I was surprised by the sudden shift of topic and wondered if Cremer had something to do with it.
“What message?” I asked. “Why?”
“McKenzie,” Erin said. I turned and found her standing there. “What do you think?”
“I’m impressed,” I said. “You’ve done very well building all of this.”
“Thank you.”
“I was just asking Alice—how much salsa do you sell?”
“Approximately seventeen thousand units.”
“A week?”
“A day.”
“That’s—”
“Twenty-two hundred and fifty gallons, give or take.”
“Wow.”
“Yes, we think so, too.”
“Exactly how much do you guys make a year?”
“Gross? I’d say between four and six million dollars.”
“In other words, you’re not going to tell me.”
“Why do you need to know? Do you want to invest in the company?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
“If I had known you back in the day, I would have taken you up on your offer. You wouldn’t know it to look at his always casual attire, Alice, but McKenzie is loaded. How much money are you worth these days?”
“Between four and six million,” I said.
“Let’s move out of here.”
Erin opened a door, and I soon found myself standing in a corridor that separated the production plant from the outside loading dock; there was a huge folding door that led to the dock. The difference in temperature between the corridor and the finished-goods cooler room came almost as a shock.
“This is where we ship from,” Alice said. “In case you haven’t guessed.”
“What’s that?” I pointed at a large metal cage. There were several boxes and buckets neatly arranged behind the white bars.
“Chemicals,” Erin said. “Mostly cleaning supplies, sanitizers for our mixing tanks. When I was starting out, the Department of Agriculture came for a visit. The first question they asked—‘Do you keep your chemicals away from your process?’ They were afraid we might poison our customers.”
“Sounds like just another unnecessary regulation hampering the small business person.”
“Who are you calling small?”
“Ma’am?” We turned to see a man approaching. He was dressed for outside, not in a white coat. He didn’t seem to know if he should be walking fast or running and settled for something in between. “Ma’am?”
“Is there a problem, Jerry?” Erin spoke as if problems were something that happened to other people, never to her.
“The door locks last week, you know, with the super glue?”
“What about them?”
“Someone did the same thing to the trucks.”
Erin closed her eyes and became very still. If she was silently counting to ten, she was counting fast, because a beat later her eyes snapped open.
“Show me,” she said.
Jerry half walked, half ran toward a door. He slowed when he realized that Erin was not running after him but walking casually. Alice and I walked with her.
“McKenzie,” she said. “Have you tried my new recipe?”
“Is that the one with green chilies?”
“No, no. Fire-roasted tomatoes. I originally made it for my customers in Texas and New Mexico. It’s done so well down there, I thought I’d try it in the Twin Cities. Possibly it has too much heat for this market. We’ll see.”
I didn’t say it, but I admired how calm she appeared.
Once outside, we walked to the truck parked with its back end flush against the loading dock. It was painted with the company’s name and colors and the smiling face consumers knew as Salsa Girl. I noticed the refrigeration unit resting above the cab. Normally I wouldn’t have paid any attention to it.
“I left it here last night like always,” Jerry said. He poked his key at the door lock. “See? It won’t go in.”
“I see,” Erin said.
“I checked the other truck. Same thing.”
“I see.”
“I told you something like this would happen,” Alice said.
“Alice, please.”
“I told you that our enemies wouldn’t stop.”
“Alice.”
“Ma’am.”
Enemies? my inner voice asked.
“May I?” I asked aloud. I stepped past Erin and ran my finger over the opening of the lock cylinder. It was smooth.
“I need to make a few phone calls,” Erin said.
“I know where we can get other trucks,” Jerry said.
“We can’t use just any trucks,” Alice told him. “We need reliable refrigerated vehicles. Otherwise we’ll break the cold chain.”
“I am aware of the situation,” Erin said.
“Did you try the passenger doors?” I asked.
Jerry was staring at Erin like a child who was afraid he would be blamed for something he didn’t do.
“Jerry,” I said, “did you try the passenger doors?”
“Huh? Yeah. I ain’t stupid.”
“Let’s take a look.”
It wasn’t that I didn’t believe him; I just wanted to see if the face of the lock cylinder was as smooth as on the driver’s side. It was. I cupped my hands and pressed them against the window so I could get a good look inside the cab. Manual locks.
Erin watched quietly.
“Talk to me, McKenzie,” she said.
“Ideally, if you want to sabotage a lock, you fill it with glue, shove a toothpick in there, and break it off. That way the entire mechanism will need to be replaced. That’s what they did with your door locks, right? But I don’t think your vandals did that here. There are no jagged edges protruding; the glue is smooth. I think they might have just covered the opening, thinking that was enough. It’s possible the lock assembly itself is fine.”
“Meaning what, exactly?”
“Give me five minutes.”
I circled the building to my car parked in front, examining the building and the light poles that surrounded it as I went. I opened my trunk and withdrew a rag and a flat piece of stainless steel, twenty-four inches long and one inch wide, with a notch cut in one end and a rubber handle on the other—a Slim Jim, $9.98 at Walmart. I returned to the truck and inserted the Slim Jim between the weatherstripping and the window, using the rag to protect the glass from scratches. I worked on the passenger side because the driver’s side had wires and other components I didn’t want to damage. I moved the tool back and forth gently until the notch grabbed the lock rod. I pulled up and the door unlocked. I had hoped to accomplish the task quickly to impress the women. It actually took me close to five minutes. They seemed to be impressed anyway. At least Alice smiled, and Erin said, “my hero.”
Jerry pushed past me, climbed into the truck, and crossed over to the driver’s side. He opened the door.
“Hey,” he said.
“You’ll need to be careful not to lock the door again until we can get the lock fixed,” I told him.
“What about the other truck?” he asked. “That goes out later today.”
“I’m on it,” I told him.
I opened the door, but this time it took me over ten minutes. I knew that Tony Cremer would have done it much more quickly. ’Course, he probably would have just smashed the window and climbed in. He didn’t care about the condition of the vehicles he stole; he was selling them for parts, after all.
When I finished, Erin said, “I’m grateful.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Let’s talk.”
* * *
Salsa Girl and I returned to her office; Alice remained on the loading dock to supervise. Erin told me to take a seat in front of her desk. I did. Meanwhile, she opened a drawer of the credenza behind her desk and pulled out a bottle of Woodford Reserve Distiller’s Select Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey. There was enough gone from the bottle to suggest that this was not an uncommon occurrenc
e, and my inner voice asked, When was the last time you saw a woman drink straight bourbon? I didn’t have an answer.
“Drink?” Erin said.
“No, I’m good.”
“When have you ever turned down good bourbon?”
“I have a long day of antiquing in front of me.”
Erin filled a glass with two inches of liquid.
“Have you ever actually bought anything while antiquing?” she asked.
“Me personally? No. I’m not really interested in antiques. I find it all kind of boring, to be honest.”
“You’re telling me that you go just because Nina wants you to go?”
“That’s right.”
“Sounds like true love to me.”
Erin drained half the bourbon from the glass, closed her eyes, sighed dramatically, opened her eyes, and refilled the glass. She returned the bottle to her credenza and sat in the chair behind her desk.
“Apparently, I’m being—what’s a good word?” Erin gazed out her window across the parking lot to the bridge that allowed Pelham Boulevard to cross I-94 while she searched for one. I offered my own.
“Harassed,” I said.
“I was thinking something stronger.”
“Tell me the worst thing that could happen to you and work backward from there.”
“The worst thing would be a recall. If my salsa became contaminated with something, listeria monocytogenes, for example, and I had to pull my products from the stores. That’s not counting the additional fallout from potential lawsuits. Listeria causes food poisoning. Adults and healthy children might become ill, but it’s rarely serious. In pregnant women, though, the infection can result in miscarriage, premature delivery, serious infection of the newborn, even stillbirth.
“What’s next?” Erin went on. “I suppose an employee could deliberately damage my equipment to the point where it takes me a few days or weeks or months to fix or replace it and I would be unable to meet my obligations … A vendor might miss delivery of my boxes, my containers … My suppliers might not ship quality fruits and vegetables in a timely fashion … If I develop a reputation for unreliability, for a lack of quality control…” Erin sipped some more bourbon. “Things can go bad in a hurry, McKenzie. You could lose your business in a minute.”
“On the plus side,” I said.
“There’s a plus side?”
“The damage done to you so far has been external, not internal. Your doors, your trucks, but not your equipment, not your product. Also, it’s been superficial. He could have burned your trucks to the ground. He could have blown up your building.”
“He?”
“It could just as easily be a she. Alice said you have enemies.”
“She was speaking generally. Whoever is doing this is my enemy.”
“Whoever is doing this knows how important Mondays and Fridays are to you; he knows when you ship your product. Have you fired anyone recently?”
“Not for three years.”
“Reprimand any employees? Threaten their jobs unless they shaped up?”
“I haven’t. Alice or my production manager—if they’ve had words with any of my people, they haven’t mentioned it to me.”
“Would they have?”
“Not necessarily, but McKenzie—I have only twenty employees including part-time. I pretty much know what’s going on with them all the time.”
“Have you passed over anyone for promotion lately? Failed to pay a bonus or give a raise to employees who thought they deserved it?”
“No.”
“Changed vendors?”
“I went with a more reliable packaging company for my containers, but that was eighteen months ago. My other vendors—you’re always trying to bargain for a better price, better quality, better service, of course, and negotiations can sometimes become contentious. However, I’ve used these people for a long time. Bernal Mexicana in Delicias, Mexico, has been with me for over five years.”
“Have you pulled your products from a store?”
“If you knew how difficult it is to get my products into stores you wouldn’t ask that.”
“Have you broken up with a boyfriend recently?”
Instead of giving a quick response, Erin looked at everything in her office except me. She was going to lie, as Nina predicted, and I waited for it. While I waited I noticed that there was nothing in her office that could be labeled personal. No photos of Mom and Dad, no pics of Erin and her friends. Just a couple of Scovie Awards—whatever they were—and a few framed newspaper and magazine clippings extolling her company, all of them with photos of Salsa Girl but not of her.
Finally Erin fixed her blue eyes on me. “Like I have time for a boyfriend,” she said.
“Refused someone who wanted to be your boyfriend?”
Erin shook her head slowly.
“A hookup that went badly?”
“McKenzie, please.”
“Well, you pissed off somebody.”
“I don’t know who. I don’t know how.”
Alice knocked on the opened door and stepped inside Erin’s office.
“We’re good,” Alice said.
“Are we?” Erin asked.
“The truck is on its way to Texas. We didn’t lose much time; Jerry said it’ll be easy to make up. I spoke to Doug.” Alice pivoted toward where I was sitting. “Doug is our maintenance man. While they were loading the truck, he used acetone to remove the super glue from the locks. If it had actually been injected into the locks like it was with our building doors, he said it probably wouldn’t have worked; that we would have had to replace the locks like you said.” She turned again to face Erin. “I was thinking: if this happened on the road, if the locks were sabotaged while the driver was at a rest stop or in a diner having a bite to eat…”
“You have a vivid imagination,” Erin said.
“She does,” I said. “Alice is also right. If your truck was forced to sit for as long as it took to repair it; if your cold chain was broken…”
“I’m aware of the ramifications, McKenzie.”
“Erin, your security’s a joke. I took a look around your building, the parking lot. There are no closed-circuit TV cameras anywhere. No gates. Your neighbors are at a distance. Do you have a security company keeping watch on your facility? Vehicle or foot patrols?”
“The landlord inspects the grounds a couple times a week, but that’s more to check on the tenants.”
“Swell.”
“Up until now, security wasn’t an issue.”
“Times change.”
“So I’ve been led to believe.”
“Police,” I said.
“No.”
“Bobby Dunston.”
“No.”
“You’re a tax-paying citizen, Salsa Girl. If you ask for help, he’ll quietly arrange to expand some officer’s beat to include the industrial park. There’ll be a police presence.”
“I said no, and I wish you wouldn’t call me Salsa Girl.”
“What are you going to do, then?”
“What are you going to do, McKenzie?”
“Me?”
“Doing favors for friends is what you’re all about, isn’t it? Isn’t that what leads you on all those grand adventures I sometimes read about, that Ian Gotz tells me about?”
“Yes, but…”
“The question is—are we friends, McKenzie? You only know me through Ian because he’s escorted me to parties and gatherings with you and Bobby and the others, the hockey players, your buddy with the FBI.”
“We’ve known each other for a long time, Erin.”
“Yes, but does that make us friends?”
“Sure.”
Erin took a deep pull of her bourbon while she thought about it. She was gazing at Alice when she said, “I’d like to take advantage of your friendship.”
“Okay.”
Erin’s eyes found me again.
“One thing,” she said. “If at all possible, I don’t want th
e world at large to know what you’re doing or why. The reason I keep saying no to the police, if word gets out, the story won’t be about a small business person being victimized by vandals. That’s not how it’ll be played. Instead, the headlines will read ‘Salsa Girl Assaulted’ or some such thing. That’s unacceptable. I can’t have that.”
“I’ll do the best I can.”
“Where do we start?”
“We start with installing a decent surveillance system. I know some people.”
“This is going to cost me a lot of money, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but my services are free.”
“What else besides cameras?”
“I’ll make some discreet inquiries.”
“Discreet inquiries—I like the sound of that.” Erin finished her drink and gazed up at Alice. “Happy now?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“One last time, McKenzie—are you sure I can’t offer you a drink?”
“A short one, for the road.”
THREE
“I still think there could be an ex-lover involved,” Nina said.
“Erin said she didn’t have time for a boyfriend,” I said.
“Which might be the motive, the reason the person or persons unknown are doing this to her.”
“Motive? Person or persons unknown?”
“I’m starting to sound like you, I know.”
By then we were inside the Midtown Antique Mall in downtown Stillwater with its sixty-five dealers, three floors, and enough nooks and crannies to keep even the most ardent treasure hunter content. We explored them all. Or rather I should say Nina explored them all while I followed along and worked my smartphone. These days if you want to learn about someone, you start with the internet, because that’s where most people store their lives when they aren’t using them.
As it turned out, Erin Peterson’s success story wasn’t all that unique. It was one she shared with luminaries like Debbi Fields, Marie Callender, and Chef Ettore Boiardi: She made something so good that friends told her, “You should sell this.” Instead of cookies, pies, and spaghetti sauce, though, in her case it was salsa.
Like to Die Page 3