by Robin Allen
I stood at the top of the stairs and looked toward the railing. Usually, fear and panic were either thrust upon me, as had happened the first time on the catwalk, or I knew in advance to avoid such a thrust. But for the first time I would have to brave my fear of heights, and I didn’t know how to go about it. Should I creep up to the edge and let myself get used to the idea inch by inch? Or should I rush to the railing so my body didn’t have a chance to figure out what my mind was doing?
I had never understood the point of conquering fears until I looked at the twenty feet of catwalk I had to cross. I remembered reading that G. Gordon Liddy, one of the Watergate burglars, had a fear of fire, so he held his hand over a flame until his skin burned black. To conquer his fear of rats, he roasted and ate one. At the time, I thought those were extreme and disgusting ways to conquer fear. I had also wondered if the rat had inadvertently been cured of his own fear of being eaten by a crazy bald man.
If I could be where Troy had been, maybe something would speak to me—like Tara’s perfume had done. Shrieked, actually. How could Jamie’s finely tuned sense of smell tolerate that stench for any length of time? Had he been desensitized by all that Canadian bourbon?
I put the question of my courage on hold and inspected the bathrooms first because I didn’t have to conquer anything in there. The toilets flushed, and the hot and cold water worked. It looked like Capital Punishment would pass their inspection, and this would be my last visit.
If I wanted a chance to come back, I knew I would have to make it happen. I didn’t have much to work with in the bathrooms, but I could be extremely picky about something in the kitchen, like there was no soap in the dispensers. I wouldn’t arrange a violation because that would be unethical. Not immoral and conniving, like what Jamie had done.
As I dried my hands on my pants, I heard a ding, a pneumatic slide, and male voices. Since when did the elevator work? I stayed put, hoping to overhear something, like maybe Danny and Todd congratulating each other on getting away with their diabolical scheme.
“You’re keeping them up here?” a man said.
I didn’t recognize his voice, so I slowly pulled the door handle and applied my eye to the crack to see who he was. He had his back to me, so I couldn’t say if I knew him. I knew the other man, though.
“No one ever comes up here,” Miles said.
The man turned to look at Miles. Tall and dark, but not even within squinting distance of handsome. “Except for Troy and that food inspector,” he said.
I had seen him recently, but where? A protester? No. Too old for one of Philip’s buddies. Nina’s country club? Not old enough.
“I had to put the brakes on ever’thing somehow so we could move all of this out of here.” Miles lifted his chin toward the cell they stood in front of, the one that held a bunch of cinder blocks and brown boxes. “I can’t just drive off and avoid her like you did.” Miles unlocked the cell door. “We’da been done already if you’da showed up yesterday.”
“I told you. I had to take over for Hugh while he got his side mirror fixed.”
I didn’t know him from Markham’s, neither employee nor guest that I could remember. Maybe from another restaurant or bar? He could have been a vendor, but with his dirty jeans and scruffy cheeks, he looked too grubby to represent clean linen or the expensive seafood and steaks Capital Punishment would be serving.
“How many more?” the man asked.
“Twenty,” Miles said. “Can you take all of ’em?”
“Not in a one load,” he said. “Get started. The truck’s unlocked.”
I had been so busy trying to figure out who the man was that I hadn’t processed their conversation. Why was Miles talking to him about cinder blocks?
“I gotta take a leak,” the man said. “These bathrooms working?”
“They are now,” Miles said.
I didn’t close the door when the man walked toward the men’s room because the sudden movement would have drawn his attention. I watched Miles walk to the railing and lean over the edge, easy as you please, no hesitation, no quaking from fright. He whistled and waved to someone on the first floor, then went into the elevator and came out pushing a wheelbarrow. A minute later, Mingo and Rudy emerged from the stairwell. Miles unlocked the cell door and pointed to a stack of broken cinder blocks on the floor. So that’s what they were doing—salvaging unusable building materials.
Miles’s foremen moved the broken ones aside and loaded whole cinder blocks into the wheelbarrow. Miles stood behind them, supervising, so I didn’t have an as-the-crow-flies view, but it looked like the cinder blocks had been stuffed with something and wrapped with plastic. And the something was white and powdery.
thirty-two
Miles got himself mixed up in a drug operation? How was that possible? He didn’t even have the smarts to keep the restaurant construction on track. Of course, that may just be me jumping to a wrong conclusion about Miles based on his good ol’ boy demeanor.
Regardless, it was brilliant—muling drugs through building supplies. The cinder blocks could be delivered on a pallet, specially marked somehow. Miles unloads the blocks and places the drug-stuffed ones under lock and key. Or the blocks come in empty, and Miles stuffs them with drugs. And gets rid of them how? Oh! Pizza Pig! That’s where I had seen that man. Serving food and drinks to Miles and the other construction workers. Food and drinks—and drugs!
All I needed to do was stay put and wait them out, but then the men’s room door opened and the reason the man had spent so much time in there wafted out with him. And I sneezed. A loud one because I hadn’t expected the cigarette smoke, but nobody noticed over the din of construction on the floor below. Plus their attention was on Mingo and Rudy guiding the full wheelbarrow into the elevator.
I was prepared for my second sneeze, which shook my shoulders, but I let go of the door at the same moment Miles looked up at Mr. Pizza Pig, and I could tell by the way Miles’s mouth opened that he had seen me.
Trapped in the bathroom, my best option was to lock myself in a stall and stall for time. But there were only two toilets, and even a good ol’ boy drug mule could narrow down those choices in less than five minutes. I had one other option. I pulled a thermometer from my backpack, then turned on the hot water at one of the sinks just as the door opened.
“Hey, Miles,” I said breezily.
“Come on out of there, ma’am.”
“Didn’t Todd tell you I would be back today?” I pretended not to notice the gun in his hand so he could put it away and we could both pretend everything was fine. Except he didn’t and we couldn’t. “I’m almost finished.”
“You’re finished now,” he said.
I slung my backpack over my shoulder.
“Leave it.”
I dropped it in the sink under the running water and stealthily pulled the stopper so the sink would eventually overflow. I didn’t know if it would come in handy, but it couldn’t hurt. If nothing else, my wet backpack would raise suspicions with someone if I turned up in a ditch.
Miles held the door open and waved me onto the catwalk with the gun. The elevator door was closed, which meant that Rudy and Mingo had gone down with the drugs. I hoped the Pizza Pig man hadn’t gone with them. Maybe Miles wouldn’t kill me in front of a witness.
“Mr. Pizza Pig!” I shouted. “You can come out now.”
“Mr. what?”
“Nothing,” I said. “What’s with the gun?”
He stared at me.
“Are you going to shoot me, Miles? With all those people downstairs?”
“No ma’am,” he said, waving the gun toward the railing. “You’re going to jump.”
“I’m afraid of heights.”
“Then we’ll call it a case of the jim-jams and you fell.”
“I really don’t want t
o do that, Miles.”
“Well,” he said, pushing up the brim of his hard hat with the barrel of the gun, “I’ll tell you like I told Troy. Either jump and make this easy and you’re the only one who dies, or don’t jump and make this hard and the rest of your family dies, too.” He sniffed. “Your daddy owns Markham’s Grille and Cocktails, don’t he?”
“It’s Cocktails and Grille,” I said. I suddenly knew what I wanted my last meal to be. Forget health, I wanted fat and sugar and animals—a thick porterhouse steak, a medium-rare filet mignon, salmon cakes, macaroni and cheese, and a big piece of Italian wedding cake. As it turned out, it looked like my last meal would be the glass of orange juice and carrot sticks I had eaten at Liza’s picnic.
“If it’s all the same to you,” Miles said, “we’ll have to do this without beer.”
“Why kill Troy?”
“He was up here one time when he shouldn’ta been and saw us doing what you just saw. Then he had the idea to bleed cash out of me.”
“And you lured him up here on Monday with the promise of a payment but killed him instead.”
“I got partners, ma’am. I just needed a few more days and we’da had ever’thing out of here, but then Troy showed me all them notes he’d been taking about our activities and such. Said I had to give him more money or he’d go to the cops.”
I felt a grotesque combination of terror and victory at finally discovering the truth about Troy’s death. “Did you knock him out behind the restaurant on Monday?” I asked.
“That was Mingo, trying to get the notebook.”
“I guess you got it after you killed him.”
“He handed it over before he jumped.” Miles pointed the gun at me. It looked like a .22, so the report from the gunshot would blend in with the rest of the construction noise. It also wouldn’t kill me unless Miles stepped closer, which he did. “We’re burning daylight, ma’am.”
I didn’t need beer. My terror at having to move toward the railing mixed together with my alarm at a painful death, and they both combined into a potent adrenaline cocktail. I had one plan and one chance.
Miles came up behind me and I felt the gun poke my back. “If you’re thinking about hollering for help—”
“I’m not. But I need some room. Back off.”
“Yes ma’am.”
As soon as he moved away, I closed my eyes and gripped the railing. I jumped off the ground and thrust my legs back in a powerful kick that would have qualified me for the Yoga Donkey Kick Invitational. I hit something solid, so it couldn’t have been his belly.
Miles ghrfed and I heard the gun clatter to the floor. I opened my eyes and whirled around to pick up the gun but saw Miles on his back on the floor, still pointing it at me. The clatter had come from his hard hat.
“Fire!” I yelled. “Fire! Call nine one one!” I dropped and rolled and rolled and rolled, banging into cells and knocking against walls. I felt dizzy and stopped rolling, locating Miles by his grunting. He had scooched toward the railing but didn’t take his eyes off me as he pulled himself up to standing. Sweat leaked from his red face, and he took a moment to catch his breath.
And aim the gun.
I scrambled into the open holding cell full of drugs where he couldn’t see me.
“Come on out, ma’am,” Miles said, making an effort to sound harmless. “I won’t hurt you.”
“I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, Miles.” I dropped to a crouch and peeked out of the cell. Miles fired, but he expected me higher up. I was right about one thing—the sound blended in with the construction noise.
If someone wasn’t calling 911, if I didn’t think of something pronto… I looked around the cell and found an open box of medieval death implements. I grabbed one of those sticks with spiky iron balls attached to a chain. It looked like Tara’s hair. What was that called? It was also a spice. Cinnamon? Nutmeg? Mace!
My adrenaline and bravery were gone, replaced by something better: fury. Stupid murdering Miles! I flung the mace in his direction. He answered with a shot that struck the far wall. Stupid cheating Jamie! I threw another, harder. Another shot from Miles. Stupid skinny Tara! Stupid lying Pizza Pig! Another and another. Stupid greedy drug dealers! I wound up with another and let it fly. Stupid jealous Ursula! I stopped. Out of maces.
How many shots had Miles fired? How many did he have left? How many shots did a .22 hold? Why did he stop firing? Was he reloading?
I couldn’t trick him again by looking out from the bottom of the cell, so I stepped onto a couple of cinder blocks and slowly poked my head out close to the top. Miles lay on his back near the railing, bleeding from a gash at his hairline. A hit!
“Miles?” I called. “I’m giving up.”
I inched out of the cell in case he was playing opossum. The gun lay within reaching distance of his right hand, but he didn’t reach for it. I ran over and kicked the gun away, then picked it up and pointed it at him with a trembly hand. I tapped his foot with mine. “Hear those sirens, Miles? The cops are on their way.” They were probably fire trucks, but that was good enough for now.
Miles opened his eyes and wiped blood from his forehead with the back of his hand. “How in the name of Davy Crockett did this happen?”
“You messed with the wrong cowgirl.”
x x x
The following Tuesday I ignored my contractor’s wishes and moved into my house. He had refused to connect the central air conditioner, so I bought a window unit for my bedroom with my Diva Pot winnings. Trevor had enlisted Drew in a scheme to get Ursula back to normal. They pretended to butt heads over her during prep for Sunday brunch. She was so happy, she threw an egg at the first waiter who special-ordered a Denver omelet, saying that Markham’s wasn’t an IHOP.
After I arranged to have a refrigerator delivered, I went to Daisy’s to borrow her blow-up bed and eat lunch.
“Did you see Jamie’s story?” she asked as I helped her prepare avocado sandwiches.
“The one about Capital Punishment and last meals? Yes.”
“The new one he posted this morning about Troy’s murder.”
“No.”
“Logan printed it out. She wants you and Jamie to sign it.” Daisy used her knife to point to a piece of paper on the counter. “Go ahead. I’ll finish these.”
I sat at the kitchen table and read that Miles had confessed to everything. He and Mr. Pizza Pig, real name Donny Lee Rogers, were part of a small drug operation involving several construction sites and mobile food trucks, including Epicuriousitiness. When Troy discovered what they were doing, he blackmailed Miles to get the cash he needed to make purchases because he didn’t want Ginger to discover his hot check trouble. When Troy threatened to go to the police if Miles didn’t triple the amount of his payments, Miles killed him.
Miles had tried to delay the opening of the restaurant by sabotaging the food permit inspection to give himself more time to move drugs. “Perhaps,” Jamie wrote, “Mr. Archer would have been more successful had he tried to impede the building inspection instead.”
Within hours of Miles’s arrest, the restaurant’s theme was no longer a secret. Danny or Todd must have agreed to an interview with Jamie because he wrote that they decided to push back the grand opening to November 24, Ted Bundy’s birthday. I read the final line of Jamie’s story out loud. “Ted Bundy did not request a special meal the night before he died in the electric chair. He was served the traditional meal of steak, eggs, and potatoes, but did not eat it.”
“Creepy,” Daisy said. She placed our sandwiches on the table, then poured us each a glass of iced tea. “Did you help Jamie with the article?”
“He came over on Sunday to interview me, but we didn’t get very far. He refuses to discuss Tara.”
“Did you break up again?”
“I said I needed more ti
me, and he said I could take the rest of the summer because he’s going to be traveling around the country giving workshops with Deliciousness Magazine. So, yeah, we’re taking a break.”
“Does Drew know?” she asked. I had already told her about his “as long as it takes” proclamation.
“I’m going to tell him tonight at dinner,” I said. “Am I awful for doing this to them?”
“Of course not,” she said. “You’re not deciding between two couches. This is important, and you need to know if you want Jamie or Drew.”
Daisy said grace, then we started on our lunch.
“What would you have for a last meal?” I asked.
“I’ve been thinking about that. So far, I’ve come up with Erik’s barbeque pork ribs, Ursula’s crawfish bisque, and Logan’s blueberry pie. You?”
“Rice, beans, tater tots, and a chocolate soy milkshake.”
The End
