“Thanks for coming early, Forrest,” I greeted him.
“Foster. Don’t worry about it.” He gave a small smile when I winced at getting his name wrong. “You were close. Most people don’t think janitors have names. I’ve discovered in the past few months that we’re an invisible breed.”
Even though he was smiling, his tone was bitter. Wearing a white coverall, he was medium height with a sturdy build. Gray-flecked black hair with Roman-style bangs capped a face with an olive complexion and incipient five o’clock shadow I suspected reappeared ten minutes after he shaved. He wore Mizuno athletic shoes and looked to be in his late fifties.
“You a runner?” I asked, gesturing to his shoes, trying to make a connection.
“Used to play racquetball,” he said. “Can’t afford the club anymore. Might as well use the shoes to mop in. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get started. Busy day. Tilers didn’t seal the grout in the bathroom when they put in the handicapped stall a couple months back and I need to bleach it. Gets dirty fast if it’s not sealed.”
I sidestepped out of his way. “I appreciate your attention to detail.”
“Came in handy when I was an account manager.”
From white-collar worker to janitor? Hmm. I didn’t have time to get into it, although his tone invited me to ask. “I’ll bet. Open a window. I can find a fan if you need one.” The last thing we needed was the pub reeking of bleach. “We’ll have a cleaning crew in tomorrow to help with cleanup,” I assured him.
With a twist of his lips that could have meant anything from “Thanks” to “Who gives a damn?” Foster moved off, shoes squeaking slightly on the wooden floor.
The day passed in a whirlwind of activity with Derek, Gordon, Bernie, Kolby, and the rest of the pub staff working as hard as Al and I. Derek sent them all home in the early afternoon, with directions to be back half an hour before the party kickoff. I ate a sandwich on the run for lunch, munching down bites as I helped the banner company position the ELYSIUM BREWING GRAND OPENING banner, a symphony of dark brown and orange, along the roofline of the old building. I didn’t get a breather until midafternoon, when I left the pub briefly to fetch the T-shirts from the shop in a strip mall on the far side of Heaven. It was while I was waiting in the T-shirt shop that I remembered where I’d seen the blonde talking to Gordon that morning. She’d been one of the two women distributing flyers in the parking lot on Wednesday. Why were they talking? He might have been chewing her out for soliciting his customers, although it had looked to me like she was haranguing him. When I got back to the van and dumped the T-shirt boxes in the back, I picked up the crumpled flyer from where I’d tossed it. Smoothing it out, I read:
Women Outing Serial Cheaters (WOSC) vs. Gordon Marsh
If you’re one of the hundreds of women screwed (literally and figuratively) by Gordon Marsh, join your sisters in woe at Elysium Brewing during its Grand Opening on Friday, 4 August. Thought you were alone?
You’ve got lots of company. Have a beer on him and talk about busting his balls this Friday.
Check our Web site for next month’s target and to nominate future cheating subjects for outing and payback.
I reread the flyer, openmouthed. Really? There was an organization that identified and got revenge on cheating men? No way. This had to be a joke. But if it wasn’t . . . That was all the grand opening needed—a pack of out-for-blood women looking to humiliate Gordon the way he’d humiliated them. Under some circumstances I might have admired the chutzpah of whoever had organized this, but not when it was my brother’s livelihood at stake. Did this group get violent?
I called Maud. She was the computer whiz. If anyone could get the scoop on this organization quickly, she could. When I explained what I needed and read her the URL, she laughed.
“Happy to check ’em out for you,” she said. “What a hoot!”
“I’d find them a lot hootier if I weren’t worried they’re going to wreck the party tonight.”
“Don’t worry,” Maud said. “If it looks like they’re dangerous, or even destructive, you can tell your detective and he’ll take care of them for you.”
“He’s not my detective,” I said, but the thought that Hart was going to be nearby cheered me up. “Thanks, Maud.”
I climbed into the van, noticing that the sky was getting darker and the wind picking up. Just great.
Derek and Gordon feuding. Women maybe planning to teach Gordon a Lorena Bobbitt–style lesson. Thunderheads moving in. If troubles came in threes, this party was already at its limit and the first guest hadn’t even arrived.
Chapter 5
The evening’s attire was informal—it was a pub, after all—and I wore a yellow halter-neck cotton sundress with a fitted bodice and a flared skirt that simultaneously showcased my waist, hid my not-so-slender thighs, provided relief from the heat, and gave me two large pockets for my cell phone and other miscellany. I’d learned early on that pockets were invaluable to the event organizer. Derek looked handsome but nervous as the clock ticked closer to six, constantly swiping his hair back from his forehead. He wore olive slacks, an open-neck shirt, and a brown tweed sport coat.
“It’ll go great,” I assured him. “Nice duds.”
“Mom picked them out,” he admitted. He looked around and glanced at his watch. “Bernie’s late again. If she can’t find a reliable babysitter, I’m going to have to let her go.”
I picked lint off his lapel. “We’ve got enough extra staff on—it’s no big deal,” I said, even though his personnel decisions were none of my business. I liked Bernie and didn’t want to see her canned because of a flaky babysitter. Derek started to reply, but Gordon walked up, looking dapper in pale tan slacks topped with a well-cut navy blazer that took ten pounds off him. He moved like an athlete and smelled like expensive cologne when he bent to kiss my cheek. “You look like a million bucks, Amy-Faye,” he greeted me, his smile charming and, for once, free of lechery.
I reluctantly admitted that I could understand why some women found him irresistible.
“You’ve worked miracles getting this place ready today. I’m surprised the army hasn’t snapped you up to plan invasions.”
“Hmm . . . I’m always up for expanding my business.”
“Seriously, there’s a place for you at GTM Capital anytime you want it. We can always use someone with your abilities and your”—he searched for a word—“unflappability.”
I was taken aback and flattered. I liked the image of myself as unflappable. “Uh, thanks, Gordon, but I like running my own business.”
He nodded. “I get that, but keep it in mind. We’ve got excellent benefits.”
I opened my mouth to ask if his company was even going to be around a couple of months from now, but closed it without saying anything. I did not need to get this evening off on the wrong foot by pissing off Gordon and reminding Derek of his financial woes.
A Prius turned into the parking lot, followed by a large SUV. A line of cars approached from both directions. “Battle stations,” I murmured. “Here they come.”
• • •
Things went well to start with. The turnout was beyond my expectations, with all of Heaven’s leading citizens, a smattering of politicians from around the state, the billionaire owner of a nearby ski resort, and the aging rock star currently staying (or hiding out, depending on what tabloid you read) at the resort, and a couple of society and business reporters from Heaven and Grand Junction. As the special guests arrived for the preparty, they mounted the stairs or hopped into the elevator to get to the pool table room on the second floor. Many of them carried umbrellas, anticipating the storm that was clearly going to break before too long. The caterer had done a bang-up job, the pub’s brews were widely acclaimed, and conversation noise soon rose to “this is a great party” levels. My parents and my oldest sister, Peri, and her husband, Zach, had been among the firs
t to arrive and they were talking to Congresswoman Green and a woman I’d checked off the guest list as Dr. Angie Dreesen, Gordon’s sister, at a table near the window. Her husband got held up at work, she’d said, but would be along soon.
The Widefields Senior, Brooke’s in-laws, arrived early, and Brooke and Troy came soon after. My best friend looked stunning in green linen Bermudas and matching jacket with a slithery silver tank beneath it and metallic wedges that made her six feet tall.
“You’ve done it again,” she said, giving me a hug. “Great party.”
Lindell Hart showed up with his boss, Chief Uggams, a longtime poker pal of my dad’s. I exchanged a few words with them before the caterer grabbed my elbow to ask a question.
“Later,” I promised Hart with an apologetic grimace. “Mingle.”
“C’mon, Hart,” Chief Uggams said, plowing through the crowd. “I see Mayor Sanderson. I’ve got a bone to pick with her about—”
I never heard what he wanted to argue with Kerry about because the crowd closed around them. Fifteen minutes later I was able to take a minute to myself and I surveyed the happy crowd with pride. It was all going well. I let myself hope that Elysium Brewing would soon be on solid financial ground, and Derek could lose the worried look that seemed permanently stamped on his face. Fat chance. Things started going wrong as soon as the preparty wound up and the public began pouring in for the grand opening.
The first hint of trouble came when Derek, Gordon, and I went downstairs to throw open the pub doors at seven o’clock. There should still have been an hour of sunlight left, but the approaching storm had brought dusk forward. Four women marched across the parking lot against a background of gunmetal gray thunderheads, carrying a hand-lettered banner that read WOMEN OUTING SERIAL CHEATERS CONDEMN GORDON MARSH. Holding one end of the banner was the blonde who’d been distributing flyers. I didn’t recognize the two in the middle. At the other end was Susan Marsh, chin jutting forward defiantly.
The three of us froze for a moment, gaping at the oncoming women who were arousing quite a bit of interest, confused looks, and laughter from people heading to the pub.
“Oh my God,” Gordon muttered. “I need a smoke.” He ducked back into the pub and I knew he was headed for the roof.
“Get rid of them,” Derek whispered to me.
“How do you suggest—?” I glared at his cowardly and departing back. The women were almost to the door now, and they looked menacing, but I wasn’t afraid of them. Maud had gotten back to me earlier and told me WOSC had never been known to use violence.
“They’re into embarrassment and humiliation,” she said, “not property damage or worse. Listen to this report of their ‘outing’ last month. ‘Eight women, including two of his ex-wives, all betrayed by Samuel Asperlitz over a period of three years, gathered at his Grand Junction printing shop on Tuesday, July 15, to sing “Your Cheatin’ Heart” and distribute T-shirts printed with a montage of photos showing how the target earned his nickname, “Assperlips.”’ I’d say it’s adding insult to injury that they got the shirts printed by one of his competitors.”
“‘Assperlips’? I don’t even want to know,” I said. “La, la, la.”
Maud laughed the gravelly laugh that always made me wonder if she’d been a smoker in her youth. “It goes on to talk about customers’ reactions, his apology, yada yada. How many women must he have cheated on if they were able to round up eight to go public and ‘out’ him? I’ll bet it’s like the iceberg phenomenon, where only ten percent shows above the water. That would mean he cheated on eighty women. He must have something to offer that doesn’t show in a head shot, if you know what I mean, because he looks like a nebbish,” she added.
If Maud’s theory held water, then Gordon had cheated on forty women, of which the approaching delegation was a small sampling. How did he have time to run a company? Deciding that confronting the women would only make a bigger scene and tempt the reporters to write about something other than how wonderful the pub was and how delicious the beer, I welcomed them and stood aside for them to enter. If they got out of line, I’d sic our off-duty cops on them. It was possible that a part of me didn’t actually mind seeing Gordon Marsh get a taste of what he deserved, not when he was making Derek so miserable.
“Oh, gross, the toilets are overflowing!” A woman popped out of the restroom near the bar and made her announcement like she was calling a Rockies game and needed to be heard by everyone at Coors Field. I sent Al, hovering at my elbow, to find Foster and get it taken care of.
Then came the pitchers of beer Kolby “accidentally” spilled on the congresswoman and the billionaire (in separate incidents), the rumor that a drowned rat had been found in the brewing vat, and the kitchen fire (immediately extinguished, but not before smoke drifted into the main bar and sent people running for the exits). The deluge of rain that finally broke was like the curtain coming down on a really, really bad play. Of course, it drenched everyone who evacuated when the fire alarm went off and many of them opted to hop into their cars and call it a night. It was only a little after eight.
Derek’s shoulders sagged when he saw how many people never came back in after the fire scare, and he trudged upstairs around eight thirty, looking defeated. My heart ached for him. Some of the staff looked equally ground down and slump-shouldered. I hadn’t seen Gordon around in a while, not since he spotted the WOSCers—WOSCettes?—advancing across the parking lot. His sister and her delayed husband had left together ten minutes ago, dashing for a gold Lexus without even bothering to unfurl their umbrella. The WOSC contingent was still in place, singing along with the piped-in alternative rock music, perhaps waiting to have it out with Gordon, and Bernie seemed to have joined them. She’d finally arrived, apologizing profusely and ranting about car trouble, and worked twice as hard as anyone else for a while as if to make up for her tardiness, but now she was chatting with the WOSCers. The occasional clicking of pool balls told me a few people remained on the second floor. A handful of others hung on in the main bar for the free beer, but pretty much everyone else had gone, including my family, the Readaholics, and the VIPs. I couldn’t blame any of them. I encouraged the stragglers to depart by declaring the bar closed. That wasn’t part of my usual event organizing responsibilities, but this was for Derek. It seemed the least I could do, given what a disaster the evening had turned into. The WOSCers, Bernie in tow, left with umbrellas aloft, two of them sharing. From the door, I watched them dodging puddles and squealing about their hair as they dispersed to their cars.
I’m a silver linings kind of person, but even I was having trouble spotting any hint of silver in the series of catastrophes that had plagued this party . . . until the shrill screams ripped the air. At least there was no one left to hear them, I consoled myself, running toward the kitchen to see what new calamity had occurred.
• • •
I skidded on the kitchen’s tile floor, still wet from various kitchen workers flinging water around to put out the fire that apparently started in one of the microwaves, if its melted door and the charring on the wall around it were any indication. Catching myself with a hand on a stainless steel counter, I pulled myself up. Drat. I’d twisted my ankle. Limping, I made my way to the back door, which gaped open, and the screaming, which was ongoing in bursts, sounding like a cross between a donkey and an air raid siren. “Heaw. Heaw. Heaw.”
With the rain still pouring down, it took me a moment to recognize the figure standing near the Dumpster, blond hair plastered to its head, mouth wide as it continued to scream. The sounds were hoarser now, less loud, as his throat gave out. The raindrops drumming on the metal garbage bin almost drowned them out. I plunged through the rain to Kolby Marsh and grabbed his arm.
“Kolby! What’s the matter?”
Nothing.
I shook his arm. It took him a moment to focus on me. He stopped midscream and relief rolled through me. “It’s okay,�
�� I said stupidly. “What’s wrong?”
He blinked away the raindrops caught in his lashes and pointed to the Dumpster’s open lid. I got a creepy feeling, like a hundred spiders were crawling up my arms. Shaking them, I approached the Dumpster, stepping around muddy puddles of rainwater and who knew what effluvia from the garbage. The rain actually beat down some of the odor, or maybe it clogged my nose so I couldn’t smell anything. Either way, it wasn’t as noxious as earlier in the day. I wasn’t tall enough to see into the bin, but a couple of wooden pallets lay on the ground and I stacked them and climbed atop them. Careful not to touch the rim—ick—I peered in.
At first, I didn’t see what had disturbed Kolby. The bin was half-full of swollen green garbage bags, glossed by the rain. There were the broken wooden pallets I’d noticed earlier, and what looked like a toilet tank. Rain dripped into my eyes and I blinked. I was turning back to ask Kolby what I was supposed to be looking at when I saw it. Him.
The back of his head was toward me, which was why I didn’t see him sooner. The dark blond hair was matted and wet. One arm was flung over his head, the hand resting against the creamy porcelain of the toilet tank. His torso slanted down toward the back of the bin, draped over pallets and bags, and I couldn’t see his legs. A sense of urgency flushed through me. No longer worried about the ick factor, I put my hands on the rim and levered myself up. He might not be dead. He could still be alive. I had to help him. He had to be alive.
“Call nine-one-one. Get help,” I yelled at Kolby. I wasn’t going to be able to get Gordon out of here on my own. Even the two of us couldn’t do it. Balanced on my stomach with the metal digging into my flesh, I leaned forward and reached for the hand nearest me. I could see if there was a pulse . . .
My hand closed around Gordon’s cold, clammy wrist. I yelped involuntarily and jerked my hand back. He was—
The Readaholics and the Poirot Puzzle Page 5
