The Trouble With Murder

by Catherine Nelson

“You know you smell like a man?” He lowered himself onto a chair and looked up at me.

  I nodded. “Axe shampoo,” I said. “Phoenix, specifically.”

  He just looked at me.

  “My gay roommate used all my shampoo. I didn’t figure this out until I was already soaking wet, so I had to use something. My brother uses this stuff.”

  He nodded, then his thoughts moved on to something else. Likely back to the topic we’d been discussing a moment before. Suddenly he seemed tired compared to the last time I’d seen him. And his dark hair was sticking up in tufts around his head from where he’d dragged his hands through it. I wondered if he’d slept since Stacy had been attacked. I realized I was asking the question before I could stop myself.

  “Have you slept? You don’t look so good.”

  He looked at me. “Thanks. Your compliments make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.”

  “Right,” I said, taking the chair across from him. “That’s obviously some sort of boundary you don’t want to cross. I get it. Sorry.”

  He sighed and leaned his elbows on the table, running his hands over his face and back through his hair, leaving a fresh chunk standing on end. “I’m crossing all sorts of boundaries. For instance, I should be having this conversation in an interrogation room, on tape and on record, after I’ve read you your rights.”

  “I appreciate you not doing that, by the way.”

  “Actually, it was selfish. I thought if I stood any chance at all of getting a straight answer out of you, it would be in an informal conversation, which, incidentally, requires far less paperwork. I get the impression you’d be a pain in the ass if we went the other way.”

  “I can’t imagine why you’d think that,” I said. He had no idea how right he was. Or maybe he’d spoken to Hensley.

  “Look, I need you to consent to a search of your home and vehicle. Actually, you need that. And since you saw the security footage, we need to do it now. Even a first-year law student could argue the problems with letting you go home now and doing a search later.”

  “You want to search my house?”

  “That won’t be a problem, will it?”

  I sighed and slumped into a chair. “This sucks.”

  “Detective Hensley came to see me. Seems like you’ve gotten yourself into quite a bit of trouble in the last twenty-four hours.”

  “An arguable point.” I shrugged. “I’d been thinking recently my life had become monotonous, boring.”

  “How do you feel about it now?”

  “Way less boring,” I confirmed.

  8

  The station lobby was a zoo. A baby was crying, three children were running around screaming, a man was yelling, a woman was complaining. I stood beside Ellmann watching Troy, the nerdy-looking guy I’d seen at Elizabeth Tower, motor the Crime Scene van out of the parking lot and head north on Timberline. I’d given him a spare key and directions to the mechanic’s shop.

  Ellmann was dressed in a similar uniform to the one he’d worn the day before: jeans and a t-shirt. I thought detectives were supposed to get around in cheap suits and bad ties, like Hensley, but I had yet to see Ellmann dressed that way. Of course, I’d only known the man two days; it was possible this judgment was premature.

  “This take long?” I asked over a hysterical shriek. I was still staring at the place where the van had disappeared from view.

  He nodded toward the door then held it open for me and followed me out. From the sidewalk, the chaos of the lobby was muffled.

  “Not too long, usually.”

  “Don’t you need to be there?”

  He shook his head. “Troy doesn’t do his best work when we stand over him. It’s faster if we give him his space. What’s wrong with your truck?”

  “No idea. Trouble is, my mechanic can’t seem to figure it out, either. He spends more time with the damn thing than I do these days.”

  “You need a new mechanic. Mine’s pretty good, if you want the number.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “You eat breakfast yet?” he asked.

  I hooked a thumb over my shoulder toward the lobby. “Yeah, I hit the Continental Breakfast buffet before I checked out.”

  He chuckled. “Right. I know this great place . . .”

  He turned and began walking down the sidewalk toward Timberline. I fell in behind him because I had nothing better to do. And however long “not too long, usually” turned out to be, it would go by much more quickly over breakfast with Ellmann than standing alone on the sidewalk in front of the police station. Plus, I was hungry. More than that, I needed a cup of coffee.

  We walked north along Timberline to Burger King a block over.

  Inside, we found only a few other breakfast-goers, all of them obviously cops. Ellmann ordered some supersized egg-bagel combo thing with extra everything and a bucket of coffee. He’d obviously eaten here before.

  “And for you, ma’am?” the teenager behind the counter asked, looking at me.

  I really hate being called “ma’am.” It makes me feel old. Of course, to a seventeen-year-old girl, everyone over the age of eighteen is old. So, maybe all was right with the world.

  “That sounds good,” I said, stepping up to the counter. “I’ll have the same.”

  Her finger stopped over the touch screen of the register, and she looked up at me. I noticed Ellmann was looking at me, too. I glanced from one to the other then shrugged.

  “What?”

  This wasn’t typical of the way I ate, however, most everyone would assume it was, given the extra forty-seven pounds I couldn’t hide underneath baggy t-shirts and sweats. Either way, it sure wouldn’t help me with the forty-seven-pound problem.

  The girl did some order-entering while Ellmann and I did some arguing. He handed his card to the girl to pay for the whole thing, and I wanted to pay for my part. I dug some cash out of the bottom of my bag, but he wouldn’t accept any of it.

  The girl returned carrying two trays piled high with cholesterol, calories, and certain death. Ellmann turned away from me and reached for one of them. I quickly stuffed the cash into his back pocket and reached for the other. He immediately gave me a small head shake, but seemed resigned to his defeat.

  We carried our trays to a corner table where we both moved for the same seat—the seat that would afford a view of the entire restaurant and both doors. I thought we’d have to throw down until Ellmann suggested the next table over. There we both sat in the booth against the wall, side by side, each with a clear view of the place.

  “Do you always argue about everything with everyone?” he asked after swallowing a bite.

  I sipped at the coffee. Thank goodness it had been the least expensive item, because it tasted like recycled motor oil that would double as gasoline in a pinch.

  “You bring it out of me.”

  “I’m not sure if I believe that or not.”

  I was halfway through my bagel thing when the door opened and two more cops walked in. They were dressed in suits, by far the most expensive suits I’d seen so far. One was charcoal gray and the other a dark pinstripe. They spotted Ellmann, took me in for a moment, then started toward us. I felt Ellmann tense beside me, but nothing about his outward presentation changed. Had I not been sitting next him, I would have had no idea anything was off.

  The men were in their late twenties or early thirties. The guy in the charcoal suit had light brown hair; the other blonde. And they wore enough cologne to choke a horse.

  “Look at this,” the brunette said to his companion. “Do you believe it? Our very own Ellmann, out on a date.” He turned to his friend. “They grow up so quickly.”

  The blonde snickered. “A breakfast date,” he clarified, bobbing his eyebrows suggestively.

  “Don’t you clowns have anything better to do?” Ellmann asked. “Maybe some police work or something?”

  “Oh, that’s right,” the brunette said. “I forgot dating is a sensitive issue with you.”


  I cut in before Ellmann could respond. “Speaking of dating, how long have you two been together?”

  Both men puffed up considerably at my suggestion.

  “I’d guess a few years,” I went on. “You know, you’re starting to look alike. That happens. My grandparents, for example, looked so similar people thought they were siblings. And I’m ninety percent sure they weren’t siblings, but who can know for sure? It was a different time.”

  The blonde flushed, either from embarrassment or anger—my bet was embarrassment. The other’s eyes had turned cold and dark. Malevolent.

  “We are not a couple,” the brunette hissed.

  “Hey,” I said, raising my hands in front of me. “I’m not judging. Look at the Romans, for instance. They were a mighty people, and fond of same-sex sexual relationships. Actually, they were fond of sex, period, but still. And they weren’t the only culture. Who’s to say where we’d stand on issues like that today if it weren’t for the Catholic Church? I guess it’s fair to say we’d see a lot of things differently if it weren’t for the Catholic Church. Like birth control. Anyway, the point is, to each his own. All that really matters is that you’re happy. Are you happy?”

  “No,” the blonde spat. “We’re not happy.” The statement had been intended to defend their sexual orientation and the boundaries of their relationship, but it didn’t come across that way, and he knew it the instant it was out of his mouth. It only flustered him more.

  Ellmann was grinning from ear to ear beside me.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “My advice? Get counseling. Those marriage counselors really know what they’re doing. You obviously love each other, so you’re bound to work it out. Don’t give u—”

  “Shut up!” the brunette snapped, the features of his face pinched and red.

  “Uh-oh,” I said. “Was it something I said?”

  There was a brief moment of confused and angry mutterings before the pair finally spun around and all but ran out of the restaurant. The brunette gave one last look in through the window. I smiled and waved, giving him a big thumbs-up. A few seconds later, there was the screech of tires as their car peeled out of the lot (and away from me).

  I sighed with satisfaction then reached for my bagel.

  Ellmann was smiling.

  “That was great.” He took a bite.

  “I only feel a little bit bad.”

  “Why feel bad at all?”

  “Because they actually are sleeping together. Who are we to judge?”

  He froze. “What do you mean they’re sleeping together?” he finally asked.

  “The blonde one had the distinct look of a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar when I first mentioned they were a couple. There were signs of embarrassment from both of them, lots of anger, but under all of it, fear. Fear of being discovered.” I shrugged. “I hope they actually are happy together.”

  Ellmann didn’t say another word to me until we were at my house with Troy and the crime scene team.

  _______________

  My primary objective today was to get moved. If I hadn’t needed a new place to live before, I definitely would after the police search. I had called Margaret Fischer during breakfast and rescheduled our meeting. I didn’t want the search to jeopardize our deal. Then I called my brother.

  I couldn’t use my truck, and it would take way too many gas-guzzling carloads to haul everything over in the Lincoln, despite the impressive cargo space (the trunk could comfortably accommodate eight suitcases or six dead bodies). I needed a truck. After breakfast, I somehow managed to talk Ellmann into dropping me off at Home Depot on Harmony. I gave him my house keys and promised to be right behind him.

  I found Zach, dressed in his bright orange apron, helping a stooped old man in the electrical department. He gave me his keys, and I bought two more rolls of packing tape. I made it three steps out the door when I heard a voice behind me.

  “Look who it is.”

  I looked back and saw Joe Pezzani. He was dressed similarly today as he had been when I’d seen him in my office, and he looked just as good. He settled his sunglasses in place as he walked out into the sunlight.

  “Wanna give me that line about not stalking me again?”

  He stopped beside me.

  “It’s possible you’re stalking me,” he said. “I’m working.”

  He did have his security company uniform on, so maybe this was another coincidence. But how many times could I coincidentally run into the same guy?

  “How did it go for the guard last night?”

  The wind shifted, and I caught a whiff of something wonderful-smelling. I was pretty sure it was him. I was just as sure I didn’t smell very good under the still-fragrant Axe. I hoped the wind didn’t shift again until I was long gone.

  “All reports were negative: nothing out of place, nothing unusual, nothing suspicious.”

  “Good. Hopefully that will help calm everyone’s nerves a little bit.”

  “This isn’t really any of your business anymore, though, is it? I mean, that Davis guy is handling everything, or trying to.”

  “I was serious; Paige can’t fire me. I’m still employed. Therefore, it’s still my problem.”

  I didn’t see the need to mention my vacation. Probably that would just confuse the situation for him.

  He chuckled softly. I turned and continued toward the parking lot.

  “I need to be going,” I said. I had a date with a cop and a crime scene investigator.

  Pezzani fell in step beside me.

  “Listen, I was thinking we should stop meeting like this.”

  “Yeah?” I said without slowing. “Well, that’s easy. Next time you think of following me, don’t. Just stay home.”

  “Despite myself, and you, I find you interesting. I was thinking next time we could meet on purpose.”

  I chuckled. “What, like a date?”

  “Yeah. What do you think?”

  I glanced up at him. He was being sincere. Who the hell was this guy?

  “You’re serious.”

  He pulled his phone from his pocket. “Yes. What’s your number?”

  After a brief, internal debate, I acquiesced. I reasoned that I had given Pezzani, possible stalker, my phone number because it was the fastest way out of the conversation and the parking lot. Ellmann was likely already at my house, and I could only hope my mother wasn’t home. I didn’t want to entertain any other possible explanations for having given Pezzani my number.

  “Where’s your truck?” he asked as I climbed into my brother’s Dodge Cummins.

  “The shop.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  Why did everyone ask that question? I didn’t know what was wrong with it; that’s why it was in the shop.

  “No idea.”

  We said our goodbyes and I roared out of the lot.

  When I got home, the crime scene van and Ellmann’s navy blue Charger were parked at the curb. I saw no sign of my mother. So far so good.

  While Troy and his two helpers methodically searched the place from floor to ceiling, wall to wall, starting in my bedroom, I tried to stay out of the way. I made coffee and passed it around. For a while I stood with Ellmann in the kitchen, both of us drinking our coffee silently. When nothing of interest was found in either my bedroom or the bathroom, I went downstairs to take a shower (and wash my hair).

  When I emerged again, I heard yelling upstairs. My heart instantly beat faster, and I experienced the usual fight-or-flight response these types of situations regularly bring out in me. Swearing under my breath, I hustled upstairs and into the kitchen, where my mother had Ellmann and Troy cornered. Troy’s helpers were standing nearby, staring conspicuously at the spectacle before them. She was hurling questions at them so quickly they couldn’t respond.

  “Mom, what are you doing home?”

  Bridget Grey is tall, like everyone else in the family. (I had gotten shorted on that gene, literally, standing at least thre
e inches shorter than all my relatives, past or present. But I look a lot like both of my parents, so that eliminates the UPS man.) At five-eleven barefoot, she was easily more than six feet tall in the heels she wore today. Her hair, kept perfectly blonde by the slew of chemicals she treated it with every few weeks, had been shoulder length and attractively layered until a couple weeks before. This had been the beginning of her unmedicated upswing into mania. She’d gone to an expensive salon on a whim and instructed the girl to chop it off. Now it’s chin length, shorter in the back and slightly longer in the front, and styled dramatically.

  She has blue eyes, and her choice of makeup during these states is to wear night-out makeup during the day and even racier styles at night. Her side of the family is all rail-thin and not particularly strong, in any sense of the word; they traded capability for appearance, something I’d noticed none of them really minded. No exception, my mother had worn a size three before having children and now wears a four.

  Today she was dressed in an expensive black pencil skirt split up the back to mid-thigh. She wore a pushup bra, a red scoop-neck blouse with strategically placed ruffles calling attention to her cleavage, and a tailored black jacket that cut her narrow figure and accentuated all of her best features. No one can say the woman is anything but gorgeous.

  She wheeled around and marched forward, her attention wholly focused on me now, much to the relief of Ellmann and Troy. Ellmann was still on alert, however, and watchful.

  “How dare you question me! It’s my house! I’ll come and go as I please! The better question, young lady, is what the hell is going on here? Why are these men here tearing my house apart? Who gave them permission to do that?”

  I was familiar with this routine. She could fire off questions so quickly she seemed to have no need for breath. But I could assert myself enough to interrupt. Whether there was wisdom in that or not.

  “I gave them permission.”

  “How dare you!” She spun back around and pointed an angry finger at Ellmann, who had trailed her across the kitchen. “This is my house! How can she give permission? It has to be me. And, I don’t give permission. Get out!”