Cleanup on Aisle Six

by Daniel Stallings

  He clicked off the phone, which had grown blurry from the tears gleaming in his silver-blue eyes. He chuckled weakly and fisted away more tears. He didn’t expect to get so emotional. He hobbled out of the bedroom, his hands unable to stem the crying. He handed the phone back to Noah. Despite the waterworks, Li smiled, and his cheeks were glossy and rosy. “Thanks, I … I-I really needed that.”

  “You okay? How’s your family?”

  “They’re fine. It’s … I just haven’t heard their voices in a long time. It was nice. They sounded … happy.” He sniffed and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “Aw geez … I can’t stop crying. I must look like a total crybaby to you.”

  Reuben’s smile was warm and understanding. “You really miss them, don’t you?”

  Li remembered a treasured photo in his wallet. A happy family of four playing in the beach sand. “I miss all of them. Guys … I really don’t know how to thank you for all this. I’m feeling overwhelmed. This is seriously the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me since … since my dad died. Thank you so much. I think if you gave me anything else, I’d completely fall apart.”

  Reuben chuckled. “Well, we were going to save it for after dessert, but what the hell? Merry Christmas Happy Birthday Feliz Navidad!”

  He handed Li a box. Li’s fingers shook as he pried it open. Inside was a clean, shiny, brand-spanking-new pair of sneakers.

  “If they don’t fit, we can always—”

  Li heard nothing more after that. He cried his soul out.

  CHAPTER 3

  Tonight

  Oscar uncrumpled the blood-streaked note for the seventh time. His eyes devoured the angry, trembling block letters screaming at him in all capitals. Obviously, a pitiful attempt to disguise one’s handwriting. Couldn’t these neophytes do a little research before executing these remedial acts of revenge?

  He didn’t even care that a page from his first book had been violated. And this special delivery was so bad that Kathryn didn’t shriek when she unwrapped the package. Ever practical, she tossed the gift into the garbage.

  But Oscar kept the note. It amused him.

  He looked out of his spotless home office window, witnessing the invasion of clouds pulling over the roof of his house. The weatherman reported an overcast day and a moonless night. Oscar took this as a thumbs-up from Mother Nature.

  His poisonous glare returned to the message in his hand. Surely this idiot wouldn’t try something tonight? Then his bloated lips oozed into a smile, and the waxen texture of his cheeks seemed to glow as he outlined his plans. He gave a chuckle permission to wobble in his throat. A childish moment of doubt. Nobody did anything on Sundays. Day of rest. No hotheaded crybaby would interfere with the day’s goals. Not when they were glued to the idiot box watching Sunday Night Football.

  Oscar crumpled the note into a ball and pitched it over his shoulder into the trash can. Perfect shot. Like always. He smirked at the view, at the blanket of gray clouds trying its best to smother the sunlight.

  “Tonight,” he muttered.

  Constance Henderson kept her jaw set, her chin aloft, and her eyes level with her duplicate in the salon’s mirror. Selena, buxom and blonde, ran a comb through the trademark black-and-silver hair. Selena was the only stylist in the salon who didn’t insist on removing the gray. Constance liked that.

  “So where are we going today, Mrs. Mayor?”

  Ah … Mrs. Mayor. The title that defined her as the First Lady of Shorewood.

  She favored the girl with a political smile. “What would you suggest for a covert mission?”

  Selena giggled. “If it was me, I’d do a low chignon just about here.” She cupped her fingers around the nape of Constance’s neck. “And give you a stronger fringe. Something simple. Nothing flashy that would draw attention to itself.”

  A bun and bangs to hide my eyes, Constance thought. “It sounds perfect.”

  Selena’s comb whipped through the stormy hair. “Shall I trim the ends for you?”

  “Only if it’s necessary.”

  Constance shut out the world again, sheltered in her thoughts. It didn’t matter if the girl believed the covert mission story or not. All Constance cared about was information. Information fueled clout. And clout, the brass ring she spent her whole life reaching for, could smooth out any hiccup in an otherwise flawless situation.

  Her thoughts soured. Damn Marshall! Damn him! Damn him! Damn him!

  However, she could handle Marshall. Oscar was the man she had to control. Constance felt her blood beat in her jaw. She knew he was planning something. Something huge. She had never seen him so happy before, and a happy Oscar was a plague to the city of Shorewood.

  “I’m going to take off about an inch, Mrs. Mayor. Just the ends, okay?”

  “What? Oh … oh yes. That’s fine.”

  She remembered Friday. She watched him saunter home. Oscar had been on the cusp of singing and skipping. Her sources said he resigned from The Shorewood Gazette that afternoon. Her internal sirens blared. Oscar wouldn’t leave a job where he had power unless he had a very persuasive reason. Cutting off all ties. Separating himself from a powder keg. And there was his threat on Saturday. Veiled, yes, but it was there. A deadly threat wrapped in pleasantries. What did he plan to do with his information?

  But his walk home didn’t start at The Gazette offices. That was farther across town. And he had the smug smile of a man whose plans were crystallizing. The place where he started that walk made him deliriously happy. She could feel his fur-patched paws clamp down on her throat. Where had he been? What did he do there?

  “I hate cloudy days,” Selena moaned as she styled Constance’s bangs. “They’re too gloomy. The weatherman said it would be a cloudy night too. No stars or moon or anything. It’ll be like living in a cave.”

  A cloudy night. Perfect night for espionage.

  “It’s just winter reminding us that it’s coming, Selena. Did the report definitely say there would be no moon?”

  She knew where Oscar had been headed. Home to his chippie.

  But where the hell did he come from?

  The report was accurate. The plush bank of clouds filling the skies all day stayed resolute. Shorewood was pitched into darkness by seven o’clock, the sky so clean and black that it seemed God had rubbed out the moon and the stars. Rain threatened to arrive uninvited.

  The gray house sat as still as a tombstone on the calm, quiet street. A screen in a second-story window jostled in its seat. Something inside pushed and prodded along the casing. After a few cricks and creaks, the window screen popped out of its setting. The gloved hands were expert in their movements. The screen didn’t slip from their hold and withdrew into the house without so much as a scrape. Sly as a cat burglar, a man crept through the open window, perched on his toes.

  This was the tricky part. The tree limb was pliable, given to sway at the slightest breath of breeze. Keeping one hand glued to the sill, the man reached out for the branch. It moved, unprovoked, and grazed his gloved fingertips, slipping through them. The man swore. He was a lively swearer when certain monsters weren’t around.

  Another unprovoked sway brought the limb into his palm, his hand closing upon it like a bear trap. He pulled on the branch, wishing he could drag the whole tree closer, fighting to ignore the beading of sweat on his forehead. Now came the scary part. He had to do it. He couldn’t wait until Wednesday. There wouldn’t be any more Wednesday jaunts after Friday’s bombshell. This was an emergency. Calming his heartbeat with a soul-reaching breath, the man pushed off the wall with his feet and let go of the sill, his free hand swinging for the branch.

  His hand made contact, and he strangled the limb with his fingers. Thank Jesus for his slender frame. He swung his legs up until they twisted around the branch. Even though he’d done that move thousands of times, it still boggled his mind. He shimmied across the branch toward the tree trunk, where the descent would be lifetimes easier.

  His feet made a soft flop in the wel
l-gardened grass lawn. Cats aren’t the only ones who always land on their feet, he thought. Sparing a brief glance at the open window that would accept his return, the man raced off into the Shorewood night, his sneaker-steps muffled by the grass he took care to stay on.

  Jason Lindstrom had escaped from his prison again.

  “Sunday nights are slow, Li. Be prepared for long hours and no action. Nobody really buys groceries at this hour. It’ll be a graveyard in here.”

  Reuben taught Li how to use the handheld scanners, and they were busy logging price changes on boxes of oatmeal. Li stocked them onto the beige metal shelves. “I don’t mind quiet nights. I kind of need one after last night.”

  “Speaking of that, Noah and I would love it if you came again sometime. We promise not to make you cry.”

  Li laughed. “Oh don’t worry about it. After tasting your boyfriend’s food, I’m tempted to move in with you guys.”

  Reuben’s grin brightened his face. “Why do you think I love him so much?”

  “Are you going to marry Noah?”

  An unexpected blush filtered into Reuben’s cheeks, giving them a healthy russet glow. His smile shrank into that of a shy child’s. “I really, really, really want to. There’s just so many questions though. Are we ready? Are we too young? Besides, I wanted to wait until Noah got his master’s degree.” He closed the narrative with a sharp nod. “Then I’ll marry him. It’s a done deal.”

  “I’m looking forward to the big engagement.” Li scanned more boxes, his fingers dancing over the keypad like he had been working here for years. “So … um … can I ask you something?”

  “Of course you can.”

  Li fiddled with a few buttons on the scanner, buttons he didn’t need to push. “Well … uh … what’s with you and Oscar anyway?”

  Reuben’s face hardened into sandstone. “Nope. Not going to talk about that. No way.”

  “He really pissed you off though.”

  “I’m not listening to this.”

  “Reuben, I—”

  Reuben slammed a box on the shelf, making other boxes fall over. “Fine. I hate him. I hate his guts. Satisfied? No more discussion.”

  Li lifted his hands in surrender. “Okay okay, I was just worried. You said you were close to assaulting him. You’ve been so nice to me, and it was scary to see you get that angry. What would happen if you ran into him again?”

  “Oh, I better not. Twice in a weekend is already too much. I’d bash him in the head.”

  “Don’t make jokes like that!” Li’s memories zoomed back to the cruise ship where he last worked. A body. Artfully displayed. Roasting in the summer sun.

  Reuben turned dark, bleak eyes to his trainee. “Who said I was joking?”

  Thunder rolled over the roof of Esther’s Family Grocery.

  “Looks like our forecasters forgot to mention the rain.” Leo Lewis, millionaire’s smile pinned to his face, strolled down the breakfast aisle with the swagger of a man who has conquered the world. “It’s going to be a wet night. How’s it going over here, boys?”

  Li tried to make eye contact with Reuben and failed. “Almost done, Leo.”

  “Hey, you remembered. Excellent. I have another job for both of you. Unfortunately, I have to split up the dream team.”

  “Fine by me,” Reuben said. He mumbled to himself: “I think I need to be alone for a little bit anyway.”

  Li’s stress lines, which had been smoothing out for the past two days, returned in sharp relief on his young face.

  “Reuben, I think you can handle the rest of these price changes. After the oatmeal, we need to do some on the canned pasta. Aisle five.”

  “Sure thing, boss.” Reuben’s words dropped from his lips like lead sinkers, thudding on the tortured linoleum.

  “Perfect. Liam, could you use the long dust mop and sweep these floors? Make them sparkle? The dust mop is over in produce.”

  Li fussed with his necktie, casting concerned looks at Reuben. “S-sure.”

  “Great. Wonderful. I’m lucky to have you both here.” Leo strode off again, chest out, chin up.

  “Reuben, I just want to say that—”

  Reuben forestalled him with a hard look, holding out an open palm for the handheld scanner. The frown tucked into his face told Li everything he needed to know. Li blushed, handed over the scanner, and left for the produce section.

  He found the dust mop leaning against the self-serve nut bins and started weaving the bristled head around the pyramids of oranges, apples, potatoes, and onions. Reuben was right. The supermarket was a graveyard tonight. Li could count off the number of customers on one hand. He saw a lady—definitely a lady by the way she held her shoulders and chin—in a black silk jumpsuit taking a rather overt interest in the prepared salad mixes. Almost like she refused to let Li see her face. He shook the idea out of his head and began sweeping the perimeter, scanning the store for other customers.

  There was a young couple exchanging furious glances with each other in the snack aisle. A man in a dripping, yellow slicker returned the glassy stare of a dead fish in the seafood counter. A stoner tried to open a can of SpaghettiOs with his fingers. A sad crowd. All of them too absorbed in their own bubbles of consciousness. Two months ago, Li would have given his eyeteeth to have this sort of freedom and peace at work. Now nobody wanted him.

  But, he mused, recalling the deadly interference at his last job, this sure beats the alternative. Let’s keep everyone alive this time, okay?

  He wove through the aisles next, eyes still searching the customers, this time to check for vital signs. He felt this weird churning in the core of his stomach. Like motion sickness. He pictured Reuben’s face from yesterday—cheeks saturated with blood, eyes dark with murder, snarl warping his smile. All of it aimed at a man nicknamed Oscar the Grouch. Who was he? What did he mean to Reuben?

  Speaking of Reuben, he was in aisle five, apron smudged with bright red stains, waving a Wet Floor sign over a damp patch on the linoleum floor. He snarled at the stoner, who giggled at the splashes of red on his distressed jeans and steel-toe boots. Li scurried out of the aisle before Reuben targeted that snarl at him.

  Li rounded the endcap and swept down the spice aisle. He shoved Reuben’s problems out of his brain. They were none of his business. He didn’t have to—

  Thump. The dust mop bumped into something big and thick blocking the aisle. Li’s heart stuttered. He pulled back the dust mop, lifting a sad, dirty curtain on a horrible sideshow. A man lay across the breadth of the spice aisle, his back facing Li. He must have been sick. Or he fainted. Li had to get help. Or try to revive him.

  He would have … except for that spreading halo of blood around the man’s head.

  The dust mop clattered on the floor. Li stumbled backward, plastering both hands to his mouth and banging into the shelves behind him. Spice shakers cartwheeled to the ground, some of them shattering and coughing up clouds of pepper, cinnamon, and oregano. Li sneezed, and his eyes started to flood with tears. He didn’t know if it was from shock, terror, or the spicy, vinegary scent of blood washing over him.

  Don’t go into shock, he told himself. This isn’t your first … your first body. Breathe. Do what Doc Innsbrook told you on the cruise ship. Breathe.

  Li coughed and wheezed, pulling himself out of the spice-rich fog. He tiptoed toward the unconscious man. His feet blundered over a five-pound bag of sugar lounging near the swelling ocean of blood. Blood. Oh God, I hate blood. Careful not to tread in the puddle, Li stretched out a trembling hand and rolled the man on his back. The man plopped onto the tile with a wet squelch.

  He looked even uglier than Li remembered. The face sagged like a popped balloon. A fat, purple bruise sat squarely on the bald crown of his head. Blood oozed like strawberry jam through a crack in his skull. His eyes were accusatory, blaming Li for the mess on the floor he had been ordered to clean.

  But Oscar the Grouch wouldn’t levy another critique about Li’s work ethic.

&nbs
p; He was dead.

  Li scuttled away from the accusing eyes, the body, the blood. Hyperventilation seized his lungs. Swallowing a thick draft of air, he staggered toward the front of the store. He slipped on a few wet spots on the floor, crashing to the ground. His wide, tear-streaked eyes met the dead man’s glare. YOU DID THIS, they screamed.

  YOU DID THIS! YOU DID THIS! YOU DID THIS!

  Now he knew how Medusa’s victims felt.

  Li crawled out of the spice aisle, swayed to his feet, and started to shout, unaware how weak and shrill his voice was.

  “Someone! Anyone! Call the police!”

  CHAPTER 4

  Police

  He was a dead ringer for Sidney Poitier.

  Or better yet, for Sidney Poitier playing Mr. Tibbs in In the Heat of the Night.

  Detective Antoine Hughes brushed the peppering of raindrops off his close-cut black hair, resisted shaking the water off his bullet-gray overcoat, and let his eyes settle on the activity in front of him. Esther’s Family Grocery was a hole in the wall, especially with the new Whole Foods in town. He doubted if Esther’s had ever been as busy as it was right now.

  Adam, his shadow, sauntered up behind him. “Boy, this is probably the busiest this place has ever been. I’ve never been here before. I shop at Whole Foods.”

  Detective Hughes shifted his appraisal from the store to his partner for the case. Adam Schafer-Schmidt was young, which, to the senior officer, meant he was just over thirty. His rain-slicked dishwater-blond hair made him look even younger. The kid was up for promotion to detective, and the chief thought it was best to get Adam’s feet wet early on a potentially big case.

  Detective Hughes glanced at his sodden shoes and wished the idiom hadn’t been so appropriate.

  “The meds here, Adam?”

  “Yes. They arrived a few minutes before we did.”