Like to Die

by David Housewright

  Erin unlocked the building’s doors, flicked on a few lights, and led us down the short corridor to her office. More lights were turned on. She accessed her computer and adjusted the monitor so we could all see comfortably. Icons were clicked and …

  “What’s going on?” Erin said. “McKenzie? It’s not working.”

  I hovered over her shoulder while she operated the controls.

  “Am I doing it right?” she said.

  “I think so.”

  I leaned in. The pain in my shoulder became acute, and I hissed at it.

  “The cameras are on, but they’re not recording like they’re supposed to,” Erin said.

  The computer screen was divided into quarters. Together the four cameras gave us a real-time view of the perimeter of the building; we could see the remains of the truck in one box and our parked cars in another. Yet when Erin clicked on the camera that was aimed at the rear of her building, she discovered that it had not recorded a second of film.

  “Try the other cameras,” Shipman said.

  Erin did. The cameras in front and on the sides of the building worked fine, but not the one that would have recorded vehicles entering and leaving the parking lot. I glanced at Bobby. I knew him well enough to know exactly what he was thinking—“How inconvenient.”

  Erin switched to her inside cameras. The two cameras in her production plant had stopped recording, and so had the camera that was pointed at the reception area.

  “Five cameras failed,” Erin said. “Five out of twelve. How much did I pay your friend for this?”

  “They were working before.”

  “They‘re not working now, McKenzie.”

  “Lantry.” I said his name like it was an obscenity.

  “I’m sorry, Bobby.” Erin’s voice was filled with regret. So were her eyes. “Detective Shipman, I don’t know what to say.”

  “Next time hire a company that’s a little more trustworthy,” Bobby said.

  “I’m sorry,” Erin repeated.

  “I still can’t believe this is about who’s going to distribute your salsa,” Shipman said.

  “That’s McKenzie’s theory,” Erin said. “I’m not so sure myself. I’d appreciate it you kept it to yourselves, though, about my negotiations with Central Valley International.”

  “What’s your theory?” Bobby asked.

  “It seems silly. I didn’t even think about it until I was driving home and I saw the protest signs in one of my neighbor’s yards.”

  “What protest signs?” Shipman said.

  “It wasn’t about that. The signs just got me thinking.”

  “Erin,” Bobby said.

  “When I first moved here—I don’t know why I didn’t tell you this before, but there were several neighborhood groups that opposed the construction of the industrial park. They organized, they protested; they were demanding that the area be rezoned from light industrial and office to accommodate low-income housing. I think it was because of the new light rail and the Raymond Station—they thought this would be the perfect place for it. The St. Paul City Council sided with the residents, but the Ramsey County District Court judge said the developers could proceed with the industrial park. Some protestors had a sit-down strike in front of bulldozers and stuff like that, but eventually the park was built. This location, the facility, it was perfect for Salsa Girl, so we moved in after construction was completed. We were the first tenant. People didn’t like it. They paraded on the street in front of the building with protest signs, but that only lasted a few days. Besides, it was three years ago, and nothing’s happened since. I’ve tried to be a good neighbor. But now—I don’t know. Some people can hold a grudge for a long time.”

  “It’s something to look into,” Bobby said. He was gazing at his watch when he said it, though, so I don’t think he meant he was going to look into it at that exact minute. He proved it by leaving with Shipman a few moments later. Erin said she’d give me a ride home.

  “Call Shelby tomorrow,” Bobby told me. “Let her know you’re still alive. She worries.”

  “God knows why,” Shipman said.

  * * *

  A few minutes after they left, Erin and I climbed into her BMW and started off.

  “I’m sorry,” Erin said.

  “About what?”

  “You’ve been injured on my account. Twice. Nina hates me.”

  “No, she doesn’t.”

  “Yes, she does. I saw it in her eyes tonight. I’d hate me, too, if I were her.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I don’t want to come between you and her.”

  “That’s not going to happen. By the way, that was quick thinking tonight.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Blaming the bombing on protestors. It’ll play well in the media.”

  “I’m hoping they’ve already jumped on it. Google ‘Salsa Girl Salsa,’ and stories about the protests are the only remotely controversial items that’ll pop up. I don’t know exactly what kind of questions the media has been asking, though; what it’s reporting. Alice was dealing with that for me while I secreted myself at the hospital.”

  “Here I thought you were deeply concerned about my health.”

  “I am deeply concerned about your health, at least as much as I’m allowed to be.”

  Let it slide, McKenzie, my inner voice said. Let that last remark just slide on by.

  “One of the reasons I appreciate the protestor angle,” I said aloud. “The story won’t be about what you’re doing, but rather where you’re doing it. The developer becomes the bad guy, not you. It’ll probably save your deal with Central Valley, although it might also encourage them to move your facilities.”

  “I’ll talk to them tomorrow, hear what they have to say. McKenzie, why were you in my parking lot when the bomb went off?”

  “I came to tell you what I learned about Darren Coyle.”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s a private detective working for Schroeder Private Investigations in Minneapolis. I know people over there.”

  “Why was he following me?”

  “The people I know over there wouldn’t tell me, although I can make a pretty good guess.”

  “What?”

  “Marilyn Bignell-Sax.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Yes, you do. I saw and heard you and Brian Sax at the party, Erin. So did Marilyn.”

  “I stopped being that woman a long time ago, McKenzie.”

  You were that woman? my inner voice said.

  “Does Marilyn know that?” I asked aloud. “Does Sax?”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Go to Cambridge and ask her about it.”

  “I wouldn’t bother. I’ll bet you a thousand dollars that the entire Bignell family will descend on me tomorrow. The old man likes to hold court in the morning after his prayer meeting. He always has a prayer meeting; he’s one of those guys who believe faith and business should mix. ’Course, his faith forbids unions, universal healthcare, or paying his low-level employees a living wage. In any case, if he holds to his usual schedule, I expect he’ll drop by after lunch—after lunch because he wouldn’t want an incompetent female to spoil his meal.”

  “I’d like to sit in.”

  “I wish you would.”

  “Bignell might not like it.”

  “My office, my rules. Besides, when you’re a naïve, innocent little girl like me, you need a big, strong man to lean on.”

  “I’ve noticed that about you.”

  “Ian has called twenty times since the bomb went off. I don’t know what to tell him.”

  “Tell him that you’re alive and well, Erin. Tell him that you miss him. Tell him that his unending devotion is what sustains you during your hour of trial.”

  “McKenzie, please.”

  “The man loves you.”

  “You don’t have to be a jerk about it.”

  “Neither do you.”
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br />   By then Erin had stopped her BMW outside of my building. She leaned against her leather steering wheel as if she needed a hug and it was the only thing nearby that she trusted.

  “Not everyone gets a happy ending, McKenzie,” she said. “Not everyone deserves it.”

  “Ian does.”

  “I should have told him years ago I wasn’t interested in a relationship. I should have told him he was too good for me. I should have told him I liked him as a friend, but … I should have fired him as my accountant.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  She paused before answering. “I need to go home, McKenzie. I have to get up in four hours.”

  I slid out of the Beemer, and Erin drove off without looking back.

  EIGHT

  Alice Pfeifer proved to be an astonishingly effective spokesperson for Salsa Girl Salsa. At least I was astonished. Never mind that her big brown eyes gave off an innocent, I-can’t-believe-this-is-happening vibe. The young lady managed to answer all of the media’s questions as succinctly as possible and yet told them nothing at all. It’s exactly what the media wanted, too. Good storytellers know that it isn’t the answers that keep the audience engaged, it’s the questions.

  From the questions they asked, you could tell which story the reporters wanted to pursue. One asked about disgruntled employees in a down economy. Another asked about the number of immigrants and people of color employed by Salsa Girl Salsa. Yet most of the outlets were clearly interested in the protest angle. I don’t know if Alice had planted the seed off camera, if they had been tipped by a source at the SPPD, or if they had come to it on their own. Alice rebuffed the suggestion, however. While she had no idea who would engage in such a terrible crime as bombing the truck, she was pretty sure it wasn’t one of their neighbors. Besides, she said, the company was apolitical. It didn’t pollute the environment, hire illegal immigrants, promote gun control, oppose minimum wage, or tell people how to educate their children.

  “All we do is make good salsa,” Alice said.

  I used the remote to silence the TV.

  “I like her,” I said.

  “Do you think sales will go up because of all of this or go down?” Nina asked.

  “Go up. Absolutely. At least locally. People will want to know what the fuss is about. My question: Why isn’t Erin speaking for herself?”

  “I doubt she’d appear as sympathetic as Alice.”

  “I think Erin can make herself appear any way she wants.”

  “How’s your shoulder?”

  “Hurts like hell.”

  I was tired. I had gone to bed soon after Salsa Girl dropped me off in front of the condominium, but I had slept fitfully, the pain in my shoulder jerking me awake every time I turned in my sleep. I gave it up at eight A.M. and took a shower. It wasn’t easy, because I was keen to obey Lilly’s instructions about keeping the dressing dry; I ended up wrapping a plastic trash bag over the bandage. I dressed and put on the sling. Its off-white color clashed nicely with my gray sports jacket. Breakfast was a couple of English muffins with cream cheese and coffee. Nina joined me at about ten. She ate yogurt. Afterward, she went out to get my prescriptions filled while I watched a rebroadcast of On the Fly on the NHL Network. She returned just as I switched over to watch the local news at noon.

  “Take your pain pills,” Nina said.

  “They’ll make me nauseous and lethargic at the same time.”

  “You know this because…?”

  “Remember the last time I was in the hospital?”

  “Vividly.”

  “Because of that.”

  “Why didn’t you tell the doctor?”

  “Lilly has enough to worry about. Besides, I can take it.”

  “McKenzie, are all men as dumb as you?”

  “Just hockey players.”

  “How’s your head?”

  “F-I-N-E.”

  “That’s debatable.”

  “Usually you’re off to Rickie’s by now. I hope you’re not hanging around on my account.”

  “Of course I am.”

  “That’s sweet of you, Nina, but it really isn’t necessary. I can take care of myself.”

  “That’s debatable, too.”

  “I need to run over to Salsa Girl in a little bit anyway.”

  “C’mon, McKenzie. Give yourself a break.”

  “Let us, then, be up and doing, with a heart for any fate; still achieving, still pursuing, learn to labor and to wait.”

  “Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. For a guy who claims he doesn’t like poetry, you seem to know an awful lot of it.”

  “I’m just saying lying around here isn’t going to make me heal any faster.”

  “Yes, it will.”

  “In any case, Erin wants me to sit in on her meeting with Bruce Bignell. It shouldn’t take long. Afterward, I’ll come back home and crash.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “I’ll be home early.”

  I liked the sound of that. Only when I twisted my body without thinking and felt a stiletto of pain slicing through my shoulder I thought, Maybe not. On the other hand, what was it my first hockey coach used to say—no pain, no gain?

  Nina was the first to leave. As she was heading for the door she spoke to me.

  “Don’t forget to call Marshall Lantry and have him fix Salsa Girl’s cameras,” she said.

  “Oh, sweetie,” I said. “There’s nothing wrong with the cameras.”

  * * *

  I read somewhere that Mary, Queen of Scots, wore a bright red dress when she climbed the scaffold to meet her executioners. Erin Peterson wore dark blue as she waited for the Bignell clan. It was an attractive dress, and while you could argue that it was office appropriate, if the workday included a cocktail hour, no one seeing her in it would believe for a moment she was an innocent little girl. It made me think that Erin had decided to draw on a tool in her Swiss Army knife to deal with Bruce that was different than the one she used before.

  We were sitting in Erin’s office, her chair swiveled so she could look out her window at the parking lot and the bridge beyond. She was drinking coffee. I would have asked if she had mixed it with anything besides cream but thought it would be impolite. Instead, I asked her about Central Valley International.

  “They take their own sweet time when dealing with these matters,” Erin said. “Apparently Ripley has to bring it to a committee that meets every two weeks. He doesn’t think what happened to my truck will be a problem. CVI has had incidents of its own to deal with over the years. The way he looks at it—you were right about that, by the way. The way he looks at it, if we can’t make Salsa Girl Salsa here, we’ll make it somewhere else. We’ll decide that later, though. In the meantime, I have to wait eleven days before we get a final decision. Not the way I would run a business, but hey, I’m just a naïve little girl from—”

  “Stop it.”

  Erin’s head snapped toward me.

  “You’re the least naïve person I’ve ever met,” I said. “In fact, I look at you and I think—what’s the antonym for naïve? Clever? Cunning? Devious?”

  “Sophisticated. The antonym for naïve is sophisticated. Look it up.”

  “What was on the camera, Erin?”

  “Nothing. You saw. There was a malfunction of some sort.”

  “Or you could have watched the footage late last night after Bobby and Shipman dropped you off before heading to my place and erased it. When I told them about the cameras later, you agreed to meet them here, waiting in your parking lot instead of your office so you could feign surprise when we all saw that the memory was empty.”

  “That’s one explanation, I suppose.”

  “I’m open to alternatives.”

  “I like you, McKenzie. You have a broad-minded worldview.”

  “Is that what it is?”

  “Also, I can trust you. You’re one of the few of Ian’s friends who haven’t hit on me.”

  “Seriously?�
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  “Yep. Some were more straightforward than others, but—Bobby Dunston doesn’t like me, does he?”

  “He’s never said. I take it he’s also among the few who haven’t approached you.”

  “I almost wish he would. The man has a suspicious nature. I suppose it comes from being a police officer all those years.”

  “Nah. He was the same way when we were kids.”

  “He wasn’t here this morning, but his partner was.”

  “Jean Shipman?”

  “Detective Jean Shipman. She and a couple of other investigators with the St. Paul Police Department were here early this morning. They interviewed every single employee I have. Most of them were pretty upset.”

  “The detectives?”

  “No, my workers. Some of them are immigrants, some of them—I don’t blame them for being suspicious of the police or the government, especially the way things have been going on in Washington lately. It didn’t matter how courteously the detectives behaved, my people were left feeling that they’re being blamed for what happened, for setting the bomb. I had to call a meeting to explain that it wasn’t true.”

  “You said they were upset. Any one employee more than the others?”

  “Don’t you start, McKenzie—here we go.”

  A black Buick Regal pulled in to the lot and parked in the handicap zone closest to the door even though it carried no handicap sticker.

  Erin called, “Alice.”

  Alice Pfeifer appeared at the office door seconds later.

  “The Bignells are here,” Erin said. “When they say they want to see me, ask if they have an appointment. They’ll say they don’t need one. When they do, you call my phone. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Off with you now.”

  I watched as the driver’s side door of the Buick opened. Marilyn Bignell-Sax slid out from behind the wheel. Apparently Bruce didn’t have a chauffeur, unless that was Marilyn’s daytime job. Randy came out of the front passenger side of the car while Marilyn opened the rear passenger door. I saw Bruce Bignell’s cane before I saw him. He tapped it against the asphalt parking lot as if he were claiming it for the Crown. Marilyn helped him from the car and then he shook her hands away.

  The three Bignells approached the front entrance. I lost sight of them. Erin sipped her coffee, leaned back in her chair, and closed her eyes.