by Vicki Batman
“So, he does like you,” Trixie said.
The Funsisters broke into discussion groups on whether or not A. Wellborn liked me, and whether or not I would see him, and whether or not I’d ever get lucky. Giving up, I sipped from my glass. Numb with alcohol, I’d forget the whole mess.
They had better settle soon or I would rip open the birthday presents.
****
I liked electronic machines to work like they were supposed to. So on Friday, when computer problems cropped up again, I groaned audibly. Data entry sucked, and the thought of coming in to work on a Saturday sucked, too. I preferred to spend my weekend occupied elsewhere.
When I reported the problems to Opal, I led her back to my desk and she watched me take a stab at making the computer operate. I pointed to the blank monitor. “See? Nothing.”
The fashion police should arrest Opal. She wore a lime-and-lemon plaid pantsuit in her favored bullet-proof fabric with a matching, silky shirt underneath the jacket. Her big butt resembled a stadium blanket.
“I do,” she said. “I think we should make a service call and let the technicians unravel the problem. Do you have any other ideas about what should be done?”
I found it hard to believe Opal, of all people, had asked for my opinion. Of course, I wanted to say trash the damn thing—but that was my anger talking. However, I’d already considered this problem, and even though Opal could help me, perhaps an hour or two on a Saturday wouldn’t hurt. Wham bam, I could knock out the work quickly.
“Perhaps, you should call the technicians. And I’ll come in on Saturday.”
Opal passed me the key. “Keep me informed if anything is required.”
I didn’t anticipate any problems. “Sure.”
****
On Saturday, I rose early and went for my run. I’d downloaded an audio book, one by my favorite mystery author, Dick Francis, into my iPod.
I ran, but the sight wasn’t pretty. After half a mile, I slowed to a walk and barely finished moving. Downright disgraceful. This time I couldn’t blame treats. My chocolate deposit ran at an all-time low. I would have to finish the audio in the car.
Back home, I showered and did the minimum in war paint and hairdo. I slipped into jeans and a stretchy t-shirt decorated with a summery, Paris café scene. And because I was the handbag queen, I selected a tote embellished with the same picture, purchased at an excellent price at an outlet store.
I drove to Buy Rite’s office and parked under the only tree in the lot near the building’s entrance, just like the prior time. I opened the office door with Opal’s key. At the main switch, I turned on every light and illuminated the entire office. Silly me took a quick look around. Of course, no one was there, and in my gut, I didn’t expect anyone to be. But the spooky, watchy feeling overtook again. Considering June’s death, I had to be especially convinced for my piece of mind and toured the premises a second time. As far as I knew, her murder hadn’t been solved, and I still didn’t know if someone at the office could be the murderer.
Sitting at my desk, I turned on the CPU, hearing it doing the start up thing. The monitor blinked to life. Hallelujah, Praise the Lord! I clicked on the claims program. After organizing my pile of paperwork, I inputted all the data entry easily. With some time to kill, I decided to catch up on filing. I alphabetized the appraisal copies which went quickly.
A glance at my watch read told me I could do more work. I eyed Opal’s inbox which held a few unopened envelopes. No time like the present, I thought while fingering them. I could get ahead, the ol’ show the initiative plan. Using her letter opener, I sliced through the envelopes, being careful not to slash myself again on her weapon.
I sorted the few claims I needed. I took the appraisals as well and made copies. After that, I matched the copies with the respective files. Matching was easy to do with the files in alpha order, but just to be sure, I checked every piece of paperwork as I worked.
#50003: Camp, Henry, date, 2003 Black Jeep Cherokee stolen. Appraisal: $1,000. Settlement Check: $925.00.
How funny. The numbers didn’t match. Aren’t they supposed to be the same? Again, I looked at the settlement number on the check and verified it against the appraisal amount. The check had been cut short by seventy-five dollars. My brow pleated like an accordion as I looked at the papers again.
I set the check aside to deal with later. Since this problem appeared to be beyond my skill set, I decided to review it with Opal and Lester on Monday. I continued to work my way through the files, and all in all, I found three more in which the settlement numbers did not match the appraisal amounts.
“Geez.” How could the check be different from the claim? Opal had informed me the two should be equal. I shook my head at the obvious error, not getting how this worked. When the customers discovered the differences, they would be ringing the phones incessantly. Definitely not happy campers.
After making copies of the checks, I labeled a separate folder, put these papers in it, and stored the folder in my desk to review with Lester & Opal. Another implementation of Buy Rite Employee Guideline #3.
I straightened my desk, nice and neat. After turning off the computer, I grabbed my handbag and then speed-walked to the door to flip the lights. Goofy girl. Nothing had happened after all and nothing to worry about.
****
In the parking lot, a different story revealed itself: My left rear tire had a puncture in the sidewall. The tire wasn’t the new one I’d purchased to replace the damaged one. When I bought the new one, I instructed the service guy to put it on the front and to rotate the used one to the back.
“Crap.” I squatted to take a closer look. Flatter than the western Kansas prairie. Remembering the difficulty with the tight lug nuts from last time, I parked my carcass in the little bit of shade under the lone tree and phoned Dad. Unfortunately for me, Mom answered.
“Hey, Mom.” I hoped by using an uplifting tone she wouldn’t garner anything from my voice. And if she did, I hoped to deflect her from the inevitable little talk.
“Hattie? Is something wrong? Where are you? I can tell from my caller ID you’re calling from your cell phone.” Mom lowered her voice, “Don’t tell me. You’re in the hospital—”
I hung my head. “Mom—”
“I’m on my way—”
“Mom, I’m not at the hospital.” With extreme reluctance, I apprised her of my predicament.
“What’s going on with you and tires? Tires don’t grow on trees, you know.” Her statement diverted my attention to envision multiple tire swings hanging from tree branches. “You need to be more careful. Are you driving through construction sites and picking up nails?”
Mom could be right; this could happen. Mentally, I plotted my route from my apartment to Buy Rite’s office. No. No. No. As far as I knew, I hadn’t driven through any construction sites, but that didn’t leave out stuff tossed onto the streets with reckless abandon.
“I don’t think so. Besides, these cuts are in the sidewall and look like a puncture, not a random nail or screw in the tread. Usually, regular flats are easily fixed with a plug or a patch.”
“A cut, you say? I don’t like the sounds of that. Tires are expensive, and I’m worried because you don’t have a permanent job and don’t have enough savings. You should report the incident to the property management company. Or maybe the police. Call Allan Wellborn.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“You need to be more careful.”
The truth was her daughters could never be careful enough. “Yes, Mom.”
“Let me get your father,” she said abruptly.
Mom trotted off to find Dad. After I’d explained my problem, I heard him sigh. “I’m on my way.” Dad put Mom back on the phone.
I could picture her in the background, waving her hands for him to turn over the handset. I wouldn’t label Mom a nag. No matter what age I would be, she would always be my mom and didn’t let go easily. I half-listened as I sat on the curb, doodling with a s
tick in the gutter dirt while she delivered one more piece of information.
“...ran into Shirley Wellborn at the grocery store yesterday.”
Whoa. Her tidbit brought me to attention. “You ran into Mrs. Wellborn? Where?”
“If you would listen,” Mom chastised. “I said, I ran into Shirley Wellborn, you know, Allan and Sarah Anne’s mother, at the grocery store yesterday. Over sweet potatoes, she told me you’ve had a few dates with Allan. How come I didn’t know about this? I would like to know these things before my friends tell me, especially when my own daughter is involved.”
I didn’t have a chance to say anything. Which was normal.
She continued her scolding, “Allan’s such a nice boy. Were you nice in return? Are you minding your manners?”
Will anything in my life be mine? Now, every time I would see her, she would ask about A. Wellborn. “Yes, Mom.”
“So, what did you and Allan do?” She went on and on, extolling his virtues and pontificating on what “a nice boy he is” and whenever she saw him at the grocery store, service station, et cetera, he always spoke to her and helped her with her bags or pumping gas.
Her nice made me want to gag.
She rolled out more of the How to Treat Men little talk, and like I’d told the Funsisters, I could repeat it verbatim. She meant well, but after the forty-eighth millionth time, she sounded way beyond tiresome. After a while, I tuned her out and picked up my stick to continue the dirt doodling. My stick figures were outstanding. “Yes, Mom,” I confessed randomly when she drew a breath, “We ate pizza a couple of times. We went to a party. The End.”
I left out the parts about throwing him out, slamming the door in his face, our court dates, and yeah, sure, I thought sarcastically, I really wanted to tell Mom about the time A. Wellborn and I had almost wild, almost sex. Ick. Nobody talked about sex with their parents.
“Hattie, just remember being nice is a desirable quality. Do the right thing.”
Nice. Mom needed a new word. A. Wellborn was nice. I was supposed to be nice. After years of being a “nice girl,” I wanted to break this habit. I liked dangerous and sassy and daring.
“Hattie.” Her voice pierced through my musing. “Did you hear me?”
Who couldn’t? “Yes, Mom.” I saw Dad had parked his car by mine, ready for daughter rescue. “Gotta go.” I punched the off button to silence her and walked over to meet him.
He gave me a hug. Crouching by the punctured tire, he rubbed his finger over the cut. “Do you have any enemies?” he said in jest, glancing around. “This cut looks exactly like the other one. What do you think?”
“You’re right. It’s like the other one.” I ran my finger across the tire to examine the damage further. I was no expert in flat tires, although I appeared to be on the fast track to becoming one. However, two punctured tires in the same parking lot in the same parking place seemed too coincidental. We stared at each other while I asked the question crossing both our minds, “Could someone do this intentionally?”
Dad tilted his head. “It’s very odd you’ve had two tires punctured while parked in this particular space. I was joking earlier when I made the remark about any enemies. Seriously, have you made someone angry?”
I considered this. I hadn’t been really angry, except with A. Wellborn, and he’d managed to redeem himself. The Funsisters’ jesting had upset me for a little while, but I was over that. Besides, they wouldn’t do this.
Is someone angry with me? I hadn’t a clue. “I don’t think so. If so, I don’t know who.”
He removed the tools stowed under the passenger seat to jack the car. Companionably, we changed the tire and stored the damaged one on the front seat. “Guess I’d be making a trip to the tire store. Again.”
“Hattie, watch out.” Dad wiped his hands on a cloth. “Don’t you need money to buy the replacement tire?”
Since becoming gainfully employed, I’d put aside some greenbacks. Granted, I wanted to use it to escape from Buy Rite and to continue my quest for the impossible dream job. I sighed with regret. My sparse savings would be enough to fund the tire. I pecked his cheek. “No, Dad, I’ll use my savings. More chocolate chip cookies?”
“Great minds, etc,” he said. “The others went real fast.”
“Mom?” We knew she’d sneak a few.
“A good guess.” He hung his head and studied his shoes before asking, “Date tonight?”
I shook my head. “Not tonight.”
He scratched his temple. “You could come over and have dinner with your mother and me.”
Right now, boring sounded more exciting than dinner with Mom and Dad. He really was sweet, but after Mom’s lecture on tires and A. Wellborn, I just wanted to be alone. She had little talk momentum going and would pop in her other lecture tapes, which would not make for a fun evening. I would take a pass, but I didn’t want to hurt Dad’s feelings.
“Thanks for the offer, but I think I’ll hang at my place, do the piles of laundry, and pump up the résumé.”
Dad nodded. He probably understood more about Mom and her little talks than we knew. Many a time, he’d heard her dispensing them and had retreated to his recliner with the evening paper. With a wave, he drove off.
Chapter Seventeen
Another week passed. A. Wellborn phoned while I was involved with ironing.
All this time alone gave me plenty of opportunity to ponder things, like almost wild, almost sex. I really wanted to finish what we’d started after the engagement party. My thoughts shifted to the almost kiss in the court house. I really wanted to finish what we’d almost started.
Hell, I wanted to finish something with him.
A. Wellborn asked about work.
I said it was the “same-o, same-o,” and offhandedly, I mentioned the check discrepancies I’d found.
“Tell me about it,” he said.
“Aren’t you tired of Buy Rite stories?”
“Anything you do interests me.”
Whatever. I had a hard time believing Buy Rite would ever be interesting to anyone. Removing a blouse from a hangar, I described the computer crash and entering the new data. I told of finding the appraisals and the settlement checks with discrepancies on Opal’s desk, and how I’d gone ahead and filed those away after making copies.
What I had done seemed ordinary, routine, and efficient. I told him about the special folder I’d made which contained the information. After laying the shirt collar open, I adjusted the temperature on the iron to delicate.
“That’s it?” he asked.
I made a few swipes across the collar. “I guess so. Like I said, I haven’t found any problems since. Maybe the computer glitch cleared up.”
“So, the discrepancies aren’t normal?”
“I don’t think so. Perhaps someone’s computer program messed up, and thank goodness, I found the mistakes.”
“I would like to see the checks to better understand what you’re describing.”
I straightened a sleeve on the ironing board, matching the seams. I passed the iron over the length of the sleeve. “Hmm... What about after work?”
“Can’t.”
I heard pages flipping while he answered. Guess he was multi-tasking. That sorta felt...annoying.
“This case has me tied up. I know. How about you fax me the stuff?”
“Just a sec. I need something to write with.” Setting down the phone and iron, I ran to my desk and grabbed paper and a pen. “Shoot.”
And A. Wellborn rattled off the fax number. “Are you okay otherwise?”
I guessed from that remark he still cared. I decided to go for broke and admit the truth. I set pen and pad on the bed. “A little lonely.”
“Me, too.”
This sounded encouraging. I perked up. I went to my bed and flopped down, watching the ceiling fan turn. “I do know one other thing, but it’s not exactly about B.R.A.”
“Tell me about it.”
I twirled a strand of hair round my
finger. “After I finished last Saturday, I found my Jeep had another flat tire. For the second time, I called Dad for daughter rescue. I owe him a lot of cookies.”
“I would have come.”
The twirling stopped. For a teensy sec, I’d contemplated calling A. Wellborn, but felt more comfortable asking Dad. I shifted the phone to my other ear. “I know you would have and thanks for the offer. Dad thinks it’s his duty to rescue his darling daughters.”
“I remember, Harry’s harem.”
“Yes. And Dad likes chocolate chip cookies. He complained Mom doesn’t make them since she began dieting.”
“I like chocolate chip cookies, too—Hint, hint.”
“Poor baby. Hold on.” I returned to my ironing, checked the water level, and added some. After smoothing the other blouse sleeve, I picked up the iron. “I’m back.”
“What are you doing?”
“Ironing.”
“You like to?”
“It’s a Cooks’ graduation requirement.”
“I see. I can’t do daughter rescue, but I can do friend rescue,” he said. “Honest, I won’t mind.”
“It’s a deal. Next time, I’ll call you.” I shifted the shirt to the other sleeve. “Dad said this puncture looked like the other one.”
“Tell me about it.”
I held the iron in mid-air while considering this particular phrase he’d used. He’d said it many times. I reached back, and yeah, he’d said it about the files, the report, the appraisals, and my job. And now, he’d made this same remark about my tires. I found it hard to believe punctured tires were interesting. “You say ‘tell me about it’ a lot.”
“Sorry. Bad cop habit.”
“It’s okay, I just noticed. Anyway, Dad said the cut looked the same as the first one. Both tires had been stabbed in the sidewall.”
“Describe the cuts.”
“About a half inch in width, maybe smaller than, say, the width of a dinner knife. Right in the sidewall, three inches above the rim. You know, on the smooth part that looks super when Armor-alled.” I shook out the blouse and opened it across the board to run the iron the length of the back. Five more to go.