Pickled

by Deany Ray

  I shot them a look.

  ME: Are you kidding me?

  MARGE: Nope. Go one floor down and one more apartment to the left. Sorry, sorry, sorry!!!

  Well. At least I’d had a free show. Sorry, dancing old folks. Have fun and party on. They should try my mother’s classes. They’d fit in just fine.

  I quietly made my way down to peek into the window that I’d really come to see (or at least I hoped it was.) Nobody seemed to be home. Although the lights were off, I could see into the bedroom as well as into the kitchen. Everything seemed to be in sight with a single glance: bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, den. So, I was pretty sure that nobody was inside to sit on the single torn upholstery chair or on the unmade bed. This guy didn’t own a lot of furniture – but, sheesh, he had a lot of trash. Get it together, man. Have you ever heard of a little thing they call a garbage bin?

  I texted the girls.

  ME: Nobody home. Nothing much to see.

  MARGE: Can you climb into the window?

  Do what? Was she crazy? I would climb the fire escape and I would peek. That’s where my bravery ended. This was one bad dude. I wasn’t climbing in his window. I texted again.

  ME: Coming down.

  What were they thinking, anyway? No way could we just climb into people’s windows if we didn’t have a warrant. We could get in so much trouble. I knew that much from my work with the police in Boston. Plus, we were official agents of the police here in Springston. We had to follow rules.

  Which was a fine excuse. Cause I didn’t want to do it.

  My phone dinged again as I started to climb down. Sheesh. What now?

  MARGE: Just see if it will open.

  I turned around and gave it a half-hearted try, hoping it wouldn’t budge. Then they’d leave me in peace.

  Of course, it opened easily, making a creaking noise to announce to anyone who might be passing by that something sneaky was afoot. Just great. I looked down in time to see Marge leap in the air with glee, just to make us stand out more.

  I typed a message to let her know not to get excited.

  ME: I’m not going in. Absolutely no.

  MARGE: We will keep a lookout. This is our big chance.

  ME: If you want to come up and go in, be my guest.

  MARGE: But you’re already there.

  ME: And you could be here soon.

  MARGE: I will make you cookies.

  ME: No.

  MARGE: Oatmeal Raisin.

  I started down the steps.

  MARGE: Peanut butter?

  I took another few steps down.

  MARGE: With chocolate chips.

  I stopped.

  My phone dinged again.

  MARGE: You’d find out stuff that Alex doesn’t know. Alex would be so jealous.

  That sealed it. I couldn’t believe what I was doing. I was going in.

  I made my way back up, and the window easily opened – all the way this time – so that I could crawl right through. And the place was awful. Plates were everywhere with dried food crusted on them. The carpet looked like a piece of modern art with stains in every shape and color. The worst part was the smell: old food mixed with sweat. Still, I couldn’t help but notice that the main room was much bigger than the rooms I’d seen that morning in my apartment hunt. And…was that a second bedroom?

  I wondered what this Duvant had to pay for rent. Were there any vacancies? Could I live in this building if they had a unit open? It was roomy, not far from the office. The dancing oldsters would make for some fun neighbors. But I’d have to make sure I got a unit that was downwind from Duvant.

  Heck. What was I thinking? This was not the time to ruminate on my living situation. I had to look around and leave. I glanced in corners and underneath the old couch. I tried not to touch anything if I could help it. Eww! Nothing seemed unusual besides this guy’s inability to walk over to the sink and wash a dish, for goodness sake.

  But the second bedroom was another story. The room was filled with empty boxes. There must have been fifty of them in there, maybe even more. But no labels or clues of any kind about what the boxes used to hold. They were piled on top of one another, almost to the ceiling, so that a person could barely walk into the room. There was a small bed in the corner with boxes stacked on top.

  But wait. The boxes in the corner seemed to be taped up, still unopened. I had to squeeze through narrow cardboard pathways to make my slow way toward them. A wave of excitement hit me again and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious about what was inside them.

  Just as I was making my way to the boxes, I heard something. I stopped and stood still. It was the front door slowly creaking open. Damn.

  I was not alone.

  Chapter Seven

  I frantically looked left and right, hoping to find somewhere to hide. Could I hide behind the boxes? Why had I ever listened to Celeste and Marge? If it was this Duvant dude, then he might well have a gun.

  I could barely hear the footsteps. My heart was way too loud, thumping like a frightened bat set loose inside my chest.

  Were the footsteps heading to the spare room? Please, Mr. Thug, go somewhere else. Take a nap or make a sandwich. There’s nothing to see here! Just a bunch of boxes. And a dopey girl who doesn’t have the good sense not to crawl in felons’ windows. Never again! Listen to yourself, not to Celeste or Marge.

  With boxes jammed into every foot of space, there was nowhere to hide. Which was tragic news since – save me, please! – the footsteps seemed to be heading straight towards me. Seconds before he walked in, I ducked beneath the bed.

  Thank goodness I was out of sight, although…well, just yuck! Within inches of my face were two cockroaches (who were dead, at least), a crusty piece of bread, and dust bunnies that were so huge they might just win a prize at the county fair.

  Then Baxter (or someone, at least) walked into the room. I could see the cuffs of a pair of jeans and two scuffed brown boots move back and forth next to the bed. I tried hard not to breathe, afraid that the smell of old food might make me gag. Was that a dried-up piece of pizza in the corner? Plus, the dust bunny right beneath my nose made me want to cough.

  Don’t cough, don’t cough, don’t cough.

  A rusty, squeaky sound came from somewhere close, then I saw four wheels move next to the bed. Well, at least I had a clue: something that had wheels. Although, who knew what the clue might mean?

  Please, Mr. Thug. Hurry up. Do what you have to do and leave so I can get out of here.

  But what if he didn’t leave? What if he settled in for the afternoon and then just went to bed? I couldn’t even think about it. Some things were just to awful to even contemplate.

  The rolling and the squeaking and the moving back and forth seemed to last forever while I held my breath against the stench. To distract myself, I listed all the jobs that I might try to get when I told the girls that I was through.

  I tried to think of jobs that would never, ever have you wondering if you were about to die. The girl who rings my groceries up. The man who brings the mail. The guy who cuts my hair. Did they ever have to hide from some grungy dude who might up and shoot them dead? Oh, no, they did not.

  Did they lay down with their faces just an inch away from an old, dead roach? And did that roach just kind of wiggle? Could this day get even worse? I willed myself to stay still, no matter what the roach did.

  Don’t scream, don’t scream, don’t scream.

  Then I felt an ominous itching in my nose. Perfect. The worst timing in the world. Now, that’s the perfect skill for an undercover detective: knowing how to squelch an inconvenient sneeze. Not that we’d bothered to learn a single thing about how to keep our poor selves safe in these situations; we’d just dived right in.

  A series of loud thuds sounded from the corner. He must be doing something with the boxes that were taped up and full, the ones I’d almost had a peek at before he walked into the door. I wished I’d had the time to see what was inside. At least I’d have some
info for my trouble. But I’d been too slow.

  Speed! Being speedy was the ticket. Next time I’d be faster.

  But would there be a next time? Or would I try something else? Teacher, teller, waitress. I could sell cookies at the mall!

  In my mind, I listed different kinds of cookies. Anything to distract me from the fear that was a hard knot in my stomach. Then I tried to order them by which ones I liked the best.

  What was Baxter doing now? Or I supposed that it was Baxter. After all, this was his place.

  I saw two hands lift a box, and a flash of white just above the wrist confirmed that I was in the presence of one Baxter Duvant. There was a bandage in the spot where once there had been a pinky. Who loses a finger, for goodness sake, and doesn’t call a doctor? I pondered the question for a moment, still trying to distract myself from the possibly disastrous sneeze that was itching to get out.

  Baxter stumbled over an empty box and yelled out a string of expletives. He kicked at the cardboard – which only begged the question: how much worse would he treat a stranger he caught watching from underneath the bed? Best not to think about it.

  Then he left, pushing his wheely thing. I heard the front door slam shut. Yes! The knot of fear inside me loosened. I willed myself to lay still, holding my breath against the sneeze in case the dude came back. I counted to one hundred. And then I did it one more time. You couldn’t ever be too sure. This guy could hurt me bad.

  At the triumphant count of one hundred! (for the second time), I sneezed, then coughed, then crawled out from my filthy hiding place to go and find my friends. You know – the ones with the brave ideas. The ones who were waiting safely on the outside of the building. Those friends and I were gonna have a little talk.

  Warily, I crawled out. By now, my legs were stiff. The room looked a little bit less full, but it still was a big mess. Empty boxes were scattered about the floor in a haphazard pattern, but the full ones were no longer in the corner. Where was he taking the boxes? And why? What kind of crime was this? It had to be a crime. He didn’t seem the kind of guy to collect donations for the needy.

  I looked around for a label that might have fallen off, a tag, anything he might have dropped. But I didn’t look too carefully. I was out of there. Hopefully Marge and Celeste had tucked themselves away somewhere safely out of sight.

  Before setting out the way I came, I gave the front door a try. I was counting on the fact that sometimes crooks were stupid. Yes! The door was unlocked. I slipped out quietly and tried to walk ever so nonchalantly down the silent hall. The coast looked clear to me, but someone could be watching. Even with the dimness of the hall lights, half of them burned out, I could see that my jeans were white with a thick coat of dust.

  Outside in the hot sun, nothing looked amiss. No sign of a man with a squeaky cart piled up high with boxes, no sign of my two friends, which I guessed should make me glad; it meant that they were good spies. But I needed some hot water and a bar of soap, and I needed them right now. I needed Marge to show up in her little car and whisk me safely home.

  Just as I was pulling out my phone to text, I caught sight of my friends’ car behind the street corner. I hurried over and jumped into the backseat. I’d barely shut the door when Marge sped away.

  “Never ever will I do that.” I leaned back against the seat. “Can you imagine how that freaked me out? Not to mention that the guy’s place is just absolutely gross. I had to hide under the bed when he came in.”

  “Well, we didn’t send you in to clean.” Celeste turned toward me from the front seat. “This is not the local garden club’s Spring Fling Tour of Homes.”

  “If it was, I’d want a refund. How disgusting can you get? Why did I ever let the two of you talk me into that? I thought I was going to die.” I let out a huge sneeze.

  “Bless you, Charlie. Bless you. Oh, hon, you did so good,” Marge said. “We were very, very worried.”

  “Next time it’s someone else’s turn to do death-defying stunts,” I said. “What if he had caught me?”

  “Oh, I can’t think about it! So. Tell us what you saw,” Marge cried, almost running a stop sign in her eagerness to find out what had been going on inside Baxter Duvant’s place.

  “Well, it was kind of strange. I was in the spare room with a million empty boxes. You would not believe the boxes. Boxes everywhere.”

  Marge hit the brakes hard as she came to a stoplight. “All of them were empty?”

  “Most of them, I think. There was a pile over in one corner, and those were the ones that seemed to be taped shut. I guess those were packed with something.” I let out another sneeze. “But packed with what, you think?”

  “Bless you.” Celeste patted down her scarf. “What was in the boxes? That right there, I think, is the million-dollar question. So. There was no writing on the outside of the boxes? No clues whatsoever?”

  “Nada, I’m afraid. Or at least not that I could see. That was about the time I was otherwise engaged. It seemed more important at the moment that I dive for cover.”

  “That was good thinking there.” Marge began to cough. “I think that our friend Baxter must have lost his cleaning rags. Charlie brought a pound of dust when she got in the car.”

  “Well, I spent most of my time beneath a bed. It was filthy. I hope we’re heading to the office so I can get my car. I could use a shower quick.”

  Marge wrinkled up her nose. “Yeah. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings, hon, but you do kind of need a bath.” She picked up her speed, which was never good. I wished she’d drive more slowly. I’d had enough scares for one day.

  “Thanks. So, what did you guys see?” I asked them.

  Celeste lit up a cigarette. “Well, our timing kinds of stinks. He pulled up in a van. I bet it hadn’t been five minutes since you’d gone through the window.”

  “Kind of stinks for Charlie, but, as far as getting information goes, it was a lucky break,” Marge squeaked.

  “Right,” I said. “I feel extremely lucky.”

  “We knew that it was him when he pulled up and entered the building,” Celeste said, “because we saw the bandage where there should have been a pinky. We started to send a text, but we didn’t want your phone to ding. We hoped you’d heard him come in. And that you’d found a place to hide. We quickly moved the car around the corner, so he wouldn’t see us when he came out again. That would look suspicious to him. Marge was so scared that you’d get caught, she almost hyperventilated.”

  I understand the feeling.

  “I’ll bet your boyfriend Alex has absolutely no idea that our subject, Baxter Duvant. drives a minivan,” Marge said.

  “With a dented fender in the back,” Celeste said. “Chevrolet, I think. It’s most likely a 2008.” She paused. “Or perhaps a 2009.”

  How did she know these things?

  “He’s not my boyfriend!” I said emphatically. “He’s…sometimes a jerk”

  “Steer clear of the jerks, hon.” Celeste held her cigarette out the open window. “Even the ones who look fine in their designer jeans. The jerks are never worth it.”

  “Back to the crime at hand,” I said. “Were you watching when this Baxter came out with the boxes?”

  “Oh, yeah. We saw him pull right up to the building,” Marge said. “And he took this thing out. It was kind of like a big box, except it was on wheels.”

  “And then later, when he came back out, his little cart was filled up with all these cardboard boxes.” Celeste continued with the story. “And then off he drove.”

  “We started to follow him,” Marge said. Then she turned and made a sad face. “But we didn’t want to leave you at that place all alone.”

  “You amaze me with your kindness.”

  “Always glad to help,” Marge squeaked.

  We tried to come up with ideas of what it all could mean: boxes being shuffled from one place to another, one little finger torn away, a possible encounter with a panda who was missing from the zoo.

&nbs
p; “It’s a puzzle. That’s for sure,” Marge said.

  Celeste agreed. “Maybe when we’re rested, an idea will come to us. Sometimes the very best ideas kind of sneak up on you like that.”

  “But at least we’ve got the license tag,” Marge said.

  “You do?” I asked. “That’s great.”

  “Woo-hoo!” Marge shouted. She reached out to give Celeste a high five, swerving into the next lane. I was very thankful that rush hour hadn’t started.

  I idly wondered what came next. The next move might be to find the van or perhaps stake out the house. But I’d be watching from the outside, and I wouldn’t get too close.

  “Shoot!” Marge swerved into the parking lot of a convenience store.

  “What are we doing, Marge? I don’t want a snack. I just want to get back to my car.” I could feel the dust bunnies crawling all over me.

  “Well, you won’t get there very quickly if I don’t stop and get some gas.” She pulled up to a pump. “Who’s up for a milkshake? Anyone want soda while we’re waiting to fill up? Cheese crackers? Bubble gum?”

  Celeste shook her head. “Thank you, Marge. I’m good.”

  Cookies? Did they sell cookies? I’d earned myself some cookies. But I’d have to touch them with my hands and…there was just no way I was going to do that.

  I was dreaming of lemon sandwich cookies when a Jeep pulled up beside us. Its brakes made a screeching sound as the driver pulled to a sudden stop.

  Marge hopped out, seemingly unaware of the rude driver who had stopped beside us. “I’ll be back in a jiffy,” she said. “Oh, and, Charlie, look. It’s your boyfriend!”

  Please. No. Had I not been through enough?

  Why did Alex always turn up when I was at my worst? I glanced down at my grimy, crawled-out-the-dumpster look. And, of course, he was looking great in a crisp blue button-down and those expressive, gorgeous eyes that made me want to melt.

  “He’s not my boyfriend, Marge,” I said in a defeated voice.

  Celeste sighed. “Your not-boyfriend’s looking quite upset.”

  He leapt out of his Jeep and leaned into the car before Marge could shut the door and go on her merry way in search of snacks.