“My great-grandmother’s antique furniture and artwork, the bastard. More than the monetary value, it has priceless sentimental value.”
The man nodded and looked at one of the bags on the ground. “What an asshole. If he’s there, you want me to tune him up for you?”
Tune him up? The guy who maybe enjoys killing people? Not a good idea.
“No. If he’s in there, I’ll hit him right where it hurts.”
There was a single nod. “I’ll do it.” He held his hand out.
I passed him a single bill. “Half now, half when it’s done.”
“Deal. Can I lock these bags in your truck?”
The lock on the tailgate of the Scout is busted. It broke the day I took Stan for one last ride in the truck. He’d been at death’s door, too sick to work for nearly a month. His dying wish had been to drive the Scout once more. He’d had to settle for the passenger seat. I’d always thought the lock had basically fallen off out of sadness. The Scout seemed to love Stan as much as Stan loved it. Foolish, yes, but turns out I’m more sentimental than I let on.
I’d never gotten the lock fixed. Mostly because my half-assed attempts to find an original lock had turned up zilch, and Stan would never have approved of anything else. That, and it seemed unnecessary.
But I didn’t mention this to the homeless man. After the bags were secured in the back of the Scout, we split up. He walked to the Inn, and I made my way on foot north along the highway. I strolled past the Inn and watched out of the corner of my eye as my hired helper walked through the lot, scanning doors for room numbers. I stopped behind the six-foot privacy fence separating the Inn’s parking lot from the one next door. I hoped it would appear I was waiting for something, like the bus maybe, rather than obviously snooping.
I peered through the old, weathered slats and saw the man climb the stairs and walk to the same door Tyler’s mom had, number 217. He knocked and waited. Nothing happened. He knocked again, harder, then tried to peek in through the window, past the curtain. A moment later, he was descending the stairs, and I was hustling back around the fence. I hurried to the office.
“Hi. Can I help you?” The desk clerk was eighteen, maybe, with a pimply face and a math book spread out on the desk in front of him. He pushed his glasses back onto his nose with an index finger and smiled, showing me a mouthfull of braces. Zits, glasses, and braces: the trifecta of adolescent hell. Poor kid.
“Yes, I’d like to check in.”
“Okay,” he said, moving to the computer. “We can take care of that.”
“Last time I was here, I stayed in 217. Is it available?”
“Um . . . let me see.” There was some typing and some mouse-clicking. “Yes. It is.”
“Great. I left my wallet in the car. I’ll just go grab it.”
The kid eyed the bag on my shoulder. “Okay. I’ll be here.”
I left with no intention of returning.
_______________
I swung by my house the crime scene and found it actually was a crime scene. Which confirmed my problem was much bigger than I had originally anticipated.
It was déjà vu. There were patrol cars, a coroner’s van, and a crime scene van. A dozen people were standing around on the driveway, sidewalks, and front yard, talking and pointing. I could see the front door was open, and there were more people moving around inside. I didn’t see Ellmann’s car.
It was obviously a bad time to drop by. The books I’d been after could wait. So I dropped by Tyler Jay’s mom’s house instead. Twice in a row I had struck pay dirt there, and I figured the odds were pretty good a third time would pay out. It was just a matter of time.
With nothing to distract me, my mind wandered. I only made it about ten minutes. My mind ran rampant between ideas and questions, most of them on subjects I wanted to stay away from. Finally, I dug a piece of paper out of my bag and scrounged up a pen.
I feared Margaret Fischer was dead. The activity at the house made me think another body had been discovered there. There was a reasonable connection between Fischer and the house. It didn’t seem totally far-fetched to think it was her that had been found dead.
I thought the better question was, why? Of course, I still wasn’t clear on why the last guy had been killed there. But the list of reasons for Fischer to visit the house was pretty short. Perhaps she’d wanted to have a quick look around to help her calculate what she would charge me for cleanup. So, then, who killed her? She wasn’t a threat. Or was she? If she was a threat, what had made her so? Did she know something? Did she see something? If it was the same people who killed the first guy, what were they doing back at the house?
I jotted down notes: questions, thoughts, random ideas. I then circled some and drew lines between them, illustrating a connection. There weren’t enough clear connections to satisfy any of the questions I had. I worked at this a while longer, then my phone chimed. Time to go to work.
The lot was full when I arrived. I snagged an open spot near the front (against policy), grabbed my vest, and went inside. My heart sank when I spied Tony perched at the podium.
The day proved to be a repeat of the one before. I spent the first part with Tony. Then I was sent to the customer service desk. Finally, I was paired once again with Landon. Walking into King Soopers was starting to feel like my own nightmarish version of Groundhog Day.
Under Landon’s ever-critical eye, I managed to bag an old woman’s groceries without inciting comments or complaints from either her or Landon. It was the first such occurrence that day. After I placed the last bag in the cart and my offer to help the lady out was refused, a page went out for the dreaded wet cleanup in aisle fifteen. Something in the way the person said the word “cleanup” caused a foreboding feeling to bubble up in my gut. I also knew before looking up Tony was going to charge me with the task.
“You, Zoe! Can you get that cleanup?”
Tony was standing at the edge of the podium, looking at me expectantly. A king overseeing his minions. I really didn’t like being a minion. But the cleanup offered a reprieve from both him and Nazi Landon.
“Yep! I’m on it!”
I collected the mop and bucket, as well as several other items, and trudged to the end of the store. I could hear evidence of the mess from two aisles away; shoes were sticking to the floor with each step. I turned down the aisle and saw a six-pack of Dr. Pepper sitting in the middle of the floor. As I drew closer, I could see each of the six cans had blown open upon impact, the carbonated contents exploding everywhere. A foamy mist had settled over the tile in a six-foot radius and was dripping from the items on the shelves. I pulled out four wet-floor signs and blocked access to the affected area, much to the aggravation and annoyance of several shoppers.
As I worked on the mess, I thought back to days past. It was always in the middle of a particularly hard or stressful day, while engaged in some monotonous or disgusting task, that I remembered what my life had been like only a few years before. I couldn’t help but compare it to my current life: the job, the salary, the status. It was too easy to long for days past, and I had to deliberately remember the reasons my life was different now, force myself to recall that I didn’t want it to be like it had been, not really.
“Excuse me.”
I had a spray bottle in one hand and a wad of paper towels in the other, wiping off the two-liter bottles of soda covered in Dr. Pepper. I paused and turned to see a short, overweight man dressed in loafers, with no socks, staring at me from behind the barrier I’d erected.
“Can I hand you something?” I asked helpfully, moving toward him, mindful of my step on the slippery floor.
“You can let me pass.”
His attitude and tone of voice triggered me immediately, and it was a conscious effort of will for me to maintain my courteous and helpful demeanor.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I began. “I’m in the process of cleaning the floor, and it wouldn’t be safe. I’d be more than happy to get something for you. And I’m
sorry for the inconvenience.”
“Who are you to dictate orders to me?” he demanded.
I scrambled to replay the conversation. I felt he had taken a distinct turn somewhere and left me behind.
“I will not take orders from someone like you,” he spat, lifting his chin several inches and literally looking down his nose at me. Quite a feat, since I was taller. “If I want to pass, I’ll pass.”
He threw aside the barrier, causing it to clatter to the floor, and before I could stop him, he was charging forward with his cart. The cart’s wheels rolled into the solution I’d sprayed on the floor and began to slide. His loafer came down in the solution next and continued moving forward, after he’d already lifted the other foot off the ground. For one horrifying moment, the man was suspended in some ice-skating trick gone wrong, sliding forward on one foot, the other hanging in the air behind him. He clung to the cart for dear life, hoping to steady himself, but under his weight, the cart began to veer.
Soon his foot was quickly sliding out from under him. In direct relation, his butt began to sink toward the floor, pulling the rest of him down. He was also leaning to the right, pulling on the cart. The end of it swung wildly to the left, toward the shelf. Then he hit the ground, landing with a thud, his body bouncing and jiggling. A woman at the end of the aisle screamed.
The cart slammed into the shelf, but he refused to release it. It struck the stacked six-packs of aluminum cans and dragged them from their perches. Before I could blink, a slew of them were free from the shelf, falling toward the floor. They struck and burst open, one right after another—a series of tight little pops followed by the sound of pressurized spray. Soda erupted from dozens of busted cans, drenching the man, the immediate area, and me.
The screaming and explosions had drawn the attention of everyone on that half of the store. Wide eyes and gaping mouths and pointing fingers were everywhere. I used a wet sleeve to wipe at my face and succeeded only in smearing the soda over my skin. The man on the ground was cussing, going on about something. Tony, the only other manager on duty, pushed through the crowd and stood at the still-intact barrier, staring at the scene before him. The man managed to get to his hands and knees, slipping and sliding, struggling to get to his feet. He fell twice, landing hard on his knee. Finally, he righted himself and clung to the cart for support, though that hadn’t worked out so well last time.
“Are you all right?” I asked. I tried to infuse as much concern into my voice as possible, though my true feeling was the man had gotten exactly what he’d deserved (and then some), a rare joy in life, I’ve found.
“You did this on purpose!” the man accused in a shrill voice.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me! You coaxed me in here knowing full well I’d slip and fall.”
“Actually, I specifically warned you against it and told you it would be dangerous. You didn’t listen.”
The man reeled back from my words, indignant. He looked around, searching for someone in the crowd to back him, give power to his claim. His sights settled on Tony, and his face lit up.
“You,” he said. “You work here. I want to talk to her boss. She intentionally saw to it that I fell in here.”
“I’m very sorry, sir,” Tony began, reaching for the man and helping him to the safety of the other side of the barrier. He was making all the appropriate noises to appease the man. “Clean this up!” he hissed over his shoulder at me.
Placing a guiding hand under the man’s elbow, he led the man down the aisle and out of sight.
I couldn’t resist the urge to roll my eyes before grabbing the mop.
Twenty minutes later, all evidence of the Disaster of Aisle Fifteen (as I’d come to think of it) had been eradicated, aside from what I wore. My clothes were still wet, and my skin and hair were sticky. I’d cleaned up as much as possible in the bathroom before returning to the front end, but it had been mostly useless. When I got back up front, Tony was at the podium, and the man was nowhere to be seen. Actually, the entire front end was relatively deserted. This isn’t a busy shopping time; Tony had already informed me of this when he’d explained, then re-explained, staffing.
I checked my watch and found there was less than an hour left in my shift.
“Hey, Tony, what do you say I cut out early tonight?” I plucked at my wet clothes. “Let me go home and get cleaned up.”
“Oh, you’re going home all right,” he said, leaning over the podium and looking down at me. “Clock out and don’t come back. You’re fired.”
I was sure I’d misheard him.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“You’re fired,” he said slowly, enunciating every syllable.
That’s what I thought he’d said.
I wasn’t sure he had the authority to fire me, given we held the same position.
“Why?”
“Customer service is our number one priority here, and the customer is always right. We take it very seriously if our employees are rude or hurtful to customers. It just isn’t tolerated.”
I was reeling.
“You believe that pompous jerk?” I demanded. “You actually believe I would have simply stood by and let him get hurt without trying to prevent it?”
“That’s what he said. If the customer is always right, I have to go with his version of the event.”
Obviously, I wasn’t thinking clearly.
I jerked my vest off and chucked it at him. It was still soaking wet with soda. It landed against his face and chest with a satisfying smack, leaving a wet mark on his shirt.
“Unbelievable. You could have told me before I cleaned up the mess, you asshole.”
I cut between the podium and a closed register, heading for the door.
“You can pick up your paycheck next Monday!”
I managed to walk out without flipping him the bird.
18
By the time I got back to my motel room, I was still pissed. I’d already left Karen Lerman a message about whether I really had lost my job. More importantly, I needed to decide if I even wanted it. Pretty much everything about it sucked.
I showered, washing my hair twice, then threw on some clothes and hit the door. Angry as I was, I had other things to do. Finding Tyler Jay and figuring out if he was the one trying to kill me were at the top of the list. I climbed into the truck and drove to Mom’s house. The house looked exactly like it had when I’d left earlier. I wondered if Mom was home.
I tried to read a book I’d purchased on my fifteen-minute break, but I couldn’t get into it. My mind refused to focus, instead drifting to all the same thoughts that had plagued it earlier. I pulled the stack of notes I’d compiled from my bag. I read them, then reread them. I made some new notes, drew a few more lines, wrote a few more questions. This was the problem; the list of questions was growing, and I still had no answers.
Frustration boiled inside me, causing me to think about doing foolish things, like knocking on Mom’s door again, and this time asking her directly where Tyler was. The idea of facing Tyler Jay again wasn’t scary. I knew it should be, given everything Ellmann had said, but I just didn’t feel it. I involuntarily imagined Tyler wearing a ski mask. This was more intimidating, but I still wasn’t afraid of him. Then my thoughts drifted automatically to the three incidents in which I’d faced someone in a ski mask. I didn’t know who that person was, but I felt the beginnings of fear blossom inside me.
I reached into my bag and found the Sig. Pulling it out, I checked the magazine and the chamber. Then I held the gun for a moment before finally tucking it away. Having it made me feel safer, more in control.
As I put the gun away, my phone rang. I knew before I picked it up who was calling.
“I feel like I should start by saying I didn’t do it.”
“I already know that,” Ellmann said. He sounded stressed.
“Oh, good.”
“I thought you’d be working.”
“I got off early.”
> “Where are you? I need to talk to you.”
I looked up at Mom’s house. “I can meet you somewhere.”
I could hear him roll his eyes over the phone. To his credit, he didn’t sigh. “Have you seen him yet?”
“If I knew what that meant, I would say no.”
“Right. Meet me at CooperSmith’s.”
“That’s pretty public. That a good idea for me?”
“Right now, yes.”
We disconnected, and I looked at my watch. It was just after seven. I figured chances were slim Tyler Jay and his entourage would come back to Mom’s house after ditching the motel last night. How had they managed to disappear a second time before the cops arrived? I quickly added this to my growing list of questions.
It had also been later when Mom had gone to visit Tyler at the motel; probably she’d keep to a similar schedule if she made another visit. Still, Murphy’s Law said Tyler Jay and his pals would drive up in the missing Honda or Escalade the instant I left.
The parking situation downtown is pretty much a mess. If you’re lucky, you can snag a parking place on the same block as your destination. More often, though, you have to park blocks away. I bypassed College altogether, figuring it would be a waste of time. Instead, I went straight to Remington and found a place just south of Mountain. I parked, grabbed my bag, and hiked across Mountain into the Square. CooperSmith’s is on the southwest corner, and it looked packed. Actually, the entire Square looked packed.
Ellmann wasn’t lingering outside, so I pushed my way inside and spotted him sitting at the bar.
“I put our name in for a table,” he said when he saw me. He looked at his watch. “Should only be a couple more minutes.”
All the other stools at the bar were occupied, so I stood beside him. He’d offered me his seat, but I’d declined. I had a night of surveillance planned; I thought it would do me some good to stand while I was able. A moment later, he reached down and took my hand in his. He lifted it to his mouth, kissed it, then squeezed it.
Oh, good, I thought. At least I know this isn’t personal.
The Trouble With Murder Page 23