She shakes her head. “No. I’m okay.” Fumbling in her purse, she extracts a nip; some type of vodka I don’t recognize, and cracks open the cap.
“Want some?”
I shake my head. “Better not while I’m working.”
“Right.” She tips the bottle up and it glugs down her throat. She pulls it away with a wince and makes a face. “Let’s go. I’ll finish this on the way.”
***
The garage feels like a sauna after the cold winter air. A large group of men stand around one of those sturdy plastic folding tables which is lined with red cups, several varieties of beer, and other bottles of liquor and soda. A fogbank of smoke hovers over everything.
The place is clean and tidy, sheetrock and paint on the walls; the floor looks like newly poured cement and there are area rugs here and there. I’m guessing the homeowner doesn’t use it as an actual garage. Either that or they are even more anal about cleaning than I am.
Two guys extract themselves from the group and walk toward us. I draw my shoulders back, spread my legs a little, trying to make myself take up more room and appear larger than I really am. Molly seems to shrink beside me, drawing into herself.
“It’s not too late to back out,” I whisper.
Molly shakes her head violently enough that I worry her wig might fly off.
“No,” she says and as if by magic, comes to life. She tosses the long hair over her shoulder and giggles at the two men approaching.
“I’m Honey,” she says, putting a well-manicured hand out to the first guy. “Where can I put my stuff?”
“Honey, good to meet you,” the older of the two says, stooping to kiss her outstretched hand.
I hold in a groan.
“Jeff can show you where you can,” he pauses, smirks at her, “freshen up.”
I follow Molly who is following the younger guy, Jeff, to a small bathroom off the rear of the space. He leaves us there and as Molly stows her stuff and makes some last-minute arrangements of hair and clothes, I go back into the large room to survey the landscape.
A guy shoveling chips into his mouth tries to hit on me and ends up choking on some salsa. I pound him on the back a few times until he nods, waving me off with a weak “thanks.” There are twelve men present, and Mr. Fiancé will make it a baker’s dozen. Small bachelor party. Maybe that’s how the rich do it.
I head back to the table of beverages and single out the older guy who met us at the door.
“Sorry, I never got your name,” I say, extending my hand. If he tries to kiss it, I’ll punch him. He doesn’t, just shakes it somewhat dismissively and replies, “Mike.”
“Okay, while she’s getting ready, I need to go over some details with you. There’s absolutely no physical contact other than what,” I stumble, “Honey initiates. There will be no grabbing, swatting, twisting, tweaking or other handling of the dancer, is that clear?”
“Crystal,” says Mike, but already he’s distracted by lights bouncing up the driveway. “Our boy is here,” he yells and the bass fades to a normal sounding throb while the guys at the table turn their attention to the garage door.
“The cake is over there.” A male voice says.
I turn and find Jeff at my elbow. “I’m the best man,” he says almost sheepishly. “Shouldn’t uh, Honey get in before Jordan gets in the door?”
“Stall him,” I say. “I’ll give her a hand.”
The cake, a big, Styrofoam-appearing affair, is blessedly light. It’s also on wheels. The guy who choked on the salsa shows me how they lock into place. Seconds later, Molly emerges from the bathroom wearing a knee-length silky robe. She looks pale in the dim light, but no longer scared or shrinking. Instead, she practically dances over to the cake. I smell the alcohol on her breath before she’s a foot from me.
“I switched to gin,” she says and giggles. “This is going to be fun!” She tosses her arms over her head and grins at me. “My most original role!”
“Just hurry up,” I say. “Lover Boy arrived, and his best man is holding him off.”
Molly cranes her neck toward the front door. Her hands form fists and she curses under her breath. I help her into the cake, which, cleverly, has a little door built into the backside.
“It’s kinda cramped,” she says, squatting inside the interior. “But it smells pretty good. Like vanilla. Do you think they did that on purpose?” She giggles again.
“Sure,” I say distractedly. “Do you need anything?”
She shakes her head.
“Ready when they are.”
I retreat to the bathroom and gather Molly’s things, stuffing them into the bag she was holding. Then I put it by the garage door and head to the side of the room: close enough to keep an eye on her and take care of my other job: securing the premises. I leave my jacket unzipped, wide enough for the men in the room to get a look at the holster holding my Glock and can of pepper spray.
Chapter Thirty
As long as I live, I’ll never forget the look on Jordan’s face. Lecherous grin turning to puzzlement and then horror as Molly slowly removed her robe, then her skimpy lingerie and lastly, her wig. Blond curls sprouted out around her head while some of the more intoxicated members of the party hooted and made rude gestures. Jordan’s smile slipped. And then a look I can’t describe pasted itself on his face.
Luckily, I don’t have to describe it as I caught it all on film from a tiny digital camera I held in my palm during the festivities. Molly asked me to, fearing she’d be too distracted by her dance to get the full effect of her gift to the husband-to-be. Or husband-not-to-be.
We run out of the garage, laughing, Molly requiring me to prop her up halfway to the SUV as the vodka and gin do their thing in her system. She’s nearly in tears as I wrap her coat around her and a blanket from the back seat over her legs. I drive down the long driveway fast and we hit a bump near the end that causes us to bounce up in our seats like popcorn, which makes us laugh even harder.
“Did you see him?” Molly asks between peals. “Did you see his face? Where’s the camera?”
I wipe at my eyes, and clear my throat, trying to get a grip and stop laughing. Fumbling in my pocket, I extract the camera and pass it to her. It takes her a few tries to find the playback button, but when she does, laughter shakes her body so hard that the camera slides to the floor. I catch it before it hits the mat and then readjust the steering wheel as we’re drifting to the right of the road.
“Wow, that was incredible,” Molly says a few minutes later, the laughter having died down. “It’s like one of those things, you know, that you think about?” Her words slur a little.
I know what she means though. One of those things you wish you’d do, that you see yourself doing over and over in your daydreams, but don’t have the guts to do in real life. Choosing the responsible thing instead.
“It was great. Good for you for thinking it up,” I say.
“You helped. I couldn’t have done it without you. Oh no,” she says, searching the top of her head with her hands, “I don’t have the wig.”
“I grabbed it. It’s in the back with your other stuff from the bathroom.”
“Thass good...” Molly says, her words interrupted by a big yawn. “I got up too early today. Couldn’t sleep.”
It’s quiet in the Suburban for several miles. When I check my right-side mirror before getting onto the interstate entrance ramp, she’s drifted off to sleep, a smile still on her lips.
***
I help Molly into her apartment and leave her keys in a little silver dish by the front door. She’d had the locks changed today, she’d said, in case Jordan was stupid enough to try to come back tonight. I lock up and pull my scarf tighter around my neck. It’s a ten-minute walk to the Park and Ride.
The air is bitter. Stars prick the night sky, glowing and shiny against the darkness. The snow under my boots crunches so loudly it’s all I hear, besides my breath. I pull my shoulders and neck deeper into my coat like a turt
le.
I like being out at night or in the early morning when no one else is. The houses are dark, the sidewalks empty and only occasionally a car or truck passes by, swishing on the snow-covered road. One weekend gig down and one to go. I picture Molly, curled into her down comforter, and have a strange thought: what if we were friends? I don’t have any girlfriends, just Ezra and C.J. If desperate, I guess I’d seek advice from my mother. If Molly and I had met under different circumstances, if she hadn’t hired me, would we have been friends? I spend the rest of the walk thinking about it, imagining us going to theater productions together and signing up for a local drama group. It’s a nice thought, but when would I have time to do all of that?
When I finally reach the parking area, my legs feel like giant toothaches. I can’t wait to get into the car. I follow a skimpy line of vehicles to the Toyota. A huge, hulking beast of an SUV is parked nearby, hiding it from view. As I walk closer, the hair stands up on my arms and neck.
Someone has been in my car.
The driver’s side door is open a crack and the car is sitting lower than usual. Part of me wants to jog forward, investigate. The other part hangs back, assessing the area. I move closer to the car nearest me and wait.
No movement.
No sounds other than my own breathing.
Carefully, I ease myself around the trunk of the nearby car, then squat down again when I see headlights pan across the lot. A dark-colored SUV pulls in, slowly, and starts heading in my direction.
Suddenly, it’s three months ago in my mind. I’m back on that road, where the man who shot me sat waiting. My legs start to tremble, and I steady myself with a hand on the bumper. I duck lower as the SUV passes by. It crunches in the snow, the tires making a grinding sound as they obliterate a chunk of ice. Then it stops.
No one gets in or out.
Wiggling my way around to the other side of the car, I rise to my haunches, see what’s going on. Finally, the passenger’s door of the SUV opens, and a man steps out. Age? Indeterminate, but by the size of the coat and jeans, I’d guess late teens or early 20s. I pull the Glock free from its holster. The weight of it in my palm is reassuring.
“... later man,” the guy says and stamps his feet in the snow. Smoke billows out of the SUV, following him like a snowy whirlwind. He walks to a nearby truck and hops in; then I see the press of a red tip, a cigarette, as he cranks the engine. The truck growls to life and the SUV starts making its way back to the entrance.
I let out a breath and stand to full height, walking to my Toyota. Paranoia. The car is fine. I probably just didn’t close the door hard enough. I slide the gun back. But then I see the tires and realize I was right to be cautious.
Every one of the four is slashed, and the interior, when I open ajar the driver’s side door, is wrecked. Bits of plastic and chunks of Plexiglas or whatever covers the gauges in a dashboard, are strewn about like a piñata that’s spilled its guts. The box of emergency gear I keep in the trunk is completely pulled apart: Mylar warming blanket shredded, packets of hand and foot warmers torn, snacks ground into the carpet and upholstery. The road flares and emergency roadside kit are gone all together.
I sink into the seat, a long, disgusted sigh filling the interior.
***
I wait ten long and cold minutes before the police come to survey the damages and take my statement. Thankfully, the last part is done in the cruiser. Warmth never felt so good to me. I’d spent the waiting time hopping up and down and clapping my hands together to stave off frost bite. The officer went through the paperwork carefully, yawning only once despite the late hour and less-than-exciting task at hand. He even waited with me for the tow truck to come and load my pathetic wreck. I thanked him and hopped into the cab of the tow truck. It smells like fake pine trees and exhaust fumes.
“Whoooeee, you got someone mad at you, huh?” the driver says, climbing behind the wheel. His belly is so large, I’m afraid he won’t manage it. He does though, and we take off with a lurch. The heater is blasting, and I warm my still chilly fingers in front of the vent.
“I guess,” I say.
“Ex-boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Husband problems?”
I sigh, look out the window. “None of your business.” I’m tired and cold. I just want to go home, not get a love-lecture from a stranger.
“Alright, alright. I see it’s a touchy subject,” the man says with a dull chuckle.
We ride in silence several more minutes. When we arrive at the garage there’s a taxi waiting.
“I called it in for ya when I headed out,” says the tow truck driver. Guilt blossoms in my gut like a flower.
“Thanks,” I say, feeling like a jerk. “That was nice of you.”
He waves it off.
“You’ve had a bad night. Thought you’d like to get home right off, not sit around here waiting for someone to pick you up.”
Not that I have anyone to call. Ezra would come, but it would be more than a half hour drive. My mother doesn’t have a car. I guess I could have called C.J. As soon as the thought appears, I dismiss it.
“Thanks again,” I call over my shoulder. “I’ll call the office in the morning for the damages.” He waves a big hand over his head and starts working on the chains around the tires.
Chapter Thirty-one
The next morning dawns dull and gray. It’s Saturday, a time to relax. Instead, I’m antsy and irritable.
I wake early to the sound of a chainsaw, which sounds like it’s just outside my window. It’s not; it’s far down the road. The harsh buzz reverberates through the cold air and gets under my skin anyway. I burn my tongue on my coffee and my finger on the pan while frying an egg. Finally, in a huff, I layer on clothes and outdoor gear (hat, mittens, scarf, and a second pair of mittens), and my boots, and head out for a walk.
As usual, the last thing I feel like doing is the most beneficial. Within a mile stress leaks out of my system. The air, while bracing, is also invigorating and I drink in deep gulps of it. My eyes water. My nose is freezing. But the sound of the wind moving in the bare branches of the trees and the occasional tweet of a brave winter bird help me slow down, reassess.
If I had my trusty notebook filled with good list and bad list, it would read as follows:
Good list: Finished jobs for Phil and Molly with success. Payments for this month’s gigs and the one Sunflower Special, plus my cut of Repo Renew, will more than cover my office rent next month and pay down some of my bills. And that’s without including the money from tonight’s French escapade. Ooh- la-la. I’d say my money situation is fair-to-average at present. Cindy is working out well at Repo Renew. I’ve heard barely a peep out of her for two weeks now. The situation with Sandra Garrison, though irritating, resulted in a free plane ticket anywhere in the continental U.S., to use at my leisure.
Bad list: Sandra has yet to come through with the final payment. Should I try small claims court? By the time I pay for legal fees I’ll likely be out more than the money she owes me. And then there is my car, which is completely messed up. I have no wheels for who knows how long. I only carry the kind of insurance that protects other drivers—collision I think—so I’ll be paying for the new tires and repair to the dash out of my own pocket. And I’m still no closer to knowing who Mystery Psycho is. The police officer asked me all kinds of questions—was there anyone holding a grudge, anyone that I’d been in altercations with, an angry ex who might be out for revenge—but it didn’t help narrow down the suspects. And I could hardly tell him about my side gig as a vigilante-for-hire. Anyway, I’m too careful with those cases to worry about anyone finding out my identity. What nags at me is motive. Who has it out for me?
In addition to the car, I can’t help but feel that my poor handling of Emerson Prescott the first time around only added fuel to the fire and ultimately resulted in what happened to Leanne. Reba assured me that wasn’t the case. My gut says otherwise. The whole situation remains on the bad lis
t, and I still feel guilty about the money Reba hid in my coat pocket.
Winston straddles both lists: the good one, just because he is Winston; the bad because of his episode earlier this week. Will they become more and more frequent until he can’t stay in the house by himself? In a coincidence weird enough to give me goose bumps (if I didn’t already have a thousand from the cold air), I see a tractor putting my way, a familiar plaid cap bobbing toward me.
“How’re you, Tayt.” Winston asks like it’s a statement, putting the engine of the hulking machine into neutral so we can hear each other. A low shout is still required.
“Fine. You?” I yell up to him.
He nods in response, scratches a bare hand under the cap, making it move up and down. “Alright. You fed the animals the other day.”
I nod. This is “thank you” in Winston-ese. How much of that day does he remember?
“It’s no problem. How are you feeling?”
“Fine, I guess. Tired. Did you come inside?”
“Yes. You don’t remember?”
He shakes his head, looks off across a meadow. “Nope.”
I nod again, shift from one foot to the other.
“Need to borrow the Ford again?” he asks, and I startle.
“How did you—”
“Heard it on The Box last night. Know your license plate.”
Winston, horrible at many things, like being social and making sense most of the time, has a brain for numbers and engineering that constantly amazes me.
“That would be great, thank you.”
He nods.
“Lift?” he asks, and motions toward the tractor.
“No thanks, I’ll walk. See you in a bit.”
He nods again, puts the tractor back into gear, the engine putting and growling, then continues on his way.
I hope he remembers when I arrive that he offered to loan me his old Ford. I sigh and try to re-ground myself in the moment. Pushing away thoughts of Winston forgetfully leaving a pot on the stove and burning down his house and my mystery stalker, the same way I push away the low-hanging pine branches in front of me. They release a strong woodsy scent. I breathe in deep, carrying nature into my lungs. The peace of the woods is balm to my brain. I’m not ready to go back quite yet.
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