Hot Storage (20 page)

   I never felt like cooking but something perverse took control. “No, thanks. I’m gonna fix something later. Thanks for coming by.”

   He stepped in front of me and gathered me for a gentler hug. “Of course, Marlie. If you change your mind, you have my number. If I can do anything, give me a call. I’ll be in the back tonight.”

   I nodded. He kissed me on the cheek, stepped back and headed for the front door. “I’ll report to Miller, I have to see him anyway. Keep me in the loop,” he said to John. “I want to know what’s going on. This one is personal.”

   “Will do, chief,” John said and we watched Burke go out the front door.

   When he was gone we sat in the quiet for a while before John, too, stood up to leave. I followed him to the door where he turned to face me. “It’s going to be okay,” he said softly. “We’ll get whoever did this. You get some rest. If you need anything call me.”

   “Okay, and thanks. For everything.”

   “It’s my job,” he said, tipping my chin up to look into my eyes. “We’ll get him, honey.”

   I smiled at him and locked up behind him. I gathered cups and took them to the kitchen. I was surprised to see it was almost dark. The fog was coming in, thick curtains of mist blowing down the street in visible clouds, pulling the chill air along with it. It was a fitting end to the day.

   My mouth had that thick too much coffee taste and I sure wasn’t hungry. I brushed my teeth and went to bed early, saying a prayer for Steve to find a listener in heaven.

   The office remained closed on Monday. Since I couldn’t work I decided to go talk to Papa Murphy. He was normally at Kelly’s in the mornings, holding court with the other old timers. I hoped to catch him there.

   At Kelly’s I remembered to grab a cup on the way in. I paused and looked around, spotting Papa in the large booth on the right, just in front of the plate glass windows. Paul sat next to him, Randy and another elder across from him. I made my way over and waited to be acknowledged.

   “Agnes!” Mr. Murphy called every female, regardless of age, Agnes or Abigail. It saved him the embarrassment of forgetting a name and giving him time to figure it out. Sometimes he did it to show your ranking of importance to him.

   “This is Abner and Randy,” he said, introducing his companions.

   “I know Randy,” I said with a nod. “Good morning, Paul. It’s nice to meet you Abner.” I shook hands with Abner.

   “These old geezers are leaving,” Papa said with a tilt of his chin. Abner hurried to stand up while Randy took his time, sliding across the bench with his coffee cup.

   “When you gonna open up?” He asked as he got to his feet.

   “The lot’s open now. Only the office is closed. I have to wait till the police give me the go ahead before I can open the office.”

   “Where am I gonna pay my rent? I don’t want no late charge.”

   “I’m sure we’ll be open before the first. Don’t worry.”

   “All right then. No late charges.”

   “Not as long as you pay by the tenth,” I repeated for him, the hundredth time. He was one of those who waited until five minutes to close on the tenth to pay his rent, hanging onto the money as long as possible. Who knows why? He had the money in his account. Several times he had called just before closing that he was on his way and I had waited for him, giving him an additional half hour so he wouldn’t have to pay the late fee.

   “Fair enough,” he said and stood. “Sorry about the old guy.”

   I found that funny since Steve was five years younger than Randy and suppressed a grin. “Thank you, Randy. You have a nice day now.”

   “I can get to my shop?”

   “Yes. The gates are working. It’s just the office that’s temporarily closed.”

   With a last nod he ambled over to the counter where Abner was perched next to an empty stool. He took the seat but kept his eyes on us. I was pretty sure he could hear from there, too. It’s what made him such a good lookout at the facility.

   “I assume from that, you know about the incident at the facility,” I said when Randy was gone.

   “I heard about it,” Papa said, stirring sugar into his coffee. “Have you had breakfast?”

   “I’m good, thank you.”
   Papa shook his head. “No you’re not.” He stuck a hand up. The waitress waved and he put his hand down. “You women. I bet you didn’t eat last night and skipped breakfast. I always eat a good breakfast. Keeps me fit.”

   The waitress joined us, order pad in hand. “What can I get you, Papa?”

   “I’m good, Sally. This young lady needs the Farmhand, with a peach muffin. How do you want your eggs?”

   “Scrambled, please. And thank you.”

   The waitress called Sally looked at me for a long minute. “I’m sorry, dear. That must have been terrible for you. I’ll get this right in. Coffee?”

   “Please,” I said and wondered how she knew. A look from Papa sent her on her way. “How does she know? Does everyone know?”

   Paul nodded. “Small town,” he said. “On top of that, Sally knows everything. She’s like Google in sneakers. What can we do for you, Marlena?”

   “I wanted to tell you how sorry I am,” I said, looking at Papa.

   “Why? Did you shoot him?”

   I blinked. “No, sir. I didn’t.”

   “Then no need for you to apologize. How are you holding up? Is there anything we can do for you?”

   “No, sir. I wanted you to know I’m sorry it happened.” Why was I here? They obviously knew what happened, probably had more information than I did.

   Paul reached across the table to pat my hand where it rested beside my coffee. “We’re sorry, Marlena. Sorry this happened. I can only imagine how bad you feel. I hope we’re not going to lose you.”

   “Why would you lose me? This has nothing to do with me.”

   “Well, a single woman, living alone, over a murder scene. We would completely understand if you felt compelled to move.”

   “I hadn’t even thought of it,” I said, honestly.

   “The police came by yesterday afternoon,” Papa put in. “Do you have anything new? Anything this morning?”

   “No, sir. There was a van there this morning, when I left. The closed signs are up although the front door was standing open. I left them to it.”

   “Smart girl,” Paul said, a sincere look on his face. “We’re gonna close the office this week, give you some time off. With pay, of course. We’ll put a notice up so you don’t have to do a thing. When the police are through with the office, we’ll get it cleaned up.”

   “They took care of that,” I said. “I haven’t seen it but there was a hazmat truck there already. Detective Kincaid said they’d be thorough.”

   Paul shook his head. “Not enough. We’ll get the carpet replaced, get the office painted. What color would you like? No pink, though. Too girly.” He smiled at that.

   “No need really. The carpet, yes. It was, well, ruined. That needs to be done. I was going to ask about that.”

   “Ordered it this morning. A sand color. That will go with whatever color you want to paint the walls. Go over to the hardware store in Monarch. Greg’s. You know it?”

   “Yes, sir, I’ve bought things there before.”

   “Pick out a couple of gallons of paint, whatever you like and put it on the account.”

   “Do you know how long the office is going to be closed?”

   “Just a couple of days,” Papa Murphy put in. “Here’s Sally.”

   The waitress appeared at my side and put down a plate full of food – three strips of bacon, a slice of ham, and two sausage patties took up one side, scrambled eggs and home fries on the other. A separate small plate held a fat, golden muffin that smelled of ripe peaches.

   “Can I get you anything else?” She asked. “That muffin is still warm, just out of the oven. New batch. You should eat it first, so it don’t get cold.”

   “This is fine,” I said, looking at the plate. “I don’t think I can eat all this.”

   “Sure you can,” she smiled. “The secret is one bite at a time. Try it,” she winked and left us.

   “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 talking 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?”