Studying Scarlett the Grey

by Kelle Z Riley

  A grin lit up Horace’s weathered face. “Please tell me you’ll be bringing samples for me to taste test.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” The older couple’s friendship, quirky though it was, warmed Bree down to her soul. A few minutes later, recipes, brain mold, and a packet of tiny tuna treats for Sherlock in her hands, Bree left The Barkery, while Horace and Wendy continued a lively discussion of how to decorate the shop for Halloween.

  Once home, Bree kicked off her shoes, gave Sherlock his treats, and curled up on the couch with a mug of soup and her crime notebook.

  Bill Bandergas Jr. and his mother topped her list of suspects. Both would have benefited from Billy’s death—assuming he hadn’t changed his will to cut out his wife. In addition, Bree could easily imagine Billy’s behavior turning abusive to his wife and son. In that case, a part of her hoped they would get away with murder.

  Still, tempting as Mrs. Bandergas was as a suspect, her spa day excuse sounded iron clad. Bree made a note to ask James if he’d verified the alibi.

  Bill Jr., on the other hand, hadn’t provided an alibi. Bree put check marks in the motive, means, and opportunity columns next to his name.

  Margie also caused Bree to scratch her head. She had no love for Billy—which could be motive. She was strong enough to present a threat, particularly if Billy was drunk and she was armed. Reluctantly Bree put checks in the motive and means columns.

  She went through the rest of the people that worked with or near Billy. Magnus, Juan, Samuel, Michael, and Graham, all received checks for motive and means. Again, the opportunity and alibi columns sat empty, except for Michael who claimed to have been in class. How could she get the information she needed to clear or convict the rest of them?

  Gordon had means, and possibly opportunity, but his admiration for Billy forced Bree to put a large question mark after his name in the motive column.

  The couch dipped as Sherlock jumped onto it next to Bree. He head butted her, knocking the crime notebook out of her hands and onto the floor. Then he promptly curled up in her lap, using one hand for a pillow and curling a paw around the other wrist.

  “You big baby. Was I ignoring you? Or did you think I had more tiny tuna treats?” She disengaged one hand and stroked his large tabby head. His purring rumbled through the room. The accompanying vibrations soothed Bree and lulled her into a state of relaxation.

  “I promise, tomorrow will be a better day for us. I’ll order Chong’s delivery—your favorite and mine.” The cat’s only answer was a sleepy mew.

  Chapter 20

  After a good night’s sleep, Bree woke early and decided to investigate the garage at the emporium before anyone else arrived. Instead of taking her car, she shoved a few essentials in a backpack and ordered a ride share.

  For the first half hour, she poked around the remaining cars, popping trunks and looking inside for other areas designed to hide contraband. Finding nothing with easy access, she turned her investigation to the workstations used by Juan and Magnus. Both had bays in the section of the garage with the car lifts. Nothing but a few family photos, along with clean tools and neat stations caught her eye.

  She moved to a small desk wedged into a corner behind the counter near the back wall. A leather desk set—large blotter, tooled pencil cup, and matching business card holder—looked out of place in the small space. The world’s-best-son mug held the remains of yesterday’s cold coffee.

  Clearly, Bill Jr.’s space, it matched the pretentiousness she’d seen in him. Only one thing didn’t fit. A broken keychain with a circular metal piece dangled from the pencil cup. Bree looked closer. The metal ring appeared to be designed to hold a medallion, which was missing. A gap near the closure indicated it might have fallen out. On impulse, she snapped a photo of the keychain for later analysis.

  She checked the time, estimating that in another thirty to forty-five minutes, the garage would be filled with workers. Perhaps less. She hustled through the door to the other vehicle staging area and into the glassed off area Gordon used as an office.

  An old-fashioned two-man desk with a single, presumably shared, computer dominated the space. She turned on the computer, and while she waited for the system to boot, focused on the other parts of the office

  In the back corner, she located a filing cabinet. The top drawer contained two sections, labeled scanned and unscanned. A quick flip through them indicated they were organized roughly by date. Nothing appeared unusual—at least not yet.

  The middle drawer had a couple of interesting folders, one each for the Mustang and the Crown Vic. She carried the files to Gordon’s desktop, where she shoved aside pens and loose papers to make room to work.

  Before photographing the file’s contents, she inserted a flash drive into the computer and executed a program to allow her remote access. She’d investigate the contents of the computer from the safety of her home or the Tech Ops center at the Sci-Spy complex.

  While her program loaded, she flipped through each file, snapping photos of the pages to examine later. Once complete, she returned the files to their place in the cabinet and checked the other drawers.

  The bottom contained only a pair of steel toed safety shoes, a small first aid kit and a Tupperware container filled with a jumble of sauce packets and travel sized bottles of condiments ranging from hot sauce to liquid smoke. Nothing worth noting. Examination of the cabinet complete for now, she returned to the desk.

  Bree sat in Gordon’s chair, peering into the garage, trying to determine what he could see from this angle. She stood, again assessing the view. Finally she stacked a couple of thick reference books on the chair and sat again, trying to estimate what Gordon, with his taller frame, might have seen.

  Satisfied, she removed her flash drive from the computer and started the shutdown procedure. While she waited, she jotted her observations in her crime notebook.

  Once the computer was shut down, she scanned the office, returning everything—desk chair, reference books, even the pens and papers littering his desk—to the places where they had originally been. Satisfied that she’d erased traces of her presence in the office, she left.

  As she made her way back to the main entrance, raised voices in the showroom drew her attention. She checked the time again. While the garage workers might be entering the building, it was rare for the sales staff to arrive this early.

  She flattened herself against the wall, close enough to hear the conversation in the showroom, but also close enough to claim to be entering the hallway from the locker room if someone caught her.

  “Don’t lie to me. I can’t help you if you lie,” said Liza in a furious whisper.

  “You never trust me, Liza,” replied the second voice, which Bree thought belonged to Samuel. The sarcastic twist to Liza’s name caused the skin on Bree’s arms to prickle.

  “I’m not a kid anymore. I need space.”

  “Space for what? Getting into fights? Don’t think I haven’t seen the bruises and cuts you try to cover up. What are you involved in? Where were you that night?”

  “I was with friends. And when I say I was with friends, that should be enough for you.”

  “It might be if a man hadn’t died that night.”

  “Like that matters to me. Or you. Billy had enemies. I don’t. It’s not like I was somewhere dangerous, or doing anything illegal m—”

  “Then why won’t you tell me?”

  Silence stretched until Bree wondered if they’d left the room. She eased her weight forward, planning to hide out in the locker room when Samuel’s voice stopped her.

  “I didn’t tell you, because you wouldn’t approve.”

  “Oh, Sammy!” Liza’s voice sounded thick, as if clogged by tears. “You know I would never—”

  “It’s not something for you to worry about.” Samuel’s voice softened. “You already worry too much. I did what I had to do. And I wouldn’t do it again if you paid me.”


  The squeak of a sneaker on the floor tile had Bree sprinting to the locker room, her mind racing to digest what she’d heard. And to find a way to uncover what had been omitted.

  Try as she might to maneuver time alone to talk with Samuel, Bree couldn’t manage it. With just a week left until Halloween, the team kept her running between the seasonal décor room with its animated skeletons, mummies, bats, fog machines, and other supplies, and the showroom.

  Late morning, her day went from difficult to near disastrous—if having her cover blown could be considered a disaster. Compared with stalking Zed across the globe, it didn’t present much of a threat, but when Horace and Wendy Clark stepped into the Halloween display she was organizing, Bree’s senses kicked into overdrive.

  Ducking behind a lifelike trio of witches, she crept into the shadows, hoping to make her way to the employee-only hallway behind the back doors.

  No such luck. Wendy strode deep into the display, cutting off Bree’s escape. She looked around, forcing her mind to be logical and orderly. Her salvation stared back at her from a section of shelving against the wall. When in doubt, be bold.

  “We need some help,” Wendy called from the back of the display area. She raised her voice. “Is anyone here who can help?”

  Bree slipped into a wolfman mask, pulling the three-dimensional latex disguise over her head and tucking her hair inside. She positioned herself beside the witchy trio, not moving a muscle.

  “Over here,” Horace said, motioning for Wendy. “I think I saw someone when we came in. Maybe in the back.”

  The two made their way through the multiple displays, coming near to Bree’s position.

  Horace stopped and scratched his head. “I thought—”

  “Boo!” Bree lunged from her place by the witches.

  The couple jumped before dissolving into laughter. “Oh, that was a good one.”

  “Can I help you find anything?” Bree asked, dropping her voice to a husky timbre.

  “Sure. I want a couple of those crows,” Horace said, pointing to a display of foam and feather creations. He turned to Wendy. “We should put two of them on The Barkery’s treat counter with a sign that says Attempted Murder.”

  He swiveled his gaze from Bree to Wendy. “Get it?”

  “Of course, I do, you old coot,” Wendy swatted his arm affectionately and turned to Bree. “In case you didn’t know the collective plural noun for a group of crows is called a murder.”

  “I…did know,” said Bree, wondering how the Clarks knew the literary tidbit. Then again, they knew everything about animals, so it shouldn’t have been surprising.

  “Let’s also take some spider webbing, and this packet of fake bugs,” Wendy said. “We can display these inside the case where any canine customers won’t choke on them. Maybe I could even whip up a recipe for a spider shaped dog treat.” Chattering happily, the couple waved to Bree and headed to the main showroom with their prizes.

  Wanting to stay away from the Clarks and possible recognition, Bree pulled the mask off and headed to the garage via the employee corridors. Juan nearly collided with her at the door. “What brings you here, Cat?” His brow crinkled in concern. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “No, just some friends of the family I’d rather avoid,” she ad-libbed. “Can I hang out with you for a few minutes?”

  Juan motioned for her to wait as he reentered the garage. Two minutes later, he returned. “Both Gordon and Bill Jr. are at lunch. Together.” He scratched his head. “I don’t know what that means, but it’s likely trouble for me and Magnus. Anyway, the coast is clear for half an hour or more. Come on in.”

  He led the way into the garage and stopped next to a mid-sized sedan. “I promised you lessons on caring for your car. Today’s lesson is changing a flat tire.” He walked her around the car, popped the trunk, and showed her the well where the spare and a tire jack were located.

  Soon, following his instructions, Bree was hefting the new tire into place, sweat trickling down her back. She tightened the lug nuts and stood, wiping her damp brow. “Good job,” Juan commented. “Now, put on the original tire, and stow the spare in the trunk.”

  Bree hunkered down, taking control of the conversation. “Does everyone in the garage do this?”

  “Yes. Billy considered it part of the basic training for working here.” He squatted next to Bree. “He was a task master compared to me. I just want to be sure you know how to handle a basic repair or two. Billy turned it into more of a test of character.”

  “So what about Samuel and Michael from shipping? Did he teach them to change tires?”

  Juan laughed and held his hand out to collect her lug nuts as she removed them. “Michael can be a cold fish. It’s hard to get under that one’s skin. Billy threw every insult in the book at the kid, from calling him a sissy to using the N-word. Michael never flinched. Just looked at Billy as if he was some sort of doggie-do on the bottom of the kid’s shoe.” Then Juan’s grin lit up the room. “I admire that kid.”

  The contrast between the cold fish Juan described and the self-aware, determined, yet helpful young man she’d met earlier unnerved Bree. Could anyone really change their personality that much? On the other hand, Billy did seem to bring out the worst in people.

  “I bet Billy didn’t like that,” she said, grunting as she removed the spare tire from the axil.

  “Didn’t like it at all. He was in an extra abusive mood for the rest of the day.” Juan shrugged and lifted the original tire back into place for Bree to secure. “The next day, he was back to being his normal grumpy self.”

  “So he abused everyone who worked for him?”

  “Mostly just young workers and any women who tried to carve out a place here. Samuel,” he shook his head, “watching that was painful.”

  Bree slowed her movements, hoping to keep Juan talking. It worked.

  “I don’t think Sammy had a father figure in his life. He let it slip that he was raised by foster parents. An older white-collar couple who kept him fed and clothed but were always disappointed in him. The kid didn’t like to talk about it, so I kept his confidence. Anyway, for whatever reason, he latched onto Billy. Everything Billy asked, he tried to do. And kept trying over and over, hoping to earn approval.”

  “He never got it?” Bree finished her task and stood.

  “Never. Just more humiliation. Sammy toughed it out but only got banged up for his efforts. Besides being clumsy, he wasn’t strong. He had more scrapes and bruises than the rest of us combined. All from trying to impress Billy.” Juan shook his head and gave Bree a couple of tips on stowing the spare tire and jack.

  “Samuel didn’t look weak to me,” she said as she closed the wheel well and rearranged the carpet over it.

  “He’s added some muscle—and a lot of confidence—since he started working for Graham. That’s a much better fit.” Juan slammed the trunk down and turned to Bree, a gleam in his eye and a grin pulling at his lips. “Are you ready for the bad news?”

  Bree curled her grimy hands into fists and slowed her breathing in reaction to his taunt. “Bad news?”

  Juan nodded. “All that work you just did? You almost never have to do it. Modern cars don’t usually come with a spare. The real way to change one is to call for roadside assistance.”

  “No.” Bree punched his arm with one fist, earning a laugh.

  “It’s still important to know how to do it, in my opinion. Like I said, everyone should know how to take care of themselves.” He looked over his shoulder. “The lunch group will be back soon. You should wash up. Next time, I’ll tutor you on the engine fluids.”

  “Another task I won’t need to do?” she threw over her shoulder as she headed to a place where she could wash up.

  “No,” Juan called, his voice following her. “Another task that could save your life one day.”

  Chapter 21

  Bree kicked off her shoes and flopped in a corner of
her couch, chopsticks ready to dig into the container of fried rice. Sherlock batted her arm. “Hey, you had yours. I swear every time I order from Chong’s your friend the delivery man brings you more food than he brings me.”

  Mrowww. Sherlock stared at the other containers stacked on the coffee table then turned to Bree. She could swear there was accusation in his eyes. “Don’t look that way at me. I ordered extra so I wouldn’t have to cook this week. My kitchen time is dedicated to baking treats for the Halloween party.” She ignored the cat and raised a bite of the rice to her mouth.

  Three bliss-filled bites later, someone pounded on her door. “Police. Open up,” shouted a guttural voice. Muffled laughter followed the pronouncement and the pounding continued.

  “Open in the name of the law,” said another voice.

  Bree put down the fried rice and stomped to the door, not bothering to check the security camera. She jerked it open and thrust her hands on her hips. “I’ll open to keep my neighbors from complaining. Exactly what are you two up to?”

  James and Matthew cast glances at each other and shouldered their way into the condo, sheepish grins on their faces. She didn’t trust this apparent camaraderie between the men, who typically spent their time heckling each other. “Have you both been drinking?”

  “Nope.” Matthew grinned at her, the smile reaching his eyes. The slight slurring of his words belied his claim. He held out a bulging bag from Chong’s.

  “We’ve been holding up a delivery man,” James added with a smirk. His words came out slurred too.

  “Holding up—”

  “Commandeering the food,” Matthew corrected. “LEOs commandeer resources.”

  James turned to him. “What’s it called when you do it? Stealing?”

  “Survival.” Some of the mirth seeped from Matthew’s eyes.

  Bree sniffed. Alcohol had definitely been involved. For both of them. Although how much, she couldn’t tell.