Checkered Crime: A Laurel London Mystery (3 page)

“How about an afternoon cocktail over at Benny’s?” I suggested because I needed a vodka.

“Laurel that’s not funny.” She didn’t find my humor enduring.

I’m glad she didn’t because if she said yes, sadly I would’ve been walking to Benny’s.

“Gia, it’s going to be fine. I’m always fine.” I was lying through my teeth. That no good Morty.

I’d love to get Morty in one of his port-a-lets and knock it over. I couldn’t help but smile at images of crap rolling down Morty’s bald head.

Chapter Three

The next day was turning out much like yesterday. Get up. Watch Henrietta hunt for a bug to eat. Look in the refrigerator at the dried lemon slice.

“Not today.” I slammed the refrigerator door shut.

Mrow
. Henrietta let out a little cry of hope that I had found a morsel of food. She looked at me with her big star-shaped eyes.

“It won’t be long until I get a job,” I assured her like she knew exactly what I was saying. “I can feel it in my bones.”

Truth be told, the only thing I could feel in my bones was hunger.

“Either way,” I bent down to rub her. “I will walk to the Dollar Store if I have to and grab a couple of Parts of Meat.”

She darted underneath the futon like she knew what Parts of Meat was. Every time I had to pinch a few pennies, I would pick up a couple of cheapo cans of Parts of Meat cat food. Henrietta wouldn’t even look at her plate when she saw it.

“Snob.” I glanced at the futon. Henrietta’s long grey tail swept across the floor a few times.

I unhooked my phone from the charger and threw it in my hobo. Enough was enough. It was time I stopped moping and hoping Morty was going to call me back since The Underworld Music Festival people were in town. It wasn’t going to happen and I had to get my butt in gear.

I darted out of the efficiency and down the small metal stairs. If I walked north on Second Street and took a right on River Road, The Walnut Grove Journal was down a little ways on the left. It was located right next to Porty Morty’s.

It was as good a time as any to go in and see Anita Musgrave, the editor, journalist, photographer, and only employee of the paper. She’d been there as long as I could remember. Our last meeting wasn’t all that great; she was the one who I had given my essay to that fateful Christmas I had spent with Pastor Wilson.

I had written my gratitude letter that Pastor Wilson insisted I do and dropped it off to Anita who ooh’ed and ahh’ed over how great the Wilsons were for not only taking me in but also buying all the Christmas gifts for the orphans.

Anita called the local news station that just had to do a feel good story on the good Pastor and Rita. Through gritted teeth, the Pastor smiled for the camera and did an on-spot interview claiming it was God’s divine whisper that told them to give all of those nice, expensive presents to the orphans because the orphans were God’s children too, just like every other boy and girl who had a family home.

Needless to say, to this day all the participants in the situation run in the opposite direction when they see me coming toward them. That included Anita Musgrave.

Anita sat behind the big metal desk with papers scattered all over the top of it and spilling onto the floor.

“I don’t have time for fooling around.” Her head was bent in concentration. “What do you want now?” Anita asked.

I took out enough change from my hobo to pay for a paper. Anita wasn’t budging from her glare. “I would like a copy of your latest paper.”

I waited for her to respond.

The years hadn’t been so good to Anita. Her waist had thickened; her face was heavier. And she had a five o’clock shadow on her upper lip.

“Have you ever thought about making an appointment with Kim at Shear Illusions?” I ran my hands over my own thick eyebrows in need of a little grooming.

“Are you telling me you hate my hair?” She looked up, shooting me a death stare.

“Not at all. Just asking.” I looked away.

Anita was in no mood for me to give her beauty advice. Nor did it look like she was in the mood to clean up the messy joint.

“I just threw them in the dumpster outside.” She pointed to the one on the side of Porty Morty’s. “You can get one from there.”

“Fine.” I huffed and pushed the door back open.

I slipped across to the other side, putting my change back in my bag. I slid the little door on the side of the dumpster. The papers were there and so was Morty’s half-eaten breakfast sandwich.

I knew it was his because it’s what he had every day and it made him very gassy. White egg omelet with green peppers. I tried to tell him to lay off the peppers, but he never listened. He stunk the place up worse than the used port-a-lets we got back from clients.

The buzz of a speedboat got closer. There weren’t many speed boats zipping on the river this early in the morning. I scanned each direction to see where it was coming from. Suddenly the speedboat rounded the corner and glided through the turn. The person driving must not have known the river too well because the turn was one that everyone knew you didn’t drive fast around.

The closer the boat got to Porty Morty’s dock, the slower it went. The driver stood up as he steered. His hand covered his eyes as he scanned the land.

The man pulled his fancy shmancy boat up to Morty’s dock.

“That’s not a…,” I stopped myself from yelling after I realized the roar of the fast boat’s engine was way louder than my voice. “A dock for gas,” I muttered.

Boaters were always stopping at Porty Morty’s to see if there was gas or a little snack store on the dock. For years I told Morty he should invest in some sort of little gas station, but that was another good idea I had that he refused to use.

The boat driver was dressed in a white button down, white pants, and white shiny shoes. His gold watch caught the sun just right and a flash blinded me.

The sun was shining and the air was warm. I took advantage of the benches and the beautiful view of the river and sat down.

I opened the paper and thumbed right past The Hub section and to the help wanted section.

Originally, The Hub section was supposed to be about events around Walnut Grove, but turned into gossip central from an anonymous contributor. Trixie loved to keep me up to date on what was happening. So I resisted the urge, which reminded me that I had better stop by her house and let her know I had been fired before my news made The Hub section of the
Walnut Grove Journal
.

My eyes darted around wondering if I was going to be next week’s gossip.

I swung my feet back and forth, accidentally hitting a walnut that was under there. I watched it roll and then slid my eyes to the guy that had gotten out of the boat to tie up.

“Seriously, Morty should put up a sign that says the dock isn’t a gas station,” I said to myself and watched asshole Morty walk down the dock. “Fall in bastard,” I said hoping Morty would make a misstep right into the river.

My cell rang. I pulled it out of my bag and saw that the number on the screen of my super cheap flip phone was Derek.

“I’m driving it over,” he said. “Where are you? Home?”

“No.” I was too distracted by Morty and boat guy to listen.

“Okay. I’ll head to Trixie’s,” Derek said.

“No!” I shouted into the phone. “I haven’t told Trixie about losing my job. I would rather tell her.”

The driver of the boat glanced my way. I let my hair fall down into my face to give me a little more privacy.

“What in the hell have you been doing with yourself the past couple of days?”

“Taking it easy,” I said. “Lying low.
Real
low.”

The sound of two men arguing made me look up. Morty and the boat guy were having a heated conversation on the dock. I made a slight part in my hair and snuck a peek at their body language. Morty’s bald head was shining like a diamond in the bright sun.

“Hey, have you passed the Dollar Store yet?” I asked knowing he was going to have to drive right past it.

“Getting ready to. Why? Trixie need some powder?” he asked.

“No. Henrietta needs a can of food.”

“Fine. I’ll stop,” he added.

“Two?” I asked, smiling.

“See you in a minute.” I could tell from his tone that I was pushing my limit.

We hung up just in time for me to see that the boater and Morty’s argument was getting heated. The man was jabbing his finger in Morty’s chest. The sunshine pinged off his big gold ring and the sunspot hit me straight in the eye.

The guy stepped one foot out of the boat and kept the other foot in. He lifted out two Styrofoam coolers, kind of like the ones Morty used to store the blue sanitizer pellets for the port-a-lets that we took to events. The smell-good kind
—
great for disguising the poop smell.

Morty’s five-foot frame stood firm as if he was holding his ground. He was not in his usual sweat suit attire. He was actually dressed in a nice suit I was sure had come from K-Mart since it was the only store in Walnut Grove that sold clothes of any kind. Morty never left Walnut Grove. Not even for clothes.

Damn.
Morty didn’t fall in.

The man was already in the speed boat and turned the motor over giving it a little vroom. Morty greeted Pastor Wilson who was at the top of the gang plank of the dock and craning his neck to get a look at the boat. He and Morty shook hands as Morty grabbed Pastor Wilson by the elbow and jerked him around toward the building like he didn’t want the pastor looking at the boat.

Morty picked up one of the coolers and stuck it in Pastor Wilson’s arms. Morty took the other one and they disappeared into the old building.

The roaring sound of the speed boat caught my attention, though I found it strange that Pastor Wilson had paid Morty a visit. The revival wasn’t until the fall and that was months away. In the years I had worked there, Pastor Wilson never came by. Morty always went to him for the revival details since the pastor avoided me at all costs.

“Good 2 Go,” I read the name on the stern of the boat just before it rounded the corner from where it had come.

Beep, beep.

I jumped around. There was a big yellow car that had pulled up and parked behind me. Derek jumped out.

“Here.” He threw the keys toward me and held out his other hand where the yellow bag from the Dollar Store dangled from his grip.

“What is that?” I squinted and realized it was the rusty old black-and-white Belvedere that was now a rusty old yellow Belvedere. “I mean…” I swallowed hard. “You couldn’t cover up the taxi sign?” I pointed to the door and thanked my lucky stars he had given me the old cab.

“The sign kept bleeding through.” He seemed disappointed by my hesitation of no excitement. “What did you expect for free, Laurel?”

True. He did have a point. I had to keep reminding myself this set of wheels was only temporary.
Only temporary.

“It’s great. It really is.” I wiggled my brows.

Trying to be cool, I threw the keys up in the air. They slipped through my fingers and landed on the ground. Epic fail. I reached down and grabbed them. Derek didn’t seem amused.

“And it’s going to help me get a job!”
Damn Morty
. I glanced toward the worn-down warehouse.

“Where are you going to apply first?” Derek did his best football punt on the stray walnut on the ground. Walnuts were everywhere, hence the name Walnut Grove.

“I was thinking about going to Quick Copy.” I took the help wanted ads from under my armpit. “They are hiring sales reps.”

For the first time, I felt my nerves bubbling up. I never had my own car and I never had to actually go find a job.

I gripped the keys tighter. “This is mine, right?” I had to clarify he was giving me the car and not taking my fifteen hundred dollars.

“Yes. Thanks for taking the junker off my hands.” Derek smiled. “So you know how to sell copiers, service copiers and all the products?”

What? Was this an interrogation?

“Do you doubt my abilities after all these years?” I jabbed him in the bicep. “I can learn anything. Besides annual bonuses, there is even a car that goes with the job.”

“You have a car.” We both looked back at the big yellow rusty hunk. “The world is your oyster.”

“One problem.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t like oysters.”

Chapter Four

“Fill ‘er up!” I yelled to Clyde Yap out the Belvedere window
—
once I figured out how to roll them down
—
when I pulled up to the gas pumps at the Gas-N-Go.

There weren’t a lot of bells and whistles to the Old Girl, that was what I had named her, the Old Girl. She was worth every single penny I paid. Free.

The Gas-N-Go was the only filling station in town that filled your tank and cleaned your windshield.

“Laurel London?” Clyde thrust his head into the driver’s side window. A little too far, causing me to nearly jump out of my skin. “Where did you get this car?”

His highly starched shirt barely moved when he planted his elbows on the window frame waiting for my answer to his question. His beady eyes gave me the stare down.

“I
—
” I was interrupted by Baxter Thacker, owner of Gas-N-Go, when he cleared his throat.

He stood in the doorway of the gas station, his arms crossed over his large barreled chest. His eyes beat down on me. Baxter was not one I would want to meet in a dark alley at night. He was also one I never tried to cross when I was growing up at the orphanage. He made it very clear when Derek worked here while we were in high school that I was to come nowhere near the joint. Besides, the headless bald eagle tattoo on his forearm always gave me the creeps. He was a bad ass to the bone. No one crossed Baxter Thacker. Not even me.

“You better get on out of here before Baxter pulls out a gun or something.” Clyde tapped the top of my hood. Clyde had been working for Baxter for as long as I could remember. He and Trixie were friends. We used Clyde’s Moose membership to get into the Moose lodge sometimes.