Last night, he’d brought over pizza and beer. The three of us had watched a movie on my laptop. He’d left long after midnight. And now he was interrogating me like we were total strangers.
“You’d never met the vic before today?”
“Nope,” I replied, struck by the irony. When her parents had named her, I doubted they ever thought that their daughter Vickie would one day be called a “vic” by the NYPD. I shook my head to clear it of such inappropriate thoughts. “Has anyone talked to her parents yet?”
“You let us handle that, Ms. Dean.” Castillo pursed his lips. “Where were you when Ms. Marsh was killed?”
I paused, thinking about Vickie. I didn’t know anything about her, other than she wore expensive clothes and struck me as haughty. I had no idea if she was a dog or a cat person, or if she liked punk rock or opera. She could be a philanthropist or a serial killer for all I knew.
Could have been, I mentally corrected myself.
“I’m not exactly sure.”
Castillo paused with his stylus poised over the tablet he scribbled on as I talked. “You don’t know where you were? There were only six of you, and you were all locked inside an escape room together. How could you not know where you were?”
“It’s not like I saw her die,” I told him. I shuddered at the thought. “Anyway, it wasn’t one single room. It was a bunch of rooms with doors and passageways connecting them, so there’s that. There was the lobby, and then the little tiny entrance with the light-up numbers on the wall, which led to the library, the tunnel behind the fake bookshelf that fed into the billiard room, then the big padlocked door to the kitchen. I was in the kitchen when the Game Master—the pimply-faced kid in the cheap tuxedo—found Vickie dead back in the library.”
“Who else was in the kitchen with you? Did anyone see you there?”
“As in, do I have an alibi?” I would have laughed if it weren’t for the expression on his face. “Are you serious?” I shook my head. “It was a game. We were all running around trying to figure out the different clues. I think that girl Amanda was already in the kitchen when I got there, but she might have been behind me. Vickie’s coworker Marlie was ahead of us. Wait, no, she was still in doorway to the billiard room. Izzy and Gennifer were in the kitchen though, I think. Maybe.”
I closed my eyes and tried to rewind the hour we’d spent in the escape room. It wasn’t like I was paying attention to who was where at all times. I was concentrating on solving the puzzles. Vickie must have followed us into the billiard room. Or had she? Had she backtracked to the library for some reason without telling anyone, or had she never left?
We’d all been running around, doing our own thing. Come to think about it, that was probably why we’d had such an abysmal performance. If we’d communicated better, maybe we could have solved the puzzles quicker. We might have stuck closer together.
Vickie might still be alive.
“I just don’t know, Vincent,” I said. He cleared his throat and stared daggers at me, but I no longer cared whether or not I addressed Castillo properly. “I’m trying to remember if I saw Vickie in the billiard room or not. I don’t think so. I wasn’t trying to keep track of everyone.”
Castillo leaned forward. “Come on, Odessa, give me something.”
I couldn’t help but notice he’d dropped the formalities, too. “I should have paid less attention to the game and more attention to what was happening around me. Maybe if I’d tried a little harder to get our little group to work together, Vickie might not have gotten herself killed.” I folded my hands on the table in front of me and leaned forward, mirroring Castillo’s behavior. “It was chaos. There were these clocks counting down and everyone was talking at once and, well, I don’t really know what happened. At the time, all I cared about was solving the next puzzle.”
Castillo straightened and focused on his tablet for a second before asking, “Did you hear anything out of the ordinary?”
I had to think about that. “Everyone was talking over each other. Plus the walls were kinda thin. I could hear laughter and voices, maybe coming from one of the other escape rooms. I didn’t hear anyone crying for help though, if that’s what you’re asking. We heard a scream when the proctor found her, and that’s when Izzy and I came running.”
“Where were you this morning, before the escape room?” he asked, changing gears.
I breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s easy. Izzy and I were at a cornhole tournament in Domino Park. We came in first place, if you can believe it.”
“You won?” he prompted.
“Right? I’d never even played before.” I relaxed. It was easier reliving the cornhole tournament than thinking about the escape room. “But it was really fun and I guess we got lucky, because the next thing I know, we were the last team standing. Got a big trophy and everything.” I grinned. “Never won a trophy before today.”
“Uh-huh.” He rotated the tablet and turned it to face me so I could see the photo on the screen. “Is this your trophy?”
I nodded. “Yeah, that’s it. Why does that matter?”
“Because this trophy was used to bludgeon Ms. Marsh to death.” He paused and studied my expression as a dozen different emotions went to war in the pit of my stomach. “Did you hear me? Professor Plum wasn’t killed in the study with a candlestick. Your cornhole trophy was the murder weapon.”
When I was in sixth grade, my parents drove me all the way to Dallas to visit Six Flags Over Texas. I was small for my age. I dutifully posed next to the measuring stick for all the big roller coasters. The Texas Giant. Judge Roy Scream. The Shock Wave. I was too short to be allowed on any of them. But there was this one ride I could get on, a big round room that spun around in a circle until the floor disappeared, pinning the riders to the side with centrifugal force.
Or was it centripetal force? I never could remember the difference.
For a moment, I was transported back to that day when little twelve-year-old me felt the floor drop out from under myself. Like today, I was dizzy and confused, but that was a whole lot more fun. Or at least, it would have been if I hadn’t eaten that Texas-sized serving of chili cheese fries immediately before stepping into a human blender.
I didn’t know why I could remember a ride that made me puke when I was twelve, but couldn’t for the life of me recall whether or not Vickie was in the billiard room when I was climbing under the pool table an hour ago. The human brain was a weird machine.
“Ms. Dean? Odessa?” Castillo’s voice sounded like it was coming from far away. “Can you answer the question?”
“Huh?” I hadn’t heard him ask a question. Just like that day in the Texas heat, I felt queasy and disoriented. “Can I get a glass of water?”
“In a minute. Am I going to find your fingerprints on the murder weapon?”
I swallowed hard. It felt like I was breathing through sand. Fingerprints. Murder weapon. “Well, sure. I mean, it was my trophy.”
“And why exactly was your cornhole trophy in the library?”
“I have no idea! I mean, it wasn’t supposed to be in the library. It was in my bag.”
“Your messenger bag was also in the library,” Castillo said. “Why?” His voice was gentler now, but still without the slightest trace of his usual humor. Maybe it was because of all the horrible things he saw on a daily basis at work, but when he took off his tie at the end of his shift, he never missed a chance to smile and joke. That was why he and Izzy fit so well together. She saw the humor in every situation. She would probably think even this was funny, if she’d been in here with us.
But she wasn’t. They’d separated us so they could interview us individually.
“I don’t know. I musta put it down . . .” But no, that wasn’t right. I’d stuffed my bag in one of the cubbyholes in the lobby so I didn’t have to lug it around with me. “Wait a second. Izzy had my bag.”
“Izzy had your bag,” he repeated, his voice gone cold again. “Why did Ms. Wilson have your purse?”
I shrugged. “She offered to carry it. I guess she set it down somewhere while we were looking for clues. You’ll have to ask her.”
He gave me a terse nod. “We will. Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Dean. If we have any additional questions . . .”
“You know where to find me.”
Castillo pointed the remote control at the camera again, clicked the button, and the red light went out. “What on earth have you dragged Izzy into, Odessa?”
“Nothing!” I glanced at the camera, silent and dark now, and then at the door behind my shoulder. “It wasn’t even my idea.” But it kinda was, wasn’t it? I’d all but begged Izzy to tag along to the escape room. I couldn’t have possibly known what was going to happen, but I couldn’t help feeling like I was somehow to blame. I should have kept my mouth shut when Gennifer invited us to join them.
Shoulda, woulda, coulda, as my Gammie loved to say.
“Can I go now?”
Castillo nodded. “Try to stay out of trouble. Please.”
“I will,” I promised. I stood and half turned toward the door before turning back to ask, “You still coming over for dinner tonight?”
He gave me an irritated look, not unlike the one I was tempted to give to customers who asked if our avocado toast contained real avocado, or if our “locally bottled” beer came in a can or a bottle. “I’m gonna take a rain check.”
I let myself out of the interview room.
Izzy was sitting on a long wooden bench, like something that belonged in a public park. “Well?” Izzy asked. “How’d it go?”
Before I could answer her, Castillo stuck his head out of the interview room. He crooked a finger at Izzy and she stood up. “I’ll wait for you,” I offered.
“Thanks,” she said. She glanced over at Castillo and held up one finger, telling him she’d be there in just a minute. I wondered if he was going to be as serious in his interview with Izzy as he’d been with me. Would he go easier on her just because they were dating? For that matter, was he even allowed to interview his own girlfriend? Seemed like a conflict of interest to me.
“Back in a sec,” Izzy promised. Then she headed for the interrogation room.
Castillo was tall. Trim. Well dressed. Intelligent. A perfect match for Izzy, and nice, to boot. Outside of work, at least.
I was confused why he seemed so frustrated with me. He had to know I didn’t have anything to do with Vickie Marsh’s death. I didn’t even know her a few hours ago. Sure, my fingerprints were on the trophy someone had used to bludgeon her with, but it was my trophy. My fingerprints should be on it! Obviously, I was innocent. I had no reason to hurt anyone, much less a stranger.
I plopped down on the chair to wait and realized I didn’t even have my phone to use to pass the time surfing the internet. My phone, like my wallet and keys, had been in my bag along with the trophy. The murder weapon. Which meant it was probably all sitting in evidence somewhere.
That wouldn’t do.
I stood and hurried back to the interview room. I knocked and opened the door without waiting for an answer. Castillo looked up, and when he realized it was me, frowned. “Ms. Dean, I’m right in the middle of . . .”
“I know,” I said. “Can I get my phone back? And my keys?”
“Front desk. Close the door behind you.”
5
Odessa Dean @OdessaWaiting ∙ July 12
U wake up in jail next to ur bestie. In 3 words, what happened? #fingerprints #on #murder #weapon #thatsfourwords
The line for the front desk wasn’t long, but it moved at a snail’s pace. My personal effects—my wallet, my phone, a half-used lip balm, three sticks of gum, and my apartment key on a Statue of Liberty key chain, along with the assorted miscellany that tended to accumulate in a woman’s purse—were returned to me in a gallon-sized clear plastic bag, along with my now-empty messenger bag and a folded-up uniform shirt for the bookstore-slash-café where I worked. “What about my trophy?” I asked.
“Evidence,” the bored clerk explained.
I dumped the contents of the plastic bag into my messenger bag. A wadded-up candy bar wrapper fell onto the floor. I bent over to scoop it up. The bag was heavy on my shoulder. I’d probably never see the cornhole trophy again, but at least I had the rest of my stuff back, which was more than I had a few minutes ago. “Thanks,” I told the clerk, signing the final form and handing it back.
“Hey! There you are!” I turned and saw Izzy hurrying toward me. Her face was red and even from halfway across the crowded lobby, I could see her eyes were puffy.
“You all right?”
“Let’s go,” she said with a quick glance behind her.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Hundred percent. Just ready to get out of here,” she said with a quick glance behind her.
“Did Vincent . . .” I wasn’t sure how to phrase it, but if my boyfriend had interrogated me, I’d probably be in a foul mood, too.
“I can’t even.” She flapped her hand in a dismissive gesture. “It’s beer o’clock,” she announced as she led the way out of the station.
“Actually, we’ve got to get to work. And I’m pretty sure we’re late.”
She checked the time. “Yowza. Todd’s gonna throw a fit.”
Our boss, Todd, was the manager at Untapped Books & Café. Technically we worked for the owner but I’d never actually met him. Todd signed the checks and wrote the schedule, and he liked to yell at the employees. Scratch that. He loved to yell at the employees. A lot.
He wasn’t the easiest person to work for, but he wasn’t the worst, either. He was old and out of touch, but acted like he was still the cool football jock he’d probably been in the good ol’ days. Then again, he’d graduated from high school way back in the eighties, a decade before I was born.
At twenty-three, I was at the tail end of the Millennial generation, Gen Y, the Oregon Trail Generation, or whatever they were calling us now. For all that the Gen Xers and baby boomers tended to think of Millennials as teenagers, we’re old enough to have advanced degrees and kids of our own and mortgages by now. Although, between overwhelming student loans, the skyrocketing cost of health care, and lack of affordable housing, most of us were lucky to own a cactus and a clean pair of underwear.
I don’t even have that much. The cactus, that is. I’ve got several pair of clean underwear, thank you very much.
There’s a tiny washer and dryer unit in my aunt’s apartment, along with full-sized laundry facilities in the basement, which made laundry a snap. I just didn’t have what they call a green thumb. I could kill a plastic ficus tree. I’d already managed to maim all my aunt’s houseplants.
And technically she hadn’t even left me instructions on how to water the plants, much less how much or how often. How was I supposed to know that root rot was a thing?
It’s a good thing I had better luck with pets because her cat, Rufus—all ten adorable pounds of him—was healthy, happy, and very much alive. Rufus wouldn’t be quite as happy if I managed to lose my waitressing job and had to go back to feeding him generic-brand cat food because I wouldn’t be able to afford the high-quality ingredients Izzy made into homemade food for him.
“We better get going. You know how Todd gets.”
“We are in so much trouble,” she agreed. Todd reigned supreme like a middle-aged dictator, and I doubted he would let us off the hook for being late just because we were detained by the police.
That might even make things worse.
No, scratch that. It would definitely make things worse.
A few blocks later, we reached the bookstore. Untapped Books & Café wasn’t much to look at from the street. It had a big window overlooking the sidewalk, and a reces
sed door up a few chipped concrete steps. There was a faded awning over the window, framing a display that featured employee picks instead of this month’s best sellers. There was a neon light hung in the corner that simply said “Beer.” The hours-of-operation sign was flipped to “Open.”
I pushed open the front door. We were greeted by the familiar tinkle of the bell mounted over the doorframe. Huckleberry, the official shop dog, lifted his big yellow head off the floor and gave us a halfhearted woof of welcome. His lack of enthusiasm was a result of his advanced age—he was born sometime between nineteen years ago and the last ice age—along with an apparently busted air conditioner in the store. Again. It had to be ninety degrees outside, and wasn’t much cooler inside.
I squatted down to show Huckleberry some love. He looked like a cross between a golden retriever and a couch cushion that had been left out in the rain. A recent bath and haircut improved his appearance enormously, but when he melted against the atrocious carpet of the bookstore, it was hard to tell if he was a dog or a Muppet. “Aww, it’s my favorite doggo,” I told him. “Looks like you need a boop.” I lightly tapped his nose and he gave me a big doggy grin in return.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t our reigning cornhole champions,” Andre said, rising up from the stool behind the cash register to give Izzy and me a slow clap.
Unlike Todd, the assistant manager, Andre Gibson, was flexible. Friendly. Fun to work with. He was that in-between age that wasn’t yet old enough to have gray in his thick black hair but was too old to stay out all night partying. He was a snappy dresser and always had a smile on his face, and a kind word for everyone. Even when his employees were horribly late for their shifts. “Any chance I can get an autograph from the cornhole queens of Williamsburg?”
I rose from my crouch on the floor. The cornhole tournament felt like it had been a decade ago, not just a few hours. “How did you . . . ?”
No Memes of Escape Page 4