangely to use a British accent. “I don’t kill anyone!”

  “He doesn’t,” I snap. “And he’s not British. Why are you saying it like that?”

  Becca flips up her fingers one at a time as she makes her points. “He knows me. He knows you. He has access to your house and car. And despite being insane, all the killer’s done is make your house a little dirty. That doesn’t add up. Why wouldn’t a crazy serial killer just kill you?”

  The most reasonable response is, Why haven’t you? but I don’t want to know the answer. Instead I say, “He punched me in the face!”

  She shrugs, like that’s somehow debatable. “Well, maybe he’ll buy you a necklace.”

  My retort is interrupted when a tall, handsome man with shiny dark hair and dimples enters the produce section. Unlike the rest of the staff, he wears a gleaming white button-down shirt and trousers, no apron. A wedding ring glints on his left hand, and his eyes sparkle when they land on Becca. She notices him at the same time, a smile splitting her face. I don’t know if her theory is right and everyone in the store was talking about her and word got to Nikk or if terrible people are just drawn together like magnets, but here we are.

  “Nikk!” she says, throwing open her arms.

  He comes forward and wraps her in a hug. “Becca! What a surprise. How are you?”

  “Fantastic, as always. I’m just here with my sister, Carrie. She’s hosting a fancy dinner party, and I told her this place has the best food in the city.”

  Nikk smiles at me and extends a hand to shake. My stomach clenches as I fold my fingers in his.

  “Very nice to meet you,” he says.

  “Same,” I lie.

  “What are you making with the dragon fruit?” The question is harmless, but I feel pinned to the spot.

  “It’s a garnish,” Becca says, taking Nikk’s arm and leading him to the back of the store. “We’re so lucky you came along when you did. One of the VIP guests at the party said his favorite drink is Soda Jack. I think you guys carry it?”

  Nikk’s smile brightens. “Absolutely. Just over here.”

  We follow him to a narrow aisle with a hundred different kinds of specialty drinks. My stomach somersaults when I spot the Soda Jack. Twelve flavors, each label a different color. It’s sold in six-packs, bottles only. The flats of cans must be special order. Not fancy enough for the in-store shoppers.

  “Do you know what flavor he likes?” Nikk asks. “We have them all. Lavender, pandan, elderflower—”

  “Oh my goodness!” Becca exclaims, clutching her chest. “Is that the price?” She looks like a small-town actress cast in a too-big role, but Nikk seems to be buying it.

  He nods solemnly. “It’s a little steep,” he agrees. “But worth it.”

  “And people really buy it?”

  “They do.”

  “Who?”

  Nikk glances around. “Pretentious people,” he says from the corner of his mouth.

  Becca’s laugh rings out, and this time it’s convincing. “People in Brampton?” she asks, disbelieving. As though buying overpriced soda is the biggest crime committed by anyone currently in this store.

  “Do you know Spark?” Nikk asks. “The nightclub on West Eleventh?”

  “Of course.”

  “They’re the number one buyer. That’s why we’re the number one stockist.”

  “Well,” Becca says with a sly smile, “I knew I had friends in high places.”

  A young woman in an apron appears at the end of the aisle. “Nikk?” she calls. “You’re needed in the back.”

  “I’ll be right there.” He turns to me and Becca. “It was very nice to meet you, Carrie. And Becca, always a pleasure. I’m sure we’ll meet again soon.”

  “I hope so,” she says brightly.

  Nikk gives a small wave and disappears down the aisle, leaving us alone.

  “Meet again soon?” I echo, disgusted.

  Becca shrugs. “Every few months.”

  “W-why don’t you kill him?” I sputter. “Why, instead of someone who cut you off in traffic or insulted you at work, why don’t you kill an actual bad guy?”

  She’s astonished. “Are you being serious right now?”

  “Of course I am!”

  “Do you have any idea how much jewelry he buys?” she demands. “That’s my commission!”

  I scrape my hand through my hair. “I’m going to be sick.”

  “Stop being so dramatic,” she snaps, snatching a bag of parsnip chips off the opposite shelf and shoving it into my chest. “Worse things are happening. Now buy me these. We need an excuse for coming in.”

  Three minutes later, we’re sitting in Becca’s car with the dragon fruit forgotten in the backseat, sharing the chips while Becca searches something on her phone.

  “Okay,” she says around a mouthful of fried parsnip. “Spark opens at eight, so we’ll head over around ten to see what we can find.”

  “Wait. What?” I haven’t been to a club in five years. By ten, I’m in my sweats, teeth brushed, face washed. Plus, it’s Monday.

  “No one’s going to be there at eight,” Becca says matter-of-factly, putting the car in drive. “So we’ll wait a bit.”

  “What’s the point of this? We don’t even know how the Soda Jack ties into everything. You think these homeless addicts were buying NINE-DOLLAR bottles of Soda Jack?”

  “Nope.” She presses on the gas, going twenty above the limit.

  “Then what?”

  “That’s what we’re going to find out.”

  I sigh and stuff two parsnip chips in my mouth. They taste better than I expected. But when I reach for anothe
r one, Becca grabs the bag and tosses it into the backseat. I hear chips tumble onto the floor and stare at her in shock.

  “Don’t stress-eat,” she says. “You’ll just get fatter.”

  * * *

  Becca said she’d pick me up at 9:30 p.m., but it’s five to ten when she actually pulls up. Though I’m already at the door, she honks obnoxiously, and I see lights come on in the houses across the street. I hustle down the drive and get in the car before Mr. Myer can come out to complain. That’s all it takes for Becca to find her next victim, and while I don’t know my neighbors that well, I also don’t want them to be murdered.

  Becca glances over as I fasten my seat belt. “What are you wearing?” she asks, mouth twitching like she’s trying not to laugh. I don’t react. That’s her standard response to any outfit, on any person, at any time. I’m wearing black jeans and boots with a short heel, a sparkly silver shirt, and my parka. Even when I used to go to clubs, I didn’t favor short skirts and skimpy tops. A lifetime of Becca pointing out my muffin top and cellulite taught me that dressing sexy was not the thing for me.

  We drive in silence, Becca humming along to a song on the radio, one hand on the wheel, her nails freshly painted, appliqué diamonds flashing on the tips.

  “Are you going to tell me what the plan is?” I ask when we park a couple of blocks from the club.

  “Just follow my lead.”

  “What is—” But she’s already out of the car, heading down the quiet street.

  Brampton doesn’t have a lively nightlife. Downtown goes dark after nine, with only the occasional bar or restaurant breaking up the monotony, and West Eleventh is no exception. Spark is the only business currently open on its block, and on a Monday, it’s not exactly busy. From two blocks away, I can see a bored bouncer leaning against the brick wall, arms crossed against the cold. Two girls on heels totter down the sidewalk from the opposite direction, and he splits his attention between us and them.

  Becca strides down the street, her leather pants and knee-high boots shining in the glow from the streetlamps. Her hair is loose and shiny, hanging halfway down her back, and with a fitted dark jacket and a sway to her hips, she looks like a badass vampire slayer. I hustle behind like her lackey, my toes already hurting in my boots.

  A block away from the club, she turns abruptly to her left. I skid to a stop and change course to follow her. “What are we doing?” I demand, my breath coming in frigid white puffs. I jam my hands into my pockets and suppress a shiver. “I thought we were going to the club.”

  Becca ignores me, and halfway down the street she turns into the alley that runs behind the block of dark buildings. On the right, it’s lined with brick walls and barred windows, heavy metal fire doors locked against the night. On the left, it’s dumpsters and recycle bins, the smells mercifully faint in the November cold.

  A short distance ahead, two women in matching white thigh-high boots hang out behind Spark, the dull thud of bass radiating from inside the club. Because Brampton is so quiet, prostitutes can’t solicit business on the street so they hang out behind clubs and bars, waiting for customers to find them.

  They turn in unison, overly made-up faces equal parts suspicious, curious, and freezing. One wears a fur coat, but it only comes down as far as her belly button, exposing a band of ghostly pale skin. The other wears a dark trench coat with what appears to be a fox stole wrapped around her neck, two tiny feet dangling on one side. She steps forward as we approach, an intricate tower of braids twisted on top of her head.

  “We don’t do women,” she announces.

  “Me either,” Becca replies without missing a beat. “Unless you convince me.”

  She cracks a smile. “How much money you got?”

  I hover awkwardly behind Becca. The dim security lights flicker and bounce off the dumpsters and recycling bins like holiday lights.

  “Did you guys know Donna-Marie and Jacinda?” Becca asks.

  The women visibly stiffen at the mention of two of Footloose’s victims, both with arrest records for prostitution, according to the newspapers.

  “Shanté, they’re cops,” the one in the fur coat whispers.

  “We’re not cops,” Becca says, though she kind of looks like she might play one on TV. “But we’re interested in the murders at Kilduff.”

  Fur Coat looks anxious. “Interested how?”

  “I think the guy who hurt your friends might want to hurt my sister.”

  They peer at me, and I try not to shrink back from their scrutiny.

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because he’s been leaving clues at her house. Did your friends drink Soda Jack?”

  Shanté laughs. “What? No. Ten bucks for soda? We don’t pay for drinks.”

  “But you know what it is?” Becca presses.

  “Yeah. Of course. It’s right there.” She jerks her chin toward the recycle bin, and when I shift forward, I can see a stack of crates, glass gleaming inside. There are a mix of bottles, a few Soda Jack, but more beer than anything else. Which doesn’t mean much since the killer had cans delivered to my house, not bottles.

  The women and I watch warily as Becca lifts the lid on the recycle bin. Inside is a rainbow assortment of cans, the same ones I found in my trunk. They must use the cans for mixers, the bottles for sale.

  Becca reaches in and plucks a can from the top, holding it up so she can read in the dim light, brow furrowed. “Bingo,” she says finally.

  “Bingo, what?” Fur Coat asks.

  Becca grabs three more cans from the bin, each a different color. Her expression grows more smug and satisfied with each one.

  “Did you ever see Donna-Marie and Jacinda leave with the same guy?” she asks, admiring her new finds.

  Shanté shrugs. “Depends. They know lots of guys. Maybe you could help me remember.”

  But Becca has apparently gotten what she came for and is no longer interested in playing.

  “Maybe,” she says as she strides back down the alley, carrying the cans.

  I hesitate before hurrying after her.

  “What the fuck was that?” Shanté mutters.

  “What the heck was that?” I demand when we exit the alley and return to the car. My lips are frozen, and it’s hard to form the words.

  “That,” Becca says, beeping open her door, “was research.” She drops into the driver’s seat, and I scurry around and climb in on my side.

  “And?” I prompt, because that’s what she’s waiting for. “What did you find out?”

  “Why Greaves was asking you about the cans.”

  “Okay. Why?”

  “Because they’re a calling card.”

  “What?”

  “A calling card. Like my kiss of death?”

  “You only did that once.”

  “Regardless, I think Footloose”—she says the name with a sneer—“is using these as his calling card.”

  I frown. “He’s burying a can with each body?”

  “Probably just the tab.” She snaps one off a pink can—peppercorn—and waves it at me. “Hiiiii, Carrie!”

  I snatch it away from her. “What are you talking about?” And then I see. The pink tab has tiny white writing on it, a friendly HI! in bubble letters.

  Becca hands me the green can—wintergreen—whose tab reads S’UP? Yellow (sunflower) says YO! and brown (cocoa nib) says HOWDY!

  I’m silent for a full minute. I don’t know what to say. It’s a plausible reason. If these tabs were found on the Kilduff bodies and I recently ordered forty-eight cans, it might appear that I’m planning my next four dozen murders.

  I drop the can like it’s an admission of guilt. “If the killer’s using these as calling cards, why order a specific product from a specific store?” I ask. “As soon as Greaves realizes it’s not me, he’s going to go through the rest of the buyers and find the guy.”

  Becca shrugs. “If Footloose actually went into Hartmann’s and paid with a credit card, maybe. But he was smart
enough to have the order sent to your house and signed with your name so I doubt that’s the case. I mean, if you’re going to leave a calling card, you don’t choose one that can be traced back to you. That lipstick I wore for my kiss of death? Stolen! No one can prove I ever bought Pirate Bride Red. And right now, as far as we know, Footloose has twenty-four cans of Soda Jack you paid for.”

  “Then what was the point of coming here? We could have looked at the cans online.”

  “The point is, there’s not just one place selling these drinks, but there’s only one buying them. Footloose doesn’t have to go to Hartmann’s—he comes here when the club closes, takes a few from the bin, and bam. He has his calling card. And apparently a couple of victims, which means we found one of his hunting grounds. Now, when we get some suspects, we can bring the pictures here and see if anyone recognizes him.”

  “You have to put those cans back,” I say, suddenly panicked. “If we bring them to my house—or yours—and Greaves finds them with your fingerprints, we’ll be even bigger suspects. Especially since you actually killed somebody.”

  Becca frowns as she puts the car in drive and pulls away from the curb. “That’s strange, isn’t it?” she muses. “That no one has singled out Angelica’s death as being any different from the others, apart from the fact that she was actually reported missing?”

  “Yes?”

  “Think about it, Carrie. Footloose killed twelve people that apparently no one even noticed were missing and buried them so well they weren’t found for years. But now he digs up Angelica and leaves her in a place where his work will be discovered?”

  “Uh-huh.” I don’t know where this is going, but I don’t like it.

  “You know what I always think about?”

  “Do I want to hear this?”

  She hits the gas, and I press back into my seat. “I wonder, when I die, should I make a deathbed confession? Should I put a list in a safe-deposit box and wear the key on a chain around my neck, and after I pass, someone unlocks the box and discovers my secret?”

  “You think about that stuff?”

  “All the time. I think Footloose is trying to have it both ways. He wants his crimes discovered, he wants someone to pay for them, but he doesn’t want that someone to be him. He wants it to be you.”