No Memes of Escape

by Olivia Blacke

  “Come on, Odessa,” Izzy urged. “Did you see those built-in bookshelves? South-facing windows? And there’s two bedrooms, if you can believe it.”

  “I don’t care if there’s a sunken Jacuzzi tub in the en suite bathroom and a refrigerator that automatically orders groceries when you get low. I’m not living in the Williamsburg Slasher murder apartment.”

  “They have a generous pet policy,” Marlie added. “All pet fees would be waived for the first year.”

  “A serial killer murdered an entire family here!”

  Marlie continued as if I hadn’t said anything. “As I told Izzy on the phone, the rent is simply unbeatable, and I’ll even give you two the friends-and-family discount on my broker’s fee.”

  “Nope,” I said.

  “But, Odessa,” Izzy started.

  “No stinking way,” I repeated. I loved the idea of staying in Williamsburg, and I had to admit that the apartment was magnificent, but I’d never get the image of all that . . . brown paint, I reminded myself. It was easier to think of it that way . . . out of my head.

  I wasn’t naive. I knew the odds of someone dying in an apartment increased to 100 percent on a long enough timeline, and New York City was old. But now that I’d seen the raw, unfiltered evidence, I couldn’t ever unsee it. A fresh coat of paint wouldn’t change that.

  It was bad enough that I’d seen a dead body yesterday. I couldn’t live in a place where I would never be far away from the memory of all that blood and sadness. “Hard pass.”

  “Understood,” Marlie said agreeably. The dour woman we’d met at the escape room disappeared, replaced by this cheery woman. This version of Marlie was pleasant and might even be fun to hang out with, unlike the one that had kept asking for unneeded hints, causing us to run out of time prematurely in the escape room. “I know you’ve got a tight budget, and that limits our options. There’s one more building I’d like to show you ladies. It’s not nearly as nice as this one, but as far as I know, it’s never been featured on national news, either. Why don’t you two follow me?”

  “That’s a good start,” I said. I’d never figured that no recent mass murders would be my number one criterion when apartment hunting, but then again, before now I hadn’t ever seriously shopped for a place to live. I still wasn’t sure how I could possibly afford to live in Brooklyn, even with a roommate, but I could keep an open mind. “You’re an apartment broker, right?”

  “One of the top brokers in the city,” she proclaimed with a proud note in her voice as she led us down the stairs and into the street.

  “But not as good as Vickie was, right?” I asked before I could catch myself. I guess the shock of being inside the same apartment where the Williamsburg Slasher had, well, slashed, had rattled something loose inside of me. Like my filter. “That’s what you were celebrating the other day, weren’t you? Vickie had won an award for being top broker for like a whole year?”

  “If she was the best, that makes you runner-up?” Izzy added.

  Marlie’s smile slipped. “Vickie was one of a kind, and we’ll all miss her.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” Izzy muttered under her breath.

  I glanced at Izzy, and she gave me a little Go on! motion with her hand. I wasn’t sure if we were really onto something or not, but Marlie was in the escape room with us, so she was one of the five possible suspects with opportunity. And she was obviously a professional rival of Vickie’s. If the expression on her face was any indication, she was jealous of her coworker’s success, which gave her a motive.

  On top of that, she didn’t seem even the slightest bit freaked out being inside the notorious Williamsburg Slasher’s murder scene. Which either made her a cold, hard killer, a calloused soul, or an incredible actor. She was a much more viable suspect than Izzy was, in my humble opinion.

  “What exactly does an apartment broker do?” I asked, studying Marlie’s reactions closely.

  “We match the right people with the right homes. I know how hard it is to find the perfect apartment in New York. With a million people apartment hunting at any given time, a good apartment goes off the market before an ad is ever posted online. The apartment I just showed you? It will be snatched up before end of day, and you have my word on that.”

  I had a hard time believing that, but Marlie knew more about New York real estate than I did.

  She continued, “Landlords and supers don’t have the time to show an apartment to a bunch of lookie-loos, much less wade through hundreds of applications. That’s where I come in. When an apartment is coming up, they let me know and I arrange a viewing for my clients. Think of me like an Apartment Cupid.”

  “And how much does that all cost?” I asked. Renting an apartment in New York should be like anywhere else. I should be able to go online, submit an application, get approved, and move in. Everything was more complicated here.

  “It’s a minimal up-front fee. It depends on the property, of course, but it’s usually a percentage, equal to a month or two’s rent.”

  I came to a complete stop. “Wait one second.”

  “Yes?” Marlie said.

  “You tell people about apartments that are already on the market for a living? You don’t own the apartment or the building or anything? You don’t even place an advertisement? And for this, people give you over a month’s rent, in advance?”

  “Sometimes more, sometimes less,” she said with a guileless smile still plastered on her face. As if what she was doing wasn’t highway robbery, much less morally bankrupt. “Each apartment is different.”

  “How on earth do you justify exploiting people like that? And how can anyone afford those kinds of fees?” I did a little mental math. I wasn’t sure exactly what my aunt’s two-bedroom apartment rented for a month, but I had a rough idea of what a studio went for. Counting first and last months’ rent, security deposit, and an apartment broker’s fee, it would cost a small fortune to move in—and that wasn’t even figuring in the moving truck!

  “Not only do brokers have exclusive access to apartments that would never be advertised to the general public, we have already negotiated a more favorable price with the landlord. Say an apartment is going for three thousand a month. I could cut you a little slack and get you in there for twenty-seven fifty.”

  “Sure, you’d save someone two-fifty a month, but they still end up paying more up-front in fees. How is that fair?”

  Marlie gave Izzy an exasperated look. “Can you please explain to your friend how life works in the city?”

  Izzy nodded sweetly. “Of course.” She turned to me. “You see, there are a lot of desperate, broke people that are trying to eke out a living, but public housing is practically nonexistent. Between slumlords and predatory apartment brokers, it’s nearly impossible to find a decent apartment—affordable or otherwise—in New York. Once you do find a place, you never leave. Or you sublet it from one roommate to the next ad nauseam. Which is why people end up living with their parents or their exes or a stranger they met on the internet, subletting from a sublet of a subletter. Since no one can afford to move, new apartments never come up on the market, and when they do, vultures like Marlie here charge people an arm and a leg for the privilege of not living in a cardboard box. Is that about right, Marlie?”

  Marlie huffed. “I can see you young ladies aren’t serious about finding housing. You have my number. Call me when you come to your senses.” She turned and walked away briskly.

  “I think I’m starting to understand your housing horror stories,” I told Izzy as we headed back toward Untapped Books & Café.

  She shrugged. “Finding a decent apartment is an art.”

  “How can you afford a broker, though?”

  “I can’t. Hardly anyone I know can. Which drives up competition and prices. And yet, she was telling the truth. That apartment will be rented within the day.”

  “H
ow can anyone stand the thought of living there after what happened?”

  “Odessa, you’re not thinking like a New Yorker. For those windows? Built-in bookshelves? I wouldn’t care if there was a pile of dead bodies in the living room and the kitchen was an active crime scene. But even if they slashed the rent in half to attract a renter, I would never pay up-front broker’s fees.”

  “Then why did you make an appointment with Marlie?” I asked.

  “Silly girl. We weren’t there to find an apartment, although that place was gorgeous. We were there to interrogate her, to see if she was involved with Vickie’s murder. Did you get any vibes off her, you know, before you noped all the way out of there?”

  I stared at Izzy in surprise. I wished she would have told me her plan ahead of time. Then again, if I’d been in on it, I might have given us away. “Marlie doesn’t come off as trustworthy, and not just because she makes a living ripping other people off. She doesn’t feel genuine. Like she was smiling and cheery today, but the other day she was grumpy and disengaged.”

  Izzy nodded. “That could be her work face, though. Heaven knows we both do it. You think I smile at every customer because I like them? You’re a cheery person in general, but when you’re waiting tables, you’re like a level twelve. Howdy, folks, what can I get you today?” she said in a falsetto.

  “I do not sound like that,” I protested.

  “True. It’s more like”—she slowed her voice down until it sounded like she was playing back a movie in slow motion, and added a drawl that even I could barely understand—“Why, how-dee, faulks, wyatt can eye gits y’all?”

  I pursed my lips. “Ha. Ha. You shoulda been a comedian.”

  “You know I love your accent.” Izzy slung her arm around my shoulders. “It makes you sound like such a rube. Imagine what would have happened to you if I hadn’t come along. This big, bad city would have chewed you up and spit you out.”

  “Yup,” I agreed.

  “What do you think? Is Marlie a suspect or not?”

  I stopped on the front steps of Untapped to think about it. “She was clearly jealous of Vickie’s success. Without the top salesperson in her way, she stands to make more in commissions, and maybe even win the top broker award for herself.”

  “Greed, the classic motive,” Izzy said.

  “Plus, she had an iron stomach. Marlie didn’t even flinch in that kitchen, all covered in blood. She sat there like a serial killer, sipping her coffee. I betcha she could have killed Vickie and not even batted an eye.”

  Izzy nodded. “Definitely a suspect.” She opened the door. We were greeted by the tinkle of bells and Huckleberry thudding his tail against the carpet. It was nice to know someone was always happy to see me.

  “Where have you two been?” Todd barked at us. There was a line of several exasperated-looking customers queued up in front of the cash register.

  “Told you, we had to step out for a second. Here, let me help you with that,” Izzy said, maneuvering around him so she was directly in front of the first customer in line.

  “Newsflash, Izzy, if you want to get paid, you’re gonna actually have to do your job. Now get to work before I write you both up. Oh, and, Odessa, someone left those for you.” He gestured at the counter, where half a dozen blue daisies with cellophane wrapped around the stems lay on their side.

  I picked them up. There was a pink ribbon tied around the cellophane, but no note. “Who dropped these off?” I asked.

  “Do I look like your secretary?” Todd replied, hurrying back to his office.

  10

  Untapped Books & Café @untappedwilliamsburg ∙ July 13

  Weekend sweets—what’s better? Decadent coconut custard pie or delicious vegan carrot cake? Both are *chef’s kiss* amazing. You decide! #vegan #cake #pie #Williamsburg

  My apron was hanging from the same hook as always. We didn’t have assigned hooks, but people were creatures of habit. I still had a temporary peel-and-stick name tag, which was starting to curl at the edges. I’d left the apartment this morning dreading telling Todd that I might be leaving soon, but now I was starting to think that I should—at the very least—ask for a new name tag sticker. This one was looking a lot worse for the wear.

  “Morning!” I said as I squeezed into the kitchen. As usual, it was narrow and Parker was doing his best impression of a whirling dervish as he divided his attention between prepping plates, grilling hash browns on the hot plate, and whipping up something creamy in the mixer. In addition to the normal chaos, a new metal shelf blocked half the doorway. It was stacked with several pies, right out of the oven, if my nose wasn’t deceiving me. “Smells amazing.”

  “Thanks,” Parker said, glancing at the flowers. “Special day?”

  I shrugged. “Not that I know of.” I reached up and grabbed one of the Mason jars we serve tea or freshly squeezed lemonade in and filled it with water. I unwrapped the flowers, stuck them in the water, and threw away the cellophane. “Mind if I leave these here?” I asked. The kitchen was crowded and every inch of surface space was valuable, but I had no better idea where to put the flowers.

  Parker moved the jar to the counter on the other side of the pass-thru that separated the kitchen from the dining tables. “Now you can see them without them being in the way. I’m trying a few new desserts today—coconut custard pie and vegan carrot cake. I’ll need you to sample when you get a chance, and tell me what you think.”

  “Best part of my job.” I tucked my phone into my apron pocket, along with a notepad and several pens, then shoved my messenger bag in its normal spot in the cabinet in the kitchen. “I’ll take pictures of them later to post online.”

  “Sure thing.” I turned to go, but then he asked, “Hey, Odessa, you and Izzy get into a tiff or something?” he asked.

  “Nope. Why do you ask?”

  “It’s just I came in early today to get started on the pies, and she was already here, before you. I made a joke about her being on time for once, but she rolled her eyes and walked off.”

  That wasn’t like her. Izzy was never, ever rude to her friends. Then again, she’d practically gotten evicted last night, she was going through a rough patch with her boyfriend, and one of her high school friends had gotten murdered yesterday, so if anyone had a right to be in a bad mood, it was Izzy. “She was acting fine this morning, but I’ll ask her if something’s up,” I promised. “First, I need to check on my tables.”

  Untapped Books & Café patrons were as eclectic as Williamsburg itself, but it was unusual to find a woman dressed in full steampunk regalia nursing an ice water and nibbling on a flaky croissant. Despite the hot July day, she wore long, layered skirts with a corset over a long-sleeved blouse, accented with brass jewelry—all topped off by a tiny, jaunty hat and a pair of welder’s goggles around her neck.

  “Love your outfit,” I said, heading to her table first since she didn’t have an entrée in front of her. “Have you ordered yet?”

  She looked at me over tiny round spectacles. “Aye.” She had an accent. Irish, or possibly Scottish.

  I noticed the water glass in front of her was nearly empty. “Can I get you a refill?”

  She continued to stare at me, unblinking. “You’re not from around here, are you?” she asked.

  I blinked in surprise. Not exactly what I expected from someone with a foreign accent wearing a costume from an alternative history. “Not exactly. Refill?”

  She finished off her water, ice clinking loudly, before setting it back down and pushing it toward me. “Aye,” she repeated. “You don’t by chance have a brunch drink menu? I’d kill for a cranberry mimosa.”

  “No mimosas,” I told her. Even though we opened earlier than normal on the weekends, we didn’t technically serve brunch, so no mimosas for us without a new liquor license. We could, however, serve beer. “We do have a selection of breakfast beers, including Mapl
e Remover and my personal favorite, You Bacon Me Crazy.”

  “I’ll give You Bacon Me Crazy a try.”

  “Coming right up.” On my way back to the small drink station next to the kitchen, I caught the eye of the other server in the café. Emilie wore leopard-print tights and shiny black heels along with the standard neon green polo. Her hair was held back by a silver headband and her gold hoop earrings almost touched her shoulders. She waved at me, flashing fingernails that had to be at least two inches long.

  I didn’t know how she did it.

  Between the constant handwashing and carrying hot, heavy plates, I was lucky if I could go a full shift without chipping a nail. I couldn’t imagine wasting money on a manicure that wouldn’t last a day. And those shoes! My cowboy boots weren’t exactly practical, but heels? No thank you.

  The tights, though, I could get behind those. I was happy wearing the long, flowy skirts I made in my free time, but her tights looked fun. At least, they seemed more comfortable than the corset Miss Steampunk was wearing.

  I brought her water and beer and she gulped half of the bacon-infused stout in one swig. “Maybe you should pace yourself,” I suggested.

  She shifted ever so slightly so she could see past my shoulder. “Delish. Keep ’em comin’,” she replied as she scanned the café.

  “You waiting for someone?” I asked.

  “Tinder match, if you really must know.” She ran one hand over her curly hair, patting it into place.

  “Good luck with that. Just so you know, if your date turns out to be a total bust, there’s a back exit through there.” I pointed at the open doorway under an “Employees Only” sign that led to the bathroom, alley, and Todd’s office. Technically, customers weren’t allowed back there, but that minor detail rarely stopped them.

  “Thanks,” she replied.

  Making a mental note to keep an eye on her, I began circulating through the café. A dozen tables, each decorated with a different garish pattern under a Plexiglas topper, were scattered seemingly at random. Chairs with vinyl-covered padded seats ringed each table, with a few extra stools at a narrow bar in front of the kitchen. Several more tables, lower cast-iron ones, were in the garden courtyard out back. In the evenings, if the weather was nice, café patrons spilled into the garden for additional seating, but we hardly ever used the overflow space during the day and never when it was this hot outside.