Losing Your Head (The Charlie Davies Mysteries Book 1)

by Clare Kauter

  He looked me straight in the eye – “You owe me.” Shit.

  And on that note, he departed.

  I shut the draw of the filing cabinet and glanced at my watch. Five past five. I ducked next door into the storage room and closed (and locked) the door behind me so I could change into my tracksuit. It occurred to me that I really should ask where the bathrooms are. My tracksuit was the one I’d had since high school for P.E. and it had definitely seen better days. It was saggy and bulgy in unflattering places and was riddled with holes. I was hoping no one would see me in it, but that problem was solved when I realised I hadn’t brought my joggers (which, admittedly, weren’t that crash hot either – another one of my high school investments that I had pretended was still good enough to wear). Running in pumps not being one of my favourite pastimes (hell, I could hardly walk in them), I decided to skip the jog for today. If I felt like it I might go for a run tomorrow. Or Sunday. That was one of my life mottos: ‘Never put off until tomorrow what can be delayed until the day after’.

  I gathered up my stuff and left through the front door. I turned to face the building I’d just come out of. Three stories, another building the same size but without the sign to the left, and if you went around the right hand side, there was even an underground car park. I wondered how much was owned by Baxter & Co. Probably all of it.

  Out of plain curiosity, I decided to check out this fancy subterranean garage. I headed around the side of the building, being careful not to be seen. I don’t know why, after all, I had every right to be there. I mean, OK, so I didn’t have a car, but no use worrying about the particulars, right?

  When I got to the back of the building, I saw the weirdest thing. Four silver cars left the garage, just to be replaced by four black cars. Huh? I was so curious about this that I actually went into the parking lot.

  When I walked down the ramp, I was amazed at what I saw. The whole lot was taken up with black and silver cars. No other colours (or shades, if you want to get all technical). Just black and silver. These must belong to the Baxter & Co. workers. Hmm. This might give me a vague idea of how many people were working here. I began to count. 2, 4, 6, 8 –

  Suddenly I felt a hand clap over my mouth as I was seized from behind. I struggled against my captor but couldn’t break free. The stranger had too strong a hold on me.

  “What are you doing?” the person asked me quietly. It was a male voice and it was coming from an incredibly strong guy. Even with all my failed attempts to free myself the man’s feet still hadn’t moved. Or it could just be that I was incredibly weak. Probably the latter. Either way, my attacker had his arm around my neck and I couldn’t loosen it. “I’m going to take my hand off your mouth now so you can answer, but don’t even think about screaming or I’ll snap your neck like a twig. Understand?”

  I nodded (at least, I tried – not the easiest thing in the world, nodding when you’re in a headlock). It’s amazing how clear things seem when your life is threatened. Agree or die. Very simple.

  He took his hand away from my mouth.

  “I’m just walking through a car park and you attack me for it? How dare you?” I took a deep breath (or as deep as I could, given the circumstances) and hit him with another torrent of abuse. “You should be ashamed of yourself, assaulting innocent young ladies here. Or, for that matter, assaulting innocent ladies anywhere.” Did I just refer to myself as an innocent young lady? “You are a disgusting man. What appalling behaviour! You repulse me.”

  I blame the way I was speaking on the restricted blood/oxygen flow to my brain. I’d started talking like my grandmother did whenever she came across an ‘impolite young man’ – all I can say in my defence is that it seemed to work she said it.

  In this case, the ‘impolite young man’ himself seemed too stunned to speak. I didn’t give him a chance to compose himself before continuing. “Well? Are you going to let me go and apologise profusely for what you’ve done? Or act like the unpleasant character you are and continue with this ridiculous power trip that you seem to find so entertaining?”

  Still no answer.

  By now I was so worked up that I no longer cared my life could be in danger. “Well, come on then, do something. Say something.”

  His grip loosened and I ducked down to pull my head out from his arm. I turned around and found myself face-to-face with Impolite Young Man himself. He had jet-black hair that curled a little at the ends. His clothes, too, were jet black – black jeans, black T-shirt (despite how lean he was, I could see his muscles clearly through it – it seemed like most people at Baxter & Co. were big fans of that mystical place known as the gymnasium) and jet-black Converse sneakers. The amount of muscle wasn’t the only impressive thing about him. With his flawless caramel-coloured skin, defined jaw line, and symmetrical features, he looked like he’d stepped straight out of a photo-shopped magazine picture advertising cologne or designer underwear or something. He was probably around six foot, but he didn’t look lanky – the height suited him. I guessed he was Indigenous, though it didn’t seem the right time to ask.

  “You’re the new receptionist, right? I heard your face was smashed up. Probably from sticking your nose where it didn’t belong, if your behaviour today is anything to go by. Sorry for grabbing you,” he said casually, “But this is a security company.”

  “That was a pathetic apology.”

  He sighed, like he was working in retail and I was an annoying customer that wouldn’t leave until he gave me a refund for that $0.33 he overcharged me. (Trust me, I know that look well. It’s one I’ve worn many a time.) “And I’m sorry that I snuck up on you.”

  “Sneaked.”

  “What?”

  “Technically the – the proper word is ‘sneaked’.” I stammered halfway through the sentence, realising that no one with a face that beautiful cared about whether it was ‘snuck’ or ‘sneaked’. He probably had a fashion show to be getting to and I was just holding him up.

  “I also apologise for my appalling use of the English language.”

  “Thank you.” Wait, what? Why was I thanking him? I blame his face. It was distracting. No one should be that symmetrical.

  “Do you always talk like an old lady?”

  “If you sound like someone’s grandmother they’ll do what they’re told.” I wondered how far I could go with this. On your knees, young man. Now remove that tight-fitting shirt. Wait, what?

  “Do I have to apologise for anything else?” he asked, not sounding entirely sincere. I wanted to press for a better apology, but I decided it was best not to antagonise him further. He was tall and be-muscled and, you know, I was kind of trespassing.

  I tried to change the topic. “What’s with the cars?”

  He looked bored but told me anyway. “Because it’s around five now, some of the day workers are leaving and so they’re being replaced with night workers. Everyone here drives either a black or silver company car.”

  “Why the black and silver cars?”

  “To blend in,” he said, straight-faced. Like hell Porches and BMWs would “blend in”. This was Gerongate. Capital of the Unnecessary Suburban Four Wheel Drive.

  “Blend in? Right, so I guess this company does most of its work with the upper classes.” Impolite Young Man didn’t seem to care what I was saying. He looked at me, remaining silent. “Well, I’m leaving.” We didn’t exchange goodbyes. We weren’t exactly on friendly terms.

  I started to walk away, and I was nearly out of the car park when I tripped over. Impolite Young Man appeared behind me and gave me a hand up. I was expecting him to laugh, or smile, or react somehow. He just looked disgusted, like he couldn’t believe someone had employed me. Hey, you and me both, buddy.

  “Don’t say anything,” I warned him. He was smart enough to oblige.

  That night, as my family sat around the dinner table (creamy cashew and mushroom pasta – good, since Mum cooked it), Mum asked me what had happened at work that day.

  Well, let’
s see. I’d met two guys I worked with. I knew that one had a street name. He caught me snooping through files and having a nap the floor. The other thought I was an honorary geriatric because of the way I’d abused him after he restrained and threatened me for walking around a car park. And then he saw me trip over. And he hadn’t even taken off his shirt.

  “Not much,” I answered. “But they’re giving me a car.”

  Chapter Four

  I slept in late on Saturday morning. I suppose it was all the fun I’d had the day before that took it out of me. I had a feeling that working at Baxter & Co. was going to make me very sleepy. Death threats are so underrated as an alternative to sleeping pills.

  I lay in bed for a while longer. I was just about to get up when I remembered what I’d promised myself I’d do today. So I stayed there.

  Two hours later I decided I’d really better face the day, and half an hour after that I actually managed to drag myself into the shower.

  I stayed in the shower until I used up all the hot water. When I got out I spent a very long time putting on my clothes and deciding whether to wear glasses or contact lenses. Then I changed my clothes. I ended up in a pair of jeans and a red singlet top. Then I did my hair. Then I redid it. By the end I had successfully put it up in a ponytail with my long fringe tucked behind my ears. Hmm. What now?

  For nearly the first time in my life, I actually did my makeup properly. I had to use my mum’s eye shadow and eyeliner because all I had was lip-gloss and mascara. It was kind of hard to do eye makeup when I was wearing glasses, though, so I had to wear contact lenses instead (and I hardly got any mascara on them at all!). I painted my fingernails clear, and then painted my toenails the same. Then I painted them red to match my shirt. Then I painted clear over the top. By the time I was finished I really couldn’t put it off any longer, so I made myself a smoothie (which took a little while because I had to go to the corner shop because we’d run out of soy milk), drank it, gagged at the flavour, Googled the address, jumped in Mum’s Nissan, and drove.

  All too soon I reached my destination. I stared at the steering wheel in utter disbelief. Not once since I had gotten my driver’s license had this car gone properly for me. It always stalled, or wouldn’t go into gear, or got a flat tyre, or had some other problem that meant it wouldn’t work for me. No one else had any problems with it, just me. And now, on the one day when I hadn’t wanted it to go, there were no hitches. It ran perfectly. It hated me. And I hated it right back.

  I parked and stepped out of the Patrol, looking around to see if Jeremy’s car was here. It wasn’t. OK, no excuses now. I walked slowly across the lawn, climbed the steps with all the speed and enthusiasm of a funeral procession, and rang the doorbell. No one answered, so I pressed it again. Any second now. Someone will answer the door very soon.

  Oh, crap, I realised. I’d been pressing a light switch.

  I knocked on the door, praying that no one was home. Praying to whom, I do not know. Aphrodite? I know the goddess of love and beauty was maybe not the most appropriate choice for this situation, but she was the only one I could think of. At least she could help me with the reconstructive surgery after I got my face smashed in.

  I heard footsteps on the other side of the wood. Damn. Someone was here. And I was pretty sure it would be the person I was looking for.

  The door was thrown open and (because I had expected it to open inwards) I was standing far too close. I had no time to move and it whacked me fair in the face. (Well, that just extended the life of my bruise by a few days.) I stumbled backwards and fell down the steps – it was lucky that there were only three. I landed on the grass, which was an improvement from some of my past falls. Plus I was wearing jeans, so no flashing. So far, so good. Thanks Aphrodite!

  I sat there on my bum feeling a bit dazed but aside from that, fine. I glanced back up at the doorway where Lea Martin was standing – well, not so much standing as doubled over laughing at me. It was embarrassing but I comforted myself with the thought that, if nothing else, it was at least better than having her hurl abuse at me. Or having her hurl anything at me, for that matter.

  “Are – you – all – right?” Lea squeezed out between barks of laughter. She took a couple of deep breaths to calm herself then came down the steps to help me up. She was wearing a pair of jeans, black and white spotted Keds and a low-cut singlet to match her shoes. She was trying to keep a straight face but the way she kept twitching made it pretty obvious that she was internally laughing at my stupidity.

  What is it about a person hurting themself that is so funny? And why do I have to be the one who always seems to be entertaining everyone else? A bit unfair, I thought. But anyway, for the moment Lea’s laughter was a relief, because her happy vibes obviously meant that she hadn’t recognised me yet.

  “So, Charlie, are you looking for your darling boyfriend?” she asked with a (gasp!) smile.

  Lea seemed to be acting incredibly nicely towards me. And I was pretty sure she was genuine.

  My surprise must have registered on my face because the next thing Lea said was, “Oh, jeez love, don’t look so shocked! I knew you were lying the moment you started with that story. I mean, come on, everyone knows Jeremy only cheated on me with women with big tits.” Well, thank you for that lovely self-esteem boost, Lea. That comment will stay in my heart forever. “Oh, shit! I didn’t mean that! Well, I did, but it came out wrong… You’ve got beautiful tits,” she finished, slightly awkwardly.

  “Don’t worry,” I reassured her. “I get that a lot.” I meant the flat-chest thing, not the beautiful tits. I’d never gotten that before.

  We were both silent for a moment.

  “It was an impressive way to quit work,” Lea said, breaking the silence. “It’s a pity I wasn’t around to see Jeremy’s face at the end. That would have been classic. I’ve wanted to get a divorce even before I was married, and you gave me an excuse, so… Really I should thank you.”

  If my eyebrows had left my forehead and were up past the clouds by this stage, I wouldn’t have been at all surprised. This was ridiculous. No, it was unbelievable. (OK, so those two words mean basically the same thing. Whatever. I don’t care.) I had come here to apologise, expecting her to scream insults at me and not even listen to what I had to say. Instead, here was Lea thanking me for giving her a chance to split up with her husband. Thanking me.

  “Um – well – I, er – um – no worries,” I blundered. As you could probably tell, I was a bit shocked. This was definitely NOT what I had expected.

  However, when I thought about it, it made a lot more sense for her to be glad to get rid of Captain Ferret than to be cut up about it. And really, I had done her a favour. I should have expected her to be like this.

  But my pessimistic/boring/conservative/sensible side disagreed. Why was she being nice? She had to be angry with me. She was acting. It was all an evil ploy!

  Yes, I know. That was my sensible and boring side. It’s a wonder I wasn’t in a straight jacket.

  “Come inside. Jeremy’s out at the moment, thank god. I’m just here to pack up my stuff,” Lea said. I followed her in. “D’ya want a cuppa?” she asked. “I was just about to make one.”

  “No thanks,” I answered. I was slightly dubious about how nice she was being, and I wasn’t totally above suspecting that she might still slip something in my drink. Better safe than sorry, and in this instance I planned to play it very safe.

  As we entered, I noticed a large pile of suitcases and luggage in the hall. Well, you’d have a hard time not noticing them – we practically had to climb over them to get into the kitchen. Lea filled the jug up with water from the tap and flicked it on.

  “This is Jeremy’s house and I just can’t stand being here with him, so I’m leaving,” she explained.

  “Where are you going?” I asked her. As far as I knew, she’d lived with her parents before she was married and had moved straight in with the Ferret afterwards.

  “I don’t know,�
� she answered. “My parents are out of the country and I don’t have a key to their place, so that’s out. All my friends either have noisy kids or husbands that couldn’t manage on their own if their lives depended on it, and that drives me insane right now. I guess I’ll just check into a hotel or something and look for a job and an apartment from there.”

  “Have you got enough money for that?”

  “I don’t know. The divorce hasn’t gone through yet, so I’ll have to stick around Gerongate for a while. But that’s about as far as I’ve planned.”

  “Oh.” The kettle, which had been heating (noisily) throughout our conversation clicked off, and Lea made herself a cup of mint tea. As she put the tea bag in the bin, I had an idea. “You could stay at my parent’s house if you want to. It’ll cost way too much staying at a hotel.”

  I said I had an idea. I did not say that it was a good one.

  I couldn’t tell where this was coming from. I didn’t trust this chick enough to accept a cup of tea from her, and now I was asking her to come live with me. Note to self: make appointment with psychologist.

  “Are you serious? Really? That would be OK?” No, not at all. No!

  “Sure it would be.” Revised note to self: make appointment with psychologist TODAY. My brain said one thing, my mouth said another. Another, very different, thing.

  “It’s lovely of you to offer Charlie, but I couldn’t.” Oh, thank god! Don’t speak, Charlie. Keep mouth shut. Don’t speak don’t speak don’t –

  “Oh, come on, of course you could!” No, no, shut up! Don’t do this! “My family’s not that scary!” Well, now I was just straight-out lying.

  “Really?” she asked me unsurely. When I nodded, her face lit up. “This’ll be so great! We might even be able to find a place together somewhere!” She caught herself. “You know – only if you want.” Guess I must have started to look a bit sceptical.

  “Oh, no, yeah – maybe.” Charlie Davies, Decision-Making Extraordinaire. “Look, how about I call my parents and clear it with them, then we can pack your luggage into my car and head home?”