The Trouble With Murder (21 page)

“I would never—”

I cut him off, because we both knew
he would, and he had. “The good news is, we can make this whole little problem
go away right now.”

He looked up again, studying me
skeptically. “Oh, yeah? How’s that?”

“I’ll need my four thousand dollars
back. Plus another thousand for my hassle.”

“
What
? Are you crazy? There’s
no way in hell I’m giving you five thousand dollars!”

“That’s fine,” I said. “I was
recently fired, and now I’m on vacation, so I have a lot of time on my hands. I
think I’ll put my energy into you. I’ll start compiling a list of your
customers. Then I’ll talk to each of them and have Manny here look at their
cars. I bet he finds something similar in those cars. Then we’ll get a lawyer.
The public loves a good tort case like that.
thieving
mechanic caught swindling customers.
That will be the headline. How much
do you think that will cost? You won’t work as a mechanic another day. You’ll
have to close. Still, that probably won’t cover the debt. You’ll probably lose
your house, too. And your car, your retirement, any stocks or savings—all of
it.”

Anger seized him then, and he
reached under the counter. When he came back up, he was holding a gun and
staring down the barrel of the 9mm in my hand. He looked up from the gun and
into my face.

“Why don’t you pass me that gun?” I
asked.

It took a full minute of private
deliberation before he finally made a decision. He slowly handed the gun to me,
and I took it. He looked defeated.

“Are you going to shoot me?” he
asked.

“Don’t think I haven’t considered
it.”

He was watching me, trying to gage
my intent.

He sighed. “All right.” He looked
at the gun. “All right, I said. I’ll write you a check.”

“I don’t take checks.”

He looked at me.

“Wouldn’t you just cancel it by the
time I got to the bank?”

He conceded. “Fair enough. I’ll get
cash.”

“Let’s take your car. I’ll drive.”

The trip to the bank and back took
less than an hour. Manny and I dropped Krupp back at his garage looking pissed
and defeated. I had five thousand dollars burning a hole in my bag, and I was
sure I’d be leaving most of it with Manny.

 We returned to his garage to find the
Scout sitting out front, back in one piece and sparkly clean. In the office,
Manny printed the invoice, and we went over it item by item. It ran the length
of five pages and took half an hour. We got to the bottom of the page, and I
saw the price.

“That can’t be right,” I said.

He pinched his eyebrows together
and pulled the invoice to him, studying the number. “It’s right,” he said,
turning it back toward me.

Five hundred and thirty-nine
dollars.

“You replaced close to fifty
parts.”

He nodded. “Yeah, I know. It took a
couple hours, too. But, that’s all on there.”

I pulled the stack of cash out of
my bag and counted off a thousand dollars, putting in on the counter. “Even
that
is less than fair.”

He handed three hundreds back to
me. “Take these back and you’ve got a deal.”

“I’ll take one back.”

“Take two.”

“Fine.”

When things were squared away, Manny
and his helpers heaved the Cushman into the back of the truck. I strapped it
down then climbed behind the wheel. I waved to Manny and the others then drove
away. Suddenly, things seemed a bit better than they had that morning. My truck
was fixed, I was four thousand dollars richer, and I had a new gun.

Dressed in the requisite outfit of business casual, I reported
for my first day of work at King Soopers, donning the black vest Karen had
provided. After visiting Krupp, I’d managed to make my interview at Hobby
Lobby. The manager, Helen Auwaerter, was paged then emerged a minute later to
lead me to her office.

“Oh, my, dear,” she’d said when she
saw me. “What happened to your face?”

My face was the only part of me I couldn’t
cover up. I’d worn a long-sleeved shirt, which caused me to sweat like a pig,
but I couldn’t do anything about my face. I had put a Band-Aid on the largest
laceration, covering the sutures, but there were dozens of smaller ones.

“I was beside a pane of glass when
it shattered.” No need to explain why it shattered.

The interview was over in fifteen
minutes, and I wasn’t really sure what had happened. I’d presented a copy of my
resume and expected questions about my work ethic and experience. Instead, the
questions had been strictly about my personality. If I was an animal, which
animal would I be? If I had a dream about having a baby, what would that mean
to me? If I could change one thing in the world, what would it be?

How did any of this relate to my
ability to wear the blue vest and supervise those who punched numbers into the
cash register? I had no idea how, or even
if
, the woman had been able to
determine my qualification to do said task by the said idiotic questions. She promised
to make her decision by the end of the week and let me know either way, but I
wasn’t holding my breath. I could only hope the King Soopers thing panned out. Because
so far, this job-hunting crap wasn’t working out too well.

Karen introduced me to a man named
Tony, who was to teach me my new job. Tony wasn’t quite six feet tall, wasn’t
quite of average size, had dark hair that was prematurely thinning, and wore
glasses. Based on these factors, as well as the limp handshake he’d given me, I
assessed him to have a very sensitive ego. As the shift progressed, it became
apparent I was correct. I hoped I wouldn’t be working with Tony very often (or
ever again), because tiptoeing around and trying to filter everything that came
out of my mouth was exhausting. Not to mention, I’m not very good at either to
begin with.

My official title was “Customer
Service Manager,” but that, I soon learned, was just a fancy way of saying “babysitter
and referee.” A great deal of my shift was spent shadowing employees in various
other positions around the store. I also learned being hired to a managerial
position from outside the company didn’t earn me any favor with anyone,
certainly not with anyone who had applied for the same position and lost out. I
spent three hours at the customer service counter with a woman named Yolanda
who had been passed over twice for the job I’d just accepted. “Awkward” didn’t
begin to cover it. Actually, “hostile” was probably more fitting.

After lunch, I was partnered with a
kid named Landon whose job was bagging groceries and helping people out to
their cars. Landon lectured me extensively on proper bagging protocols then
stood over me with hawk-like focus as I attempted to put into practice what I’d
been taught. He was quick to jump on me when I made mistakes. I could have
fainted with relief when he went to a neighboring register temporarily without
a bagger.

Taking my first deep breath in
hours, I addressed the next customer in line.

“Paper or plastic?” I asked the
man. He was dressed in an ill-fitting suit and gold jewelry and was talking on
the phone.

“Plastic,” he snapped.

I made quick work of the items
collecting at the end of the conveyer belt, arranging them in sacks of like
items to a particular weight designation, as per training protocol. I was
actually quite impressed with my handiwork as I loaded the plastic sacks into
the cart. It seemed I worked exceptionally well when out from under the eye of
critical teenage scrutiny.

“$98.76,” the checker said. Zander
wasn’t much older than Landon, but he was more laid back, with long brown hair
that fell forward over his eyes. He was quick to make jokes and smiled easily.
He was also pretty good at his job.

The man ended the phone call and
handed Zander his credit card.

I put the last of the items into
sacks. The man glanced over at me.

“I said paper,” he snapped.

“I’m sorry?” I said. “I asked and
you said plastic.”

“No, I didn’t,” he said, raising
his voice and stepping toward me. “My wife’s on some tree-hugging kick and only
wants paper; it’s recyclable, or some such crap. I said paper.”

I looked at Zander and he shrugged.

King Soopers has a very strict
the-customer-is-always-right policy. I looked at the cart full of groceries
neatly arranged in plastic sacks and sighed.

The yelling had drawn Landon back.
He apologized to the belligerent man while giving me a
see-what-happens-when-I-leave-you-alone look. I thought he was sending the
wrong message, and I made a mental note to discuss it with him later. It’s one
thing for the customer to always be right, and another thing entirely to throw
a coworker, new, incompetent, or otherwise, under the bus.

We transferred the items from the plastic
sacks to the paper ones, Landon assisting and once again supervising. He didn’t
once mention how well organized the plastic bags had been.

While we re-bagged all the
groceries, the woman behind the man made clear her impatience at being made to
wait.

The last bag was finally packed,
and as I settled it in among the others, I asked, “Would you like help out?”

I’d hardly gotten the words out of
my mouth or let go of the bag when the man suddenly jerked the cart forward and
spoke over me.

“No,” he spat. “You’ve
helped
enough already.”

He almost ran over an old lady
leaving another register in his haste.

“Have a great evening!” I called in
as cheery a voice as I could muster, waving at him as he stomped away.

Zander had already begun ringing up
the items of the next order, and they were collecting at the end of the belt. Landon
separated them as I looked to the impatient woman.

“Paper or plastic, ma’am?” Landon
asked before I had a chance.

“Plastic.” Her tone was cold and
superior, as if she was disgusted to have to interact with lesser beings like us.

“Plastic?” I repeated. “You want
plastic?”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

I shrugged as I began filling the
first bag. “It’s what the last guy said, too. I just wanted to be sure.”

This scored me a reproachful look
from the vigilant Landon.

By this time, I was counting down
the minutes until I was able to leave. When I had thirty-eight minutes on the
clock, I heard an announcement overhead.

“Wet cleanup, aisle fifteen. Wet
cleanup, aisle fifteen.”

Aisle fifteen is the soda aisle,
and there are, by far, more wet cleanups in that part of the store than all the
others combined. I knew this after just seven and a half hours of employment. I’d
also quickly learned soda is a pain in the ass to clean up. By the time the
cleanup call went out, a dozen carts had been wheeled through it, and twice as
many people had tracked through it, so the whole damn aisle had to be mopped. Still,
I had my finger crossed.

“I’ll go,” I volunteered. “Landon’s
got this covered anyway.”

Tony turned and looked down at me
from the small podium on which he stood, raised between the center registers to
afford managers a view of the entire front end. He considered something
privately for a moment then grunted in assent.

“Fine,” he said. “Hurry up.”

I wheeled the mop and bucket over
to ground zero and counted this cleanup as my fourth wet cleanup in the same
aisle today. The horrifying part was that I hadn’t been the only one doing
cleanups today.

I dragged the cleanup out as long
as possible, trying in vain to run down the clock. When I could stall no
longer, I put the mop away and returned to the front end, bagging groceries
under the impossible criticism of an eighteen-year-old kid with horrible acne
until it was finally time for me to go home. I clocked out, grabbed my bag, and
used every last ounce of self-control I possessed not to run out of the store.

_______________

Ellmann had said the police followed up on my tip about
Tyler Jay and turned up zilch. This was disappointing, and I couldn’t help but
wonder how long my information, my perfectly good information, had sat in some
voicemail box somewhere in digital outer space waiting to be listened to.
Considering how “wanted” Tyler Jay was, he didn’t seem like a real priority.

I cruised back over to Tyler Jay’s
mother’s neighborhood. I’d been right the first time about the house belonging
to her, and about Tyler being there. I had a feeling he hadn’t gone far. He
seemed like a mama’s boy, and whatever this said about Tyler Jay and his
emotional health, it was lucky for me. I was willing to bet if Tyler wasn’t at
Mom’s house, she knew where he was. I harbored no illusions about her telling
me, but I thought she might give it away all the same. I just wondered how long
it would take.

I drove past the house once and had
a good look around. The Honda was no longer in the driveway, and the place
looked shut up. I turned the corner then parked so I could see the front of the
house from a distance. I slid over to the passenger seat and pulled a book out
of my bag. I hoped if anyone noticed me, they would assume I was waiting for
someone who’d run inside for something forgotten.

It occurred to me sitting outside
the house of Tyler Jay’s mother was stupid because there was a chance it was
Tyler Jay who was trying to kill me. It also occurred to me a certain power
would return to me if the hunted became the hunter. I didn’t really like being
hunted, and I especially didn’t like feeling powerless. Hunting seemed scary,
too, but a different sort of scary, a sort that seemed more manageable.

Just after six, a Cadillac came
down the street. Mom’s garage door raised and the Cadillac slipped inside. I
made a note of the license plate. The door lowered and everything was still
again. The tinted windows on the newer model luxury car had prevented me from
identifying the driver. I watched the house and waited. Most the shades were
drawn, but an upstairs window on the side of the house was open. I saw a woman
appear and pull them closed. It was the same woman I’d seen the last time I’d
visited.

Around eight o’clock, I was tired,
thirsty, and had to pee so badly I was seriously considering using the empty
coffee cup in the cup holder. I’d nearly finished my book and wondered what I
was waiting for. There was no guarantee the woman would do anything but make
dinner, watch TV, and go to bed. But I wasn’t willing to throw in the towel
just yet. Mostly because I wanted to prove I was right. Right about what,
exactly, and to whom I had to prove it, was still in question.

I practiced some deep breathing to
keep my mind off my bladder and finished the book. The sun had set, and I’d
required a flashlight to read. My thighs ached from holding it for so long, and
my legs were bouncing. I decided to call it quits. At least for thirty minutes.
I’d hit the restroom, get something to drink, maybe hit the restroom again,
then come back and settle in for a few more hours.

I reached for the key and turned
the engine over as Mom’s garage door rattled up. It was up in time for me to
see her getting into the car with a large paper carry-out bag, and I couldn’t
help but wonder if maybe I knew what was in it. I had suspected Mom wouldn’t
tell
me where Tyler was, but thought she might end up
showing
me. My
heart beat a little faster with excitement, and against my will, my brain
quickly added fifteen thousand dollars to my bank balance.

I kept my lights off until the
Cadillac was to the end of the block, then I started to follow. I’m no expert
in the art of tailing. Turned out, Mom wasn’t an expert in
spotting
a
tail. So we made a good pair.

We drove north. When she hit
College, she continued north through Old Town, and I began to experience doubt.
It was possible this wouldn’t be a short trip. Maybe Tyler wasn’t staying in
town. Maybe she wasn’t going to see him at all. Maybe my bladder was on the
verge of rupture for no good reason.

She cruised past Willox and made a
right at America’s Best Inn, driving to the back of the lot and parking.
America’s Best Inn had been El Palomino Motel until a few months ago. The
Palomino had been the sort of place that rented rooms by the hour and did a lot
of cash business. It had been run down and as infested with crime as it had
been with bugs. America’s Best had given the place a facelift.

I pulled in and parked in the first
slot I found that afforded me some view of the opposite end of the place. I
turned in my seat and watched as Mom got out of the car, carrying the large
paper bag with her. She climbed the external stairs to the second floor then
walked to the third door. She knocked, there was a slight movement in the
curtains, then the door opened. She disappeared inside, and Tyler Jay stuck his
head out, making sure the coast was clear.

Ha!

Thank you, Mom.

I immediately drove through the
parking lot to the gas station next door, where I raced to the restroom. The
door to the women’s room was locked, so I tried the men’s. Unlocked. I hustled
inside. When I emerged, a thirty-something man was waiting. He gave me a look.

“Emergency,” I said as I passed.

He looked at the door, no doubt worried
about what he might find inside.

I left and went back to the motel
parking lot. The Cadillac was still there—one of only a half dozen other
vehicles. The new ownership had renovated the place, but they hadn’t yet reinvented
it as a safe or welcoming place to stay. I wasn’t sure they’d ever succeed,
given the reputation it had and the part of town it was in. I made notes about
the makes, models, and license plate numbers of all the cars and left. As I
drove, I called the tip line.