I set Fluffy down, locked up and went out front to water her flowers, putting the can lid back on before getting started. The poor flowers were looking a little droopier than was strictly healthy. I held the hose over them until practically drowning them, trying to make up for my failure with my own yard. Drenching complete, I hopped in the truck and drove home.
* * *
On the way home, I stopped by the post office and picked up my mail. I parked the truck in Dad’s driveway and scanned through the mail in the sunshine.
Too many of those suspiciously plain envelopes with return addresses that don’t mention the company that sent them, dead giveaways to being credit-card bills. One glance at the stack of stuff told me that eleven dollars probably wasn’t going to dissuade the credit-card company from sending a collection agency thug after me. My one big consolation—there wasn’t anything to repossess, except the stellar credit rating I’d carefully built.
I did a quick calculation in my head, wondering what minimum payments on these bills totaled and if the four hundred thirty-two dollars due me on Wednesday would cover them.
I scowled at the bills again. I was supposed to receive three months severance with my layoff notice. But Wireless Innovations, my former employer, was holding it up while they processed my last expense report.
Willy and his receipts. Why couldn’t he just pay up!
I fought down an anxiety attack, trying not to hyperventilate.
Call Howard, that was the thing to do, I thought between calming breaths. Just for a little reassurance. Howard oozed cockiness and outright confidence. Maybe a bit would rub off on me. As I said before, if Howard said something was going to happen, it was. I’d never known him to be wrong, and I’d known him ten years, starting at Seattle Air Defense (SAD) Technologies. Back then he was thirty-two himself and a lowly first level manager with all the corporate political savvy of a future president. Everyone knew Howard was on the track for greatness. This threatened some, and impressed others, namely me.
Howard had done a great many things for my career, including getting me a secret clearance while I worked at SAD Tech. Oh, boy! A secret clearance! Now I was going to get to know a lot of government secrets.
No such luck. I never learned one piece of secret info. Not even one radio frequency. All I did was watch a lot of stupid videos that warned me not to talk to strange men in bars, especially men who seemed interested in my work.
My attitude was if I got lucky enough to hook up with a man in a bar who was interested in my work, I was going to latch onto him. How many men are there in the world who just love talking engineering and radar design? According to the government, lots of them, all foreign agents who want to steal our technology. All I can say is, I never met one. Maybe it was just me.
Okay, not a good example of Howard’s beneficence toward me. But he did get me top raises, gave me glowing job performance reviews, and shared corporate gossip with me. What more is there, really?
I grabbed my cell and called Howard.
He picked up on the third ring. I pictured him sitting in his sleek fifth-floor office in the Redmond high-tech corridor, swiveled in his leather chair to look out at his view of the Redmond Valley, the bike trails, and the wineries.
"Lees, hey, what’s up?" Howard always asked, "what’s up?" When we worked together he used to stroll into my cubicle, "what’s up?" To this day I wasn’t really sure if he wanted an answer or it was just his form of a pleasantry. In the old days, I used to give him a running status report of my current project as his eyes glazed over. I never learned.
"Just checking my offer status."
"Everyone loves you, Lees."
"And the financials?"
"Not in yet."
"When?"
He laughed. "Impatient? You’ve been out, what, a month and a half? I thought you had three months severance. Why aren’t you out enjoying yourself? Something got you spooked?"
"I just came from the house. Willie’s holding up my insurance money. And Wireless is holding up my severance check." I filled him in on the details.
"Get yourself a lawyer, Lees. Threaten them a little. It’s been my experience that a letter from a lawyer goes a long way toward resolving things."
I had no money for a lawyer. "Okay," I said, obviously not meaning it. "Back to SAPS. When are the numbers coming out?"
"Another week or two. Probably mid August. You’ll be my director of engineering by Labor Day. I guarantee it." Then he launched into a discussion of the ongoing projects in his command chain.
As interesting as engineering projects could be, my mind began to wander. I found myself answering Howard with a lot of "uh-huhs" and "that’s very interestings" as I daydreamed about the possible perks of my new job. For example, would I get a company car?
Chapter 6
Job-free days: 38
Technical Project Manager
Are you looking for an exciting opportunity to manage and set the strategy for a team of outstanding engineers, including engineering managers and senior level engineering managers? Do you think it would be cool to manage a product line that will be seen by each and every customer? Then this position may be for you!
Management of analog and digital circuit design projects a big plus. Must have experience with nose issues that you would find in an electronic environment. If you fit this background then Apply today!
Contact Fred at Technical Recruitment Specialists.
—workaholic.com recruitment ad
Chapter 7
Applications to date: 6 monster.com, 8 dice.com, 6 workaholic.com, 5 jobfox.com, 2 want ads.
Goals:
Step 2—Refine the goal list.
1. Find a mostly perfect man and marry him. Must be realistic about men. Perfect ones don’t exist, do they?
2. Get my insurance money and spend appropriately.
3. Restore bungalow.
4. Secure the perfect job. I’m trying! I’ve reminded Howard of my desperate need and I applied for the silly job with the nose issues, didn’t I?
5. Spend an hour each day exercising.
6. Eat at least two ounces of chocolate per day. I’m doing very well meeting this goal.
7. Someday, possibly, maybe, listen to the Breakthrough to Greatness on my new Shuffle.
* * *
Even though Howard is going to give me the fabulous job, I still had to make the weekly three job contacts so I called big Fred at TRS. Turns out that management experience is more than a big plus, it’s a big requirement. Oh well, I don’t need that job anyway. But the whole process frustrated me.
You know what really ticks me off about online jobs? Eighty percent or more of them are posted by recruiters who I swear have gone to either CIA training or journalism school because they will not reveal their employer clients until they screen you, contact the hiring company, and finally deem you a serious candidate. Threats of torture or lawsuits don’t move them. Since recruiters aren’t trying to find jobs for people but people for jobs, with the least possible work, they are not the earnest jobseeker’s friend. They’ll go through the checklist the hiring company has given them and if you don’t meet every requirement, check you right off in ignorance. Grrr.
And the jobs I was forced to apply for! Nose issues in an electronic environment. Piece of cake. I have nose issues in almost any environment, especially in the summer when my seasonal allergies act up.
I know. Nose issues is a typo. Probably they meant noise issues as in interference. No doubt an engineer wrote that ad and passed it along to Fred who didn’t know enough, or wasn’t confident enough with his knowledge, to proof the copy and make a change. Fred will probably be asking all serious applicants, that is, not me, about their sinus conditions.
I’d just hung up from my scintillating conversation with Fred when Willie’s guy, Todd Gibson, called and identified himself as my forensic insurance investigator, and set up a time to stop by. I hate the word "forensic." It reminds me too much o
f a medical drama and a dead body on a coroner’s slab.
Probably the forensics guy just wanted to know how new my appliances had been and how much peanut butter I kept in the cupboard. His impending visit meant I had to tidy up Dad’s living room and put on something presentable. On second thought, I decided to go ahead and wear my holey jeans and T-shirt so he’d have sympathy for me and get me my check pronto.
I’d just finished stashing a few magazines in the rack when the doorbell rang.
When I opened the door, a man stuck out his hand, complete with business card. "Gibson."
That’s all he said. I swear. I took his card. "Er, come on in, Gibson. I’m Winsome."
He nodded and brushed past me into the foyer. "You own the property located at 1234 224th Avenue SW?"
"Me and the bank."
Not even a crack of a smile. Mr. Humorless gestured toward the living room. "May we sit?"
"Certainly." I offered him Dad’s comfy chair and a variety of refreshments. He took the chair and passed on everything else.
With his briefcase balanced on his lap, he snapped it open and pulled out a sheaf of papers. "Your preliminary report." He didn’t look happy. But then he hadn’t shown an ounce of emotion since he’d arrived so maybe this was just his insurance guy manner.
He riffled through the paperwork and finally pulled out a sheet of questions and a checklist. "A few questions."
I nodded.
"You’re currently unemployed?"
"Yes, but I practically have an offer on the table—"
"At the time the fire occurred your house was being remodeled?"
"Yes."
"You financed the remodeling how?"
"A home improvement loan. The rates were ridiculously low and I had a job—"
"The day of the fire you left home to go to the grocery store at approximately four p.m.?"
"Correct."
"And you returned?"
Remembering Willie’s admonition to tell the truth, I took my time recalling. "I’d have to say around five-thirty. I decided to take advantage of the nice weather and walk to Fred Meyer for a few things. I ran into an acquaintance at the store and we chatted. Then my cell phone rang. One of my neighbors had my number and called me about the fire.
"I freaked. The manager gave me a ride home, or to what was left of it." I shuddered. "When I got back, the fire crews were still there."
"Was anyone in the house when you left?"
"No, not to my knowledge. I was having my kitchen floors refinished. My contractor was packing up for the day as I got ready to leave. We left together. I locked up and went for my walk. He jumped in his truck and went home."
"Are you into deep fat frying, Winsome? Do you like to make donuts?"
Gibson was a strange man. For a moment there I wondered if he was insinuating I was looking a little chubby. I experienced a moment of panic. But actually, I’d lost a few pounds since being let go, which was mostly due to not being able to afford my morning mocha rather than any new willpower. Or maybe Gibson was worried about my cholesterol.
"I love to eat donuts. But make them! Are you kidding? I have no idea how. I buy all my donuts at a great little family owned shop, Happy Donut. If you like blueberry donuts, I’d recommend you get there first thing in the morning because they go fast."
Even with his head bent, I could see one brow shoot up. Skeptical Mr. No Humor.
"I’ve never deep fat fried anything in my life."
"Were you cooking anything? Had you left anything on the stove?" Gibson didn’t look up as he questioned me, just kept taking notes, which I tried to read upside down. But his handwriting would have been illegible right side up. Some people should really only type.
"Cook?" I laughed. "Are you kidding? I hadn’t cooked for months because the kitchen had been torn up and there was dust everywhere. I don’t generally cook anyway."
"You’re sure?"
"Positive. You’re the forensics expert. Have you checked the freezer compartment of my melted refrigerator?"
He glanced up at me with a puzzled expression.
"Chock full of frozen dinners. When I’m working, I usually eat out. But, of course after I lost my job, I had to make cutbacks. Microwaveable meals are much cheaper even than carryout. With a good sale and a coupon you can get them for under two dollars apiece. And they have the nutritional info right on the box, so there’s no guessing and worrying about the food pyramid."
As if I ever did, but it seemed important to keep up the slightly disingenuous health conscious image. "And no leftovers. I hate leftovers. They generally just clog up the fridge until they turn green and fuzzy and start to smell. So avoiding the middleman and buying an appropriately sized single serving is most economical." I paused for breath. "You probably noticed my well-used microwave, too?"
He turned back to his notes. "Any idea why there might have been a pot of oil on your stove?"
"What? What pot of oil? The firemen didn’t mention finding any pots or pans on the stove. In fact, they were completely puzzled about the cause of the fire."
"Just answer the question."
"I have no idea. What kind of pot are we talking about?"
Gibson actually looked a little sheepish. "I’m not sure. From the number of ignition points and the extent of the damage we found, I’m guessing large, say six quarts."
I shrugged off his uncertainty, thinking maybe this pan he referred to was charred beyond recognition or something and the firemen didn’t recognize it for what it was. Although I would think that firemen were experts at recognizing crispied stuff.
"I don’t even own a pot or pan larger than two quarts! I live alone. Do I look like the kind of girl who could eat six quarts of soup all by herself?"
He didn’t comment. Bad question on my part. But he could’ve been a little more gallant. Rushed to agree that I did not.
"You must be mistaken. I’d packed up my pans and moved them out of the way to the basement. You can check that easily enough. Maybe Gus left a tray of something out. What kind of oil are we talking about? Wood refinishing? Murphy’s wood oil?"
"Crisco."
Light bulb moment. That explained the donut question. "Look, where is all this leading?"
"I’m the one asking the questions here." Gibson’s tone was neutral as he kept writing.
"No one’s told me anything," I said in my firmest voice. "It’s my house, I want to know what you found in my kitchen."
Gibson looked me directly in the eye for the first time since the questioning began. "This job looks like your typical get-a-new-kitchen-for-free insurance fraud job. Multiple ignition points found around the stove are consistent with the typical MO—boil some oil, toss it around starting a fire, lock up, go to the store for an alibi. Did you or did you not heat a pan of hot oil on the stove the day of the fire?"
"No! I did not. And I didn’t do any weird kind of oil-tossing happy dance, either." Now I was really put out. "I suppose you have some kind of evidence? Like a stove knob found cooked in the on position or something?" I felt a surge of satisfaction when Gibson didn’t answer.
He had no evidence.
"You’re barking up the wrong tree here. Why don’t you just go look for the real cause of the fire?"
He ignored me. "Do you have any roommates?"
"No."
"Any guests staying with you?"
"No."
"Anyone besides yourself have a key to your house?"
"My dad, sister, and godmother. But none of them would stop by without calling first. Besides, none of them cook either."
"Anyone else?"
"No!"
"You’re sure? No boyfriends, ex-boyfriends—"
"No, no, no!" I shot him a frustrated look, a bit embarrassed about the no boyfriend thing. "Do I make myself clear?"
Gibson didn’t respond. Instead, he leaned toward me and said in a deep, accusing tone, "Winsome, did you intentionally set fire to your kitchen and then dispose of the pa
n you used to do it?"
I grabbed the sofa to steady myself and keep my anger under control. It probably wasn’t the best idea to sucker punch the investigator. "No! Of course not." The words came out choked sounding, like my throat had gone dry and was no longer in peak operating condition. Anger could make me so mad I could barely speak.
I gulped air, inhaling too fast as I reached for calming breaths. I was going to hyperventilate. When we were done I was going to call Willie and complain about Gibson. Once I got my regular breathing rhythm back.
"Submitting a claim for a fire you set is insurance fraud, Winsome. Are you aware of that?"
"Of course, I’m aware. But I did not set the fire." I enunciated every word for emphasis between my short, choppy breaths.
Gibson stuffed his report back into his briefcase and snapped it shut. He stood. "You look pale. Let me get you a glass of water. Which way to the kitchen?"
I pointed, wondering if he was going to check for a Crisco match. See if I was up to no good here at Dad’s. Maybe thinking about becoming a serial kitchen-burning maniac.
He left the room, banged around in the kitchen a minute, and returned with a glass of water and a paper bag.
"Sip it slowly," Gibson said as he handed me the water. "Breathe into the bag if you need. You’ll be fine. I’ll be making my report to your agent in a few days." He nodded toward the door. "I’ll just show myself out."
* * *
After Gibson left, I called Alice in Florida. She didn’t pick up. I had to leave a voicemail. Not emotionally satisfying when I really needed to talk to someone. Dad was next on my list, but he didn’t answer, either. No way would I call Julie.
Willie, the sniveling weasel! The more I thought about it, the more I realized he had turned on me. Sending a forensics guy to ask me all kinds of incriminating questions. Why hadn’t Willie warned me? The coward! Complaining about Gibson probably wasn’t going to do any good. Gibson was probably Willie’s lackey.
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