Ruby places the marker in its tray and turns to face me. “Oh no, tomorrow’s no good. We’re going tonight.”
I wonder if perhaps the old gal isn’t going a bit senile. “But it’s after six. They’ll be closed.”
“Yes, that’s the idea. But right now’s no good. There will still be too many people about. The agency’s next to a sleepy little neighborhood where people will be walking their dogs and children will be playing until dark. How does a midnight ramble grab you, Lacy?”
What I am hearing isn’t senility, it is insanity. “I don’t think I like where this is going at all.”
“You’re not the superstitious type, are you? I should think you’d know by now that ghouls are as likely to strike in the cold light of day as in the lonely moonlight of the witching hour.”
“Maybe I’m losing my mind, but what you’re talking about sounds an awful lot like breaking and entering.”
Ruby erupts into laughter, loud and hearty, with a hand held to her stomach as though her spleen might slip out her navel. “No, no, dear. We’re not going to break anything. What are we, savages? We’re just going to enter!”
THIRTEEN
When a cat looks at a clock they see only a big hunk of plastic, and yet, somehow, they know when it’s treatsie time or time for you to wake up. And, as I discovered on this night, they also know when you’re up way past your bedtime.
Normally on a work night I’m in bed with a book by nine-thirty and lights out an hour later. Since runners are the only idiots who get up earlier on their days off, my weekend routine begins a half hour earlier. Meatball plans his own schedule around mine so he’s ready to settle in next to me and watch me read until finally nodding off.
Here I am at eleven-thirty, sitting on my couch, fully dressed. Meatball sits on the love seat alternating between the grooming tasks that consume much of his time and staring blankly at me like I am a crazy lady. I consider the task to which I set myself tonight and decide ‘crazy’ isn’t far from the mark.
At a quarter to midnight I make my way out into the black of night. I don’t recall having seen my street at this hour so I take a moment to look around. There is one night-owl still burning lights half a dozen houses up the road, but otherwise, the homes rest in slumber.
I no sooner put my car into park along Ruby’s curb than I see her little figure come down the cobbled walk towards me. She insisted I dress in dark clothes, so I chose a dark blue blouse and a pair of purple yoga pants that somehow evaded numerous donation purges. Ruby resembles her own shadow, clad as she is head to toe in solid black. I thought there was a difference between dressing dark and looking like you plan to commit a burglary, but to Ruby there is no such distinction.
“Isn’t this exciting?” she asks as she settles in the seat and closes the car door. Her expression is one of a child on her way to the fair.
“Is it supposed to be?”
She slaps her leg, feigning indignation. “Well, yes! Here we are, two amateur sleuths on a dead-of-night mission, going where we’re not supposed to go to find what we’re not intended to find. How could one not be thrilled?”
“I suppose. On the bright side, it’s a first offense. And we might get time off for good behavior. Does your lock picking work on prison cells by any chance?”
“Lock picking? Goodness, no, there’ll be none of that. We’ll just open the door and take a look around. Nothing too serious.”
I pull out of Ruby’s neighborhood and onto a larger street. The moon is high and sits burnt orange in a blue night sky. I keep my window cracked but it is cool enough to let the AC rest. In spite of the darkness, I feel vulnerable. The more so because my ‘partner’ thinks Anderson Petrick would be so considerate as to leave the door unlatched for us.
“Just open the door, huh? And how do we manage that?”
She looks at me as though my nose is falling off.
“It’s a normal round door knob, dear. All you have to do is turn—oh!—silly me, I suppose I didn’t tell you how I spent part of my day. No wonder you’re confused. I took my lunch at the little sandwich parlor tucked between the hardware store and the women’s gym. You know the one?”
“You mean the Subway?”
“Yes, that’s the one. I was eating my salad—thick bread is murder on my digestion—and pondering how we might get a peek at the inner workings of the travel agency, when it occurred to me it’s a public place and so why not just pop over there. After all, I’m not entirely a stranger. So, that’s what I did.”
As Ruby talks I hang a left onto Main. Here the street widens out and I notice I am the only car on the road. Except, that is, for the police cruiser gaining behind me. I have to remind myself my tags are up to date and I’ve done nothing wrong … not yet.
“I just sauntered in there like never-you-mind,” continues Ruby, “and there was Gretchen at her little desk up front. She was surprised to see me but quite pleasant about it. I told her I’d come to offer Anderson my condolences for his missing wife. I wasn’t surprised to find he had taken the day off. Perhaps he’s distraught over Marlene, but if not, one must put on pretenses. So, I instead offered my condolences to Gretchen, and again she was most gracious. I started her reminiscing about her missing boss and let her go on long enough so that when I excused myself to use the restroom, it didn’t seem out of place.”
“I assume you didn’t actually need to use the restroom?”
“I most certainly did! I treated myself to a soda with my salad and it went right through me. But I was on a mission and, I’m proud to say, I succeeded. Little buildings like this always have a back door that opens up to the alley. With only three people, none of them smokers, I figured this door was only used to take the trash out to the dumpsters. Well, I learned from my new friend at the sandwich parlor that trash days in that district are on Mondays and Thursday, so I thought there was a fair chance it wouldn’t get used today. I simply unlocked the door, said my farewells to Gretchen, and off I went.”
“So that’s what you mean by we’ll just walk in?”
She nods in a manner that says she’s very proud of herself.
“Did it occur to you they might have an alarm system?”
“It did. And they don’t.”
I relax a little. I weigh the risks and decide our purpose is worth it. Somebody in my circle did something terrible. I want to know who and why.
“Lacy, where are you’re going?” asks Ruby.
“Err … the travel agency.”
“Poor dear, your eyes are open but your brain’s asleep,” she says, clicking her tongue. “All this cloak and dagger won’t amount to much if we leave your car in front of the place for all to see. We must park elsewhere and walk.”
She is right, of course, both about my sleepy brain and about parking and walking. I decide to park behind Stax’s bookstore. It isn’t particularly close, but it’s a familiar place, and right now familiar feels good.
It’s my first time walking the back streets and alleys of Cedar Mill in the dark of night. It’s not likely to become a habit, but I can’t deny there is something beautiful about a good town when you catch it sleeping.
As Ruby and I walk side by side past the generators, dumpsters, and cast-outs along the back side of Main Street’s storefronts, the crunch of gravel under our feet echoes like a roar in the still night. I decide to speak.
“We got so distracted discussing how Marlene might have disappeared that you never got around to telling us what you learned about the salon murder.”
Ruby nods and takes a deep breath. As much as she might enjoy the hunt, it is clear she has no relish for the loss of life. It is something she takes very seriously.
“It was in the summer of 2000, so eighteen years ago almost to the day. I don’t believe she’d met Anderson yet. Marlene was young and somehow found the capital to open her own salon in one of those small strip malls you see all around Tulsa. You know, the ones that lost their anchor store years ago and now l
ook like they don’t know what to do with themselves. From what I understand, Marlene’s salon was nothing special, yet it was successful. Remarkably successful according to my source, himself a retired investigator. Word got around that Marlene’s girls were offering more than pedicures and perms.”
“You mean drugs?”
“No, dear. Marlene dabbled in, shall we say, a profession much older than either narcotics or acrylics.”
I wouldn’t put much past Marlene, but brothel Madame wasn’t even a blip on my radar.
“But the problem with such endeavors is they inevitably take place in private,” observes Ruby, “and that makes it hard for the authorities to build a case. They tried for months and had all but given up when a young woman stepped forth. She was an employee of the salon, fresh out of cosmetology school. She says Marlene paid better than the other salons and she was grateful for the opportunity. But she always felt there was something a bit off about the place. That was the scheme—hire the girls in when they’re desperate, get them used to a certain income and then spring on them the ‘extracurricular activities’ expected of them.
“Marlene wouldn’t make the approach but have one of her girls do it. Devilishly clever of her to consider that if the new girl didn’t respond well to the idea and quit or was summarily dismissed, she’d have nothing but her word to take to investigators and nothing at all to say against Marlene herself.”
“So why did the police put any stock in this girl when she stepped forward?”
“Because she hadn’t said no.”
Oh.
“She was seduced by the money at first, and by the pressure of her older, more experienced peers. Eventually, she came to regret her decision, but by then Marlene had sunk her teeth into the poor girl and she felt obligated to continue her sinful work. However, her better angels grabbed her and carried her out of there and into the arms of the police.”
“Who sent her right back in.”
Ruby nods and I clench my hands into fists, wondering how much consideration was given to the young woman’s safety by the men she trusted but who, it seems, were hell bent only on making a big bust.
“The police sent her back in wired. They still used wires then, you know, so one would have to be very careful. But before she could get anything incriminating, she was murdered. The investigation was exposed at that point and Marlene closed her salon, her fellow conspirators scattering to the four winds. No arrest was ever made.”
“And no clue to the killer’s identity?”
“There was a clue. You’ll recall I said she was wired.”
We step out of the alley and onto a back road leading to a smattering of small offices and garages. A warm breeze whips around the corner and tickles my goosebumps.
“You mean her murder was recorded?”
“Every last breath, I’m afraid. My source offered me a copy but I settled for a transcript. The killer never spoke, but the young lady—her name was Kayleigh Cook—spoke as though she knew the person and expected to see them in the salon. While the police couldn’t rule out a familiar client, they felt it was most likely an inside job and narrowed their list of suspects down to four—all of them women.”
“And one of them was Marlene.”
“Indeed.”
“Although I suppose she’s now in the clear if she’s also been murdered.”
“That presupposes the two cases are connected.”
“Wasn’t this young woman, Kayleigh, murdered with a pair of scissors?”
“Yes, she was. In fact, I saw a photo of the murder weapon. It’s identical in every respect to the pair of scissors left in Marlene’s tire the other afternoon.”
“Well, there you go. It must be the same killer.”
“Must it? We don’t know Marlene was killed with scissors.”
“True, but you’re convinced she’s been murdered. And there’s scissors everywhere. What else could it be?”
“Revenge, perhaps? If someone close to Kayleigh holds Marlene responsible, they could be inflicting their own brand of justice.”
That makes perfect sense and I find myself frustrated by it. We need fewer possibilities, not more.
“Do you know what became of the other three suspects in the murder?”
“My friend says two were quite easy to locate—one straightened her life out and is raising a family in Massachusetts. Another sadly walked a different path and is serving a sentence on drug charges.”
“And the third?”
“She’s been harder to locate through normal channels, but he’s good at what he does. She’ll turn up. Oh! Time we get into stealth mode.”
“Are we there?”
“That we are.”
It’s funny to think I could be lost. Walking through a town at night by its alleys instead of its street is rather like trying to recognize a person by looking at their X-ray.
The Petrick Travel Agency is a stand-alone wooden box with picture-windows in the front that look out over a rustic wooden porch, finished in a way that makes it appear fashionably unfinished. Not so much care was taken with the back of the building—a flat sheet of brown wood with an ugly green steel-reinforced door. It is at this ugly door that I commit my first crime.
The door opens as Ruby predicted. Enshrouded in darkness, the hall ahead of us looks like a black tunnel that goes on forever. Ruby removes a small pen light from her pocket and leads the way in. Why didn’t I think of bringing a flashlight? Oh, yeah, because I’m not a crook. But I did bring my cell phone and I remember it has a flashlight app. That should work fine as anything brighter would be visible to outside passers-by.
We first come to a room on our left. A quick look reveals it to be a large office smelling vaguely of leather. The dominant color is brown and the walls are decorated with posters of exotic destinations. We decide this must be Anderson’s office and Ruby calls dibs, suggesting I continue on to find Marlene’s. ‘What are we looking for?’ I ask. ‘We’ll know it when we see it’ was the response.
After first poking my head into the restroom and a supply closet, I find my target. Marlene’s office looks like what you might expect a narcissistic, unimaginative ex-cheerleader’s office would look like, complete with portrait photography of herself and Anderson (but mostly herself), a tin mural of ‘LIVE, LAUGH, LOVE’ consuming half a wall, some Dora the Explorer figures to tie it all in with travel, and the obligatory romantic getaway promotionals. Under the ‘LOVE’ tin are two chest-high filing cabinets. I consider pilfering those first but her personal space calls to me, so I tiptoe my way behind her desk.
The window behind me is conveniently covered with Venetian blinds twisted open just enough to allow the moonlight to bathe her desk and render my flashlight app moot, at least for the moment. Her desktop is spotless, which doesn’t surprise me. I suspected her desk, much like herself, would be kept and orderly on the outside and a complete mess on the inside. I slide open the top right drawer and give myself a figurative pat on the back. The drawer is like a dry cesspool full of crinkled gum wrappers (some with gum still in them), paper clips, uncapped pens, loose change, and the largest collection of old condiment packets I’ve ever seen. I notice a few sweet and sour packets from a Chinese restaurant long out of business and surmise that what they contain must now be more sour than sweet. I don’t want to dig through this drawer, but I am a woman on a mission, and thank goodness I brought gloves!
I find nothing of interest in the desk drawers, save for a couple pairs of women’s frilly undergarments that—even with gloves on—I refuse to touch. I think of Chase when I see them and feel a passing pang of guilt for making the connection. He’d never cheat on Marti. Not with the likes of Marlene.
Movement in the hall catches my eye and I freeze like a deer, but it is only Ruby’s light bouncing off the walls as she moves around. I breathe a sigh of relief and tell myself not to be so paranoid. Yes, there’s a killer out there, but they’re not coming after you.
Then comes t
he unmistakable sound of shattering glass. Perhaps Ruby knocked something over. I wait for her to call out an ‘oh, criminy!’ or something of the like but nothing comes. Her bouncing light is gone as well. Has she hurt herself somehow? I imagine Ruby lying helpless on the floor of Anderson’s dank office and am about to run to her aid when I hear the sound of more glass falling. It isn’t a lamp that broke but a window. The sound is coming from the front office, where we haven’t yet looked. Where someone may have been waiting the entire time, watching us, or biding his time until we showed ourselves.
I don’t move a muscle. I just stare at the shadows in the office doorway and pray they don’t start moving. Then it comes, a new sound. A dead bolt is turning. Is he leaving? I ask myself. I remember how the front of the building is laid out, with large windows on either side of the door. What I am hearing is the sound of someone breaking in by reaching through the broken window and unlatching the door.
I hope there’s another lock to the door, one requiring a key. Maybe the intruder is just a burglar with terrible timing and he’ll get frustrated and go away.
Instead, the door opens. The crickets are loud now, like they’re in the room with me. I hear glass shards crunching under rubber soles as the front door is closed. The crickets are still where they were, but the feet have moved to the top of the hall.
It is bad enough to know I’m sharing my quiet town with a maniac.
I didn’t count on sharing a room with one.
FOURTEEN
I drop down and slide under the desk. It is all I can think to do. I should be okay If the intruder only peeks into the room, but if they want in the desk, I’m screwed. All I can do is hold my breath and watch from my spot on the carpet. There is just enough room where I can look out and see all the way to the door.
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