by Vicki Batman
“Is he the same detective you told me about, the one who wrote the ticket?”
“Yep, you just missed him. He popped by a few minutes ago. He seemed agitated.”
“Better hurry along,” she ordered.
I made my quick exit. While waiting for the elevator to come, I tapped my right foot. Talking about Saturday night and him not calling me back felt uncomfortable. Sorta like high school feelings. We had a grown-up relationship which needed to be sorted in grown-up way.
After pushing through the revolving door, I scanned my gaze from left to right to locate him and did. Whether dressed casual, formal—or even better, naked—easy on the eyes best depicted A. Wellborn. Resting his shoulders against the exterior wall, he waited, tension clearly showing in his crisscrossed arms. His glance took me in as I made my way over to him.
“Hey.” His remark had been stated in an off-handed style, like a guy would to his football buddies.
“Hey,” I replied in my lame jock voice.
“You look nice.”
I did. Today, I’d revisited the late sixties in a short red dress without sleeves, banded in white around the neck and armholes. On my feet were matching shoes with a white pinstripe, and I carried a handbag woven like thick, white lattice work. “Thanks. You do, too.”
He wore khakis, a white shirt tucked inside, a navy blazer, black belt and shoes. I wondered when paired side by side, if we resembled Barbie and Ken dolls.
“I’ll drive,” he said. Companionably, we walked to his truck where he helped me inside. He moved to close the door.
I said, “Opal saw you standing out here.”
He made a soft snort. “I thought I heard a funny swish-swish sound.”
“Ha.”
He drove to the nearest fast food restaurant. It looked crowded and sounded loud with little kids running in and out of the gym area. I fell back on my favorite remedy, a large diet drink, to assist me through our conversation, and the restaurant’s newest offering, chicken Caesar salad. We sat in red, molded plastic chairs near the kiddy section, the only available seats. He looked out-of-place as his size dominated the smaller-sized chair. Not my usual kind of setting but it didn’t matter. Being with him was more important.
He chomped on a bite of burger while I tore into the salad dressing packet and squeezed every drop on the chicken and lettuce. After a couple of bites, he wiped his hands on a napkin and began his apologizing up front. His hand slid across the table. With a couple of fingers, he stroked my left hand. “Regarding Saturday, I’m sorry about Lucky and the phone call. Sorry how they interfered. What we shared was indescribable. I want you to know I had a hard time taking you home. I missed you. I can’t stop thinking about what might have happened. I want to finish what we’d started.”
My heart stopped with a hard thump. Funny, how his confession resembled mine. “I missed you, too. I didn’t sleep well.”
“Me, neither.”
Our fingers laced, squeezing, absorbing each other’s admissions. Our gazes fixed, and I saw care and concern for me in his.
The noise level increased, and gradually, awareness of our surroundings brought us to the present. Our hands released, and automatically, we resumed eating. I shoved my fork around the salad and speared a soggy crouton.
He said, “I have another problem, though, and it means I won’t be around.”
“Why?”
He bent closer, nearly touching his fries with his chest. “For your ears only, I’m working on a hush-hush case.”
This sounded interesting. Not wanting to miss any of the good dirt, I scooted my chair nearer to the table. My boobs almost rested on the table top.
“I have to tell you something.” He inhaled. “The case I’ve been working on is investigating the death of June Short, formerly an employee of Buy Rite Automobile Insurance. The police believe she was murdered.”
Murder. My eyes went large and wide. I stopped chewing to lean back in the plastic kiddy chair. “No way. No freaking way. I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it.”
“It can’t be true. You’re lying.”
A. Wellborn laid on me a Don’t Be Stupid look. His head tilted aside as one brow lifted.
No, not with that face, he wasn’t lying. The white plastic fork I held plopped into the lettuce as my taste for food vanished. “How? Who?”
“The only thing I can say is her death was very nasty.”
“Oh my.” My hand circled my throat. “Lester and Opal haven’t said a thing.”
“Right now, they don’t know about the investigation.”
“How could they not know?”
“’Cause we’re good?” He shook his head. “Sorry. They think her death has been ruled a suicide.”
I took in this new information. June Short had been murdered. June Short worked at Buy Rite. A. Wellborn was investigating June’s murder. This seemed surreal, like the Salvadore Dali painting with the wilted pocket watches. “Do you have any suspects?”
“We’re interested in a couple of people.”
“Who?”
Sighing, he eased back in his chair. “Honestly, Hattie, I can’t tell you anymore.”
I bit my lower lip. “But I work at Buy Rite.”
“I know.” His hand scrubbed his forehead. “This is just a big, fuckin’ coincidence. What I need from you is the Jeep report to see if something’s there, something which could connect us to the killer, a possible link.”
He could have any and everything he wanted if it solved June’s murder. “Sure.”
I’d made two copies and removed mine from my handbag, passing it to A. Wellborn.
Interested, he thumbed through the pages, stopping sporadically to do a speed reading scan.
I waited with silent screaming tolerance for him to let fall a crumb or even better, a tidbit. Instead, I occasionally heard a hmm. He handed back the report.
“Keep it. I can always print another.”
“Thanks.” Carefully, he folded the report and tucked it in his inner jacket pocket. “This is intriguing.”
“It’ll help?”
“It’ll help.” He gave a brisk nod.
“You think June knew something about stolen cars?”
“Anything’s possible. Gotta go.” He stood, ready, his body twitching and itching to take off. He wanted to take this new information and resume his investigation. Unable to confess how scared I felt, all I could do was stare.
I really needed hold yous.
I really needed more time.
We looked at each other, unsure what should happen next. Finally, my silly girl attitude took over, and I gathered my handbag and box of lettuce, trailing him to the truck. He drove me to Buy Rite’s building.
While parked at the entryway, he bent across the console and kissed my forehead, resting against me for a moment.
I closed my eyes, never wanting the sensation of closeness to end. However, nothing does last forever, and we drew apart.
“I’ll call,” he said. “I promise.” His gaze connected with my questioning one. “I don’t think you need to worry about anything.”
As the whole scenario dawned on me that this was for real, I shifted my gaze to the building and back. My pulse jumped a notch. Completely mystified, I pretended to have courage when I said, “Sure.” The word came out like a mouse squeak.
I climbed out of the truck and watched him wave and drive away. Waiting fifteen minutes before going to eat lunch with A. Wellborn had been hard to tolerate.
Going back to Buy Rite’s office afterwards was the hardest thing I’d ever done.
Chapter Sixteen
Not worry?
Wrong. I was way too worried.
What is going on here? June Short, a former employee of Buy Rite Automobile Insurance who, according to A. Wellborn, had been “nastily murdered.”
None of this pleased me, not at all.
Nobody deserved to die like she had. By using the Jeep report in his investigat
ion, he hoped to find a possible link to connect her death and the murderer. My thoughts returned to the sweet picture of June and Mike, her dog.
Nobody.
And undoubtedly, the most important thing—I was temping in June’s place.
As I approached Buy Rite’s office, the jumping beans in my stomach, the ones which accompanied tension and full of trepidation, shifted into high gear. My pulse accelerated with each step moving me closer to the door. I so didn’t want to go inside, but had to. Pushing it open, I took a few steps and glanced around. Through the glass sidelight next to Lester’s door, I watched Opal and Lester reviewing paperwork.
I considered Opal? Lester? What are they really doing? What if one of them had murdered June? Or even worse—my eyes rounded with this thought—they both had done it.
When they noticed me looking toward them, they separated, breaking the conversation. To cover my ass, I quickly went to my desk and stowed my handbag in an empty desk drawer. I set my hands to the keys and pretended to resume typing.
A. Wellborn’s eye-opening revelation possessed my mind. I hadn’t been around any mysterious deaths before. Learning about June’s murder felt outrageously out-of-this-world shocking. My thoughts kept returning to the time I’d boxed up her belongings and the dog photo. Neither Lester nor Opal had ever uttered an explanation about her demise. When I started the temp job, they’d said she had passed, and her family had held a nice memorial service.
Obviously, there appeared to be more to the sordid story.
Frightened and scared inhabited my body, so much so, I couldn’t think of anything else but June. Somehow, I managed to make it through the day, but I did a crappy job at best. My main goal was for five o’clock to arrive. And when it did, I raced for my car. I couldn’t drive home quickly enough.
****
The next couple of days passed pretty much the same as always. Claims kept coming in, but no more Jeep ones.
So much for my theory.
One day, my work slowed to almost boredom. My time at Buy Rite appeared to be up. Perhaps, I’d disappointed Opal somehow. Who knew? She didn’t say and I didn’t ask. After hearing what had happened to June, I didn’t like working at B. R. A. anyway. I didn’t like Lester and Opal. I didn’t like data entry at all. I would never be what Opal wanted, and I didn’t want to be.
Over a phone call, I consulted with Kellar for her expert opinion on whether or not I should stay at Buy Rite.
“Do you have another job lined up?” she asked.
“No. I should call Trixie.”
“There you go.”
Kellar seemed full of level-headed advice.
A. Wellborn had phoned once to say hey which qualified as hearing from him. We held a short conversation, talking about Lucky and his work load, family, but nothing about June’s murder.
Jenny had put in her two cents worth. “Don’t worry. It’s a good sign he keeps coming back for more.”
Easy for her to say.
****
The following Wednesday, I drove downtown for my court date and parked in the garage. I walked to the municipal building and went over to the elevator which took me to the courtroom floor.
The roly-poly bailiff greeted me with familiarity. Was being recognized by a bailiff ideal? Mom would pass out if she knew. For the third time, I took a seat. This time, the proceedings seemed more comfortable.
Meanwhile, Judge Miller studied the papers gripped in his fat fingers and glanced briefly when I took a seat on what I now called my bench. I inspected the court room and, like the previous times, observed nothing had changed. Detective Wellborn had yet to appear which caused me to wonder what the hell game he played this time. He’d told me he would be here. I re-gripped my tote. I really wanted this issue to conclude today.
The bailiff called my name. As I approached Judge Miller, the squeak of the court room door opening captured everyone’s attention. We all turned toward the sound and, surprise, surprise, Detective Wellborn entered. Finally—my body eased with relief—we can get this show on the road.
I gave him a second glance. My man continued to look like a top model in clothes, not to say he didn’t without them. With that thought, I sensed a blush race from my face to the tips of my ears. Today, he wore a white shirt with blue pinstripes tucked in charcoal wool slacks and a navy blazer, black shoes, and black belt. A maroon tie with tiny gold dots complimented the outfit.
“Detective Wellborn?” Judge Miller asked.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Have a seat.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Judge Miller beckoned for me to come forward.
I took tentative steps, passing through the wooden gate in the banister.
“Okay, Ms. Cooks, please continue.”
“Thank you, Sir.” I released a deep breath. “A few weeks ago, I was stopped by Detective Wellborn”—I pointed a neatly manicured index finger in his direction—“for a taillight out on my car. The problem with the citation was the box had been checked ‘taillight out,’ but what we really discovered was the entire bumper including the taillights were stolen.”
“How unfortunate. You didn’t notice the car parts were stolen before then?”
“No, Sir.”
“And your contention is the taillight wasn’t out because you didn’t even have a taillight to be out?”
The judge appeared to be sympathetic to my plight. “Yes, Sir. On the prior Sunday, I’d helped my dad change the oil. Afterwards, I washed my vehicle. At that time, the bumper and the taillights were on the car. A couple of days later, Detective Wellborn pulled me over. We believe the parts had been stolen sometime after Sunday evening.” I handed a photo to Judge Miller. “I took this photo with my cell phone and it shows the missing parts.”
“I see. And you informed your insurance company of your loss?”
“Yes, Sir.” I passed him another piece of paper. “This is a copy of the estimate from the claims adjuster—”
“Thank you.”
“And a copy of my driving record.”
“Thank you again.” Judge Miller stacked my papers in a tidy pile. Afterwards, he rested his forearms on the desktop. “Okay, Ms. Cooks, anything else? If not, have a seat and we shall hear from Detective Wellborn.”
I paused at the gate which Detective Wellborn politely held for me to pass through. My head dipped, giving my own small acknowledgement to his slight smile.
“Detective, let’s hear your side of the story,” said Judge Miller.
“Yes, Sir.”
He consulted his citation book and relayed to Judge Miller about pulling me over and pointing out the missing car parts. He said I was quite distressed and had given him the same information I’d given the Judge about when the parts were last seen on the Jeep. He said he pulled me over specifically because my parts were missing which looked suspicious, not to mention dangerous. If need be, he could obtain a copy of the recording from the squad car’s camera.
I raised my brow, knowing my eyes bugged like a frog’s. He has a recording of what had happened? Fantastic. Yeah, let’s go back to that horrible day and let everyone see my mascara-blackened face and sweaty arm pits.
On the other hand—my eyes narrowed—they could also see the parts missing off my car. All this time, he’d possessed the truth and played with me.
Judge Miller reclined in his chair and contemplated us. “No tape is necessary. I understand where you are coming from. Ms. Cooks, have the taillight and the bumper been replaced?”
I jumped to my feet. “No, Sir, not yet. According to my insurance company, the check is in the mail.”
“Standard operating procedure,” said Judge Miller. “I’m ruling in favor of Ms. Cooks, Detective. Technically, she should’ve been informed about the missing taillights and bumper and given a verbal warning, not a citation. Therefore, no fine.” The studious look he fixed on us read something like I know you two aren’t telling me everything. “Let’s keep it in mind, shall we?”
<
br /> “Yes, Sir,” A. Wellborn and I said in unison.
“Case dismissed.” Judge Miller smiled, winked, and slammed his gavel.
Woohoo! I grinned, batting away the desire to do a happy dance. I didn’t have to pay the outrageous fine, and Mom would be ecstatic, knowing her beloved daughter wasn’t destined for jailbait.
A. Wellborn grasped my elbow and propelled me with expediency through the courtroom into the hallway. Furious, I yanked my arm from his clasp and turned on him, indignation bursting from every pore.
He chuckled.
“This isn’t funny, Allan.”
He laughed again.
I stomped my foot. “Stop it! It isn’t funny. I wouldn’t have been in this predicament, wouldn’t have wasted all this time from work, wouldn’t have wasted the taxpayer’s money if you hadn’t written me a phony citation.”
He sobered, pressing his lips into a tight line. “Oh, come on, Hattie. I did you a really big favor. You wouldn’t have known about the stolen parts for a while. You should thank me for pointing it out.”
“E-ven-tu-ally,” I said, each syllable emphasized. “I would have seen the problem.” Clomping over to the elevator, I pushed the call button.
He followed me. “Okay, eventually you would have seen your taillights and bumper were missing. But you wouldn’t have seen me either.”
“And seeing you is great because…?” I set my hands on my hips while contemplating his circulatory thinking. We stepped in the elevator car, and I stabbed the button labeled for the lobby. “I’m getting vibes you’re feeling proud of how you arranged everything, aren’t you?”
He rubbed a finger across the cleft in his chin. The alluring twinkle danced in his eyes. “I think everything is going just fine.”
The elevator dinged, the doors opened, and I exited with quick steps.
At the courthouse entrance, he caught up with me. He circled his hands around my upper arms to pull me to his chest. “I’ve missed you,” he said in a low arousing voice. His arms slipped around my waist, pushing his maleness to my femaleness.
A womanly heat encompassed me. God, how I craved him. I stared at the third from the collar shirt button. “Yeah, well you said you would be busy.”