Studying Scarlett the Grey

by Kelle Z Riley

  “Just don’t—”

  “—let her know about the spy side of the business. Yeah, I got it. Remember? You and boss man made it crystal. As in clear.” He grinned at her. “You taking the private elevator to the garage or walking through the office space to test your disguise?”

  “Explaining an unescorted visitor to the labs would be difficult. Besides, I’m running late.” Bree adjusted her camera necklace, gathered her tote, and headed out, alter ego firmly in place.

  Chapter 8

  “You’re late,” Liza said as she met Bree at the employee entrance and shoved a work vest into her hands. Out in the retail area, Bree heard Scarlett greeting guests.

  She glanced at her watch.

  “Okay, not actually late, but not early like I’d hoped.” Liza blew the bangs off her forehead, eyes looking a little wild. As soon as Bree had stashed her purse in a locker, Liza pulled her down a corridor.

  “Overnight our vehicle rental business got slammed with customers. Mrs. Telligio and Jack got wind of it and called an emergency team meeting this morning. Apparently, a mockup of our airport car rental business–where we pick people up and bring them here to rent—was published by accident. We’d planned to hire extra people before that promotion went live and now, we’re barely able to keep up.

  "On top of that, there’s some kind of event going on in town and,” Liza blew at her bangs again, then gave up and swiped them off her forehead with her hand, “every vehicle in our fleet, and even a few of our executives’ private cars have been rented.”

  Bree digested this, wondering why she and Tugood had not been alerted to the situation. Liza opened the door to the staging garage and Bree came face-to-face with a tall, slender man. Permanently stooped shoulders, thinning hair, and a hangdog expression hinted at someone beaten down by circumstances.

  “Cat, this is Gordon Reed. Gordon, Cat’s a new hire. She hasn’t been trained on our systems yet, but she can help you prepare the cars.”

  “Miss Liza, I need more than an untrained pair of hands,” he whined. For such a tall man, he sounded like a peeved toddler. “You know that. I asked for help, not a baby-sitting job. I don’t need kids hanging around in the garage.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Reed,” Bree said, stopping what could have become a rant. “I’m a fast learner. What do you need me to do immediately?”

  The take charge approach snapped him out of whatever he’d planned to say, and he blinked at her. “We’ll see, won’t we?” He led her to a line of vehicles against one wall of the staging area.

  “When the cars come in, they go to the bay next door,” he pointed at a connecting door. “Bill Jr. is handling the mechanical once over, topping off fluids, and airing up the tires.

  "Then Magnus—he’s the muscle around here—washes and gasses them up. You need to vacuum and polish the interior, so our Quality Control Mechanic, Juan, can make his final inspection and drive them up front to the pickup point. Think you can handle that?”

  “I can handle it.”

  “We’ll see, miss. We’ll see. But this isn’t a vacuum like you’d use at home,” he said, pointing to the industrial shop vac. “You’ll need to be careful.”

  Bree grabbed the vac and headed to a nearby car only to be stopped by Gordon’s voice. “Not that one. The one at the end of the line.” He sighed and pointed to the far section of the room. “We have a rotation to keep up.”

  Once he was satisfied that she was vacuuming the correct car, he disappeared into a glassed-in office area, muttering to himself about young people these days. Bree wondered exactly what job he was doing but decided against asking.

  Several hours and many cars later, Bree paused to stretch her back before heading to the next vehicle in line. As she moved her head from side to side, she saw the red Mustang heading into the garage bay next to hers, presumably being returned from a rental.

  Three o’clock, according to the wall clock. Long past lunch, leaving little chance she’d be able to check out the car while the rest of the garage staff was on break. She moved to the door connecting the staging area with the working garage in time to hear raised voices.

  “Don’t touch the Mustang,” said a voice that sounded like Billy’s.

  “Dad, I’m as good as you are with a wrench. It’ll only take a few minutes and you’ve got plenty to do.”

  The pronouncement was met with a vile expletive. “Just do as I say for once. Nobody touches my car but me.”

  “You and the dozens of people who rent it.”

  Sounds of a scuffle filtered through the door, ending in a thud that sent tiny shock waves through the wall. Bree quickly moved back to the line of cars just as two workers sauntered past the open doors in the direction of the working garage.

  She dried the exterior and popped the trunk of the older model Crown Victoria. “Big enough to hold half a dozen suitcases and a couple of bodies,” she muttered to herself as she pulled crumpled paper, lost luggage tags, and empty water bottles from the space and dumped them in the trash.

  “Hey, there, Kitty Cat.” Bree jerked upright, nearly smacking her head on the car frame. Billy strode toward her, his boots ringing on the concrete floor. “Did I startle you? You’ve got to get used to noise if you’re going to work the garage. Did they run out of work for you to do up front?”

  Bree forced a shy smile to her lips then ducked her head to let her hair fall into her eyes, obscuring her face. “I heard the rental business tripled overnight.”

  “It did at that. I’m good.” Billy winked at her and Bree felt her skin crawl. “That’s why they call me Billy Badass. Bringin’ in the customers. Badass. I just got back from driving a vanload of them in from the airport. In a minute, I’ll take another load back the other way.”

  While he talked, Bree started the vacuum, but he pitched his voice to be heard over its volume and continued to brag about his business. Good. She peppered her feigned indifference with just enough responses to keep him talking while she worked.

  As she reached into a far corner of the trunk, the vacuum snagged a bit of carpet, sucking it up. Bree hit the stop switch and leaned closer, inspecting the carpet, and wiping at the dirt under it.

  “Don’t be doing that,” Billy shouted, his voice still at full volume. “Don’t bend the carpet. We don’t need you to inspect the spare tire well. The carpet needs to lie flat, else people will lose loose items and blame us.”

  “The vacuum—”

  “Just be careful with the corners.” Billy leaned in and pushed the carpet back into place, securing it into a crack between the floor and the upholstered side of the trunk. “Damn.”

  He straightened, a jagged cut on his arm oozing blood. Bree glanced at the trunk but saw no blood there. The cut must have happened when he got into the fight with his son.

  “Let me help you. I think I saw a first aid kit around here somewhere.”

  “On the front counter, Kitty Cat,” he said, leading the way. “All I need is a little antibacterial glop and some plastic wrap.” He opened the kit Bree found on the top shelf and pulled out a battered tin. “Here we go,” he said, scooping out some dark gel and smearing it on his cut. Bree noticed his hands and arms were covered in bruises, healing cuts, and scars.

  “I use this all the time. Better than the name brands and cheaper too. Much as I use it, I need to keep it cheap. Don’t waste my money. No, siree. This is my go-to remedy—just Crisco and honey, Crisco and honey. Fix up a boo-boo nice and tight. Nice and tight.”

  He wrapped the wound in a length of plastic wrap from one of several rolls stored under the cabinet. “Here, you try some of my special sauce. You’ll see. Best stuff there is.”

  Bree shook her head. Although honey was an ancient antibacterial, she had her doubts about Billy’s homemade concoction, which had an irritating, charred smell, as if car exhaust had been included in the recipe.

  “Here we go. Let me fix you up. You’ll see. Better than
you can buy. You and me, we could make millions selling this stuff.” He winked at her then fished around under the counter and came up with a nearly empty snuff tin. “Juan won’t miss the rest of this,” he said as he dumped the last of the snuff in the trash and smeared a glob of his Crisco/honey mix in it. “Here you go, Kitty Cat. There’s more here if you need it.”

  Bree stuffed the tin in her vest pocket while Billy stowed the first aid box. “Listen, girl, you’re working too hard. The big rush is over. Just a few more cars to go out tonight. Juan,” he motioned to one of the other workers, “you and Magnus take over here. Finish these last cars then knock off for the day.”

  With that, he ushered Bree to the garage door and waved her toward the break room, cutting off any chance she had to inspect the Mustang.

  Bree’s phone rang as she entered the break room. Warmth zipped through her tired limbs at the name that flashed across the screen. James O’Neil. She and the local detective had become friends since investigating the murder of her former boss. Now they were becoming…more.

  “Hi, James, how are things at the police department?”

  “All’s quiet in Plainville these days. There’s no reason to hire you to consult with me. Unless you want to work on missing pet cases.”

  “Is that really a thing?”

  His laughter snaked across the line. “It isn’t. But that doesn’t stop Lady McBeth—sorry, I can’t give you her real identity—from calling to claim her dog has a tip about local crime. I think she’s just a lonely old lady, but who knows? Maybe we should hire someone who can talk to animals.”

  “Horace and Wendy Clark would try—for the right price.” The couple, who owned a pet bakery and grooming shop in the heart of the old town often helped Bree with animal related questions that arose during her investigations.

  “I prefer not to visit The Barkery,” James replied referring to their shop. “I’d hate to run across any zoning or business violation I’d have to write up. Best I keep a respectful distance.”

  “The upright James O’Neil turning a blind eye to crime? What’s happened to you?” Bree teased.

  “You,” he shot back, laughter still infusing his voice. “You’re a bad influence Dr. Mayfield-Watson. You need to stop finding dead bodies everywhere you go. How about we meet up for dinner so I can keep you away from potential crime scenes?”

  “Yes, to dinner. I’m in favor of avoiding murder investigations too.” She spied several coworkers entering the break room. “Pick me up at seven?” she asked.

  “It’s a date.”

  She cut off the call and pulled a can of soda out of the fridge before joining the others.

  “Billy seems like an interesting character,” Bree said as she popped open the can and took a sip. Liza developed a sudden interest in her granola bar, but Margie Lewis chortled loudly.

  “Bag-O-Gas is either stupid or he deliberately alienates people. Bullies everyone who comes into his orbit. Makes the new hires cry half the time.”

  Liza broke the granola bar in half with a loud snap and dropped the pieces on the table. “Some day he’ll run into someone bigger and meaner than he is.”

  Margie snorted. “Everyone’s bigger than him. Small man, smaller…” she looked at Bree and broke off her words. “Anyway, Billy has a chip on his shoulder bigger than he is. He’s all bluster and nothing to show. Knows everything and doesn’t trust anyone. Right down to his stupid homemade wound salve he pushes on anyone who’ll take some.

  "Everyone sees through Billy Bag-O-Gas except Gordon and Jack Trayder.” She shook her head. “One of these days, Billy will go too far and cost Jack his business, his reputation, or his happy home. Jack’s too trusting, so we have to watch his back side for him. At least, that’s what I think. Ladies,” she pushed herself away from the table, “I need a smoke.”

  “Margie doesn’t like him much.” Bree took a drink of her soda and slid a glance toward Liza as Margie left to smoke in the parking lot.

  Liza shrugged, her earlier outburst forgotten. “Billy irritates everyone. Except maybe the boys in the garage. Most of us just blow him off. But Margie says she’s too old to put up with shenanigans,” Liza made air quotes around the word, “like his.”

  “He was pretty mean to you yesterday.”

  Again, Liza shrugged. “As long as he stays in his area, no one gets hurt. The guys there either worship or ignore him, which is fine by me. Trader Jack’s is a great place to work—as long as you steer clear of Bag-O-Gas. Sorry about dropping you in his lair today without a warning.” Liza’s cheeks pinked and she slid her gaze away from Bree.

  “That’s okay,” Bree assured her. “I’ve worked with worse.” Stone-cold killers, for example. She kept the thought to herself and finished her drink. “I guess I’d better go back to the garage.”

  “No. They’re finally caught up. What I need from you is help with the Halloween displays. People are already coming in to buy party supplies. Can you believe it's already the middle of October?”

  Liza led her to a storage unit dedicated to Halloween props, partyware, and decorations. Like the other units at the site, this one had been modified to have a backdoor opening into the private areas and a front roll-up door to allow people to browse.

  A few middle-aged ladies scanned the shelves, whispering to each other, but the unit was otherwise empty.

  Giant heaters installed in the front of the bay kept the Chicago chill out of the unit as Liza and Bree straightened and restocked the area with everything from black cat statues to preformed spider web. Bree opened a long box to find a cadaverous butler, complete with silver tray. As she propped him up, she turned to Liza. “He reminds me of Gordon.”

  “Oh. My. God. You are so right, Cat. We could set him up in the automobile bay and no one would know the difference.”

  “Except for the drink tray. I don’t see Gordon offering drinks to anyone.” The image of Norah asking about a Halloween party popped into her mind. “Liza, how much to rent this guy? I have a friend who would love to have him for her party.”

  Liza checked a pricing app on her phone. “By the time we factor in your employee discount, he wouldn’t cost too much.” She named a figure.

  “Sold. He’s coming home with me.”

  “Perfect,” said Liza. “As soon as we finish here, I’ll show you how to check out the rentals—you’ll be your own first customer. Speaking of parties,” she added, “we usually dress up for Halloween, at least one day during the season. Jack does the pirate costume and walks around with Scarlett on his shoulder. The customers and staff love it.”

  Two parties and no pressing cases? Perhaps she was finally catching a break. As soon as the thought entered her mind, a dozen of her grandmother’s superstitions tromped in behind it. Knock on wood. Throw spilled salt over your shoulder. Place a mirror by the door to protect yourself from the devil. A sparrow swooped in through the large open front doors and Bree shivered. A bird in the house portends death.

  Two hours later, Bree unloaded Mr. Cranium—she’d resisted the impulse to call him Gordon—and transported the prop up the private elevator to the Tech Ops center.

  “What on earth is that?” Matthew Tugood frowned at her as she entered, half dragging Mr. C behind her.

  “He’s a Halloween decoration. For the company. We should have a dress up day and party atmosphere to cheer the workers.”

  Matthew’s frown deepened. “I’m not sure he’s what I’d call cheerful. But if that’s what you think we need, far be it from me to try to stop you.” A smile twitched at his lips, trying to break through the rest of his scowling countenance. “At least you didn’t find a dead body on this mission.”

  “Matthew! You know me better than that.” Bree’s smile answered his. “I’d never disturb the scene of a crime.”

  “Lord, help us.”

  “Hey, dudette! Did you bring a date to our meeting?” Grant ambled into the room, an energy drink in hand.
<
br />   “Sure did. He’s the life of the party.” Bree arranged Mr. Cranium in a chair and sat next to him, humor fading away as she faced her colleagues.

  “Some strange things happened at Trader Jack’s today.” She filled them in on her work in the auto rental area—and the reasons for it—as well as her growing suspicions.

  “I wouldn’t be so fast to jump to the conclusion that Billy isn’t an embezzler,” Matthew said when she’d finished her report. “The fact that Trader Jack’s is making money from the auto venture doesn’t mean it’s receiving all of the money it's due.”

  “Auto rentals aren’t overly lucrative,” Bree objected. “That’s why they always try to upsell you with extra insurance, prepaid tolls, GPS, and just about everything else you can imagine. I don’t see it.”

  “But you do see the issue with running a garage out of a storage building, don’t you?”

  She frowned at him. “Not really.”

  “I’m not talking Jack’s, specifically,” began Matthew. “But when I was in the field, if we needed to do a large dead drop, a storage building was ideal. Rent the building then let it go in arrears by not paying. Your partner follows up and bids on the unit you let slip by. A few weeks and a couple of hundred dollars later you’ve moved anything from bodies to bullion.”

  Bree whistled. “You’re not talking dead drop as in passing covert messages, are you?”

  “Sometimes, but usually lockers and storage buildings were used for bigger items. Point is cash sales can be hard to trace. With the advent of online bidding, the process is more complicated, but not much.”

  “Okay, I get the principle. We should check Trader Jack’s for rental buildings before they go up for auction.”

  “Been there, done that. No auctions have happened since Jack took over the complex,” said Grant. He ruffled his hair and stretched. “No offense, crime fighters, but I want to hit the gym and burn off some energy. Can we talk about the info I found on the Mustang?”