The Trouble With Murder

by Catherine Nelson

  I departed a few minutes later, returning to the Cushman. The roommate, Tina Shuemaker, hadn’t given me much information on the boyfriend, Tyler Jay. Despite casting suspicion on him, she wouldn’t say anything else about him, like where he lived, worked, or hung out. I wondered if she truly didn’t know. But her credibility had been damaged early on in our conversation, so I had my doubts. All she’d said was Tyler drove a black Cadillac Escalade.

  Not having snooped quite enough for one night, I motored over to a different neighborhood and found one of the addresses I’d come up with for Tyler Jay. It wasn’t the most upstanding part of town, but it was mostly respectable all the same. I saw no sign of any unruly, tattooed characters or Escalades around or near the place. Next, I drove past the house I felt sure belonged to Tyler’s mother. It was in a slightly classier neighborhood, but I saw nothing helpful or suspicious on my cruise past. A light was on in the rear corner of the house, in what I imagined was a bedroom. There were no Escalades on the street or in the driveway. I decided it would be worth it to make the trip in the daylight so I could ring the doorbell and speak to the occupant.

  What will you do if Tyler answers the door? I asked myself.

  I still hadn’t come up with a satisfactory answer by the time I arrived at my next destination.

  6

  I buzzed over to my favorite Mexican food place near the mall in the center of town. It wouldn’t hurt to kill another hour, and I was hungry. Ellmann wanted me to sign paperwork, but after our meeting at the hospital, I wanted to put him off. It was paperwork. It would still be there tomorrow.

  The hostess and I greeted one another by name and chatted as she picked up a menu, probably out of habit, and led me through the restaurant to a two-person booth in the bar. I sat facing the entrance and watched as people came and went in the hall beyond. The bar was full, nearly every stool and table occupied. A soccer game played on every TV screen. There were regular cheers and jeers from groups around the room.

  Gabriella was my waitress, and after a moment spent catching up, she took the menu I hadn’t looked at.

  “The usual today?” she asked. “Or something different?”

  “The usual.”

  She smiled and nodded. “Oh, hey, why do you smell like a man? Is there something you’re not telling me?” She bobbed her eyebrows suggestively, hope evident in her heavily-painted brown eyes.

  “No. Ran out of shampoo and had to borrow my brother’s.”

  “That is so boring it has to be true. Who would lie about something like that?”

  She left to get my drink, and I pulled the pile of notes I’d made out of my pocket, spreading them over the table before me. I munched on chips and salsa while I reviewed them, trying to sort things out in my head. My attention focused on Stacy Karnes and Tyler Jakowski, and I made a new note here and there as I worked through the information. I had just about decided what I would do next when I glanced up.

  I’d been keeping a pretty close eye on the traffic in the hallway, more out of habit and curiosity than anything else, but I was stunned to see a familiar man walk in and speak to the hostess. My eyes rolled involuntarily, and I dropped the chip I’d picked up back in the basket.

  Joe Pezzani spotted me over the hostess’s shoulder and a stupid grin spread over his face. I couldn’t help the sigh that escaped me. A minute later, he was carrying his to-go bag in my direction. The hostess watched him then saw me. She did a palms-up gesture and shrugged her shoulders: an apology and a what-do-you-want-me-to-do message all in one. An instant later, Pezzani was sliding in the booth opposite me.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” he said, setting his carry-out bag on the table.

  “Yeah.” My tone was flat. I leaned back in the booth and crossed my arms over my chest. “Fancy.”

  “You’re not here with someone, are you?” he asked.

  I was saved from answering the question again when Gabriella returned carrying my dinner. I set the notes aside, and she put the plate down. She smiled at the newcomer.

  “Will you be staying?” she asked.

  We answered at the same time. I said no and he said yes. Gabriella, obviously confused, looked between us then settled on me.

  “He’s cute,” she said. “What’s the harm?”

  She turned and left.

  He smiled like a thief.

  I rolled my eyes.

  I didn’t know anything about this guy. And what he knew about me wasn’t necessarily flattering.

  I leaned forward slightly and lowered my voice. “Are you stalking me?”

  He smiled and laughed. “You think quite a bit of yourself, don’t you?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe I just don’t think much of you.”

  He laughed, his blue eyes sparkling.

  Gabriella returned with a fresh basket of chips. She batted her eyelashes at me with a barely perceptible incline of her head toward Pezzani before she left. I did another eye-roll.

  “It’s kind of a mess over at White Real Estate today,” he said. “That guy Davis, he doesn’t seem to have a grip on things yet.”

  “It’s his first day and the circumstances are bad. Give him a minute to adjust.”

  He shrugged. “Just what I saw.”

  “Why are you here?” I asked.

  “For dinner, obviously. I love their chili rellenos. On my honor, I’m not stalking you. It’s coincidence.”

  “No such thing.”

  He was looking at me, his blue eyes searching my face carefully. “I stopped in to grab dinner.”

  He seemed to be telling the truth. But I truly don’t believe in coincidence. Yet, in this situation, what other explanation could there be?

  Pezzani stood and picked up his carry-out.

  “Enjoy your dinner,” he said. “Maybe I’ll see ya around sometime.”

  I was still wondering what he meant when I left the restaurant myself. As I climbed onto the scooter and buzzed out of the lot, my eyes inadvertently flitted to the mirrors, watching for signs of being followed. I saw nothing that appeared suspicious, but it was dark, and I’m anything but an expert. Plus, I wasn’t exactly inconspicuous on the scooter; I could easily be followed from a distance.

  My phone rang. It was Amy. I fit the earbud into my ear and answered.

  “Saw you called,” she said. “What’s up?”

  I shrugged. “I’m kinda having a shitty day.” I hit the highlights, catching her up on the latest news.

  “What’s this Joe look like?”

  “Amy, come on. A girl could die.”

  She sighed. “I realize that, but I can’t do anything to change that. So come on, is he cute?”

  We chatted for a while, then she had to go. Brandon was waiting on her. His family was in town, and they had plans with them all weekend: dinner tonight and a big family gathering tomorrow. Amy didn’t really know his family very well, and she was worried about making a good impression.

  It was just as well. I didn’t want to talk about Pezzani anymore, and she didn’t want to talk about Stacy anymore. Plus, I’d arrived at my next destination.

  _______________

  The look on Sandra York’s face when I’d seen her watching me from the office earlier had continued to flash in my mind. Her self-satisfied sneer brought with it several speculations I’d initially dismissed because they were so ridiculous. Now that prison was a real possibility, I was highly motivated to find the real thief. This led me to follow those early speculations through to the end. There were some holes, but I thought I’d found enough pieces to see a picture.

  All I had was a working theory, though, so I needed to have a conversation with Sandra. I wasn’t going to prison. I sure as hell wasn’t going to prison for something I didn’t do.

  I found the house with no trouble then parked at the curb. Sandra had thrown a party once and invited everyone from the office. I’d made a brief appearance, which I’d regretted. Now I was pretty sure she was going to regret having given me her address
.

  The house was completely dark; no one was home. I pulled the recorder from my backpack and tucked it into my back pocket then made myself comfortable in the porch swing. Inhaling deeply, I eased back into the swing and rocked gently, sure my wait would only be a few minutes.

  Two hours later I was still waiting. And I really had to pee. Bad. I was contemplating peeing behind the neighbor’s large front-yard bush. Then the wind picked up. When the rain started, I’d had enough.

  I hustled to the curb and fetched the Cushman, steering it up the driveway then manhandling it up onto the porch.

  I decided to use Sandra’s bathroom and continue waiting for her inside. I intended to have a conversation with her even if I had to wait all night. But if I was forced to wait that long, I might as well be comfortable.

  Getting into the house wouldn’t be a problem. I hadn’t used those talents in a while, but would be like riding a bike. Of course, everything would be easier if I could just find a key.

  The absence of light helped conceal my movements and offset the chance of a neighbor noticing me and misunderstanding my intention. I confirmed the door was in fact locked then had a look around. But I found no spare key hidden underneath any of the flowerpots, rocks, or the doormat.

  I ran through the rain around to the backdoor. It too was locked, but there were just as many potential hiding places for a key on the patio. Under the second flowerpot I picked up, I found what I was looking for. Smiling, I snatched the key, noticing the mark it had left on the cement. I let myself in then replaced the key and the pot.

  I stopped in the first bathroom I came to, drying myself on a borrowed towel and pinning back my wet bangs with a hairpin from my pocket. Then I looked around the house.

  I’d been struck last time I was here by how expensive Sandra’s furnishings were. Far too expensive for what I know her income to be. This confirmed I’d at least come to the right place; Sandra knew more than she was telling. The chances were good some of what she knew pertained to the missing money.

  In the master bedroom, I found a king-size four-poster bed covered in silk sheets and down comforters. Everything was tidy and neat; even the bed was made. I guessed Sandra had a housekeeper who made regular appearances.

  Since I had to wait, the bed was as good a place as any to do it. Forgetting about my wet clothes, I climbed onto it and sighed as I gently sank back into the mattress and closed my eyes. In that moment I thought Sandra was the biggest witch I’d ever met, and I no longer felt bad for never liking her. Nice people don’t have beds like hers.

  Almost an hour later, I heard the garage door. I lay still, listening. The kitchen door opened and closed, then sharp heels clicked against the floor. A light went on and then off again after a few minutes. Then I heard footsteps on the stairs. I sat up.

  Sandra came into her bedroom and flipped on the light, now carrying her shoes in her hand. She took several steps before she finally saw me. She gave a start, and a mean look colored her face.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “I know, I know, you thought you’d finally gotten rid of me.” My tone was sympathetic, as if I understood her plight perfectly. “This bed is so comfortable. Wow!”

  “I’m calling the police.”

  “I wish you would. It will save me the time.”

  “You were going to call the police because you broke into my house?” she asked, moving into the doorway of the closet where she dropped her shoes.

  Her hair was a tangled mess, her makeup smeared, and her clothes wrinkled. The late return home and the state of her appearance left me with one conclusion.

  “How’s Barry?” I asked casually. “I hope I didn’t scare him.”

  She scoffed and shrugged indifferently. But not soon enough. “How should I know?”

  “Because you were still at work with him after I left. Or were you with him after hours tonight? Putting in a little overtime, there, Sandra?”

  I could see I’d struck the nail on the head.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m calling the police.”

  “What’s stopping you? I just wanted to give you a chance to explain your side of the story before I called them myself.”

  She took a step toward me. “What story?”

  “The story of how White Real Estate came to be missing twenty thousand dollars.”

  Her eyes widened slightly and she gaped at me. “You don’t actually think I stole that money, do you?” Then the corners of her mouth tipped up in a smile. “Everyone knows you did it.”

  I smiled and winked. “You and me, we know the truth, don’t we? You’ve got some pricey stuff in here. Especially these linens,” I said, rubbing a hand over the soft down comforter beside me. “These are great, by the way.”

  “I like nice things, so that proves I stole the money?”

  I shrugged. “If you say so. Like I said, I only wanted to give you a chance to explain.”

  “You won’t really call the cops,” she challenged.

  I laughed. “Of course I will. I’ve got nothing to lose now. You saw to that.”

  “Oh, please! You were so miserable in that job; everyone could see it. I did you a favor. You should be grateful.”

  “I don’t hate the job,” I countered. “I hate Paige.” And the memories the job regularly brought up. “Sending me to prison isn’t a favor. Besides, this wasn’t about me. You needed a fall guy for your crime. Someone must have started to get suspicious, and I was perfect. Like you said, it was no secret how much I disliked Paige. Everyone would believe an embezzlement story; it’s the ultimate revenge. You falsified documents, forged signatures, successfully pointed the finger at me. But it won’t work.”

  A horrible smile spread over her face. “Oh yes it will. Checked your bank account lately? The cops will, if they haven’t already. They’ll find the couple thousand you held on to after transferring the balance to an offshore account they’ll never be able to look at.”

  I smiled back at her, just as wickedly. “This isn’t your first time, is it? A look at companies you’ve worked for in the past will likely turn up other embezzlement cases. Once the police establish a pattern and trace that deposit into my account back to your computer at work, or maybe Barry’s, it won’t take much more for them to figure out what really happened.”

  “Don’t you ever give up?” she snapped. “It’s over! Everything is airtight. Everything points to you. The cops won’t look past all the nice, neat little pieces.”

  “Maybe not. But I will. And they’ll pay attention when I put together just as many nice, neat little pieces pointing back to you.”

  “From your prison cell? I doubt it. I’ll be set up in a new place, a new company, living off the money you stole, while you make license plates or whatever prisoners do.”

  “You’ll have to be more careful next time. You stole twenty thousand dollars, but you’ll probably only take away ten, maybe twelve, after all the cleanup is said and done. Framing me is costing you.”

  “Tell me about it. But believe me, I won’t make the same mistakes next time. Barry was a stupid choice, for one. Everything is much easier if the fucking CFO is transferring the money out for you.” She gave me a patronizing smile. “But that’s nothing you need to worry your pretty little head about. You need to worry about how you’ll look in orange and how you’ll make new friends and live in tight spaces.”

  I got up and started for the door. Then I turned back.

  “Out of curiosity, was I convenient, or did you pick me deliberately?”

  She smirked. “Barry had you picked out from the beginning.” Then she leaned forward and whispered. “He doesn’t like you.”

  I smirked back. “I know. Give him a message for me, will you?”

  “What message?”

  “Tell him I said, ‘checkmate.’”

  Outside, I pulled the recorder from my back pocket and turned it off.

  7

&nbs
p; The next day, or rather later that same day, just after seven in the morning, my doorbell rang. Given that I’d spent most of the night waiting for the thieving witch Sandra to return home, I hadn’t been in bed very long. And what time I had spent there had been fitful, my sleep plagued with more disturbing dreams of memories past.

  I smashed a pillow down on my head and rolled over. I noted distantly that my shirt was damp; I’d been sweating. My alarm was set for ten. It was Saturday; I thought sleeping until ten was reasonable. Especially since this was the first day of my vacation.

  The doorbell persisted, however, followed by angry banging on the front door. It reminded me vaguely of the way Hensley had attacked the door the day before. But two visits from the same cop in eighteen hours was unlikely, right?

  I threw myself out of bed and stumbled to the door with my eyes still half shut. I knew without consulting a mirror I looked . . . bad. Mornings aren’t really my thing. Let this be a lesson to whomever it was pounding on my door.

  I heard a sharp voice in between rounds of banging.

  “Ms. Grey! You need to open the door.”

  “Is the house on fire?” I called back, my tongue still thick with sleep.

  “No. Open the door.”

  “Is someone bleeding to death?”

  “No. If you don’t— “

  “If there’s no emergency, come back in three hours.”

  “Ms. Grey, it’s Detective Hensley. Open the door or I will.”

  Uh-oh.

  I fumbled with the locks then yanked the door open and winced at the bright sunlight.

  “Do you know what time it is?” I demanded.

  Hensley chose to take my remark as a sincere inquiry and not the sarcastic gibe it was. He looked at his watch.

  “Seven twelve.”

  “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!” I groaned, sagging against the doorjamb.

  Hensley had another officer with him: a young, uniformed man I didn’t recognize. They both looked serious, as if they meant business. The sleep was clearing from my brain quickly now, and I pretty much figured their visit wasn’t good.