Murder Likes It Hot

by Tracy Weber

  We went back to the second floor’s open area, where he took out a key ring and unlocked a conference room. This one contained eight computer workstations with large, flat-screen monitors.

  “The equipment looks new,” I said.

  “It is. Sam donated enough money for the machines, an on-site network, and updated wiring. The network isn’t fully operational yet, but we’re hoping to finish it late next month. In January, we’ll start our computer skills training program.”

  “Will you be teaching the classes?”

  “No, Sam’s employees will. He’s giving them paid time off to volunteer here and at other Seattle-area nonprofits as part of his company’s new community service initiative.” Gabriel shook his head, whether in awe or disbelief, I couldn’t tell. “When I approached Sam for a donation, I thought I might score a couple of mothballed laptops and maybe an old LCD screen. He came through with all of this. I’m still floored.”

  I grinned. “I thought you knew Sam.”

  “I do, or at least I did back in college. Still, not many people—especially wildly successful people like Sam—are willing to go to bat in a big way for the homeless. It’s easier to toss them a couple of bucks and then villainize them. Not Sam. He took a tour of the center, wrote a check for an amount far greater than my annual salary, and joined the board. What he’s doing … It will change these kids’ lives.”

  Gabriel’s words didn’t surprise me. Sam, like Rene, was passionate. When he committed himself to a project, he did it with his whole heart.

  We exited the computer lab and headed toward the stairwell. I gestured to a closed-off area to the right. “What’s over there?”

  “That’s our hygiene area.”

  “Hygiene area?”

  “Think locker room. It’s hard for homeless kids to find places to clean up, so we provide them with showering and laundry facilities. I’d show it to you, but we don’t allow anyone but salaried staff members inside when we’re open. Board members and visiting donors can’t even tour it except when we’re closed. It’s for the kids’ protection.”

  “Do the kids sleep here?” Without thinking, I’d slipped into calling Teen Path HOME’s clients “kids.”

  “No. We’d need a special license to house teens under eighteen. We’re not supposed to have clients on site after eight p.m.”

  The phrase “not supposed to” struck me as odd, but I didn’t comment on it.

  Gabriel continued. “The board goes back and forth on whether we should apply for licensing to provide overnight shelter to minors, but I think it’s a terrible idea. The cost would be too high.”

  “Financially?”

  “That too. Twenty-four-hour staffing is way beyond our current budget. But that’s not what concerns me. Housing kids under eighteen would hamstring us, confidentiality-wise. We would be forced to report our underage clients to the authorities.”

  “Report them for what?”

  “For being unaccompanied minors.”

  “That’s a crime?”

  “The law is complex, but basically, no one—individual or organization—can shelter youth under eighteen without notifying the police or their parents.” He paused. “Between you and me, it sucks.”

  I flashed back to life as a teenager. Dad and I had fought—a lot. But he’d always had my best interests at heart. If I’d been forced to choose between enduring his wrath and spending a night on the streets, I’d have been better off with my father. Every time.

  “Isn’t getting them back with their families a good thing?” I asked. “I mean, teenagers aren’t safe on the streets. If they have a home to go back to … ”

  Gabriel swept his hand through the air. “In an ideal world, you’d be right. But we don’t live in an ideal world. I had a great upbringing. From what I’ve seen of you so far, I suspect you did, too. The kids that come here aren’t that lucky. Most of them ran for a reason.”

  He stared off to the side for a moment, then back at me. “I worked with a fifteen-year-old runaway once. I knew she was hiding something, but I thought it was drug use. Her parents seemed great. They certainly fooled Child Protective Services. Turned out her older brother had been molesting her since she was twelve, and she never told anyone.” He closed his eyes. “She killed herself two days after she was forced to go home.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “You have no idea.” His eyes darkened. “The best place for these kids is a stable, supportive home. I know that. I help them reconcile with their families as soon as they’re ready. But I won’t force one of my clients to go home unless I’m legally obligated to. That’s why we don’t ask ages or last names. It’s our version of a don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy.”

  “And if you are legally obligated to?”

  “Then I have no choice. I follow the law. We’d be shut down otherwise.”

  I couldn’t hide my disillusionment. “There’s no happily ever after for these kids, is there?”

  “For some of them, no. Others? Yes.” He guided me down the staircase. “My dad had a saying: ‘Don’t let what you can’t do stop you from doing what you can.’ We can’t fix everything for these kids, but we can still help. We counsel them. We provide a warm meal. We train them so they can get jobs in the future. If they’re ready to go home, we do everything in our power to make sure reunification is successful. Believe me, that’s a lot.”

  “It is. Don’t get me wrong—I think the work you do here is amazing. But honestly, how much help can I be? I’m just a yoga teacher.”

  “Never use the word ‘just’ when describing your life’s contributions. Never. A mindfulness practice like yoga can teach these kids how to manage stress. It can help them learn how to control their impulses. If nothing else, it can give them a few minutes of peace.”

  Deep down inside, I knew he was right, but disillusionment still dulled my initial enthusiasm.

  Gabriel laid his hand on my shoulder. “Hey, don’t give up before you even start. After a class or two, you’ll see what I mean. Let’s go to my office and fill out the new-hire paperwork. I was able to scrape seventy-five dollars a class out of the budget. It’s not much, but for now it’s all I’ve got.” He grinned. “If you’re lucky, it might pay for your parking.”

  As we continued down the stairwell, I mentally debated whether or not I should offer to donate my teaching time. Ultimately, I decided I couldn’t. Seventy-five dollars was a reasonable class fee, but by the time I factored in planning, set-up time, and parking costs, I’d barely make minimum wage. If I had any hope of paying for fertility treatments, I’d need to accept income wherever I could find it.

  Gabriel opened the door to his office and ushered me through it.

  I glanced through the doorway at his worn metal desk and screamed.

  five

  Something small, brown, and furry with a hairless tail scurried past my right ankle.

  “Aack! It’s a mouse!” I shrieked.

  Gabriel’s demeanor changed in a heartbeat. From easygoing to frustrated, with a dollop of fear thrown in for good measure. “It’s not a mouse, it’s a rat! Catch him!”

  He had to be joking. I was frozen. Stuck between irreconcilable impulses to run for the street or leap onto the desk.

  Don’t get me wrong, I love animals. All animals.

  Except rats.

  Gabriel pushed past me, and I stumbled into the hallway.

  “God dammit, Lonnie!” He yelled. “Get back here.” He chased the nine-inch-long rodent as it ran out toward the kitchen.

  The young men at the pool table doubled up with laughter. Gabriel paused long enough to chastise them. “Don’t just stand there. Check on Ed!” A brunette tween leaped from the couch and ran into Gabriel’s office.

  Ed? Did that mean there was a second one?

  My eyes whipped back and forth across the carp
et. My feet danced. I hopped from left foot to right foot and back again, terrified that a second rodent was about to crawl up my pant leg.

  The way I saw it, I had two choices: stay here and hope that Rat Boy’s twin didn’t chomp on my ankle or run after Gabriel to the kitchen, where hopefully one of the vermin would soon be corralled.

  I chose option two.

  I was ten feet away from the kitchen when a man bolted from the stairwell. He collided with me and knocked me flat on my sitz bones.

  “Watch where you’re going!” he snapped.

  I looked up—way up—at his face. He wore a navy blue power suit, a burgundy tie, and an irritated expression, all three of which were overshadowed by his dark, overgrown beard. I tried to suppress a wave of nausea. Naturally. The one thing that freaked me out more than rats. A beard.

  I’d been working hard to overcome my pogonophobia—the irrational fear of beards—with reasonable success. But a rat/beard one-two punch was more than my stomach could handle. I swallowed my morning coffee for the second time. “Sorry I didn’t see you coming.”

  Burgundy Tie leaned down and yanked me to standing, causing his facial hair to brush across my forehead. Something tickled the edge of my consciousness, but I was so traumatized by the sensation of hair on my face that it flitted away before I could grasp it.

  “What’s all the commotion about?” he asked.

  I scrambled away from him and ran to the kitchen, calling over my shoulder, “Don’t worry, Gabriel’s handling it.” At least I hope so.

  I pushed open the kitchen door to the metallic clank of Chuck’s chef’s knife slamming against granite. A brown flash of fur scurried up the side of a large compost container and disappeared under the lid. The mustached teen chewed on his lower lip, trying to suppress an attack of the giggles.

  Chuck threw off his apron and marched up to Gabriel, shaking a fist. “I told you, those filthy vermin can’t be in here!”

  “Mellow out, Chuck,” Gabriel said. “I’ll have him out in a second.” He kneeled next to the compost container and reached inside. Three seconds passed, then he whooped a loud “Gotcha!” His hand re-emerged, holding a squirming, scaly-tailed troublemaker who was grasping a crescent of pizza crust between two tiny jaws. Gabriel lifted the mischievous creature, grumbled words never written in the Bhagavad Gita, and opened his fist. Lonnie scurried up his sleeve and came to rest on his shoulder. I would have sworn that he—the rat, not Gabriel—was chortling.

  Chuck’s entire body shook. “Get that disease-carrying nuisance out of my kitchen immediately. If the health department finds rat droppings in here, we’ll be shut down. I swear, if I see either of those disgusting creatures in here again, I’m putting out rat poison.”

  A loud sneeze came from behind us, then a stern voice. “How long have we had a rat infestation in this facility?”

  Four of the five of us—Gabriel, Chuck, the mustached teen, and me—turned toward the voice of the burgundy-tied man I’d collided with earlier. Lonnie was too busy gnawing on pepperoni to look.

  Chuck pointed a shaking finger at Gabriel. “Ask him.”

  Gabriel gave Burgundy Tie a conciliatory smile. “There’s no infestation, Greg. Lonnie is a domesticated pet rat. I have two of them in my office. They’re not normally in the kitchen.”

  Chuck grumbled under his breath, “Yeah, right.”

  Lonnie leaned toward Chuck and wrinkled his nose. The rat version, I assumed, of sticking out his tongue.

  Gabriel continued. “Someone must have left their cage open.”

  “Again,” Chuck added. “It’s the third time this month.” He moved toward the man in the suit, whose name was evidently Greg. His voice grew louder and more impassioned. “It’s like I told you when you asked me to speak at the board meeting. We’re losing our focus, and it’s getting ridiculous.”

  Burgundy Tie wiped at his nose. “You made your point, Chuck. But as I told you in our meeting, determining this facility’s mission isn’t up to you. It’s not even completely up to Gabriel. You two need to stop arguing with each other and listen to us. You are employees, and you serve at our discretion.”

  “Hey now,” Gabriel said. “No need to get nasty. We—”

  Greg didn’t let him finish. “Trust me. You can both be replaced.” His eye twitched. “You would do well to remember that.”

  Gabriel flushed, but he remained silent.

  Chuck ignored the word “both” in Greg’s not-so-subtle reprimand. “Gabriel is taking us in the wrong direction. Teen Path HOME isn’t an elementary school. We have no use for goldfish and guinea pigs. We’re a young adult resource center designed to teach life and employment skills.” He pointed his thumb at Gabriel. “Between the rats and the ‘therapy animals’ this fool keeps bringing in, it’s starting to feel more like a petting zoo. And it keeps getting worse. First he cut the barista training program to hire that ridiculous art therapy teacher. Now he’s planning to start yoga and meditation classes. If we’re not careful, he’ll close the kitchen to bring in palm readers and psychics.”

  Gabriel’s jaw clenched. “We’ve been over this, Chuck. These kids need skills that will help them survive physically and emotionally. We can talk about it again later, but now is not the time.” He nodded to Greg. “If you’ll excuse us, Kate and I have paperwork to do. This show is over.”

  Gabriel marched out of the room without looking back. Lonnie peered over his shoulder, wiggling his whiskers as if waving goodbye.

  I slinked toward the door after them and smiled self-consciously at Greg. “It was nice running into you.”

  No response. Either he didn’t get my joke or—more likely—it wasn’t all that funny. So much for my stand-up comedy career.

  I followed Gabriel across the recreation area and back to his office. As the door closed behind us, he groaned. “What a day. Of all the times for Greg to drop by on one of his surprise inspections.”

  “He’s one of the board members?”

  “Not an ordinary member. He’s the president. The worst possible person to witness that scene between Chuck and me.”

  “What was he inspecting? The kitchen?”

  “No, he—” Gabriel stopped, as if considering how much he should say. “Never mind. It’s a long story. Greg has always come to the center every week or so to hang out with the kids. I usually don’t mind. It’s good for them to have positive role models. He used to give us advance warning, though. Lately he seems more like an inspector than a guest. Hell, the mood he’s in today, he seems more like a prison guard.”

  Gabriel picked Lonnie off his shoulder and eased him into a cage containing a second rodent I assumed was Ed. Lonnie expressed his displeasure with a single, high-pitched squeal, then entertained himself by chasing his brother on their exercise wheel.

  I watched them warily. The two little rascals were cute, in a beady-eyed, pointy-nosed, sharp-toothed sort of way. Teeny-tiny ears, black, intelligent eyes, long whiskers. One brown, the other dusty gray. But those tails … I shuddered. “I have to ask. Why rats?”

  Gabriel shrugged. “They’re a symbol.”

  “A symbol?”

  “Of street kids.”

  I winced before I could stop myself.

  “It’s not an insult, it’s a compliment. Rats are intelligent, affectionate, resourceful survivors. Did you see how fast Lonnie scrambled into that compost bin? If I hadn’t known where he was headed, we wouldn’t have found him until he’d finished his snack and was darned good and ready to come back to my office. Rats are also quick learners. Watch this.”

  He turned to the cage. “Ed, come!” The gray rat jumped off the wheel, ran to the edge of the cage, and stood on his hind legs. “Lonnie, come!” His brown bunkmate jumped off the wheel and assumed a similar position.” Gabriel pulled two pieces of kibble off his desk. “Okay boys, sit.” Both rats plopped their rears to
the floor simultaneously. Gabriel tossed the treats into the cage. “Good job.”

  “They know their names?”

  “That’s nothing. One of the kids taught them how to play basketball.”

  “That’s pretty amazing,” I said.

  “Yep. Yet despite their positive attributes, rats have a terrible reputation. The minute most people see one, their first instinct is to either run from it or kill it.”

  He was right. When I first saw Lonnie, I’d wanted to bolt.

  “So rats learn how to become invisible, exactly like homeless teens do. They have to if they want to survive. And they’re amazingly affectionate. Once they trust you, they’re your friends for life.”

  He sat in a worn swivel chair and leaned his forearms on the utilitarian desk. “The kids respond to the analogy, and they relax more around animals of any kind. That’s why I arrange for therapy dog visits as often as I can. Spending time with animals is incredibly healing.”

  I couldn’t argue. Even being around Mouse—who would rather fillet me than save me—calmed my nervous system.

  “To be honest, though,” Gabriel continued, “I’m not sure buying the rats was such a great idea. They need more space, and the kids keep leaving their cage open. Lonnie is a sucker for that compost bin, so he heads straight there, and every time either of them gets anywhere near the kitchen, Chuck blows an aneurysm. I tried taking them home, but my wife loathes them.” He lifted his eyes toward the ceiling. “And now we have today’s incident. Chuck has one more reason the board should fire me and give him my job.”

  “I take it the two of you don’t get along.”

  “It’s not personal, or at least it didn’t start that way. When the last site director left, everyone thought Chuck was a shoo-in for the job. He’s been working at Teen Path HOME since it opened.” Gabriel shrugged. “Luckily for me, the board decided my MBA was more impressive than Chuck’s experience. He seethed quietly until I cut the barista training program six months ago. It was a failure, but Chuck refused to see that, and now he questions all of my decisions. He thinks diverting money to art therapy is ludicrous.”