by Becky Clark
“Okay then.”
“Melinda’s car.” I heard him sigh. “I just need to know if somebody can screw with the electrical system or the engine or something—”
“I told you before, we did not sabotage Melinda Walter’s car. And if that’s—”
“No, not you guys. Somebody like a hacker. Could a hacker take control of her car?”
“Of course not. If it was one of those newfangled driverless cars, then sure. But this is a classic car, restored to its former glory. Hand-crank windows. Manual locks. There’s no computer in there.”
I laughed, relieved. “Of course there’s not. How stupid of me. That’s all I needed. Thanks for your time.”
Ozzi’s name remained crossed off my suspect list.
My detective work was interrupted by a knock on my door. Every nerve and muscle clenched. Again. If this kept happening, I’d have the tightest abs and tush around. I knew it was absurd, but the only people I expected to knock on my door these days were cops and murderers.
I wasn’t sure which I’d rather see.
They knocked again, louder and more insistently this time, jarring me from my paralysis. I shuffled to the door, sneaking up on the peephole. Relief flooded me and I opened the door to two perky twenty-something women wearing matching, but not quite rhyming, Green Clean Team polo shirts.
“Hey, Charlee. Did you forget? Second Thursday of the month. Cleaning day.”
“Hi, Marta. Hi, Blanca. I’m sorry, I did. Just give me five minutes.” Once a month, I secretly paid to have Don and Barb’s apartment cleaned. I quickly wrote the house cleaners a check and handed them the Singers’ key before climbing the stairs and knocking on the couple’s door. I peeked over the balcony to make sure no bad guys were lurking, even though I wasn’t entirely sure what a bad guy might look like. I guessed if I saw someone wearing a black Stetson or trussed up like Hannibal Lecter, I would probably run away.
When Don opened the door, Peter O’Drool raced around my ankles the requisite number of times before racing back inside to fetch his squeaky toy.
“Hey, Don, I need to get away from my computer for a while. Will you and Barb go with me to the art museum?” I knew they’d say yes because it was one of their favorite outings.
Barb plucked her coat and purse from the back of a chair while Peter pranced around me, displaying his toy. “We were just wondering what we were going to do today.”
I picked up Peter and booped his nose with mine. “You should be very proud of your toy, but you’re going to have to play with it by yourself for a while.” If a dog could say “Okey-dokey,” that’s what I would have heard when I deposited him in his well-worn doggie bed. I knew Marta and Blanca brought him treats and showered him with attention while they cleaned.
As Don closed and locked the door he said, “See you later, Pete. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“Be really careful, okay?” I said to them. “I slipped on some ice last night. Not as fun as it might sound.”
“Oh, you poor dear,” Barb said, patting my hand.
I followed them down the stairs, all of us limping and favoring certain limbs. I wondered, as usual, how long it would be before their knees and hips couldn’t negotiate the stairs anymore. When that day came, I already knew I’d switch apartments with them. Spry as they were, I suspected that day wouldn’t come any time soon.
They held each other and took slow, shuffling steps over the snowy and icy spots while crossing the parking lot. I hovered behind them doing the same, hoping I could catch them before they fell, nervously reminding myself that I hadn’t even rescued myself from the ice last night.
Don raised his eyebrows at the message on the back of my car. I shrugged in response. I gathered a handful of snow and erased it as best I could while they settled into the back seat of my car, where they liked to sit. Don said it was because they liked to hold hands and smooch, but I suspected it had something to do with the pile of crap that always seemed to live on my front passenger seat. Or maybe it was my driving and they felt safer back there. Regardless, I was always happy to chauffeur them around.
Twenty-five minutes later we’d made our way through Aurora and into the heart of Denver, where we pulled into the museum parking structure. Trolling for a spot, I spied an open one far from the elevator and asked if they wanted me to drop them off a bit closer.
“Landsakes. We’re not invalids. The exercise will do us good,” Barb said.
“Alrighty.”
I parked and we made our way back the way we’d come, heading for the elevator in the corner. Parking garages always gave me the spooks, but now I was positively jumpy. There were no other people that I could see, but so many weird noises I was sure there’d be an ambush somewhere between my car and the elevator. I held my breath and tensed, ready to let loose with a well-placed karate chop or roundhouse kick, assuming I could perform either. Deep down I knew if anyone jumped out, I’d probably just scream. I liked to think I wouldn’t grab Don or Barb and use them as a shield, but I couldn’t be certain.
I drew a deep breath when we got to the elevator without mishap. No scary characters sighted either in the elevator or walking across the plaza to the museum. I ushered Don and Barb inside the building, where I felt I could completely relax. I don’t know why, except there were uniformed guards there and they made me feel safe. Nothing bad can happen in an art museum, right? Except for being confronted with the sight of modern art. That’s an unnecessarily brutal assault on your sensibilities.
Don and Barb headed straight for the café across the gift shop. I got a Houdini panini and they split a Ty Cobb salad.
After we ate, we browsed the “gift shop exhibit,” the only one we ever saw. They could look at all the famous works of art in postcard and art book form, as well as the special products the museum brought in for the traveling exhibits. “Like a guided tour without all that walking,” Don always said.
It served our purposes quite well. We didn’t have to pay admission, we didn’t get exhausted after executing the slow shuffle through all the galleries, and nobody cared when Don inevitably dragged an oversized art book to a café table to leaf through the pages.
I picked up a brochure about the traveling exhibit on display upstairs. It featured the art stolen by the Nazis in WWII, the organized looting by the Third Reich. Some of the paintings had been identified and reunited with the rightful owners, but many hadn’t. The brochure explained how all the museums and collectors in the world were being encouraged to research and determine the provenance of all the art in their collections.
I folded the brochure and shoved it in my bag, turning toward the sand pictures Ozzi and I loved so much. I picked up a small one and turned it upside down to watch the cascade of sand in motion. The muted colors rose and fell, slowly waltzing to unheard music. The grains twisted and turned, meeting new partners and rejecting old in a spectacle that could never be performed exactly the same way ever again. Watching slow-motion mountains and valleys form and reform with every turn of the frame was hypnotizing.
“Like me and Ozzi,” I murmured to the sand picture. We were perfectly fine while sitting on the shelf, both of us happy and content with our lives. But then some unseen hand had picked us up and turned us over and everything had changed, perhaps never to be the same.
I jumped when Barb touched my elbow. “Ready to go, dear? Go pick out something.”
Each time before we left, Don and Barb insisted on buying me a souvenir so I’d learned to be careful about what I expressed interest in. They’d offered to buy me one of the sand pictures many times, but I didn’t want them spending that much money on me. I told them I didn’t have room for one and they seemed to accept my explanation. And if I wanted to admire the silk scarves, I made sure they weren’t looking.
I headed over to the wall of postcards, most of them reproductions of the art in the building or from past traveling exhibits. A double postcard of two of the plundered works of art caught my eye.
Both were stylized couples. One, in fact, was titled Couple by Hans Christoph, and the other was titled Man and Woman in the Window by Wilhelm Lachnit. I showed it to Don and Barb, saying I liked the colors, but I realized even as I said it that maybe the postcard had caught my eye because it reminded me of me and Ozzi. It reminded me of a vague something else, too, but this remained out of reach.
On the way home, the Singers always insisted we stop at the craft store near our complex so I could run in and buy a pre-cut art mat or cheap frame for whatever I’d chosen. Adorably, Don once again pressed a five dollar bill into my hand from the back seat.
I delivered Don and Barb back to their apartment and was rewarded with another inspection of Peter’s squeaky toy and a plate of brownies already wrapped up in cellophane and tied at the top with a ribbon. I was beginning to suspect my secret monthly cleanings weren’t such a secret after all.
When Barb gave me the plate, she placed her hand gently on my arm and gave me a little squeeze. “I’m sorry, dear, but these don’t have walnuts. I ran out after the banana bread.”
“Oh, that’s perfectly fine.” I struggled to modulate my tone and rein in my glee. “I just love that you think of me so often, baking me such delicious goodies. I wish I could repay you.”
Barb waved me away.
Balancing the brownies on my palm, I made my way back to my apartment. I stopped twice on the flight of stairs, ears perked, trying to discern unusual noises I heard. Both times, I realized it was the rustling rhythm of the cellophane, the hobby store bag, and the bag from the museum gift shop. My twitchiness at the prospect of a murderer after me had not been eased by our field trip.
At my door I bobbled the plate of brownies with the bags, trying to find my keys in my messenger bag. You’d think that after watching all the crime dramas on TV I’d know enough to have my keys in my hand, maybe even poking out between my fingers to double as an eye-gouging weapon. But no. The prospect of walnut-free brownies had overwhelmed my good sense.
I put everything down and slowly squatted to dig through my bag. You’d also think a clever and accomplished college graduate such as myself would be smart enough to put her keys back in the same place each time.
Quiet footsteps sounded behind me and I froze. My hand slowly wrapped around my set of keys and I maneuvered them between my fingers. The footsteps stopped. I stayed down, hand in my bag, thighs and back screaming for release. Feet shuffled on the concrete. I inhaled, held my breath, and counted in my head. One … two … three.
I stood and began to twist, elbow raised, keys in my fist. At that precise moment a hand clasped my shoulder. I lost my balance and toppled, shrieking. I flailed my eye-gouging keys wildly in the air around me, striking nothing.
“Geez. Chill out.”
Suzanne.
“Cripes! What are you doing, sneaking up on me that way?” I looked down at my knee, solidly centered in the plate of now squished brownies.
“I wasn’t sneaking. I was just walking. Not my fault I’m naturally stealthy.”
“Everything okay down there, Charlee?” Don’s voice called out.
“Yeah, Don, everything’s fine.” Except the brownies. I struggled to my feet, relieved nothing hurt worse than it had before. I unlocked the door and gathered my things, staring forlornly at the brownies.
“Sorry about that,” Suzanne said. “Easy come, easy go, I guess.” She made no attempt to leave.
“Is there something you wanted?” I allowed the slightest tinge of annoyance to creep into my voice.
“The cops came yesterday.”
“I know. I saw when Barb brought me the flowers.” I gestured at them on the table.
“They tricked me into opening the door.”
“How?”
“They knocked—”
“Not really a trick. That’s how most people do it.”
“—and then pretended to leave. Probably surveilled me.” Suzanne’s eyes darted around. She seemed more paranoid than normal.
“What did they say?” I asked. A good sleuth would have asked her this during our banana bread exchange, but I’d been too worried about my potential Peeping Tom and/or murderer.
“They asked about my alibi, but I told them I couldn’t remember because Mercury was in retrograde. They scolded me for joking about the murder, but I couldn’t tell them the truth about where I was because then they’d arrest me for sure.”
Now my eyes darted around. I backed away from her into my apartment.
But not before she muscled her way past me.
Seventeen
I returned my eye-gouging keys to their position between my fingers and widened my stance for extra stability. Suzanne retrieved the brownies and then sat on my couch. I stayed where I was, messenger bag on my shoulder, plastic bags looped on my still-sore wrist.
“So, why would the police arrest you?”
“Because I refused to tell them my alibi.”
“Which is … ”
“That the night before your agent’s murder, I couldn’t have tampered with her car because I was breaking into the bookstore.”
“What? Where … which … why?”
Suzanne’s face hardened. “How do you think I got all those books? Do you know what a freelance health care worker makes?”
I pictured my beloved bookstores around Denver—the Tattered Cover, BookBar, Capital Hill Books, the Broadway Book Mall. The idea of someone breaking into them felt like breaking into the very depths of my soul.
I was afraid to ask but did anyway. “Which store?”
“Espresso Yourself.”
“Across the street?” I waved vaguely toward my front door. “The one Lavar and Tuttle own? How can you steal from them?” I felt my face getting hot and fought to control my temper.
Suzanne shrugged. “Never met ’em. They’re never there when I do my … shopping. And I don’t drink coffee.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Let me rephrase. I don’t drink coffee where I steal.”
“What are you thinking?” I dropped my keys into my bag, then dumped all my bags on the floor. “You can’t just go around stealing books. They’ll put you in jail for that.”
“Nah. Those flimsy locks over there just make it so easy. It’s almost as if they want me to break in.”
“Pretty sure they don’t.” I rubbed my injured wrist, glad I hadn’t made it worse.
“It’s not that big a deal. I go over there Sunday nights and pick out three books I’d like. They must not miss them. Haven’t changed the locks. Have they ever said anything to you? You guys are friends.”
I couldn’t recall them ever mentioning a break-in. But would they? It wasn’t information you’d want to get out, it seemed. “What you’re doing is—”
She raised one palm to me. “Not the point right now.”
“What is the point, then?”
“That I don’t have an alibi for the murder.”
I shrugged. “Neither do I.” Then I cut my eyes at Suzanne. “When did you break into the bookstore?”
“You know, it’s more of a coffee place than a booksto—”
“When?”
“Like, midnight Sunday.”
I stared at her.
“I didn’t kill her.”
I kept staring. Could she have killed Melinda? She was being awfully forthcoming if she had. On the other hand, if I’d killed someone, I’d prefer the lesser crime of breaking and entering too. Suzanne had all those books about murder in her apartment. But she’d read them all and would know she’d be a prime suspect. And why would she kill someone exactly like I wrote? Surely she’d read about better ways, ones that couldn’t be traced back to her reading my manuscript. And motive. What was her motive?
“Stop staring,” Suzanne said. “You’re giving me the creeps.”
“It’s only fair. You’re giving me the creeps, too. And those books you gave me. They were stolen, weren’t they?”
We continued our stare-down unt
il she blinked. “Charlee, you know I didn’t kill her.”
I glanced at the plate of smushed brownies on the coffee table. I untied the ribbon at the top of the cellophane and peeled back the wrapping. I scooped up a hearty fingerful of fudgy confection with my finger, then licked it off. I didn’t know who or what to believe anymore but hoped brownies would enlighten me.
“Gross.” Suzanne stood and walked toward the door. With her hand on the knob, she leveled her gaze at me. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
I had another fingerful halfway to my mouth. It hung there while I considered Suzanne’s secret life of crime. “Wait.”
She let go of the knob and stood, looking puzzled but hopeful. Keeping my eyes on her, I dug in my bag until I found my phone.
“I’m calling my brother. The cop.”
She started to protest, but I raised one finger as he answered. I continued to stare at her while I said, “Lance, hey, I know I said I’d be there soon but I have to do something real quick. If I don’t call you in fifteen, come over here. Fast. So we’re not late. If I’m not home, I’ll be at my next door neighbor’s.”
I clicked away before Lance could ask questions, but I hoped he could understand subtext. At least if Suzanne was really a murderer and decided to do me in, Lance would be on it. I was hoping that one, she wasn’t a murderer, and that two, my phone call would be insurance.
Keeping my phone in my hand, I ushered Suzanne out the door. “I want to see these books you say you stole.”
I followed her into the second bedroom of her apartment. The only furniture was an easy chair next to a small end table in the center of the room. Every wall was now floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, mostly filled with books. I’d been in here briefly a couple of times over the years, borrowing from her vast library. But this time, I crossed to the far side of the room. “You stay there.” I pointed to the doorway.
She leaned against it, a bemused smile making her lips disappear. Keeping one eye on her, I began pulling books randomly from the shelves. All of them had price tags from Espresso Yourself. I didn’t know anything about kleptomania, but wondered if this was a manifestation. It didn’t seem logical, but was there a subset of kleptomania where someone only steals one thing from one place? “What else do you steal?”
