The Trouble With Murder (3 page)

“Works out perfect,” he said. “I
was out cruising. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

A small groan escaped me before I
could bite it down. I knew what “cruising” meant.

_______________

Donald is a lot of things, sentimental being one of them. In
addition to his daily driver, he owns a 1979 Lincoln Continental. The car had
belonged to his mother before her passing more than a decade ago, but he’d been
unable to get rid of the damn thing. Most days it sits at the curb outside the
house collecting dust and the occasional parking ticket. Every once in a while,
Donald will take it for a little morning spin, cruising up and down College
Avenue, just to keep it in running order.

The truck was being loaded for
transport when the road boat floated into the lot, Donald at the helm. The
thing is nineteen feet long from bumper to bumper and the copper color of a
freshly minted penny, with a matching vinyl roof. The tow truck driver stared openly
at the Lincoln for a moment then turned to me. I smiled, waved, and climbed in
beside Donald. He sailed the Lincoln home.

“What’s wrong with your truck?”

I shrugged. “No idea. It just
died.”

“Want to borrow the Lincoln?”

Because it was Friday, I’d be lucky
if my mechanic got around to looking at my truck today. Realistically, it would
probably be Saturday, maybe even Monday. All said and done, it could very well
be a week before I could bring it home. Did I want to drive the Lincoln for a
week?

“That’s generous of you, but I’ll
be okay. I’ve got the scooter.”

“You sure?”

Donald glanced at me, and I noticed
the childlike sparkle in his eyes as he maneuvered the Lincoln.

I couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Yes, I’m sure. Thank you. I’ll let
you know if I change my mind.”

Donald tipped his head back
slightly and seemed to take in a long breath.

“Say, you wearing Zach’s jacket or
something?” he asked. “I smell his perfume.”

“Yeah, borrowed his jacket.” I left
it at that.

When we arrived at the house,
Donald docked the copper barge at the curb and we disembarked. Donald was, as
always, neatly dressed like an accountant. Donald isn’t an accountant, but he
always looks like one: button-down shirts, sweaters most of the year, khakis,
and dark-rimmed glasses.

He cast a fond, loving glance at
the Lincoln before disappearing into the house. I went into the garage.

The garage was a three-car tandem
design. Two spaces were occupied by my mother’s cherry red Saab and Donald’s
daily driver, a Ford Edge. If it were me, I would have parked the Lincoln in
the garage. Monstrosity or not, the thing is a classic, and sitting exposed on
the street year after year isn’t doing anything good for the value. Although, I
have to admit, the paint is as shiny as the day it had been applied.

At present, only the Edge was in
residence. Donald works from home three days a week, including Fridays, and my
mother was at her office. Despite her condition, she takes her job seriously,
which is about the only thing she takes seriously, and she rarely misses work.

The tandem space was used as
storage for yard equipment, an extra freezer and refrigerator, miscellaneous
items, and a 1963 Cushman Trailster.

The Trailster had belonged to my
paternal grandfather. He’d purchased it after developing a fondness for Cushman
products during World War II. During the war, Cushmans were airdropped into war
zones for use by the soldiers. My grandfather swore a Cushman Airborne saved
his life. When he was no longer able to ride the Trailster, he’d passed it to
my father. By that time, scooter travel had long been out of vogue. Mostly the
scooter had been stored, though occasionally my father had taken the thing out
for a ride. A few times, he’d even taken me.

My grandfather had taken
exceptional care of the scooter, but my father, who hadn’t had a caring bone in
his body, had been rough with it. During his tenure, it hadn’t been properly
stored or maintained. Neither had he been a cautious rider. The Trailster had
been wrecked more than once. The way I feel about my father has always
prevented me from pouring any kind of love or attention into the scooter. But
because it is a classic, and because I have a few fond memories of my
grandfather, I can’t bring myself to get rid of it, either. So it sits, covered
in the corner of the garage.

I removed the dusty cover and
stared down at the yellow scooter, scuffed and marred from misuse. A piece of
the front fender was missing, the left handle grip was badly cracked, and one mirror
was bent. The driver’s seat was worn from use, and the material on the
passenger seat had a long tear in it. The entire thing was dusty, and there was
dirt caked onto the lower parts of the frame. Apparently, it hadn’t been washed
before it was last stored.

Grabbing the handlebars, I walked
the thing out into the sunlight of the driveway. The design of the Trailster is
more motorcycle than scooter, with its high handlebars and top-mounted gas
tank. And, actually, because of the limited definition of “scooter” by Colorado
law, the Trailster is considered a motorcycle.

I twisted the gas cap off and
checked the gasoline. By no small miracle, it was still crystal clear and odor free.
I went inside and pulled my backpack out of the closet. Then I stuffed my purse
into it and slung it on. I got the vintage, open-faced, brown leather helmet my
father had always worn out of its storage place and wiped it off, doing the
same with the goggles. My father had always wanted a son. He had never forgiven
me for being something else, but occasionally he had taught me all the boy
things he’d wanted to teach a son. On even rarer occasions, he’d treat me like
a daughter and act as if it was okay that I was his. One such occasion included
presenting me with a pink, flowered helmet and taking me for a ride on the
scooter. The day had ended in blood and tears (both mine), like so many before
and after it. I still have the pink helmet, but I don’t wear it.

I fit the helmet over my head,
fastening the chinstrap. I brought the kickstand up and prepared the kick pedal
then gripped the handlebars for balance as I threw my weight down on it. The
engine coughed then, with a series of crisp pops, chugged to life. Stowing the
pedal, I pulled the goggles down and accelerated out of the driveway, once
again on my way to work. I buzzed into the lot and parked at eight fifty-five.

_______________

“Geez, what happened to you?” Sandra asked when I walked in.
She had her perfectly-painted lips slightly curled.

Sandra is thirty going on fifteen.
She’s petite, pretty, unnaturally blonde, and fashion savvy. She likely spent
an hour on her hair alone each morning. Ditto for her makeup. In the six months
she’d worked here, I hadn’t seen her wear the same pair of shoes twice. I
confess, I don’t even own enough shoes anymore to do that for two weeks. Well,
maybe two weeks. But certainly not three. Okay, definitely not a month.

“We can’t all look like beauty
queens,” I said, blowing by her toward my office.

She took an indiscreet whiff as I
passed. “Were you with a man?”

I didn’t like the level of
accusation in her tone. What the hell was wrong with me being with a man, if
that’s where I had been?

Without responding, I let myself in
the door and dropped my stuff on my desk, then raised the blinds and opened the
windows. It was May, and our weather was unseasonably warm, the daytime highs
reaching into the eighties more often than not. Today would probably be one of
those days. But this morning there was a pleasant breeze blowing and the office
was stuffy. After settling myself in, I went back to Sandra’s desk.

“Were you able to reach my eight
o’clock?”

She shook her head. “No. I left a
message, but he hasn’t called back.”

Weird,
I thought.
He was
so eager last night.

“Maybe he changed his mind,” I
said. “Do I have messages?”

Sandra shuffled through the items
on her desk and finally located a stack of pink
while you were out
notes under the current edition of
Cosmo.
She shuffled through them, sorting out mine, then handed them to me. The
picture of efficiency.

I glanced at the clock.

“Heard anything from my nine
o’clock?” I asked. “He’s late.”

She shrugged and turned a page in
her magazine.

“Nope.”

Right.

I walked back to my office. The
other offices were occupied, most with doors open and voices drifting out. The
office at the end of the hall belonged to Barry Paige. Paige was the director
of the Fort Collins division of White Real Estate and Property Management. He’d
been doing his job a few months longer than Sandra, but he wasn’t any better at
his than she was at hers.

Mark White, a real estate tycoon
and the owner of White Real Estate, had originally offered me Paige’s position.
He’d just expanded the company to include Loveland and wanted someone who would
help bring growth. I would have done just that, but I’d had to refuse. Under
Paige, our division had grown a measly seven percent. I would have more than
doubled that number in the same time. As it was, my numbers accounted for four
of the seven percent. I’m not sure White has totally forgiven me for turning
him down.

When I was eighteen, in my first
year of college, working as a CNA in a nursing home in preparation for what I
believed would be a long nursing career, a close friend at the time, Brandi,
had introduced me to a man named Matt. A few years older than me, Matt had lived
in Denver and worked for Colorado Property Management Group as a leasing agent
for one of the pricier apartment complexes. Taylor Swift sings a song about
being fifteen and believing someone when they say they love you. The same holds
true when you’re eighteen. He told me he loved me and I believed him. Simple as
that.

I’d finished my second semester of
school and hadn’t enrolled in a third, my nursing career on hold. I’d quit my
job, taken a position with the same company, and moved to Denver. I’d been
assigned to a different site, one that was less pricey and a good starting
place. I was pretty motivated, but it turned out I was pretty good at that sort
of work. Maybe it’s genetic. My maternal grandfather had been a salesman all
his life and could literally sell ice to an Eskimo. My mother also seems to
have this gene.

Being closer to Matt, I’d believed
our relationship was getting stronger. After six months, he’d begun talking
about wanting to marry me. He’d officially proposed after eleven months. Of
course, I’d agreed.

I’d thought my life was shaping up
to be exactly what I wanted it to be. I was engaged, had begun a career, and
the money was pouring in. I was making more than most college graduates. I was
doing all the things I wanted: taking vacations, paying off my car, buying nice
clothes and jewelry, saving for a wedding. I even bought a house, then a condo,
then later a second house. I’d gotten a serious elevation in economic status
and was thrilled to explore what that meant.

My success caused me to get noticed
by the higher-ups and advance within the company. After working at Colorado
Property Management Group less than a year, I’d been appointed to a management
position overseeing nine of the properties. The Northern Denver Region, as it’s
called. I’d been responsible for hiring, firing, the budget, and everything
else. Turned out I wasn’t half bad as a manager, either, and I’d certainly
liked the doubled income. I was able to pay off the condo and one house
entirely and make a serious dent in the debt on the other.

Ultimately, I’d been a fool. Matt’s
interest in me was just a way for him to get closer to Brandi. And despite
being my friend, she’d begun a relationship with him behind my back, one that
carried on for several months. I’m ashamed to say I didn’t catch on until
Brandi wound up pregnant. A scheduling slip-up connected the dots for me; Matt
was the father.

I’d been heartbroken, but mostly
out of spite, I’d kept my job and stayed in Denver. Matt had prided himself on
his job and his stats. So I’d thrown myself into work, and quickly climbed the
ladder, earning two major promotions and an income twice as big as his.

I’d continued to immerse myself in
the lifestyle of wealth and success, but it had lost a lot of appeal after
that. Through the tint of heartbreak, all I’d seen were miserable people trying
to ease their pain with objects, money, status, and power, myself included. For
a moment, I’d almost lost myself in that world.

When I finally broke free, I knew I
never wanted to go back. But after bouncing around from one minimum wage job to
the next, I’d finally taken a position with a small, local company working for Mark
White. I liked this job, and I did good work, but I couldn’t let myself get
drawn in. Accepting White’s promotion would have put me a step closer to a life
I didn’t want.

Paige’s door was closed, but I
could tell the windows were open; he was in. Paige rarely made appointments so
early. Actually, Paige rarely made appointments. Appointments mean work. White
is one of the only people Paige meets with.

As I turned into my office,
glancing at the messages, I wondered if White was meeting with Paige now.

I had three messages. Two of them
were from residents in Elizabeth Tower. They both expressed concern regarding
the safety of the building.

The building had been wired for
exceptional security when it had been for senior living; the cameras and other
security measures still in place. The only pieces of equipment currently being
used were the three-dozen security cameras. The controlled access doors had
been disabled, along with the rest. After Stacy was stabbed, it had crossed my
mind the people living in the building would be upset. I’d even considered the
idea of posting a security guard, if only for temporary measure. I didn’t
foresee the attacker making a return visit, but there would be no explaining
that to hysterical and terrified college kids. Or to their parents.