Getting Dumped - Part 1 A Schultz Sisters Mystery

by Tawna Fenske

  I took a swallow of coffee and tried to think of a good icebreaker.

  “So you’re a spy,” he said.

  I choked on my coffee.

  When women in movies do this, they somehow manage to daintily sputter a light, ladylike mist while everyone has a good chuckle. That wasn’t the case for me. Collin was still wiping espresso off his glasses when the man from our neighboring table stood, apparently considering the Heimlich.

  I waved him away, and finished coughing.

  Then I stared at Collin. “What the hell? A spy? Are you nuts?” I blotted my cashmere with a napkin and waited for a good explanation.

  Collin looked at me. “I’m not the one who just treated everyone to a Starbucks shower.”

  “And why might I have done that, Collin? It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the fact that you’re hurling bizarre accusations at me out of nowhere.”

  Collin picked up his mug. “I’m simply looking at the facts. Fact number one: you showed up at the Department of Solid Waste rather abruptly, with no recent job experience in that field.”

  “So?”

  “Fact number two: immediately thereafter, I began receiving an unprecedented level of scrutiny from the Department of Environmental Quality.”

  I picked up what remained of my coffee and took a sip, refraining from rolling my eyes. “I’m sorry to hear that, but again, not my fault. I thought we already established that my significant other was behind the calls to DEQ. I talked to him about it, and he agreed to knock it off.”

  “I’m sure you did,” he said. “Of course, I took the liberty of calling him myself the same day he left me all those messages regarding your health and the unsuitability of your work environment.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he say?”

  “For one thing, he denied there was any romantic relationship between the two of you.”

  “Of course he did,” I snarled, feeling a fresh wave of anger. “He’s done that for most of the time we’ve dated.”

  “And why would he do that?”

  “Well, he either believed the county still had a policy against co-workers dating, or he was embarrassed to be dating me for some reason,” I said. “Take your pick.”

  Collin frowned, apparently not expecting to hear so much about my personal life. “Look, I don’t care who you have or haven’t dated,” he said, picking up his tea. “That’s beside the point. The only reason I thought it prudent to mention the issue is that, clearly, some elements of your story are a bit dodgy.”

  “What else?” I challenged. “How about if you cut out all the bullshit implications and just spell it out for me?”

  “Very well,” Collin said, straightening a little in his chair. “I’ve noticed some recent discrepancies in the records I receive from our sale of carbon credits from our landfill gas project, as well as some oddities in my readings. The numbers aren’t adding up – not the dollar figures or the quantity of carbon credits sold.”

  “What the hell does that have to do with me?”

  Collin sighed with exaggerated patience. “Hypothetically speaking, if there were something dodgy going on with our program, a third-party reviewer would be sent out to survey our site. Undercover, most likely, if they thought we might be trying to diddle them somehow.”

  “Diddle?”

  “Con. Rip them off.”

  “I see. So you think I’m that third-party reviewer,” I said dryly, not sure if he really understood how absurd that was. “A spy.”

  “It’s certainly a possibility.”

  “Sure. And I might wake up tomorrow and decide to be a polar bear.”

  Collin sighed again. “That’s not the only evidence I used to draw my hypothesis.” He took another sip of tea. “In the past, the county’s human resources department has given me a rather detailed battery of paperwork on all new hires. Very thorough information about backgrounds, work history, allergies, necessary details that would allow me to formulate a comprehensive plan for hazardous materials training, appropriate health protocols, restrictions, that sort of thing.”

  “And?”

  “And the practice halted quite recently. All of a sudden, I’m receiving virtually no new hire information. That means I’ve been given very little of your background or history. Now why do you think that would be?”

  “I have no idea why HR does half the things it does,” I said, thoroughly exasperated now. “They repositioned me from a desk job in marketing and public relations to a position involving heavy equipment and garbage. Does that really strike you as the well-plotted actions of a department with a solid game plan?”

  “And that’s the other thing,” Collin said, sipping from his mug again. “I reviewed the county’s employee roster from last quarter. You weren’t listed as part of marketing and public relations.”

  I set my mug down hard, sloshing most of the remaining coffee over the edge. “Is this what you’ve been so pissy about?”

  “Pissy?” he asked, looking offended.

  “Yes, pissy. Ever since I started last week, you’ve been pissy.”

  “I wouldn’t say—”

  “Listen, smart guy. I functioned as a part of the marketing and public relations team for the last five years, but one of the conditions the county made when my position was created was that I would devote sixty percent of my time to the needs of the district attorney’s office.”

  “I don’t see what this—”

  “The bulk of my salary came through the DA’s office. A technicality, but it meant that on paper at least, I actually belonged to the DA.”

  Collin was silent for a moment, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Well, even so—”

  “And furthermore,” I told him, really heating up now, “as you well know, the county employee roster lists people by their first names, not last. And let me just go out on a limb here and guess that you were searching for a JJ. Or for some name that started with a J?”

  Collin stared at me, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he gripped his mug.

  “JJ isn’t short for anything,” I informed him. “It’s a nickname my sister gave me when she was two and couldn’t say my real name.”

  “Which is what?”

  “Marjorie June. It’s what my mom would yell every time I got in trouble – which was often – so my sister started calling me ‘Jori Ju’ and everyone in the family thought it was cute, so eventually it just got shortened to JJ. It’s what everyone’s called me since I was four.”

  “Marjorie?” he said, looking puzzled.

  “Yes, Marjorie. It’s a family name. But don’t even think of calling me that. Ever.”

  “Marjorie,” he repeated, staring down into his cup.

  “That’s my legal name. It’s still on all my paperwork, and every now and then it ends up on some sort of official list. Clearly I didn’t make enough of an impression in my department that they bothered to correct it to the name I actually use.”

  Collin looked back up at me, a whole lot less smug than he’d been a few minutes before.

  “Anything else you want to know about me?” I asked, not caring that my voice was sounding quite shrill. “Blood type? Food allergies? Need to see the birthmark on the back of my thigh?”

  At that, the corner of Collin’s mouth quirked a little. “Well—”

  “Forget it. Even if I pictured you naked when we first met, I’ve lost any urge to do that now.”

  “What?” he asked, looking alarmed.

  I winced. “I didn’t quite mean that the way it sounded.”

  Collin’s lip quirked further, bordering on an actual smile. “Frankly, I can’t imagine any other way you could have meant it.”

  I scowled at him. “Are we done here? Or do you have more accusations you wanted to hurl at me?”

  Collin set his mug down and reached across the table to touch my arm. As much as I wanted to protest, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. His hand was
warm and smelled like Earl Grey.

  “Listen, JJ, I’m sorry,” he said, his voice notably softer now. “I’ve botched this up a bit, admittedly, and I didn’t mean to make you angry. It’s just that my work is very important to me.”

  “So you believe that I’m not a spy.”

  Collin hesitated. I pulled my arm away and stood.

  “I’ll be going now. I have more enjoyable things to do this evening. Like cleaning my garage. Or waxing my armpits. Or scrubbing the weird-looking mold off my shower curtain.”

  At that, Collin’s eyes widened. “Mold? What color is it?”

  I pulled on my cross-body messenger bag and tried to ignore the rush I got when he stole a discreet glance at my breasts.

  “Yes, mold. It’s Oregon. Didn’t we cover this already?”

  “Starbucks and mold. Right. Oregon’s official mascots.”

  I pushed in my chair as I turned toward the door. “Get stuffed, Collin. Isn’t that how you Brits say it?”

  “JJ, wait,” he said, pulling a buttery suede jacket off the back of his chair as he hustled to follow me. “Are you aware that the health department has recently reported the presence of Cryptococcus gattii right here in Oregon?”

  “No, Collin, I’m not. Mold doesn’t happen to be one of my hobbies, though I feel certain it’s one of yours.”

  “I actually did my dissertation on mycotoxins, with a special emphasis on ergot alkaloids and trichothecenes.”

  “What a coincidence, so did I.”

  Collin sighed. “Cryptococcus gattii is a new and potentially fatal strain of airborne fungus,” he said. “It’s related to one that killed a number of people in Canada recently and researchers aren’t quite certain how it ended up here. The strain they’ve found in Oregon is known as Cryptococcus gattii VGIIc.”

  “And you think it’s in my shower,” I said flatly.

  “I have no idea what’s in your shower. But this isn’t the sort of thing one should trifle with.”

  “Fine. I’ll go home and bleach my shower. Maybe that will have the dual effect of scouring my fingerprints from my hands. We spies have to be careful about that sort of thing.”

  I turned and marched out of the coffeehouse. Collin called my name, but I didn’t turn around. If he wanted to apologize, he could damn well figure out where to find me.

  And if he wanted to hurl more accusations at me, he could fill his pockets with rocks and go jump off the Burnside Bridge.

  I ended up stomping most of the way home, which may be why I didn’t hear footsteps behind me. I had barely finished hanging up my coat and purse when there was a knock at my front door.

  I peered through the peephole to see Collin standing there with his hands in his pockets, looking oddly sheepish. Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I flung open the door.

  “Is there something else you wanted to accuse me of?” I asked. “Arson, maybe? Shoplifting? Necrophilia?”

  Collin cleared his throat. “Your proclivity for copulating with dead bodies is certainly none of my business, but I was rather concerned about your mold.”

  “My mold?”

  “You mentioned mold, and with the outbreak of Cryptococcus gattii I was concerned about—” he stopped mid-sentence and looked over my shoulder toward the kitchen. “I do apologize, I wasn’t aware you had dinner guests.”

  I turned around, half expecting to see a pair of intruders wearing lobster bibs. My kitchen was empty, save for the slow cooker bubbling away on the counter. I looked back at Collin.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Something smells truly delicious, so I just assumed—”

  “You assume a lot of things, Collin. Have you ever heard the saying that assume just makes an ass out of u and me?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  I sighed. “I don’t have dinner guests. I just happen to love cooking, and I happen to believe I deserve a fabulous meal even when I’m just cooking for myself.”

  “It smells bloody marvelous.” He closed his eyes and inhaled. “What is it?”

  I could feel my resolve weakening. I wanted to stay mad at him, but I’ve never been able to resist the urge to feed people. It’s probably the reason I learned to cook elaborate dinners from a young age, while the rest of my family – Lori included – always seemed content to order takeout.

  I sighed. “My famous cranberry pork with orange juice and garlic and Dijon mustard. It’s been slow-cooked all day. Would you like some?”

  Collin’s eyes flew wide. “I couldn’t possibly intrude—”

  “You’re already intruding, you’re on my porch. The least I can do is feed you while you’re here.”

  His eyes darted to the kitchen, and he cast a longing look at my slow cooker. Then he glanced back at me. “I’ve just accused you of being a spy.”

  “I’m not planning to poison you, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “I wasn’t—” he swallowed. “I only meant that we haven’t exactly gotten off on the right foot. Perhaps you’ll allow me to perform an inspection to ascertain if Cryptococcus gattii is, in fact, present in your shower. It’s the least I can do in exchange for a meal.”

  “Deal,” I said, and stepped aside to let him in. “How about we eat first? Mold seems like more of a dessert thing.”

  “May I set the table?”

  “Of course.” I rummaged through the cupboard and came out with plates and glasses and the necessary dining accoutrements. “Placemats and napkins are in that drawer.”

  I pointed him in the right direction and got to work assembling a simple spinach salad. Then I pulled out the rosemary garlic potatoes I’d mashed up with butter and cream cheese the night before, and stuck them in the microwave to warm.

  Five minutes later, we were sitting down to eat.

  “Blimey,” Collin said, looking more than a little dumbfounded. “You eat like this every night?”

  “Most of the time,” I said, as Collin unfolded his napkin and placed it in his lap. I could feel myself softening toward him just a little, the same way I always did when someone complimented my cooking. Or my hair. Or my shoes. “Sometimes my sister comes over and joins me, but usually I’m by myself.”

  “Impressive.”

  I shrugged. “I’m a good cook. No sense saving it only for guests. I just make things in large batches so I can enjoy the leftovers for awhile.”

  “Very efficient of you.”

  ”I try.”

  From the sofa, Blue Cat let out a plaintive meow. We both looked over to see him flopped on his back with all four paws splayed and his massive belly sagging to the sides.

  “He wants pork roast,” I said.

  “I don’t blame the poor chap.”

  “He can’t have any. He’s on a diet.”

  Collin stared for a moment, lifting his wine glass. “Interesting color. Is that a British Shorthair or a Russian Blue?”

  “I have no idea,” I said, taking a sip of the perfectly lovely pinot noir I’d chosen to go with the meal. “I got him from the pound about six years ago. I just named him Blue Cat because he’s, well—”

  “Blue. And a cat. I think. He looks a bit like a walrus, actually.”

  “He’s slimmed down a little in the last month. Sort of.”

  “I see.” Collin turned his attention back to the meal. He picked up his fork and speared a piece of pork roast, swishing it in the sauce I’d drizzled on the plate before lifting the fork to his lips. “Bloody marvelous,” he said, his eyes widening in surprise. “This is fantastic.”

  “Thanks,” I said, beaming a little as I sipped my wine again. “It’s really easy to make.”

  He hesitated, clearly unsure whether we were friends, enemies, or something in between.

  I could relate.

  “Maybe you could show me sometime?” he asked. “I’ve got to learn to cook like this.”

  “Tell you what,” I said, setting down my wineglass and grabbing a forkful of potatoes. “You agree
to quit thinking I’m a spy and I’ll teach you to cook whatever you like.”

  At that, Collin’s expression darkened a little. He picked up his wine glass again and took a very long sip. “I had rather forgotten about that,” he admitted, looking down at his plate.

  “Well yes, I can see how pork roast might have fogged your brain a bit. Tell me, are you in the habit of breaking bread with people you don’t trust?”

  Collin closed his eyes. “JJ, I just want you to know—”

  The doorbell chimed, cutting off whatever Collin had been about to say. Seconds later, I heard the screech of tires peeling away from the curb outside.

  “What the hell?” I said, standing up and moving toward the door.

  “You expecting company?”

  “No.”

  I peered through the peephole, not seeing anyone outside. “There’s no one here.”

  “A package maybe?”

  I shook my head and twisted the doorknob, pulling the door open.

  At first, I didn’t see anything. Then I spotted the handbag sitting there on my porch, a little wet with rain and very dingy. It was off-white, and someone had spray-painted it with angry orange slashes. I could see the colorful Dooney & Bourke symbols beneath the paint. Some clumsy stitches held the handle in place on one corner. Even from this distance, it was clearly a fake. A very bad one.

  “What is it?” Collin called behind me.

  “A handbag.”

  “Were you expecting one?”

  “No, not a delivery,” I said, bending down to pick up the purse. “Someone just left it on my doorstep.”

  Probably sensing the alarm in my voice, Collin stood up and joined me at the door.

  “There’s a note on it,” he observed, setting his napkin on the edge of the sofa and reaching out to pluck the piece of paper that was pinned to the side. He held it up, studying it with a frown.

  “What does it say?” I asked, my voice a little shaky.

  “Dear Bag Lady,” he read, his British accent giving the words more sophistication than they were probably intended to have. “Back off, bitch, or you’re next. What in the bloody hell?”

  My palms had started to sweat and my hands were shaking a little, which was ridiculous. I was safe inside my home with a lovely dinner on the table and a well-groomed Englishman beside me.