by Vicki Batman
“Why would someone cut tires? Tires aren’t cheap.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t know how to put this without upsetting you.”
“Lay it on me.”
“Do you need some help, you know, with buying new ones?”
Shocking. Label me officially embarrassed. Mom, Dad, and now, A. Wellborn all knew about my financial difficulties. I shouldn’t complain about them asking. They had the best intentions.
Setting down the iron, I draped the wrinkle-free blouse over a hangar. “No, thank you, I have a little money banked. I suppose it’s why I haven’t left B.R.A. yet. I keep bringing home the almighty bacon. You’re sweet to offer.” My hand smoothed another blouse collar across the ironing board.
I heard a huh. All guys wanted to be called sweet.
“Dad’s concerned my tires have been ruined in the same parking space in the same parking lot at about the same time. He wanted to know if I’ve made somebody angry.”
“And have you?”
“I told him no. I didn’t say, well, maybe you.”
“Frustrated is a better word and sexually frustrated is an even a better one.”
So A. Wellborn thought about the almost wild, almost sex, too. I smiled happily, then I stuck out my tongue at the receiver. I repositioned a sleeve to ready for a pressing. “Gee, I hate to hear that.”
“Anything else?”
“Dad asked me to be careful. Ouch.” I shook my burned finger.
“You okay?”
“Just a slight burn.”
“Ironing sounds…dangerous.”
“Sometimes, even I am a klutz. Where were we?”
“Talking about the parking lot. It wouldn’t hurt to check with the property management company for the security records for the Saturdays when your tires were damaged. Did you report anything to security?”
“No, I hadn’t got around to it. Mom asked the same thing. I’d assumed the first time was a random act.”
“Two times are more than random. You need to be careful.”
“Yes, Sir. Anything new concerning June’s murder?” I asked, still nosy about my predecessor.
“You know I can’t talk about on-going investigations.”
After setting down the iron, I paced the bedroom, the phone smashed against my ear. “Oh, come on. I work at Buy Rite, and you’re investigating the murder of a former employee. Aren’t you concerned, knowing I work at the office where someone had been murdered?”
“Of course I am. I told you the other day to be careful.”
Last Saturday’s visit to the office had felt weird with the lights off and me all alone. And now, with another tire ruined, my concern had heightened. Chills raced up my arm. “You don’t have to yell.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” he said. “It’s just this stuff is scary, and you’re too close to the situation. A former employee of Buy Rite was murdered, and the murderer is still on the loose. Don’t forget that, Hattie.”
God, I wanted to wring his neck and squeeze out better answers. “I don’t see how I could forget ’cause I think about it every freakin’ day I go to work. What I don’t get is why you can’t tell me more about what’s going on?”
“I tell you what I can.”
“Like that’s good enough.”
“Tough.”
Unbelievable. This conversation had flipped to the dark side. My grip tightened on my phone. “‘Tough’?”
“You heard me. I have my job to do. I can’t talk about any aspect of any on-going case. I’m not bending any rules,” he said.
This part wasn’t sounding good, not at all. I wish he wasn’t so hard core. I bit my lower lip before venturing to say, “Not even for me, for my safety.”
“You don’t play fair.”
“Fine.” My blown-out breath ruffled my hair. “I know where I stand. I hope you can handle my possible murder.”
“Not funny.”
“Didn’t mean to be.”
“You could always quit.”
“Sure I could, and as the saying goes: money grows on trees.”
“Dammit, Hattie, let’s be serious,” he said. “Watch your back and be careful. Listen to the number one cop rule: If it feels bad, it is.”
Great. Another rule. Little irritations pricked my spine. “Fine.”
“You know the part about frustrating?”
I wondered about this question. With unease, I said, “Yeah...”
“Add annoying.” A. Wellborn hung up.
What? I stared at the phone, so not believing what I’d heard. I wasn’t annoying. Only a man from his perspective would state that. I wouldn’t have said annoying. I would have said...persistent. A good word not used often.
I didn’t want to argue about June and Buy Rite. I would rather argue about a movie or a restaurant selection or a sex position. However, devotion to his work was an admirable quality. Let’s face it, if I was too close to danger, he wouldn’t let me go there.
I returned to my wrinkled clothing. Men.
****
On my Monday morning commute, I stopped at the red traffic lights and reviewed the appraisals and settlement check discrepancies. I continued on and parked my car in a different spot than the one under the problematic tree. I exited and made my way to the building with the folder stuck under my arm.
At the office, while Lester and Opal communed over a morning coffee fix, I fiddled around my desk, adjusting the stapler, pencil jar, and sticky pads just so. When the coast seemed clear, I faxed the discrepancy copies to A. Wellborn like I’d said I would.
I waited for Opal to leave Lester’s office which she did. I carried the folder tight against my chest and knocked on his door.
He signaled for me to enter.
“Eh-eh,” I coughed and took the chair in front of his desk. Hel-loo cancer. I so didn’t love the idea of risking life and limb for a crappy job. “Morning, Lester. I had to come in on Saturday to finish the work I couldn’t complete on Friday when the system crashed.”
“Opal told me about it,” he said. “Thanks for your dedication.”
Even though Lester had a grotesque habit, he always said nice things. “Yes, well, I finished the data entry, and since I had plenty of time, I checked Opal’s desk for settlement claim checks to be copied and filed in the client’s respective folder.”
His brow shot up. “Oh?”
“As I filed the claim checks, I found the settlement checks didn’t match the appraisals. I’m wondering how this could happen?” I opened the folder and handed it to Lester. “Could something be wrong with the machine which prints the checks? Or could someone be entering the wrong amount?”
As he examined the information, Lester adjusted his glasses. “Yes, this is an interesting error. I’ll have to investigate further.”
“Has this happened before?”
“Mmm, I don’t recollect any, but my memory isn’t always perfect.”
“Occasionally, I receive phone calls when I answer the phone at lunchtime, and sometimes, the customers have complained about checks, particularly the sport utility vehicle customers. I collect the pertinent information and pass it on to Opal. I think some of those discrepancies are directly related to these complaints.” I waved my hand toward the documents.
Closing the file, Lester leaned back in his chair, and studied me thoughtfully. “Thanks, Hattie, for a job well done. I’ll call the Home Office, and we’ll uncover what’s going on. Obviously, something isn’t right.”
“You’re welcome,” I said and stood, taking my leave.
Opal passed me in the doorway to Lester’s office as I exited. Surprisingly, her ear hadn’t been plastered to his office door to eavesdrop on our conversation. Cough-cough. I hurried to the corridor for a gulp of fresh air.
The rest of the day, I accomplished more of the grunt work. I checked the files and found no more matching problems between the estimates and the settlement checks. Guess I’d had a computer fluke after all.
****
The week passed quietly. So quiet, I had very little data entry to do—which seemed odd. I asked Opal what was up with that.
She shrugged while looking over her glasses’ rim. “Maybe it’s a slow period. Maybe a hold up with the adjusters. Or sometimes, we don’t have any claims until we have rain. Rain and ice are great for business. Lots of crashes.”
She sounded happy? I said, “No kidding.”
“Yes, the body shops love inclement weather. We call them a Big Money day. I’ll check.” She turned away, pressing the phone to her ear.
Her way of dismissing me. I used the down time to straighten files and dust. Yuck.
****
Later in the evening, A. Wellborn phoned, saying he’d received the fax with the settlement check discrepancies and reviewed the information.
I sat on my bed, hunched over my toes as I applied a second coat of nail polish to my freshly manicured nails.
“Tell me again what you’re thinking about this,” he said.
“I found the settlement checks and the appraisal amounts don’t match. They’re supposed to be identical.”
“So, why aren’t they?”
“Don’t know. I asked Lester, and he said sometimes mistakes occur.”
“Most of the discrepancies are for Jeeps which were stolen or parts which were stolen.”
“I noticed that, too.”
As I shook the bottle of Beautifully Pink, I shifted to adjust my right foot just so. “When I cover the phones at noon, the customers’ complaints seem to be confined to the Jeep owners.”
“Interesting. Did Lester ever call Buy Rite’s internal squad?”
“No, at least not as of Monday. I asked Opal, and she said she didn’t know either, said she would follow up, and thanked me for the reminder.” Quiet on his end. I concentrated to make each nail perfect. “Why are you asking me these questions? What does the fax have to do with June’s death?”
“I didn’t say it does.”
I stopped painting and sat upright, staring at the wall as if I was staring at him. “You know, I’m sick of the bullshit. I’ve asked about this stuff before and all I get is your macho policeman line.” I changed my voice to a superior manly tone, mimicking his, “‘I can’t talk about on-going investigations.’ “
“Hattie, we’ve been through this before. If we can’t talk like adults, I’m hanging up.”
Hanging up? Talk like adults? Are we six years old? This whole line got my back up. “Fine. But somehow, the newspaper seems to know more. An article appeared in The Sommerville Express.”
“I didn’t say a thing to the paper. Any information came from higher up the food chain.”
“You were interviewed for the article.”
“Well...”
Does he actually think I’ll tell the world what he’s up to? “Come. On. I work at Buy Rite, and I need to know if I’m in danger.”
“I told you to be careful. Are you? Are you carrying pepper spray, watching for strangers, and parking in lighted lots?”
How funny. I’d just stashed a new canister of pepper spray in my hand bag yesterday. “Yes.”
“Why don’t you quit? Your friend’ll help you find a new job.”
“I-I...” I was flummoxed. Truthfully, I still wasn’t motivated enough to quit. Incoming cash made my life so much easier. Anyway, I had serious doubts about Opal and Lester as killers. They seemed too ordinary. “I’m not a quitter.”
“Suit yourself. Gotta go.”
I let the phone slip from my left hand and focused on the one remaining toe to paint. If A. Wellborn really cared, surely he would be more concerned about me. And maybe he was. Maybe he just didn’t know what to say. I needed to think about everything.
I twisted shut the bottle and wiggled my painted toes. Beautifully Pink.
****
On Friday, the computer crashed. Irritated, I pushed my chair away from my desk and went to Opal’s desk. “Opal, the computer is driving me crazy.
She pressed her glasses into place. “Oh, how so, Hattie?”
“It’s gone down, a-gain.” I huffed a breath in exasperation. “I’ll come in on Saturday, but for the last time. The computer needs to be fixed, no if, ands, or buts. Or Buy Rite should buy a new one. I am not donating any more of my Saturdays to the freakin’ computer.”
She bobbed her head. “You’re right. The computer needs a thorough check-up. If that doesn’t help, we should invest in a newer model. Yours is the one I used before I got the one I’m working on. I told the Home Office to send two, but they only sent one. I’ll make the call.” She retrieved the spare key from her desk drawer. “Thank you for giving up your time and keeping us on schedule. After Saturday, you will have made up all the time you missed with your court dates.”
I was shocked and amazed she’d agreed with me on anything. I took the key. “I had the same idea.”
“Humpf.” She didn’t move, acting reluctant to release me. “By the way, how’s your detective?”
“Technically, he isn’t my detective.” My mouth curved into a bit of a smile as my cheeks went red and hot. “He’s fine, tho’ lately, I haven’t seen a lot of him. He said he’s working on a murder case.”
“Really? How interesting.” She relaxed back in her chair. “Crime in Sommerville seems to be up.”
“I guess. From what I read in the paper it is. Stolen cars and murder.” Murder made me think of June. “Opal, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“How did June die?”
“The only thing I know is the police found her dead at home, an apparent suicide.”
“Oh.” Opal’s story about June’s suicide coincided with A. Wellborn’s.
“Yes, Lester and I were-are”—she turned her head aside to conceal her spilling tears—“grief stricken.”
I moved closer and patted her sleeve. Her bullet-proof polyester jacket felt thick and had to be hot. “I can only imagine. June worked here a long time didn’t she? I know she felt like family to you.”
Opal reached for her tissue box on the credenza. Removing one, she tented it and dabbed the corner of her eyes in a delicate fashion. “She’d been with Buy Rite for three years. We were a happy little family. June had always talked about staying with us until she retired. I never thought something like this would have happened. Never.”
June had retired, just not of her own doing. I picked up a pencil, rolling it through my fingers. “By the way, Opal, did Lester tell you about the folder I made, containing information regarding appraisals and the settlement check amounts not matching?”
Her brow narrowed. “No, he hasn’t shown me anything.”
“I also told him about some phone calls I’d received at lunchtime. The insureds were complaining about checks, and how I’d passed the information to you.”
With a short sniff, Opal went back to her prim-and-proper self. After tossing the tissue in her wastebasket, she shuffled her mail into a neat pile. “I clearly remember those messages, Hattie, and I’ve handled them. As usual, you’re your efficient self. I’ll consult with Lester regarding the check discrepancies, and we’ll handle the matter through the proper channels. I’ll correct any errors. Buy Rite and Lester’s reputations could be affected by mistakes of this magnitude.”
I lingered by her desk a moment more. “Opal?”
She slapped down her letter opener on her desk “What-is-it-now, Hattie?”
Yikes. “Did Lester contact Buy Rite’s internal squad today about all the unusual SUV claims?”
“I don’t know. Thanks for reminding me to check with him and thanks for working on Saturday.”
Obviously, she wanted me to leave her alone. Before turning away, I said, “You’re welcome.”
****
Another Saturday and another guilt run. Chocolate consumption ran at an all-time high. I’d purchased the one pounder of chocolate covered peanut candies on sale at a big box store, two for three dollars, and felt compel
led to use my money wisely by stockpiling when they were such a good value. After all, as a pro-shopper extraordinaire, I had a reputation to maintain.
But along with guilt consumption came guilt runs. Determined to finish a two-miler one of these days, I repeated my mantra, “No more chocolate. No more chocolate.” But I knew me. This approach wouldn’t stick. I loved chocolate way too much to give it up.
After my run, I took a refreshing shower. Jenny popped in my room to ask what I’d planned for the day. I told her about Buy Rite’s piece of junk, freakin’ computer, and my plan to catch up. She bounced on my bed while I styled my hair in the bathroom.
“Hey,” she said in a loud voice to be heard over the hairdryer. “Are you interested in doing something for dinner, and if not, something else?”
Silencing the dryer, I heard the mattress spring up and down. “Sure.” I gave my hair a quick comb and spritzed it three times with hard-to-hold hairspray. “Anytime. Anyplace. Don’t you have a date?”
She stopped the bed bouncing. “Not tonight. He’s out of town. A bachelor party in Cancun.”
Dressed in my fuchsia capris and white tee, I checked the mirror one last time. “How about I call you after I wrap things up?”
“That’s a plan.”
I picked up my tote bag, a knock-off of a top designer’s. “But be warned, I haven’t had meat-for-the-week in a long time, and I’m thinking steak. A big juicy, nine-ounce fillet mignon at Yahooooo! Ranch. Onion strings are calling me.”
Jenny laughed. “I can deal with it.”
****
My piss-poor attitude transferred to hating every minute of the drive I made to Buy Rite. Seated at outdoor restaurants, happy people enjoyed the fresh air and eating good food. Probably the last time before the wet, fall weather set in. Through the open car window, I heard laughter and the chinking of china and silver.
Passing the independent theater, I glanced at the marquee to see if the features looked worthwhile. “Play it Again, Sam” and “Casablanca” were showing, back-to-back—an excellent pairing.
I really needed to talk to Trixie about another job.
Pulling in the parking lot, I thought about the pros and cons of parking my carbaby in the spot under the lone tree. If I’d parked somewhere else, maybe I wouldn’t have had the punctured tires? I considered moving to a different spot because the corner parking space could’ve been the source of my bad luck.