Trouble Magnet

by DelSheree Gladden

  By the time I had everything mixed and in the pan, I felt as relaxed as I could possibly manage with a deadline hanging over my head that, if missed, would likely lead to my death. Hard to ever completely forget something like that. I covered the dish and put it in the oven, debating whether I should bother with changing my clothes or putting on a little makeup for the dinner party.

  I really didn’t want to put forth the effort, but I caught a look at myself in the decorative mirror Bernadette had hung on the wall next to the fridge. My nap had not been enough to erase the past few days from my face. Makeup it was. Setting a timer, I decided I had better try to not look like a zombie, at least a little. Nothing I could do was going to cover up the scrape still easily seen across my cheek. I might be able to do something about the bags under my eyes, though.

  I was applying a layer of loose powder foundation to my face when I thought I smelled something. Putting down the puff, I sniffed the air. It smelled chemical. No, it smelled like…smoke. Barreling from the bathroom, even though my ribs were screaming at me to quit twisting them, I burst out of the bedroom and slid to a shocked halt in the middle of the living room.

  Smoke poured out of the oven. I couldn’t understand why, since the chicken had only been in there a few minutes and couldn’t possibly have started burning that quickly, but answers would have to wait. Sprinting into the kitchen, I flinched when the smoke alarm started blaring in accusation. It would have to wait, too.

  When I finally reached the oven, I flipped the knob to turn it off and yanked the door open. More smoke billowed out, choking me with the awful fumes. A bright flame that shouldn’t have been present in an electric stove coursed along the heating element, flickering behind the smoke. I stumbled over to the small window above the sink, pushing and banging on it until it finally inched upward. My ribs were screaming at me after the force it took to shove the window open, but I couldn’t stop yet. I snatched a towel off a nearby hook and started fanning the smoke toward the window. It felt like it took an hour or more before I could breathe again, though I supposed it was probably only a few minutes in reality.

  Aching horribly by then, I slid down the counter to sit on the floor. The towel was still in my hand, fumes wafting off it and tickling my gag reflex. I tossed it in the direction of the sink and just sat there staring at the oven. Heat still emanated from it, though not as much as before. The electric heating element only glowed faintly in uneven patches, as if it hadn’t been responsible for pouring acrid smoke into my apartment and nearly choking me to death.

  Okay, maybe that was a little dramatic, but I was still annoyed. The smoke alarm had stopped blaring somewhere in the middle of my frantic efforts to get the smoke out of my apartment. That was a plus, but as I sat there, I heard noise coming from behind me and froze at the thought that Baxter was home and might have heard the alarm going off. The last thing I needed was for him to storm over here thinking he had to save me from yet another stupid mistake or life threatening encounter.

  A burst of knocking on my apartment door made me gasp. I waited, hoping whoever it was would just go away, but it came again, more insistent than before.

  It hurt, a lot, to reach my hands up to the counter. It hurt even more to pull myself back up to standing. Every step I took toward my apartment door made the pain worse, but I kept moving at a reluctant speed. Maybe it was Sonya. Please, let it be Sonya. I inched open the door and my shoulders dropped.

  Baxter’s eyebrows pulled up when he saw me, and his utter lack of concern made me want to shrink away from his condescending gaze. I would have if my ribs hadn’t hurt so badly. “I wasn’t joking about sending that picture to Bernadette,” he said.

  “Joking?” I asked in disbelief as I realized he thought the alarm had been fake. My entire apartment reeked. The smell of smoke was emanating from my clothes. I may have been a little childish with the smoke detector batteries, but surely he didn’t actually believe I’d almost burn my own apartment down for a prank. “Can you not smell the smoke? Did you not even consider that there might be a real problem when my smoke alarm was going off for as long as it was?”

  Baxter leaned against the doorjamb. “Have you ever heard of the boy who cried wolf?”

  “Those were low battery alerts.” It took every bit of my waning self-control not to lose it. “This was a real alarm! My oven was on fire!”

  Staring at me with an expression that was aggravatingly unreadable, he said, “I’m not the fire department, Eliza. I just change batteries in the smoke detectors once or twice a year. I’m not sure what you expected me to do even if I had come over earlier.”

  “Then why did you bother to come at all? Why wait until the alarm stopped, and I’d already taken care of the problem, to show up at my door?” I demanded. “Just to rub it in and embarrass me?” I shook my head. “Thanks, but I’ve had enough of that for a while. I hardly need you reminding me that I’m a walking catastrophe most days.”

  I didn’t know what else to say. One minute he was saving me, the next he was treating me like a child, and then he did something like this. Somewhere in between, he tricked me into thinking he was a decent person, one who might care just a little bit about whether or not I survived living in this zoo. There was even a moment, a short fraction of a second, where he touched me and I thought….

  None of that mattered, because apparently Baxter had hit his limit of coming to my rescue and had moved on to purposely embarrassing me. Gripping the doorknob, I had every intention of slamming it closed when Baxter’s voice stopped me.

  “Didn’t Bernadette tell you her oven was broken before she left?” The way he said it was an accusation, but more at Bernadette than me. I shook my head, angry at him for only caring that Bernadette’s abandonment meant more of a headache for him.

  Shutting my door with more force than necessary, I stomped over to the kitchen and took the chicken out of the oven. The drumsticks jumped when I dropped the pan on the counter. I slammed the oven door closed and stormed back to my bathroom to finish getting ready for the dinner party. Fifteen minutes later, I didn’t even glance in the direction of Baxter’s door when I walked past on my way down to Sonya’s apartment.

  My friend was a little surprised to see me standing in her doorway with a pan of raw chicken, but the expression on my face held off any questions as she ushered me in. She directed me toward her kitchen and turned the oven to the right temperature at my direction before asking if I wanted a drink. She didn’t ask even once about the chicken or my foul mood as we sat at her table and sipped at our beers that were too bitter for me to actually enjoy. Instead, she talked about Jake and how great he was. I was glad something was working out for one of us, at least.

  “It sounds like you guys are really hitting it off,” I said.

  Even though Sonya was smiling, I could see how she was tempering it. “Yeah, but who knows. Living in this place tends to drive people away. I’m kind of stuck here, and I’d feel bad sucking someone else into that.”

  Laughing, I leaned back in my chair. “We’re not talking about marriage or moving in together just yet. He asked you out on a date. Enjoy that before you start worrying about what might happen in the future.”

  “I just don’t want to get attached and then have him bail.” She slumped in her chair, as if she were already dooming a relationship that hadn’t even started yet.

  “Stop it,” I said. She looked up at me and crinkled her nose. “Seriously, you’re too cute and bubbly to look that defeated. Go out with Jake, have a great time, and don’t think about anything more than what it feels like to be with him. You don’t want to miss out on an opportunity because you’re scared of it failing.”

  Sonya narrowed her eyes in a way that was both playful and accusing. “Oh, you mean like you?”

  “I went out with Sean,” I argued, “twice.”

  “Because he was safe. No strings attached.” She pointed at me. “The second a real possibility comes along, you’re all prickles
and warning tape.” When I rolled my eyes at her, she crossed her arms. “Puck isn’t like Sean and he clearly likes you, a lot. Why don’t you take your own advice?”

  Excuses jumped to my lips. Everything from school to work to the murder investigation sat on the tip of my tongue. Any one of them were good enough reason for avoiding a serious relationship, in my opinion, but they were still excuses. The honest reason behind my hesitancy hurt too much to talk about, but it suddenly came bubbling up whether I wanted it to or not.

  “I saw my last boyfriend die, right in front of me,” I said.

  Sonya stared at me in shock for several seconds. “When?”

  “Five years ago,” I said, my tone making it clear I didn’t want to talk about it any further.

  “I’m sorry,” Sonya said.

  Shrugging, I found it difficult to look at her. “It’s okay.”

  I wanted to tell her I was terrified of it happening again. Trouble followed me, and embarrassing accidents were the least of it. It had been five years, but I wasn’t sure the fear would ever leave me. They never caught Ben’s murderer. He could reappear at any time, no matter what the police said. What kind of person would that make me to invite someone into that kind of danger?

  Sonya sighed sometime later. “I guess we better head over there.” She glanced at the door with resignation. For once, I was eager to go, to escape the memories and push to discuss them.

  Neither of us said anything as I collected my chicken, which still smelled faintly of smoke, and left the apartment. The banquet room was only across the hall, so it was a short trip to join the tension that accompanied forced and feigned friendships. Only Sonya’s grandmother sported a genuine expression of happiness as we entered. She gestured us over, her enthusiastic waving making the flabby part of her arms wobble around and her gold bracelets clink together.

  “Let me see what you’ve brought,” she said to me. I presented the chicken, chagrined. She smiled at the offering and said, “Put a little of that on a plate for me, if you don’t mind. Sonya, some of your cookies, too. I’m eager to hear about what you two have been up to this week.”

  As far as Mrs. Osgood knew, her tenant’s murder had already been dealt with. The police had stopped coming around, anyway, and that was as far as she followed the investigation. From what Sonya said, her grandmother had a difficult time keeping up with current happenings. Individual conversations she could remember, but larger events and day to day activities didn’t stick very well anymore. We were happy to keep her out of our personal continuation from where the police investigation left off.

  As I was dishing up plates of chicken, I did wonder, though, if she knew anything about Ms. Sinclair. Carrying the plates back to her, I nodded when Sonya excused herself to talk to one of the residents about a mouse problem that she’d been trying to deal with. I handed Mrs. Osgood her plate and took a seat next to her. I usually dreaded getting sucked into a long, rambling conversation with her, but perhaps I could steer it in the right direction.

  “I’ve been helping Sonya go through Ms. Sinclair’s apartment, cleaning everything out so the next family can move in.”

  Mrs. Osgood reached over and patted my leg. “You’re such a sweet girl.”

  “Uh, thanks. Anyway, we found a lot of newspaper clippings of friends from her childhood. Some were obituaries.”

  She nodded. “Only way to know who’s still around.”

  I didn’t point out that the internet was a considerably easier way to keep in touch with people. “Sonya said Ms. Sinclair had been here a long time. How long have you known her?”

  Taking a bite of the chicken, Mrs. Osgood crinkled her nose. “This has a strange flavor. Almost like it’s burnt, but it looks perfectly fine.” She looked over at me. “I thought you were a chef.”

  “Studying to be a chef,” I corrected patiently. “Bernadette forgot to tell me the oven was broken. It smoked like crazy when I turned it on.”

  She eyed the chicken, then took another bite. “You should have that fixed. Really, you can’t have all your dishes tasting like they’re burnt if you expect to get hired on at a nice restaurant.”

  I took a deep breath and reminded myself to be patient. “I’ll do that.”

  “We have someone who’s in charge of that sort of thing,” she said. Her wrinkled brow creased even more as she thought. “I believe it’s…that tall man, looks like he might have played football when he was younger. A bit brusque, but doesn’t cause trouble like Baxter. What was his name?” She tapped her fork against her chicken. “Darren. That’s who it is. Talk to him about your oven.”

  Darren? I recoiled from the idea. My one run in with the man was when Baxter shoved me into him—kind of—and he basically propositioned me and gave me the heebie-jeebies. No thanks. I’d figure out how to do it myself or cough up the money to pay someone who wasn’t a creep and who knew what they were doing.

  “Anyway, did you know Ms. Sinclair for a long time?”

  “Oh yes,” she said. “Maria moved into the building when she was in her early twenties. Not entirely proper back then, but she kept to herself and always paid her rent on time.”

  I couldn’t imagine Ms. Sinclair not bothering other people. It seemed to be her purpose for living, from what I’d heard. Curious how people changed over time, but I suspected whatever secrets she had been hiding had something to do with her slow spiral into bitterness and anger.

  “What do you mean it wasn’t proper for her to move in here?” I asked.

  “She was very young to be out on her own, unmarried as she was. She was a working woman, though. Never did see her with any boyfriends. Of course, back then, I wouldn’t have allowed male guests visiting a young woman unsupervised. Highly inappropriate.” She shook her head and gave me a sideways look.

  Did she know about Jake and Puck coming by earlier that day? Maybe I was too quick to judge Sonya for feeling like her chance at a relationship was doomed. Shaking that off, I asked another question. “What did Ms. Sinclair do for a living?”

  “She worked in a jewelry store over in her old neighborhood where she grew up. Not far from here. She was quite pretty back then. I imagine she sold plenty of expensive pieces to young men who fell to her wiles.” She nodded and took another bite of the chicken.

  Wiles? I held back a shake of my head. I couldn’t imagine getting hired for a job purely because my good looks would help me sell more whatever to guys who were taken in by a pretty smile, like that was all I was capable of doing in life. Only two generations ago, and it was nearly unimaginable to me how society functioned so strictly in regards to gender roles.

  “Did she ever have friends over to visit, or was she pretty solitary?”

  Contemplating the question, Mrs. Osgood took a moment to answer. “There were a few times I remember her meeting someone in the lobby. Usually brief visits. One man in particular, I remember him because they got into an argument outside the office and I wrote it down just in case he became a problem later. Funny you should ask about that, because I pulled that ledger out after Maria died and reread some of my old notes and comments about her. We hadn’t gotten along lately, but there was a time when I thought well of her and wanted to remind myself of those days.”

  “Do you remember the name of the guy she spoke to or what they were arguing about?” I asked. She didn’t seem to notice the urgency in my voice, mulling over her answer.

  “I believe his name might have been Bobby. He wanted her to give something back to him. I remember him saying it wasn’t safe here, but she refused to bring it down from her apartment and he left.” She shook her head. “I only took note of it because she so rarely had visitors, and she’d had two that same week. The other one was a woman, though. Whatever they talked about, it was in hushed tones, which I thought was a little suspect itself. I don’t approve of whispering in corners.”

  While I certainly thought people were entitled to private conversations, I couldn’t help wishing they’d been less d
iscreet. I struggled to come up with another question, one that might be more useful. I suspected Bobby was Robert Porter, and it was very possible whatever he wanted from Ms. Sinclair back then was the same thing the killer wanted now. I still had no idea what it was, though. It did confirm that she had kept it here, at least back then.

  “Does the building have any sort of storage areas for the residents to use?” I asked.

  Shaking her head, Mrs. Osgood said, “No, dear. I don’t approve of keeping things that are not being used. Residents are welcome to keep their extra belongings elsewhere, but I don’t want to be responsible for holding onto things no one needs or wants.”

  There went that idea. Frustration boiled under my skin as I scoured the information we’d gathered that might stir some sort of memory in my aging landlord. Before I could come up with anything, Sonya dropped into the chair next to me.

  “Well, the mice have vanished, apparently.”

  “What was that, dear?” Mrs. Osgood asked.

  “The mouse problem Edith from apartment one-twenty-four kept complaining about, it seems to have been resolved. Whatever the last exterminator used must have worked.” She sank back against her chair and stuffed a cookie in her mouth. “After having four different ones come, it’s about time something took care of the little beasts.”

  Her grandmother seemed pleased by the news, but her mouth fell into a frown a moment later. “Now if you could just get rid of the noises behind the wall, the ground floor would be in top shape again.”

  I saw Sonya’s fingers tighten around her fork. She’d listened and looked everywhere for the phantom sound and come up empty. Rather than tell her grandmother she was crazy, she said, “Still working on it, Grandma.”

  Mrs. Osgood smiled. “That’s a good girl.” Then she went back to eating her chicken, odd taste and all.

  I was still trying to come up with another good question when I realized Mrs. Osgood had given me more useful information than I’d originally realized. She gave me a timeline. One she might be able to narrow down a little more. Turning back to her, I asked, “Mrs. Osgood, do you remember when that Bobby guy came to see Ms. Sinclair, how long after she moved in here?”