by Mary Mead
“I can’t eat all this.”
“Eat what you can,” Papa said. He leaned forward and dropped his voice. “No matter what she says, take the muffin home for later. Nuke it for half a minute and it’s just right. I do it all the time.”
I smiled and reached for the salt.
“Will it bother you to talk while you eat?” Paul asked.
I shook my head and bit into a strip of bacon.
“Have they found anything?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Well, not to sound crass or anything, but how much did we lose? You have any idea yet?”
I swallowed and took a sip of coffee. “Not a dime,” I answered when my mouth was empty. “Saturday’s rents were in the deposit bag in the back office, along with the payment log. It appears he had just opened the office when he was shot.”
“Not a robbery then,” Paul said. “How about petty cash? Did you check that?”
“I checked, Paul. It’s all there. Not even a penny off.”
“Do you think he pissed someone off?”
“Not enough to kill him. The only thing that man was ever guilty of was talking too much. You know? He loved to talk, didn’t matter what subject, he just loved to talk. I think it was because he was lonely.”
“How about family? I looked over his job application and didn’t see any listed.”
“He mentioned a brother in Texas but I have no idea what his name is. The police may know more about that. I’ll ask them.”
“Yeah good idea,” Paul said. “You’re pretty thick with Kincaid. He might tell you.”
“I’m friends with John. I can ask.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Papa said. “We can’t compensate some guy in Texas. Immediate family only. Hold his paycheck in case someone contacts us. If it isn’t claimed in a few months, toss it in a deposit.”
Ouch. That was a cold decision and surprised me from Papa Murphy. I knew they didn’t know Steve but still the man had died, been killed while working for them. My appetite left the building. I put down my fork.
“Well, thank you for breakfast,” I said, wadding up my napkin. “I better get back over there.”
“I told you to take the rest of the week off,” Paul said. “I’ll get an ad in the paper, find a replacement for the weekends. Till we do, close up on the weekend. You can’t be working seven days a week. I have your home number and your cell number. If we need anything else, I’ll give you a call.” He patted my hand again. “This may sound terrible but we’re very glad it wasn’t you, Marlie.”
“Thank you,” I said, not sure what was the proper response for we’re glad you didn’t get shot to death. I was happy about it, too, only I didn’t feel expressing it was appropriate. “Thanks for breakfast, too,” I said and scooted out of the booth.
“One more thing,” Papa Murphy said. “Take the muffin.”
On the way home I thought about the Murphy men and their attitude. While Steve technically worked for me he was still an employee of theirs. Paul made out his paycheck every two weeks just like he did mine. Their cavalier attitude to his death bothered me. I wondered if they would have been more concerned had it been me. Papa Murphy surprised me the most.
Pulling into my parking place I saw the van was still in front of the office. John Kincaid’s silver pickup occupied the space next to him.
I went around to the still open front door and stuck my head in. Two men in white coveralls sat at the counter while another stood beside John. Gritting my teeth I went in and glanced behind the counter. A huge square of carpet looked wet. The deep brown splotch was gone. I still shuddered.
“Marlena,” John said with a smile. “What are you doing here?”
“To tell the truth, I don’t know,” I smiled back. “Habit, I guess. How’s it going? Did you find anything new?”
John came to join me while the guy he had been talking to left through the front door. I moved out of his way as he went around me.
“Not so far. How’re you doing?”
“Good, thanks. I went to breakfast with the Murphy’s. Let them know what was going on.”
“How did that go?”
“All right, I suppose.”
John wrinkled his forehead. “What’s wrong? They surely can’t blame you for this.”
“No, it’s not that,” I said, not sure what I was feeling and not ready to discuss it in committee.
“Anything new? Did they find anything?”
John waved an arm around the office. “It looks like someone opened the front door and shot him. You said none of the cash was missing. The computers, the DVD recorder, none of that was taken, just smashed up. It appears Steve was the target. Forensics might be able to get something off the recorder.” He shrugged. “That’s what we have right now.”
“Have you found any family for Steve?”
“Not yet. I sent one of our officers to talk to his landlord. He might have more information if Steve filled out an application. Do you know any of his friends? Did he ever mention anyone he was close to?”
I shook my head. “Nope. You know he loved to talk. I’ve told you that. He never met a stranger. All the stories he told me were strictly him. You know, things he did, places he went, that kind of thing.”
“Maybe Chuck will find something at his apartment.”
“Chuck?”
“Sorry, Officer Chuck,” he corrected. “We just call him Chuck. It’s a habit.”
“Chuck is his last name?”
John nodded. “Go ahead. Ask what his first name is.”
I looked at him and saw he was trying not to smile. “Okay, what is Officer Chuck’s first name?”
“Upton.”
“Upton? Like Sinclair?”
“Uh –huh.” The smile broke through. “Think about it, Marlie. Shorten it.”
I got it and smiled. “Tough life growing up.”
John nodded. “Yeah, that’s why we just call him Chuck.”
“And Chuck is the one going to Steve’s apartment?”
“Yep. He’s an excellent cop. He’ll make detective soon. If there’s anything there he’ll find it.”
“Are there other detectives?”
“In Monarch? Just me. I help out the Sheriff’s department, too. I’m sort of a county detective stationed in Monarch. There’s not enough crime in Monarch to justify a full time detective, so I work part time and get loaned out as needed.”
“That’s a good thing isn’t it? Not much crime?”
“Yes, it is,” he smiled. “There’s enough to keep me busy without a lot of stress. I like it.”
“I don’t read the paper, or watch the local news so I have no idea what’s going on. I guess I should.”
“The paper only comes out once a week, on Thursday. There’s not a lot of news in it, mostly ads and local happenings. For news, watch KSBY on television. They cover all the local stuff, anything of interest. Their truck was here earlier, covering this.”
“I hate that,” I said. “Not the kind of publicity we need.”
“You may be surprised. There’s also been several people looking for storage, or claiming to be looking. May just be curious, wanting to see the scene of the crime. Small town people are also very helpful people, not as callous as city people are. We still have barn raisings here.”
“Barn raisings?”
“Yeah, like in old movies? A barn burns down and the whole town shows up to help put up a new one. Always ends with a barn dance,” his eyes sparkled. “You must have seen one.”
I nodded. “When I was a kid. Does anyone around here even have a barn?”
“As a matter of fact a friend of mine does have a barn.”
“Whatever. I didn’t think anyone on the coast had a barn.”
“Look around sometime, out in the canyons.”
“I’ll do that the next time I’m out and about.”
He took a step back. “I better get back to work. Is there something you needed? I get to talki
ng and forget.”
“No. Papa Murphy said to close the office the rest of the week. The gates will be open for customers to access their units, no new rentals. I don’t have any vacancies right now so it’s all right.”
“Good. You can use a break. This can’t be easy for you, having someone murdered where you live. And that brings me to the uncomfortable question I’ve been putting off.”
I looked up at him. “What question? For me?”
“Yeah,” he said and his smile faded. “Is there any reason someone would be after you?”
“Me? No. Not that I know of anyway. I don’t think I’ve made anyone that mad. Not recently.” I thought of Paul Murphy’s scene at Kelly’s and dismissed it.
“Any customers upset? Any lien sales of someone’s stuff?”
“That goes with job. I haven’t had a lien sale in ages, probably five or six months. As far as someone being upset? That’s possible. I explain my rules to every person who rents a unit from me. I have them sign a paper that they understand those rules. And once a week someone will break one and when called on it, insist they never heard it before. Human nature.”
“Recently? Anyone upset?”
“Probably. Enough to want to kill me? Don’t think so. Sarcasm is a genetic defect in my family, along with a strange sense of humor. I’ve made people angry without meaning to. Again not recently.”
“Had to ask,” John said, with a sheepish grin.
“I understand. I’m surprised you hadn’t asked earlier.”
“Wanted to. Didn’t want to lose my dinner partner.”
My turn to smile. “I can’t think of anyone I’ve made angry lately. I have no known enemies. I can’t imagine Steve had any, either. I think you have a botched robbery attempt, although I don’t know why they didn’t take the petty cash. Maybe they were scared off before they got that far.”
“It’s a possibility. Among others.”
“No hints?”
“Doing my job, ma’am,” he said with a thick drawl. “I’ll figure it out.”
I nodded. “I bet you will, Detective Kincaid.”
“I have another question,” he said, his eyes serious. “Is there anything of a personal nature between you and Burke?”
“Not really. We’re friends. I thought I had explained that.”
“You did. I was double checking. He had an intense reaction when he thought it was you that was shot. Is it possible that he would like to have more of a relationship?”
“Burke is a born flirt,” I smiled. “It’s in his genes.”
“He better keep it in his jeans,” John smiled. “Or I may put it in his pocket.”
I laughed in spite of myself. “Whoa there, Hopalong, slow down. No need for violence. I can handle him if need be. He’s just being Burke.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” John said adding his own smile. “For the record? I am interested. In more than dinner.” He lifted my chin with one finger and dropped a soft kiss on my lips. “There’s something to think about, take your mind off murder.”
I left the office, smiling, and went around the corner headed for the stairs.
“That was a tender little scene,” a voice said and I looked up at Patrick Murphy. “I’m gonna assume since you’re kissing the cops you don’t need any help.”
My face flamed. This time there was no smile from Patrick. He looked royally pissed off, those blue eyes dark as storm clouds. “I have the paint for the office,” he said in a chill voice. “I’ll take care of the painting. You seem to be busy.”
With that he stepped around me and into the office. I noticed then he was carrying a can of paint in each hand.
It seemed to be my day for men.
The previous night’s fog hung around just off the harbor and by late afternoon began moving back in to reclaim the shore. I needed to eat, having skipped lunch, and nothing sounded good. I finally made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and poured a big glass of milk, taking them into the living room. I turned on the local news. Beach Storage was the lead story. More great advertising.
The reporter, a lovely young lady who looked like she was too young to drive, stood in front of the office and did her report, covering just the basics without frill or fanfare. The last shot was of our sign as the voice over promised updates as soon as they were available.
I flipped the channels, looking for a movie, anything to take my mind off the murder. Nothing caught my attention so I turned off the television and sat in the silence watching the bread on my sandwich dry out.
Why would someone want to kill Steve? I couldn’t get my head around it, the whole concept was beyond my understanding. Steve had been a tall, gentle giant with silver hair and a warm smile. Yes, he talked too much. I knew that. Who knows? Maybe at his age I would be guilty of the same thing. He lived alone in a senior apartment building where the women outnumbered the men fifteen to one. He told me that the first weekend he worked. He believed he would have his pick of lovely gray-haired ladies who would want to spend their last years waiting on him hand and foot while preparing all his favorite foods. Didn’t turn out that way. He told me that, too. I always thought he might find one that was deaf or hard of hearing and make a go of it. He deserved a lot better than being murdered at a part time job he took mostly to meet people. I hoped he hadn’t met his murderer here.
I went over everything the next morning with John, using the back door to access the back office and avoiding the area behind the counter where Steve had died. The consensus of opinion seemed to be Steve was carrying a ream of paper when he was shot. The paper had flown like paper airplanes all over the immediate area. Some were blood stained – others not even creased. All were blank.
A customer called 911. He saw the front door open, went in and found Steve. That call was recorded at 10:50, ten minutes before the office opened. The front door should have been locked. Steve must have forgotten to lock it behind him when he came to work. His keys were still attached to his belt, including the new one for the front door. I checked.
“Is there anything else you can think of?” John asked. We sat outside on the bench, sipping coffee from pasteboard cups.
“I’ve been over it and over it,” I answered. “There is no reason to rob a storage facility. If a unit is broken into nine times out of ten it’s a friend of the tenant. There have been cases where a couple of guys rent a truck, gain access and cut a bunch of locks at one time, emptying several units. And that’s a gamble.”
“Why so?”
“What if it’s full of old clothes? Mattresses? There is no guarantee you’ll find anything of value, even if you empty out four or five. You’ve paid for the truck rental and the gas and you still have to get rid of the stuff you steal. Unless you know what’s inside why bother?”
“New world for me,” John smiled. “Never thought about it.”
“Take my word for it. Unless you happen to own a thrift store there’s no profit in it.”
“Do you have a theory? Now that you’ve had some time to think about it?”
“Me? No.” I had thought about it, most of the night when I couldn’t sleep. “Do you?”
He sighed. “There’s a couple of idea’s floating around. From what we know so far, it looks like someone opened the door and shot him. Then he or she took the disk from the recorder, busted up the equipment and left. Nothing is missing. Either someone wanted to get at Steve, or someone wanted to get at you and didn’t know you were off weekends.”
“Everyone here knows I’m off weekends,” I said. “That eliminates the customer list.”
“If they were after you, yes it would. You tell me Steve had no known enemies, was peaceful as a clam and liked everyone. What does that leave?”
I thought about it. “A random killing?”
John shook his head. “I don’t think so. Not here in Jade. Maybe in LA or San Francisco, not here. It has to be related to this area if not to this storage facility. There are no other storage places aro
und here?”
“Nope. This is it. Unless you want to drive to San Luis or Paso. The same question – why? There was the petty cash, the computers, the camera system and none of it was taken. Just busted up. No robbery.”
“There is another possibility, you know.”
I looked at him. “Someone after one of the Murphys?”
“It’s possible,” John nodded. “I’ve checked around on the sons. They both have reputations as playboys. Paul’s been mentioned in more than one domestic report. The locals call Patrick ‘Trick’ for a reason. I hear he’s broken every female heart in the county. Might have been an irate husband on the hunt.”
“In the office?”
“It’s a theory, Marlie.”
“Are there others?”
John nodded. “Several. I think this is all related to those drugs being found here. Where did they come from? Were those the only ones? For that matter was that the first time? Maybe the wrong people picked them up. That could go fifty different ways.”
“Wait a minute. Your theory is that my storage facility is a trading post for drug dealers? No way. Uh -uh. Not going for that one. I’m far from stupid and I keep a close eye on this place.”
“And this place wound up with nine cartons of high quality cocaine nicely packaged and left in an empty unit. And shortly after that a man seen near the unit with the drugs in it is found with a bullet in the back of his head on the side of the freeway. That has to be related. Someone took those cartons. Maybe it was the wrong someone.”
“You guys let it get away,” I defended. “You’re the ones who put it back. Now you think another whole set of drug dealers found it and took it? That Steve was murdered over that?”
“If I’ve learned anything over the years it’s nothing is impossible. Not when you deal with people. .”
My turn to sigh. “There’s a connection, John. We just don’t see it.”
“We’ve been to this picnic before. I’ll ask again. Do you think Burke is involved with the drugs?”
“I know he is. It’s his job. I don’t know what exactly he does, but he’s been on this drug case for a long time, over a year. He told me that.”
