The Trouble With Murder (23 page)

“You, Zoe! Can you get that
cleanup?”

Tony was standing at the edge of
the podium, looking at me expectantly. A king overseeing his minions. I really
didn’t like being a minion. But the cleanup offered a reprieve from both him
and Nazi Landon.

“Yep! I’m on it!”

I collected the mop and bucket, as
well as several other items, and trudged to the end of the store. I could hear
evidence of the mess from two aisles away; shoes were sticking to the floor with
each step. I turned down the aisle and saw a six-pack of Dr. Pepper sitting in
the middle of the floor. As I drew closer, I could see each of the six cans had
blown open upon impact, the carbonated contents exploding everywhere. A foamy
mist had settled over the tile in a six-foot radius and was dripping from the
items on the shelves. I pulled out four wet-floor signs and blocked access to
the affected area, much to the aggravation and annoyance of several shoppers.

As I worked on the mess, I thought
back to days past. It was always in the middle of a particularly hard or
stressful day, while engaged in some monotonous or disgusting task, that I
remembered what my life had been like only a few years before. I couldn’t help
but compare it to my current life: the job, the salary, the status. It was too
easy to long for days past, and I had to deliberately remember the reasons my
life was different now, force myself to recall that I didn’t want it to be like
it had been, not really.

“Excuse me.”

I had a spray bottle in one hand
and a wad of paper towels in the other, wiping off the two-liter bottles of
soda covered in Dr. Pepper. I paused and turned to see a short, overweight man
dressed in loafers, with no socks, staring at me from behind the barrier I’d erected.

“Can I hand you something?” I asked
helpfully, moving toward him, mindful of my step on the slippery floor.

“You can let me pass.”

His attitude and tone of voice
triggered me immediately, and it was a conscious effort of will for me to
maintain my courteous and helpful demeanor.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I began. “I’m in
the process of cleaning the floor, and it wouldn’t be safe. I’d be more than
happy to get something for you. And I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

“Who are you to dictate orders to
me?” he demanded.

I scrambled to replay the
conversation. I felt he had taken a distinct turn somewhere and left me behind.

“I will not take orders from
someone like you,” he spat, lifting his chin several inches and literally
looking down his nose at me. Quite a feat, since I was taller. “If I want to
pass, I’ll pass.”

He threw aside the barrier, causing
it to clatter to the floor, and before I could stop him, he was charging
forward with his cart. The cart’s wheels rolled into the solution I’d sprayed
on the floor and began to slide. His loafer came down in the solution next and
continued moving forward, after he’d already lifted the other foot off the
ground. For one horrifying moment, the man was suspended in some ice-skating
trick gone wrong, sliding forward on one foot, the other hanging in the air
behind him. He clung to the cart for dear life, hoping to steady himself, but
under his weight, the cart began to veer.

Soon his foot was quickly sliding
out from under him. In direct relation, his butt began to sink toward the
floor, pulling the rest of him down. He was also leaning to the right, pulling
on the cart. The end of it swung wildly to the left, toward the shelf. Then he
hit the ground, landing with a
thud
, his body bouncing and jiggling. A
woman at the end of the aisle screamed.

The cart slammed into the shelf, but
he refused to release it. It struck the stacked six-packs of aluminum cans and
dragged them from their perches. Before I could blink, a slew of them were free
from the shelf, falling toward the floor. They struck and burst open, one right
after another—a series of tight little
pops
followed by the sound of
pressurized spray. Soda erupted from dozens of busted cans, drenching the man,
the immediate area, and me.

The screaming and explosions had
drawn the attention of everyone on that half of the store. Wide eyes and gaping
mouths and pointing fingers were everywhere. I used a wet sleeve to wipe at my
face and succeeded only in smearing the soda over my skin. The man on the
ground was cussing, going on about something. Tony, the only other manager on
duty, pushed through the crowd and stood at the still-intact barrier, staring
at the scene before him. The man managed to get to his hands and knees,
slipping and sliding, struggling to get to his feet. He fell twice, landing
hard on his knee. Finally, he righted himself and clung to the cart for
support, though that hadn’t worked out so well last time.

“Are you all right?” I asked. I
tried to infuse as much concern into my voice as possible, though my true
feeling was the man had gotten exactly what he’d deserved (and then some), a
rare joy in life, I’ve found.

“You did this on purpose!” the man
accused in a shrill voice.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me! You coaxed me in
here knowing full well I’d slip and fall.”

“Actually, I specifically warned
you against it and told you it would be dangerous. You didn’t listen.”

The man reeled back from my words,
indignant. He looked around, searching for someone in the crowd to back him,
give power to his claim. His sights settled on Tony, and his face lit up.

“You,” he said. “You work here. I
want to talk to her boss. She intentionally saw to it that I fell in here.”

“I’m very sorry, sir,” Tony began,
reaching for the man and helping him to the safety of the other side of the
barrier. He was making all the appropriate noises to appease the man. “Clean
this up!” he hissed over his shoulder at me.

Placing a guiding hand under the
man’s elbow, he led the man down the aisle and out of sight.

I couldn’t resist the urge to roll
my eyes before grabbing the mop.

Twenty minutes later, all evidence
of the Disaster of Aisle Fifteen (as I’d come to think of it) had been
eradicated, aside from what I wore. My clothes were still wet, and my skin and
hair were sticky. I’d cleaned up as much as possible in the bathroom before
returning to the front end, but it had been mostly useless. When I got back up
front, Tony was at the podium, and the man was nowhere to be seen. Actually,
the entire front end was relatively deserted. This isn’t a busy shopping time;
Tony had already informed me of this when he’d explained, then re-explained,
staffing.

I checked my watch and found there
was less than an hour left in my shift.

“Hey, Tony, what do you say I cut
out early tonight?” I plucked at my wet clothes. “Let me go home and get
cleaned up.”

“Oh, you’re going home all right,”
he said, leaning over the podium and looking down at me. “Clock out and don’t
come back. You’re fired.”

I was sure I’d misheard him.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You’re fired,” he said slowly,
enunciating every syllable.

That’s what I thought he’d said.

I wasn’t sure he had the authority
to fire me, given we held the same position.

“Why?”

“Customer service is our number one
priority here, and the customer is always right. We take it very seriously if
our employees are rude or hurtful to customers. It just isn’t tolerated.”

I was reeling.

“You believe that pompous jerk?” I
demanded. “You actually believe I would have simply stood by and let him get
hurt without trying to prevent it?”

“That’s what he said. If the
customer is always right, I have to go with his version of the event.”

Obviously, I wasn’t thinking
clearly.

I jerked my vest off and chucked it
at him. It was still soaking wet with soda. It landed against his face and
chest with a satisfying
smack
, leaving a wet mark on his shirt.

“Unbelievable. You could have told
me
before
I cleaned up the mess, you asshole.”

I cut between the podium and a
closed register, heading for the door.

“You can pick up your paycheck next
Monday!”

I managed to walk out without
flipping him the bird.

By the time I got back to my motel room, I was still pissed.
I’d already left Karen Lerman a message about whether I really had lost my job.
More importantly, I needed to decide if I even wanted it. Pretty much
everything about it sucked.

I showered, washing my hair twice,
then threw on some clothes and hit the door. Angry as I was, I had other things
to do. Finding Tyler Jay and figuring out if he was the one trying to kill me
were at the top of the list. I climbed into the truck and drove to Mom’s house.
The house looked exactly like it had when I’d left earlier. I wondered if Mom
was home.

I tried to read a book I’d purchased
on my fifteen-minute break, but I couldn’t get into it. My mind refused to
focus, instead drifting to all the same thoughts that had plagued it earlier. I
pulled the stack of notes I’d compiled from my bag. I read them, then reread
them. I made some new notes, drew a few more lines, wrote a few more questions.
This was the problem; the list of questions was growing, and I still had no
answers.

Frustration boiled inside me,
causing me to think about doing foolish things, like knocking on Mom’s door
again, and this time asking her directly where Tyler was. The idea of facing
Tyler Jay again wasn’t scary. I knew it should be, given everything Ellmann had
said, but I just didn’t feel it. I involuntarily imagined Tyler wearing a ski
mask. This was more intimidating, but I still wasn’t afraid of him. Then my
thoughts drifted automatically to the three incidents in which I’d faced
someone in a ski mask. I didn’t know who that person was, but I felt the
beginnings of fear blossom inside me.

I reached into my bag and found the
Sig. Pulling it out, I checked the magazine and the chamber. Then I held the
gun for a moment before finally tucking it away. Having it made me feel safer,
more in control.

As I put the gun away, my phone
rang. I knew before I picked it up who was calling.

“I feel like I should start by
saying I didn’t do it.”

“I already know that,” Ellmann
said. He sounded stressed.

“Oh, good.”

“I thought you’d be working.”

“I got off early.”

“Where are you? I need to talk to
you.”

I looked up at Mom’s house. “I can
meet you somewhere.”

I could hear him roll his eyes over
the phone. To his credit, he didn’t sigh. “Have you seen him yet?”

“If I knew what that meant, I would
say no.”

“Right. Meet me at CooperSmith’s.”

“That’s pretty public. That a good
idea for me?”

“Right now, yes.”

We disconnected, and I looked at my
watch. It was just after seven. I figured chances were slim Tyler Jay and his
entourage would come back to Mom’s house after ditching the motel last night.
How had they managed to disappear a second time before the cops arrived? I
quickly added this to my growing list of questions.

It had also been later when Mom had
gone to visit Tyler at the motel; probably she’d keep to a similar schedule if
she made another visit. Still, Murphy’s Law said Tyler Jay and his pals would
drive up in the missing Honda or Escalade the instant I left.

The parking situation downtown is
pretty much a mess. If you’re lucky, you can snag a parking place on the same
block as your destination. More often, though, you have to park blocks away. I
bypassed College altogether, figuring it would be a waste of time. Instead, I
went straight to Remington and found a place just south of Mountain. I parked,
grabbed my bag, and hiked across Mountain into the Square. CooperSmith’s is on
the southwest corner, and it looked packed. Actually, the entire Square looked
packed.

Ellmann wasn’t lingering outside,
so I pushed my way inside and spotted him sitting at the bar.

“I put our name in for a table,” he
said when he saw me. He looked at his watch. “Should only be a couple more
minutes.”

All the other stools at the bar
were occupied, so I stood beside him. He’d offered me his seat, but I’d
declined. I had a night of surveillance planned; I thought it would do me some
good to stand while I was able. A moment later, he reached down and took my
hand in his. He lifted it to his mouth, kissed it, then squeezed it.

Oh, good,
I thought.
At
least I know this isn’t personal.

When Ellmann’s name was called, we
followed the hostess through the crowded dining room to a table for two in the
back. We placed our order and waited until the waitress had departed before
speaking. Ellmann leaned across the table.

“I don’t suppose you saw Margaret
Fischer this morning,” he said.

“I don’t suppose she’s the dead
body you found in my house this morning,” I said.

Surprise blinked briefly in his
eyes before he could hide it. “Why am I surprised?” he asked, shaking his head
as he dragged a hand back through his hair. “I shouldn’t be. It’s impossible to
keep information from you. It’s like the universe aligns itself exactly so you
can learn what you shouldn’t know. It’s like you have some kind of gift, or
maybe just incredible luck.”

“It’s a gift and a curse.”

“Not the best time for jokes,” he
said. “You’re in serious trouble.”

“That sounds about right,” I
sighed. “I didn’t have anything to do with anything, but why would that
matter?”

“Fischer’s secretary said she had planned
to stop by your house on her way home yesterday. She wanted to have a look
around so she would know what needed to be done when the crime scene was released.”

“She go in the house?”

“Yes, we found her in the living
room, not far from the existing bloodstain. The sticker on the front door had
been cut. We don’t know if Fischer cut it or if she found it cut when she got
there.”

“If she found it open, she could
have walked in on someone doing something they didn’t want anyone to see. Maybe
that’s why she was killed.”

“It’s a theory I’m working.
Personally, I think it fits better than most the others. But I’ve learned
murder is never as simple as we’d like it to be and never as complicated as it
seems to be.”

The waitress arrived and delivered
our food. Again we waited for her to leave before resuming the conversation.

“When was she killed?”

“Last night sometime. Coroner is
saying between six and eight.”

I sighed. “Great.”

“What?”

“My alibi is me doing something I
shouldn’t have been doing, alone.”

“What were you doing?”

“I was sitting outside Tyler Jay’s
Mom’s house. It was around eight o’clock when she drove over to the Palomino.”

“America’s Best Inn.”

“Whatever. I must have called the
tip hotline around eight-thirty.”

“Eight forty-three. I checked.”

“Still, not very solid. I suppose
I’m in the suspect pool.”

“You
are
the suspect pool.”

My turn to be surprised. “Come
again?”

“The gun used to kill Fischer was a
9mm we found beside her body. It’s registered to you.”

_______________

Dinner didn’t get much better. I also thought my budding
relationship with Ellmann was about to change. I was wanted for questioning in
the murders of both Margaret Fischer and Derrick Bilek, even though I had an
airtight alibi for Bilek’s murder. It seemed like a no-brainer bad career move
for a cop to be hanging out with a murder suspect. I had to admit, that made me
sad. I really liked Ellmann.

After dinner, I returned to Tyler’s
mom’s house. It had long since gotten dark, but I didn’t pull out a flashlight
to read. Instead, I was left with my wandering thoughts and relentless
questions. By eleven, I’d seen no sign of Mom, no indication she was even home,
and I’d been left alone with my thoughts for as long as I could stand. And it
was probably just as well. Ellmann was supposed to be my phone call if (when) I
found Tyler again. That didn’t seem like a good idea just now.

I packed it in and went home. Or,
to the motel.

Housekeeping had been in the room,
as I’d requested, and everything was fresh and clean. I washed my face then
carefully tended to my wounds, applying fresh Neosporin and dressings. I read a
little in the new book I’d picked up. Half an hour later, my eyelids were heavy.
I set the book aside and switched off the lamp. I was asleep almost
immediately.

I awoke sometime later because I
had to pee. I barely opened my eyes as I fell out of bed and shuffled through
the dark to the bathroom. I didn’t turn on the bathroom light, either. With
only one eye open, I twisted the water on then off again. That was when I heard
it.

I wasn’t sure what
it
was,
but all the little hairs on my body were standing up. My muscles were tense.
Suddenly, I was completely awake. I strained to listen through the deafening
silence. I could hear nothing over the roaring thump of my pulse in my ears.
Too late I realized there was movement outside my door. I heard the lock beep
and then retract.

Another, more potent, dose of
adrenaline rushed into my bloodstream, and I was in fight-or-flight mode. With
nowhere to fly to, I had to fight. Something told me this wasn’t Ellmann. And I
very much doubted it was housekeeping.

As the door opened, I sprinted for
the bedside table and my gun. A figure dressed in black and a ski mask came in
and raised a gun. A part of my brain recognized it. The same gun Figure Two had
used at Pezzani’s.

The intruder fired off several
shots as I ran. There was a sting in my left shoulder, followed by a horrible
white-hot burning. I heard a cry of pain, but didn’t understand it was my own.
The rest of my brain was focused on reaching my gun.

I flung myself forward, landed on
the bed, and slid, my right hand outstretched. I seemed to watch in slow motion
as my hand inched closer to the weapon. Finally, I reached it.

The shooting persisted. Snatching
the gun up, I rolled onto my right side. I was already squeezing the trigger.

I continued to fire. I attempted to
aim, but more important was pushing the shooter out of the room. I was a
sitting duck. It was a miracle I’d only been hit once.

At my return fire, the figure
stopped, lowered the gun, and sprinted out the door. He or she may have been
trying to kill me, but I’d never been one for shooting a person in the back. I
lowered the muzzle and squeezed off a few more shots.

When the figure was out of the
room, I scrambled up and hurried to the open door. I heard a car door and the
screech of tires, but was unable to see the vehicle from this side of the
building. I was disinclined to go after him or her, given how close they had
come to accomplishing their task tonight. Too close.

I heard sirens already. I went back
into the room and flipped on the light. I ejected the clip from the gun and set
both pieces on the table. In the bathroom mirror, I looked at my shoulder.
There was an ugly red hole in the front, just below my collarbone. Nothing on
the back. The bullet was still in my shoulder.

Soon, the expected blue and red
lights were dancing on the walls. I snagged a front-zip sweatshirt and pulled
it on carefully, clenching my teeth at the pain. I had just gotten it on when Frye
appeared in the open door, his weapon held in front of him by both hands.

I stopped and let
him see my hands.

“We have to stop meeting like this,
Frye.”

He looked around the room.

“That would be nice.”

“I’m alone. My gun is there.” I
pointed to the table.

He lowered his weapon but continued
to hold it in front of him.

“Okay,” he said. “Why don’t you
just take a step to the side? I’ll have a quick look in the bathroom.”

I did as instructed. Only after
he’d confirmed the room was empty did he holster his weapon. He retrieved latex
gloves from his belt and pulled them on, then took possession of the weapon as
he had before. He herded me out of the room as two more patrol cars pulled into
the lot. One of them was Pratt. My eyes rolled involuntarily.

Frye took charge, issuing
directions. The others obeyed. I walked over to my truck, parked near the
office, lowered the tailgate, and sat down.

A few minutes later, I gave my
verbal account to Frye. This time, I had no helpful information, like car make
or model or even color, no license plates, nothing. The crime scene van pulled
into the parking lot and Troy got out. A short time after that, the coroner
arrived, parking outside the office. I reached out and tapped Frye on the
shoulder.

“Shit, Zoe, you don’t look so good.
You look . . . white. You okay?”

“Why is the coroner here?”

He glanced over his shoulder in the
direction of my gaze, considering the best choice of words. Finally he said,
“The night clerk was shot and killed. We think that’s how they got the key to
your room.”

Someone was dead because of me.
Someone
else
, more accurately. I felt dizzy, and there were black spots
in front of my eyes. I leaned forward and put my head between my knees.

There are people who can go their
whole lives, live eighty, ninety, even a hundred years, and not kill another person.
Some of them make it without even hurting anyone else. Like Buddhist monks. Who
don’t even hurt spiders. At twenty-five, I had at least five bodies to my name,
and this situation wasn’t over yet. How many more would there be by the time it
was all said and done? How did those people live so long without hurting
anyone?

_______________

The navy blue Charger tore into the lot about fifteen
minutes behind everyone else. Ellmann barely got the car turned off before he
jumped out. People started talking to him immediately, but he wasn’t listening.
He was looking around for something, or, more accurately, for some
one
.
He spotted me sitting on the tailgate of the truck, and I could see the relief
wash over him. He hurried forward, winding his way through people and vehicles.
When he reached me, I saw him resist the urge to grab me up.