The Trouble With Murder

by Catherine Nelson

  “But you didn’t steal it?”

  “No. I’ve learned a few things so far in life. One of them is you have to earn your way. Stealing is not earning.”

  It was a hard-learned lesson, but it’d finally sunk in.

  Hensley was scribbling notes, and I thought I could almost see the wheels turning. With anyone else that would be a relief, but with cops it always gives me a sense of unease. Their minds are trained to pick apart everything, turn everything around, suspect everyone. I don’t like when I’m the suspect.

  “So you have a moral problem with stealing?”

  “All I’m saying is I have principles.” I sighed. “You said you looked at my financials. Did you find twenty thousand dollars?”

  Of course not.

  “Yes,” Hensley said.

  I felt the bottom fall out of my world. The blood drained from my face, and I gripped the counter as a wave of dizziness washed over me. I prayed I’d misheard.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I did check your bank accounts. There are deposits totaling twenty thousand dollars from Wednesday and Thursday. Fifteen thousand was transferred out to accounts we’ve traced back to the Cayman Islands. The other five is still in your account.”

  My brain scrambled to keep up.

  “No, that can’t be right,” I said.

  “Did you make the deposits into the wrong account? Like you said, you would have intended them never to be discovered.”

  “No, I didn’t make any deposits. Oh, shit,” I said as realization struck. “You seriously think I did this.”

  “Yes, I do. So far, everything I dig up points straight to you.”

  I suddenly felt sick.

  “But what about the books?” I asked, grasping at straws now. “Won’t you go over the accounting records? There is no way twenty thousand dollars was stolen from the company in two days. That’s too obvious. More likely, it was siphoned off in small amounts over a period of time. If the records show that to be true, can’t you trace where that money went, find who really stole it?”

  “We’re looking at the books now. Is that what you did: siphoned the money off slowly, in small amounts?”

  “What? No. The books will show you, I didn’t steal any money.”

  “If there are any inconsistencies, we’ll find them. But I have a feeling we’re going to find the money leads back to you, one way or the other.”

  If I was seriously being considered a suspect, that changed everything. For one, I needed to stop talking. If Hensley wanted to ask more questions, he was going to need a warrant to hand to my lawyer.

  “I’ve said all I’m going to,” I said. “Please leave.”

  “Formal charges of fraud and embezzlement will be filed against you. The paperwork the company has proving your guilt is pretty thorough and convincing.”

  I reached into my pocket and withdrew the card White had given me a few hours before. I slid it across the bar to Hensley. “Contact my lawyer if you have more questions.”

  I carried my glass into the kitchen and stood staring at Hensley across the counter, my arms over my chest and a dark look on my face. In no rush to comply, he stared back at me for a beat or two, then slowly closed his notepad and returned it to his pocket. He picked up the card, studied it carefully, and slipped it into his pocket with the notebook. Then he eased himself off the stool and strolled to the front door.

  When he was gone, I threw the deadbolt and spun on my heel for the stairs.

  5

  A smarter person might have been scared of being convicted of a felony and sentenced to prison. Maybe I’m not that smart. Mostly I was pissed. But prison was the furthest thing from my mind. I wanted to know who had really stolen that money. Then I wanted to have a talk with them about pointing the finger at me. I didn’t appreciate the finger-pointing.

  When I hit the front door, I saw some thunderclouds had rolled in and it was beginning to drizzle. I grabbed a jacket and the Cushman then buzzed away from the house.

  As I rode, I reflected on my day. It hadn’t started well and had only gotten worse. I called Amy to commiserate because this always makes me feel better. I used a hands-free earbud and hoped she could hear me over the wind and the engine.

  Amy Wells and I grew up together. We’d known each other since before either of us could walk, and at that age it doesn’t take much to form a friendship. But whatever bond existed between us, it had sufficiently held us together for the last twenty-four years. Her life had been just as hard in its own way. This hardship was one of our binding threads. Amy is the only person who knows my life story, knows everything about me, my every sin, and loves me anyway.

  The line rang then dropped to voicemail. I hung up without leaving a message. It was Friday night, and chances were good she had plans with her fiancé, Brandon. Overall, I think Brandon’s an all right guy, and he’s probably perfect for Amy, so it doesn’t bother me too much that she spends so much time with him.

  Wal-Mart isn’t my favorite place to shop, but I needed a couple things, and I didn’t want to go to more than one store. That is one thing Wal-Mart has going for it: one-stop shopping. I took Lemay Avenue north past Mulberry and pulled into the parking lot, which is huge and poorly designed. I buzzed the Cushman into a motorcycle spot, killed the engine, and pushed down the kickstand. A thin man with leathery, weathered skin, frizzy, gray hair tied in a long ponytail, and full riding leathers eyed the Trailster as he strolled over to his Harley.

  “Great bike,” he said. Prepared for sarcasm, I glanced up only to find sincere reverence in his eyes. Perhaps he also had a history with Cushman scooters.

  “Thanks.”

  We nodded to one another, then I hurried into the store. A particularly rough gust of wind whipped around me as I hit the sidewalk and ducked inside.

  The enormous warehouse-like building that is Wal-Mart is a fluorescent nightmare with a horrible soundtrack. There are directional signs hanging everywhere, but none of them actually point to anything. It’s hard not to feel like a rat in a maze in this store.

  My first stop was the shampoo aisle. Then I went looking for electronics. Finally I spotted the TVs mounted on the exterior wall; I never did see a sign.

  After a trek through the department, I saw thousands of electrical devices and components, even answering machines. Who uses answering machines anymore? But I didn’t find what I was looking for. I didn’t find any employees, either.

  In the neighboring shoe department, I finally spotted one: a woman who looked busy. Watching as I walked over, I realized she merely looked busy, a skill she had no doubt honed to shiny perfection her entire working life. She was actually accomplishing very little.

  “Excuse me,” I said, attempting to be polite (benefit of the doubt and all that). “I have a question.”

  She cocked a hip to the side as she turned to face me, planting one fist on said (ample) hip, and stared at me. The name badge pinned to her shirt at her right (also ample) breast read wanda.

  “Yeah? How can I help you?” Her tone left no room for doubt about her interest in helping me.

  I bit back my kneejerk response. And despite my best effort, the words “game on” flashed on and off in my mind. “I need help in electronics. Is there someone available?”

  “His name’s Cody,” she said, turning away from me again.

  I took a breath. “Cody doesn’t seem to be around. Would you be able to call him for me?” I eyed the small walky-talky clipped on her belt.

  “Well, I don’t know where he is.”

  I was quickly losing my patience. Patience isn’t my strong suit, anyway. Between the hospital ordeal and Hensley, I was just about taxed.

  “Does Cody wear one of those little radios?”

  “Yeah,” she said, shrugging but not turning back to me. “We all got one.”

  I waited a beat, long enough to be sure she had no intention of helping me, then stepped forward and yanked the radio off her belt.

  “W
hat the hell, lady?” she demanded, spinning around to face me once more. She tried to swipe the radio out of my hand. “Give that back.”

  Our exchange had drawn the attention of nearby customers. Most pretended to be shopping while really watching us. And it was too late to turn back now; at this point, I felt I was committed.

  I stepped back and looked at the radio. It wasn’t even on. I switched it on and hoped it was on the right channel, since it was unlikely Wanda would give me any information.

  “Yo, Cody,” I called into the radio. “It’s Wanda in shoes.”

  A few seconds later the radio crackled and a voice came over the line.

  “Go for Cody.”

  I wasn’t sure if this was expected radio-speak or if he was just being funny.

  “Customer in electronics needs assistance. You got that?”

  “On it. Cody out.”

  I was pretty sure now Cody was just being funny, and I have to admit, if I had to use radios all day long, I would resort to the same tactics.

  I winked at Wanda then left, still holding the radio. The walk (or hike, depending) back to electronics was quiet and I encountered no one. I looked around for some sign of Cody when I arrived in electronics but found none, so I went to the register counter in the middle to wait. Several other customers had gathered, milling around like lost sheep, waiting to check out or ask questions. Why do people shop here?

  After a minute ticked into two, I lifted myself up to sit on the counter and wondered if I’d been stood up. Why was I shopping here? Just as I wondered if RadioShack was still open, a young man, not yet twenty, tall and lanky with pimples on his face, wandered over. He openly looked me up and down. Then he tipped his head at me.

  “You the one who needed some help?” His voice was a bit nasally, and he probably got mixed up with his sister on the phone, if he had a sister.

  “I’m looking for a digital audio recorder. I can’t seem to find one. Do you have any?”

  “A what?” the kid asked.

  I sighed. “You know, like a tape recorder, for taking notes and stuff.”

  “Like messages?” he asked. “Well, we call those answering machines, and they don’t use tapes anymore.”

  I took a breath and tried again, exercising exceptional restraint, I thought. (Patience: not my virtue.) “If I wanted to record my professor’s lecture, what would I use?”

  “You’re in college?” the kid asked, again looking me over. “Shouldn’t you be done with school by now?”

  What the hell is wrong with kids these days?

  “What about my question?” I asked.

  “Well,” the kid said, shrugging and turning away as he spoke. “We got these things over here, but I’m not sure it’s what you’re looking for.”

  I hopped off the counter and followed Cody. He stopped and pointed to several items laid out on the shelves in front of us. I squatted down for a closer look. The first box I saw read in bold letters digital audio recorder. Imagine that.

  I confirmed I’d found what I needed, and Cody took his leave, carrying Wanda’s radio with him. I quickly compared the items and chose one, mostly based on price. The stupid little thing was pricey. I managed to purchase it without encountering any more major hang-ups then sat in the parking lot inserting batteries and trying it out. Convinced it was in working order, I stuffed everything into my backpack and buzzed out of the lot.

  _______________

  It was too early to continue with my get-out-of-jail plan. Instead I cruised over to Stacy’s place.

  There were several lamps on throughout the house. The windows and doors were open to let in the cool evening air. The wind had persisted throughout the afternoon and now the air was muggy. I parked across the street a couple houses down and sat, waiting, watching. There was a lot of activity in the neighborhood, but no one seemed to pay me much mind, although the scooter drew a few looks.

  After a few minutes, I saw a girl in cotton shorts and a hooded sweatshirt, her dark blonde hair piled messily on top of her head, rise and walk across the front room of the house. I could see the blue lights of a TV flashing on the walls. When she returned, she was sipping something from a glass. She crossed the room and dropped out of sight again. So far, she was the only one I’d seen, though Stacy shared the house with three other girls. I decided to give it a shot.

  I crossed the street and knocked on the screen door. A moment later the girl I’d seen appeared before me. She was five-six and had pretty brown eyes, except I saw something dark flash in them; it looked a lot like fear. More noticeable was her surprise. This was followed closely by confusion.

  She was obviously wondering who I was and what I wanted, so I attributed her guarded manner to her suspicion, but that didn’t feel quite right.

  “Can I help you with something?”

  “Is Stacy home?” I asked.

  Something in the girl’s presentation changed, then she seemed to work herself up, as if she would burst into tears. After a moment of thought, she pushed the screen door open and waved me in, returning to the other side of the room. She sat down on a brown leather sofa, which I suspected was the real deal given the faint leather scent in the air. She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them as I sat in a nearby chair, also leather, also real. And very comfortable.

  “I’m sorry to tell you,” she said softly. “But Stacy was attacked. She’s in the hospital.”

  I feigned surprise, widening my eyes. “No!”

  Reading people and lying are two skills I’d honed to perfection early on in life. Then, they had been survival tools. Later, I’d used my power for evil. Now, I try to use my powers only for good. I thought this qualified.

  “Yes!”

  “I can’t believe it! What happened? Is she okay?”

  I took in the room as well as the girl. The spaces I could see from where I sat were well furnished, and everything seemed rather expensive. Certainly, these weren’t the furnishings of a typical college crash pad. One or more of the people living here had money. It was possible someone’s parents were funding their college experience; I’d seen that more than once as a leasing agent. But I suspected that wasn’t the case for Stacy.

  The girl shook her head. “No one really seems to know yet. The police are looking into it but don’t have much. She was stabbed last night. She’s in critical condition.”

  “I can’t believe it,” I said again. “I just saw her in class, you know? How unreal.”

  Something else flashed in her eyes, but it was gone almost before I registered it.

  “Tell me about it. I’ve been freaking out since I heard.”

  “Why? Are you afraid something might happen to you?”

  She shrugged and glanced at the dark windows, all of which were open. “Maybe. You know, the cops don’t know what happened. Maybe it wasn’t random.”

  Her tone made it clear she had a theory she wanted to share. It didn’t take much prompting for her to do so. But it didn’t feel like a girl confiding a private speculation, which furthered my suspicion.

  “If it wasn’t random, then what? I mean, Stacy seems like such a nice person.”

  “Oh, she is, you know, it’s just that . . .” The girl shrugged again, searching for the right words. “She maybe got mixed up with a bad guy.” She sighed. “Stacy would deny it to the end, but her boyfriend isn’t a great guy, you know? I just, uh, I just wondered when I heard, that’s all.”

  “Had they been fighting or something?” I asked, continuing my performance. “Is he dangerous?”

  “I don’t know. I just know a couple days ago he was in a big hurry to get out of town. He wanted her to come with, but she didn’t want to just pack up and leave. She’s a pretty good student and actually likes school. From what I could tell, he wasn’t planning a vacation, you know?”

  No, he was planning to skip town, trying to stay one step ahead of the cops looking for him.

  “Geez! What’s this guy’s name? Does
he go to school here? Would I know him?”

  She shook her head. “No, he’s not a student. His name is Tyler Jay. He’s got lots of tattoos, most pretty cheap-looking, and a nasty scar above his left eye. He gives me the creeps, always has. I always worried he was going to hurt her.”

  “And now you think he might hurt you?”

  She shivered, but it didn’t feel quite genuine. “I don’t know, I really don’t. I hope not. He has no reason to.”

  I wasn’t the only expert liar in the room. I couldn’t help wondering what, exactly, she was lying about, and why.

  “And you think he may have hurt Stacy because she wouldn’t go with him?”

  “It’s only one theory. You know, the cops aren’t sure it was random.”

  “What makes them think it was targeted?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. She was in an apartment building on Elizabeth when it happened. She still had her purse.”

  “Was she visiting someone? Maybe they saw something.”

  Another flash of something, there and gone before I could really identify it. But her eyes darkened a couple shades.

  “I don’t know what she was doing there. We don’t know anyone in that building.”

  Didn’t the roommate know Stacy was moving out?

  I shrugged. “Maybe she was looking at an apartment or something.”

  “Why would she look at an apartment?”

  Her tone and the cold look in her eyes caused another red flag—or five— to fly up in my mind.

  “I don’t know, but if she didn’t know anyone in the building, why else would she go there?”

  She reached out and grabbed hold of that thought easily. “That could be, I guess. She didn’t mention it to me. She could have been there to visit someone she worked with. Maybe someone from the restaurant lives there.”

  “She told me which restaurant she works at but I forgot.”

  “The Olive Garden.”

  I snapped my fingers as if I suddenly remembered. “That’s right. Geez, I just can’t believe this. Do you know which room she’s in? I think I should go visit.”

  “She’s not awake yet, but they say she can hear us talking to her.” She gave me the room number I already had.