by Michelle Wan
“Hey, whoa, you can’t just expect—”
“Do you have a problem?”
“So how do I get in?” I remembered she said the place was always locked up after hours and the doors operated on a code. “Or do I knock?”
She yelled at me, “That’s your problem! You work it out.” And in a more normal voice, she said, “I have my quilting class tonight. It’s the perfect alibi.”
I hung up on her. Screw her and screw her alibi. That’s all that mattered to her—being in the clear while I did the dirty work. I felt sick and dizzy. I slumped on the edge of the bed for a moment with my brain between my knees and my stomach in my mouth. Marcia’s video kept replaying before my eyes. What I saw was not the push that she accused me of, but the moment when I didn’t grab Chico to pull him back. A voice in my head said, Are you crazy? There was no way you could have saved him. You would have gone over with him. Another voice said, You let him go. You’re exactly what Marcia says you are. A killer.
The realization seemed to switch something on in my head. If a killer was what I was, a killer I’d be. I’d be smart and I’d be careful. And I’d get away with it. I squinted at the clock. Seven something. I went into the bathroom and threw cold water on my face. I put on shorts, a T-shirt and runners, slapped on my Ray-Bans, grabbed my iPod and my car keys and headed out.
I left my car on a side street and trotted up to Sutherland’s Appliances. I was a typical jogger out for her morning run. There was no one about. The store didn’t open until nine. I detoured for a little sprint around the building. Sutherland’s was a big square cinderblock of a place. There were keypads at the front and side entrances. The only other way in was through a big service door at the loading bay around back. That had a keypad too. There were big show windows on the street side and a couple of little windows high up on one side of the building, where I figured the toilets were. There were red and black stickers everywhere: Ransom Digital Security.
I strolled down to the Tim Horton’s on the corner and ordered an icing-loaded cruller and a double-double. Jimmy hated my choice of breakfast foods. The sugar hit made my stomach cramp. I called my boss and explained that my broken tooth had somehow morphed into a jaw infection. She didn’t believe me. By the time I hung up, my coffee was cold.
At 8:40 I was standing behind a tree at the back of Sutherland’s parking lot. At 8:50 Stanley’s purple Chevy turned in and pulled into a space between two cars. The color of Welsh’s grape juice, it reminded me of a boxed drink. He didn’t see me as he got out, but I got my first real-life look at him. Balding on top with a little fringe of pale hair lower down. Glasses that glinted in the sun. Small and pudgy like his wife. In fact, they could have been bookends. Even in the August heat he wore a suit and tie. He carried a briefcase and a little yellow nylon bag with a Velcro fastener. I had one like it, only mine was red. Now I knew he packed his lunch, probably ate it at his desk.
He had to walk all of twenty paces to the entrance. It was useful seeing him in motion. There are things you learn to watch for in mud wrestling. How easily does your opponent move? How good is her speed and balance? Stanley walked stiff-legged, like a duck. Not a man who was light on his feet or who could change directions fast. And he had a tobacco habit. Before he went in, he lit up a cigarette, smoked it down to the nub and ground it into the standing ashtray by the door.
Well, I’d had a look at Stanley. I didn’t like him any better than his wife, but I had a hard time thinking of him as my victim. If push came to shove, I knew I could overpower him. But I still wasn’t convinced I wanted to kill him. I was in a sweat to find another way out of my predicament. So my next stop was the Beekland house.
Marcia hadn’t told me where she lived, but all I had to do was look in the phonebook. There was only one Beekland, on Green Street. The house was one of those old brick monsters sitting on a large lot, surrounded by a lot of trees and bushes. It stood between other big, imposing houses, facing a park. There was money on this street.
I drove past, circled around and parked down the block, out of sight of the house but where I had a view of the driveway. Around half past ten Marcia’s car nosed out. I ducked down fast, hoping she wouldn’t recognize my old Honda. Fortunately, she turned in the other direction. I got out of my car and strolled back toward the house.
If Marcia had downloaded the video, that probably meant she had a computer. I wondered if I could break in and steal it or at least trash the hard drive. Except, knowing Marcia, she’d have made plenty of backups. She could even have emailed the video to herself, which meant it was out there in cyberspace, waiting to be viewed. And there was that thing she said about a cd of the video going to the police if anything happened to her. I guessed it would be stored somewhere safe. I thought about taking her signed confession to the cops. That would get her off my back. But then the video would come out. She really had me up against the ropes.
There was no sign of activity at the house. To be on the safe side, I rang the bell. No answer. I tried the door. Locked. I went to the back of the house and glanced around. I heard a dog barking next door, but the shrubbery screened me pretty well from the view of nosy neighbors. I tried the downstairs windows. They were locked too, but I noticed that all the upstairs windows were open to catch the morning air. For a moment I had a fantasy of breaking in and finding something really incriminating against Marcia that I could use to get me off the hook. I knew it was a nonstarter. I wouldn’t know where to look. Besides, I didn’t have a ladder.
I was about to leave when suddenly I heard a wail. It was harsh, coming from the upstairs window directly above my head. It sounded like an angry baby. Could the Beeklands, at their age, have a kid? More likely a Siamese cat, I thought.
I returned to my car and drove away, thinking about Jimmy’s ways of killing people. Bash her on the head, he’d said. I went across town to Home Hardware and bought a hammer.
CHAPTER SIX
Later that afternoon, I put on pedal pushers, a slip top and a mid-length dark brown overblouse. I wore flat shoes. tied my hair up in a scarf and put on my Ray-Bans. I wore a fanny pack. I needed my hands free. I wrapped the hammer in a towel and put it in a plastic bag. Then I went back to Sutherland’s.
I got there at four thirty, thinking I’d have to hang around until five. But a sign had been rolled out in front of the store that said August Blow-Out Sale Open Till Six! Marcia hadn’t told me that. I went in. There were quite a few customers browsing around because of the sale. The showroom was big. There were rows of stoves and fridges. There were freezers and dishwashers. Over by washing machines and dryers, a salesman was hard-selling a couple with twins in a double stroller. A skinny guy with an earring breezed up to me.
“Right, how can I help you?” he said.
I pretended to be looking for a fridge. He said they only came in black, white and stainless. He talked about cubic capacity and the advantages of a pull-out freezer drawer. I nodded and said, “Uh-huh,” but all the while my eyes were darting here and there, searching for a place to stow myself until after closing. When Stanley would be alone.
There was a sales area off to the side with chairs and a couple of desks. A gray-haired woman was sitting at one of them working at a computer. Beyond the sales area was a hallway. I told the salesman I’d think about it and walked away. I strolled past the woman and moved casually down the hall. If anyone stopped me, I’d say I was looking for the washroom. But everyone was too busy to notice. I passed doors that said Men and Women on one side of the hall and a door on the other labeled General Manager.
The last door down, partly open, said Accounts. I glanced in and saw Stanley. He was sitting at his desk, in profile to me, pecking at a keyboard. The way his head poked back and forth as he typed reminded me of a chicken. I tried to hang on to that image. Killing a chicken didn’t seem so bad.
I went back to the Womens. It was like a normal bathroom, a single toilet—no stalls— and a sink. There was air freshener and hand c
ream on the counter. There was a pebbled-glass window high up in the wall above the toilet. I sat down on the toilet to have a think.
The way Stanley’s office was set up I couldn’t just sneak up behind him and hit him on the head. I’d have to take him by surprise and do it fast before he could react. I went through the whole thing step-by-step. Get hammer out. Move quietly to the door. Quick peek in to check his position. Rush him. Whack. I imagined the splatter. I expected there would be a fair amount of blood and even brains. I pushed down a feeling of pre-kill nausea. Remember, he’s a chicken, I told myself.
When I’d done it, I’d shove his body behind the desk. They said the longer a body takes to be discovered, the less chance the cops have of catching the killer. I’d shut the door. I’d go back into the Womens—no, that’s where’d I’d outsmart them—I go into the Mens. I’d clean up there. I’d take off my blood-stained overblouse, wrap the hammer in it and put them with the towel in the plastic bag. Then I’d leave. I’d dump the bag in a lake, weighted down by rocks. The rest of my clothing I’d put in different Goodwill drop boxes in another city.
My immediate problem was where to lay low until closing time. I thought about hanging out in the washroom but remembered the woman at the computer. She looked like the type who’d come in for a pee before she left.
I went back out and wandered through the showroom again. It led off into a receiving area where appliances still stood in their boxes. The back doors of the shipping bay were closed. There was no one there. I glanced behind me. All of the salesmen were too busy winding up their pitches to notice me. I found a spot to hide among the crates.
* * *
A bit after six the place began to clear. I heard people saying, “See ya,” and “You in tomorrow?” and “Helluva day.” After a while someone yelled, “Okay, Stan. I’m closing up.” Then there was silence.
I waited, more to steel my nerve than to make sure Stanley really was alone. After a bit I slid out, crossed the showroom and the sales area, paused at the head of the hall to listen. I’d never really understood the phrase deafening silence, but I understood it then. My ears rang with it. It went on so long I almost convinced myself that Marcia was mistaken. Stanley wasn’t working late. He’d gone out with the others. Killing him would have to wait for another day.
And then from his office I heard a sneeze. It was a little noise but it exploded like fireworks in my head. At the same time I felt like someone had kicked me in the gut. I took a couple of deep breaths. Chicken, chicken, chicken, I told myself. I pulled the hammer from my bag and started down the hall.
I was nearly to his door when another noise made me freeze. It was a clang, like the front entrance had just been banged opened. There were voices, whistling. Something was dropped and rolled across the floor. Someone laughed. Then I heard the whine of a vacuum. Oh shit, I thought. The cleaning crew! That was one thing I hadn’t counted on.
My first thought was to duck into the Womens. My second was that they always cleaned in there. I slid into the General Manager’s office. They were sure to clean there too. I wondered if I could fold myself into a filing cabinet.
I opened the General Manager’s door a crack. The vacuum was still going. Then it cut out. I strained to clue in to what the cleaners were doing, but there was only that deafening silence again. Suddenly I heard a grating noise in Stanley’s office, like he’d shoved his chair back and was getting up. I pushed the door shut and leaned back against it. I was like a rat in a trap, Stanley on one side, the cleaners on the other.
Calm down, calm down, I told myself. You haven’t killed anyone yet. The only thing you’ve done is be here after closing. There’s a Plan B. Abort. Just walk out. Smile at the cleaners like you’re an employee and walk out. They won’t know. But do it fast. Before he sees you. I peered into the hallway. It was empty.
My legs wanted to run like hell, but I forced them to carry me normally down the hall and into the sales area. From there I could see that there were two of them, a man and a woman. The man said, “Piece a junk.” Both were bending over the vacuum. Here goes, I thought. Make it nice and casual.
In the next instant, footsteps behind me sent me diving for cover. I nearly choked as Stanley waddled by not more than six inches from my face. He failed to see me only because he never turned his head. I peered out from behind a desk in time to see him go out the front door. It took me a moment to pull my scrambled thoughts together. He’d gone. He’d finished his work, packed up and gone. I felt the sweet letdown of relief wash over me. You don’t have to do it, I told myself. You can’t. Not tonight. Give him a few minutes to drive away. It’s still Plan B. Only then did I realize I still clutched the hammer in my hand. I stowed it in the bag.
By the time I decided it was safe to move, the cleaners had got the vacuum going again. I stood up cautiously. They were down at the other end of the showroom, the man pushing the vacuum, the woman walking around, emptying wastebaskets and doing a pretty spotty job of dusting. My way to the outside world was clear.
I was almost to the double glass doors when I saw something that nearly made me scream with fright. Stanley was standing just outside them, not more than five feet from me. I was down behind a fridge so fast it made me dizzy. He hadn’t left! The chicken hadn’t left! His back was to me and he was standing out there, scratching his stomach and having a smoke.
He walked right past me again on his way back down the hall. My mind was whirling. Okay. Okay. He’s still here. Back to Plan A. You can still do this. Just wait until the cleaners go.
For the next hour I played a crazy game of duck and run as the cleaners moved about the building. They worked their way into the sales area. I scrambled on all fours for the cover of a bank of stoves in the showroom. The woman went down the hall with a little trolley loaded with a bucket and a mop. I stayed put. The man came back into the showroom. I scuttled behind a freezer.
I stayed there motionless so long I was beginning to feel like part of the display. Then the woman returned. The man began winding up the vacuum cord. They wheeled the vacuum and their equipment trolley to the front. I blew out a lungful of air.
At that point Stanley appeared. He had an unlit cigarette in his mouth. Smoke time again.
“All done?” he asked the cleaning pair.
“Yeah,” said the man. “Took a little longer than normal. Vacuum’s acting up.”
“You go first,” Stanley said around his cigarette. “I’ll arm the system.”
You go first? I peered out. He was going for a smoke, but he was also carrying his briefcase. This time he really was leaving. I’d just spent an hour in hell on my hands and knees and the little nerd was leaving! There was nothing I could do but crouch tight behind my Maytag. The cleaners wheeled their equipment out. Stanley punched a keypad I hadn’t noticed on the wall inside the doors. I heard a beep and saw a flashing red light go on. As he killed the overhead lights and pulled the door to behind him, something locked in place inside my head. I thought, Oh shit!
That was the second thing I hadn’t counted on. The keypad and the flashing light meant I needed a code to get out. I sat there so long my feet went numb. But my brain was boiling. There was only one thing I could do. Spend the night. I’d have to find a place to hide. I’d have to hope no one would find me before the store filled up with customers in the morning and I’d be able mingle with them and walk out.
I unfolded myself and stood up. That little movement was enough to blow the roof off and me with it. The lights went on, an ear-splitting shrilling filled the air. I’d triggered the motion detector alarm.
I didn’t wait. I sprinted for the Womens washroom, jumped up on the toilet. The window was just big enough for me to squeeze through, but it was sealed shut. I smashed the glass out with my hammer, cleared away the ragged shards with the hammer claw and squirmed up, over and out. I landed in a dumpster full of cardboard. I hoisted myself out of it and hit the ground face-first. I lay there for a moment, stunned. My hands and a
rms were cut, my nose was bleeding. Then I was up and limping off as fast as I could go, leaving the wail of approaching sirens behind me.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I was ready for Marcia’s call the next morning.
“Have you read the paper?” she demanded.
I said truthfully, “No.”
“The police said it was a break-in. Was that you?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said. “Does Stanley suspect anything?”
“I don’t think so. But the police do. Because a window was broken, but the glass fell out, not in.”
“That’s weird,” I said.
“You have five days left.”
“It’s no good reminding me.”
“Well, what are you going to do about it?”
I was ready for this too. I’d spent all night thinking about it. “I’ll do it when he takes his walk.”
“Tonight,” she snapped. “Make it tonight. It’s supposed to rain tomorrow.”
“All right, all right. What time does he go?”
“Ten thirty, eleven.”
“Does he take the same route every night?”
She took a moment to answer. “He usually goes around the park, down Green to Maitland, left on Boswell, left again on Crawford and back to Green. It takes him about half an hour.”
I thought fast. “So he doesn’t have to cross any streets?”
“He does if he wants cigarettes. He has to cross at Maitland and go two blocks up to Main to the Shortstop.” She paused. I could hear the gears turning in her head. “I could ask him to pick up something for me.”
I took a deep breath. “Okay. Do that. And call me the minute he leaves the house.”
“Fine,” she said. I’d given her the when and where. She didn’t bother with the how. Like she said, she didn’t want to know.
Out of curiosity, I asked, “So what’s your alibi?”
She said coolly, “I have a cousin in British Columbia. Their time’s three hours behind ours, so it won’t be too late to ring her after he goes. We talk for hours. If you’re quick about it, I might still be on the phone with her when the police come with the bad news.”
