The Trouble With Murder

by Catherine Nelson

  He stood for several minutes, waiting patiently while I worked to get myself under control. Then he asked a couple questions. I filled him in on the details I had, few as they were. He was genuinely upset to hear the news. I also suspected a small part of that had to do with the fact that I was upset.

  “I asked you specifically not to get into any trouble, and you went to the hospital?” he asked, resuming the lecture. “How does that make sense to you?”

  “I’m fine, by the way,” I said, cutting off his tirade. I just didn’t have it in me to listen to any more lecturing. My tolerance for it is low on my best day. And I was not having the best day.

  My words seemed to sober him. He stopped and sighed again, eyeing the bandages then looking down at his boots. When he spoke next, his voice was much softer.

  “Are you really okay? Is this the worst of it?” He pointed to my arm.

  I nodded as I looked at my arm. I saw now it was shaking. In fact, my whole body ached, my muscles tight and trembling. It was the lingering effect of the adrenaline. And maybe some fear.

  “Yes. I’m fine. A few stitches and I’ll be good as new.”

  “I got called because the reports started coming in about a shooter dressed in black with a ski mask, just like my other case, and maybe they’re connected. I just knew you were here. And no one could tell me if anyone was hurt. I . . . I was scared.”

  I was quiet for a beat.

  “I’m sorry,” I said sincerely. “I didn’t ask you to worry about me.”

  Also, I didn’t know how I felt about it.

  “Not that it would change anything.”

  “No,” I said. “Trouble magnetism is like a disease with no cure.”

  14

  Since lunch out had been a disaster, Pezzani and I went back to his house and ordered in. I noticed Pezzani had paused before opening the door, looking out to make sure the sandwich guy wasn’t wearing a ski mask and holding a gun. Turned out he was unarmed.

  The shooting incident had been unsettling, to say the least. I didn’t know whom the figure had been shooting at, though I had my suspicions. I didn’t know why the figure was shooting. I didn’t know who had done the shooting. I didn’t know what, if anything, the shooting had to do with Stacy Karnes. I didn’t know if Tyler Jay was connected. If he was, I didn’t know how.

  All of this bothered me. I’ve never liked questions with no answers. Actually, most of the trouble I’ve found myself in throughout my life could very well be blamed on this very phenomenon. And I don’t like when people start catching on to the fact that I really have no idea what I’m doing, what I’m talking about, or what’s going on.

  After lunch, I called my mechanic again. This time he answered. But there had been no progress. I had, naively, expected different news.

  I was lying on the living room floor with my legs on the sofa. My arms were flung out to each side, and I had my eyes closed. I was concentrating on breathing slowly and evenly, while trying to organize and focus my thoughts.

  My phone, lying somewhere on the floor near my head, started ringing. By the third ring, I was still debating whether or not I would answer. Finally, I picked it up and pressed it to my ear, not opening my eyes.

  “Zoe Grey?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Karen Lerman calling from King Soopers. How are you?”

  The woman I’d interviewed with that morning. “I’m well, thanks,” I lied. “Yourself?”

  “Just fine, thank you for asking. I was calling you back about the job. It didn’t take us as long as we anticipated to make a decision. I’d like to offer you the position.”

  We hashed out a few details, and I ultimately agreed. I’d make decent—if not excellent—money, work thirty-two hours a week, including every other weekend, and be located at the Taft and Elizabeth store. I agreed to start tomorrow.

  I’d barely put the phone down when it rang again. I thought it was Karen calling back about something she’d forgotten. I answered without looking at the display.

  “Someone was murdered on the property?” a shrill voice demanded. Not Karen Lerman.

  I pinched my eyebrows together. “Who is this?

  “Margaret Fischer from Fort Collins Property Management. I’ve been getting phone calls all morning from other renters on that block. They’ve been telling me all about the police activity and the coroner van and the cops asking them what they knew about the guy who was murdered inside the house I just rented to you. I just got off the phone with the police. They say the house is an active crime scene.”

  She stopped and waited expectantly, as if I was supposed to say something.

  I didn’t know what.

  “Okay. And?”

  “And?” she spat back. “And I’d like to know what the hell is going on. Is there a dead person in the living room of the property?”

  “No. The dead guy is in the morgue.”

  She sighed as if she already knew that.

  I wondered, then, why she’d asked.

  “Who is he? Is he someone you know? Did you kill him? The police won’t tell me anything except the place is a crime scene. I have to tell you, there are some serious breaches in contract here.”

  “Excuse me?” I said, cracking an eye for the first time. “Did you really just ask me if I killed him? What kind of question is that?”

  “A valid and relevant one,” she quipped. “Criminal activity of any kind is expressly prohibited in the rental agreement you signed. That being the case, I find you to be in violation of the contract, which makes it null and void. You’ll have to vacate the premises immediately.”

  I shot up and scurried away from the sofa.

  “What? You’re accusing me of murder and subsequently evicting me? You have got to be kidding.”

  My tone had caused Pezzani to wander over from where he’d been working at his desk. He stood looking at me curiously, wondering what had caused my outburst.

  “I am very serious. We here at Fort Collins Property Management take murder and all other crimes very seriously. We will not tolerate any crime on our properties. When can you be out? We’ll have to have the place cleaned, which, of course, will come out of your deposit.”

  “That is absolutely unacceptable. I will not be charged for cleaning up after a murder I had nothing to do with.”

  “We are within the rights granted to us by the contracts and agreements you signed, and we will enforce them fully.”

  I drilled my finger into the end button.

  I mumbled something to Pezzani, told him I’d call him later, then grabbed my bag and left. I whipped the Cushman out of the lot and into traffic, heading to the office of Fort Collins Property Management, and the desk of Margaret Fischer.

  With more angry movements, I found Ellmann’s number and dialed it. The line rang five times and I wondered if he was intentionally avoiding my call, fearing another emergency or problem, either of which, at this time, would have been well within the twelve-hour window I’d been given. Finally, the call was answered.

  “I need the name of that mechanic,” I said, skipping everything else, like identifying myself.

  “Hello to you, too,” he said lightly. He recited the number. “You sound pissed. Your mechanic try to jip you again?”

  “No. Well, yes, probably. Whatever. The truck still isn’t ready, he hasn’t even looked at it, and I need it back yesterday. I’m going to have to move again.”

  “What? Why?”

  I explained.

  There was a long silence. “You’re joking.”

  “Again, not something I’d joke about.”

  I disconnected and dialed the number he gave me. A nice-sounding man answered, and I asked for Manny.

  “I’m Manny. What can I do for you?”

  “My name is Zoe Grey. I got your number from Detective Ellmann. I’m having a problem with my truck.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  I sighed and managed not to roll my eyes. If I knew w
hat was wrong with the damn thing, I wouldn’t be calling him.

  “It’s not running. Currently it’s at my mechanic’s shop, but it’s been there a lot recently, so I’m looking for a new mechanic.”

  “I’m your guy. Alex is good people; he’s done right by me and a couple friends. So, any friend of his is a friend of mine. Can you get it to my place?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you bring it by today, I’ll take a look at it. Most problems are simple. My guess, you have a simple problem. Problem is, simple doesn’t always mean cheap. Simple just means I can find it faster.”

  He gave me an address and his cell phone number, and we disconnected. I’d arrived in the parking lot outside the property management office and was sitting on the scooter. I made one more call. My brother didn’t answer, so I left a semi-urgent message and tucked the phone into my pocket.

  Half an hour later, I stormed out of the office, beat-red and so angry I could have breathed fire if I’d tried. When I’d arrived, Margaret was in her office with the door closed. The teeny-bopper receptionist, who didn’t look old enough to drive, had informed me Margaret couldn’t be disturbed, and if I wanted to see her, I’d need to make an appointment. In a moment of temporary insanity, I’d stomped around her desk and flung Margaret’s door open. She’d been sitting behind her desk, her stocking feet propped up on it and crossed at the ankles, talking on the phone. At the sight of me, she’d quickly ended the phone call and informed me my behavior was beyond unacceptable. I leveled the same accusation at her. We argued for the better part of thirty minutes.

  “You signed a contract,” Margaret had said.

  “Which you deemed null and void.”

  “Yes, because of the crime.”

  “The same contract which allows you to keep my deposit.”

  “Yes.”

  “The contract that is now null and void.”

  This was the basis of my argument. She’d fumbled and stuttered and grasped at straws. Then she’d resorted to finger-pointing, and later name-calling. She’d held her ground, though, refusing to give up at all costs.

  I finally had to leave. My learned behaviors are violent, all of them. Well, almost all. Just then, the anger and frustration raged inside me, and I knew I was on the edge. The scales were precariously balanced, and a feather on either side would tip them. It would have been all too easy for me to crawl over Margaret’s desk and strangle her.

  _______________

  I drove to my house, or my former house, also known as the crime scene. I parked and went to the side of the house, where I scrambled over the four-foot chain-link fence, snagging my already ruined suit pants.

  Ellmann had not put any stickers on the sliding glass door or the garage door. I used my key to let myself in through the garage. Inside, the place smelled like gunpowder, blood, and something I would have labeled “death.”

  I hurried through the living room, skirting around the huge dark stain in the middle of the floor, and into the bedroom. I found the box I was looking for in the corner under two others. I ripped it open and dug inside, pulling out the medium-sized lockbox. I unlocked it and lifted the lid.

  Inside lay three handguns. I wasn’t entirely convinced the shooter in the restaurant had been gunning for me. But no one had been killed. That seemed like the intent, so it was reasonable to conclude whoever it was would try again. On the off chance I was the target, I wanted to even the playing field.

  I chose the Glock .45 and a full magazine, sliding it into the gun with the heel of my hand. I chambered a round and made sure the safety was on. I also collected two additional magazines and a box of .45 rounds. I dropped everything into my bag and left the way I’d come.

  It’s illegal to carry a concealed handgun, like I was doing. I had never applied for a permit because I’d never had any need or desire to tote a gun around with me. Until now.

  My next stop was the shooting range. I was no stranger to guns, but it had been several months since I’d shot any, so I thought a brush-up session would do me good. After the shooting range and an entire box of .45 rounds, I was feeling a lot more in control of my life and the situation, whatever situation that was.

  And after towing my truck to the new mechanic’s shop, I was also feeling a lot more optimistic about the future. I couldn’t really put my finger on it, but I felt like Manny would actually fix the truck and not try to con me. I wondered if that had something to do with Ellmann, and that Manny would ultimately have to answer to the detective if he cheated me. I wish I could say it was me that had put the fear in him, but I was obviously no threat. Just ask my last mechanic.

  Amy was out of town, her future in-laws crashing at her house for the rest of the week, and Sadie’s apartment wouldn’t be ready for human habitation for another forty-eight hours. With my notes and the newspaper spread out before me, I made several more phone calls regarding my housing problem. I called the leasing agents I’d contacted previously and discovered I had only one hang-up. I didn’t know how long my current place would be a crime scene. Until it was released, I couldn’t move. So, I ended up back at Pezzani’s for a second night.

  We watched X-Files reruns for a while, munching on popcorn. Pezzani stole a kiss, which was slow at first, more exploratory, then not so slow and hungry at the end. It had been a good kiss. Still, I went to the guestroom alone.

  Tired, but too restless to sleep, I sat leaning against the headboard, a piece of paper on my knee. I did math for a while, figuring out how much money I might get back from Fort Collins Property Management, how much money I still had in my bank account, how much money a new move-in would cost, how much money my new job at King Soopers would net me, and how long I could conceivably make it until I no longer had a penny to my name. With these depressing figures on my mind, I hauled out the newspaper and began reading through the help-wanted ads.

  I still had the Hobby Lobby interview lined up. Of course, even though the position was in management, it was Hobby Lobby; I didn’t exactly see big dollar signs. Realistically, it might not amount to even a minimalistic existence. It might make a good second job, if I could work out the details. That being the case, I’d keep the interview, but also keep my eyes open.

  I went to the bathroom and took in the state of my face. I had gone to the ER for the recommended sutures. Twelve in all. I washed all of the open wounds with soap and water then smeared Neosporin over them, bandaging the larger ones. Finished, I returned to bed and picked up my book. Two hours later, I was closing in on the last page and was as wide-awake as ever.

  Beyond the bedroom door, I heard a faint scuffle followed by a long creak. The sound itself wasn’t cause for alarm, yet all the hairs on my body stood on end. Initially, I assumed Pezzani had wandered out to the kitchen for a midnight snack. But in the time I’d spent here, I’d never heard anything creak like that. It sounded like a person opening a door and trying to be sneaky about it. It also sounded farther away than Pezzani’s door on the main level of the house. It sounded like the front door.

  Dropping the book on the bed, I rolled to the floor, switching off the lamp as I went. I scurried over to my bag and reached in for the gun, finding it easily. Holding it in my hand, I felt a small measure of the control I’d experienced that afternoon return to me. I was still apprehensive, but the fear was tempered now.

  I strained my ears to pick up any other out-of-place sounds while I dug around in the bag for a flashlight. I closed my hand around it and heard what was surely a foot on the staircase. I’d noticed one near the middle sagged every time I’d stepped on it, giving a soft moan. I heard it now. Pezzani had few reasons to leave in the middle of the night. I was sure now someone else was here. I hoped it was a family member or ex-girlfriend or best friend with a key. I feared it was a figure in black wearing a ski mask.

  Hearing the step, I went to the door. I had a split-second to make a decision. Option one: wait where I was until the door opened and a gunman appeared. The problem with that was
Pezzani. If they went to his room first, they would probably kill him. I really didn’t want his death on my conscience, no matter if I was dead or alive.

  Option two: post myself in the office and pick off the intruders one by one over the wall of the stairway. This had the tactical advantage. The problem was the level of exposure. I would be a sitting duck, trapped with no escape. If I failed to hit them, they would easily be able to kill me. The fear was tempered, but it wasn’t wholly overshadowed.

  What’s the worst that could happen? I asked myself.

  Well, I could get shot. If I got shot, it would be painful. And I could die. Or, I could get shot and just die, in which case it wouldn’t be painful. Of course, in either of those scenarios, I’d be dead. I didn’t really want that. I was too young to die.

  Worst vacation ever, I thought.

  After an evaluation of pros and cons, I decided option two was preferable to option one, despite its risks. I might get shot, which would hurt like a bitch, and I might die, the only bright side of that being I wouldn’t feel any pain. But my chances of not getting shot were better if I took an offensive approach.

  Only a millisecond had passed since I’d heard the footstep on the stair. I made a conscious effort to control my breathing, keep it calm and even. Then I reached up and twisted the doorknob.

  I pulled the door open silently, listened, and then stood. The gun was raised in front of me, gripped with both hands. I trained it on the stairs and crept silently out of the room. Just as I knelt down in front of the desk, I heard another footstep. It was hard to determine if there was more than one intruder.

  A head bobbed up on the other side of the low wall, the ski mask instantly identifiable. My heart skipped a beat. Then it hammered against my ribs. All I could hear was my own heartbeat.

  I took a breath to calm myself. Then I heard the step creak a second time. I resisted the urge to pull the trigger, waiting.

  Figure One reached the landing and briefly glanced in both directions. Then he or she moved left into the living room. I could see the gun in the figure’s right hand. It was the same one from the restaurant.