Coming Unclued (8 page)

As I stood in the lobby, stymied as to where to begin, I was startled by a dog barking behind me. It was Daisy, the yappy little cockapoo who lived on the third floor. Daisy was wearing a pink Shearling coat and little pink booties. Very stylish. Daisy’s owner, aka Daisy’s mummy, Doris, was wearing a turquoise track suit and a black down-filled coat that came almost to her ankles. She was shedding a lot of feathers. Daisy always looked more put together than Doris. Sad really. As soon as Doris saw me she picked up Daisy and held her close. No one could say she wasn’t a good mummy.

“When did they let you out?” Doris asked.

“I was never in. This has all been a misunderstanding. I’m innocent.”

“Un huh,” said Doris, inching away from me. “This isn’t going to do anything for our property values.”

“Yes it will. It’ll lower them I expect. Who wants to live in a building where there’s been a grisly murder?” I wasn’t going to take any crap from someone in a turquoise track suit.

“The police interviewed me,” Doris said. She pulled Daisy closer so that their heads were touching. Oh God, she was going to start using her baby talk voice. “I told them you’ve never been kind to Daisy. I think that says a lot about a person when they’ve never once given my wittle Daisy a wittle pat.”

“It might say I’ll lose my wittle finger if I get too close to her.” Why was I picking a fight with Doris? I needed as many people on my side as possible. I decided to change tactics. What the hell? It couldn’t hurt. “I love Daisy’s coat. A little pink cockapoo coat. So cute.”

Doris blanched and took a step back. “Daisy is a maltipoo. Not a nasty cockapoo.” She backed up toward the stairs. “This used to be a decent building.”

I wasn’t giving up. Maybe she knew something. “Did you see anything unusual last night?” I called after her.

“I have discussed my observations with the police,” Doris responded, as she climbed the stairs. “They were very interested in everything I had to say. Extremely interested.”

Jeez. What’d I ever do to her, besides not pat her dog? This investigation thing wasn’t going so well. It looked so easy on TV. Ask a few questions, one thing leads to another and pretty soon you have your man. Or your woman. Could a woman have killed Mr. Potter? A woman other than me obviously. A wave of self-pity engulfed me. I’m a reasonably nice person. How could something like this have happened? Lots of people have a few too many drinks at the office party with no more repercussions than a hangover and a foreboding sense that things might be a little uncomfortable in the staff room on Monday. Why couldn’t I be upstairs lying on my couch, aimlessly watching a movie, cursing my headache and worrying that I might have offended somebody, or strolled around with the back of my dress tucked into my pantyhose? At last year’s Christmas party, Ken threw up in a potted plant in the lobby of the hotel. Why couldn’t I have done that? I could feel myself choking up and tears began meandering down my cheeks. I sank down on the lobby’s new leather couch and leaned back, overwhelmed by a feeling of helplessness. The poinsettia on the coffee table caught my eye. How could it not? It was huge. Huge and fake and tattered. What kind of building was I living in? Unlocked doors and a polyester poinsettia. There was a flower shop two doors down with dozens of real poinsettias of every color, and this is what we set out to spread a little Christmas cheer?

I decided to go back to Julie’s and regroup. I was too overwhelmed to cope. I didn’t know what I was doing and then there was that big fake poinsettia staring at me. I forced myself out of the chair and back outside. It was getting colder. I needed my parka but of course it was in my cordoned off apartment. I could barely muster the strength to walk to the car.

“Valerie. Hello.”

It was Amy — I thought her name was Amy. It might be Annie. A nice young woman who lived with her much older, much louder boyfriend in the condo below me. Amy was a sweet looking girl, tiny with a few freckles on her nose. Bill, the boyfriend was less sweet looking. He had the look of an aging high school athlete gone to seed with a mid-size pot belly and grey hair cut very short.

“Hi Amy,” I said.

“Annie.”

“Right. Sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

“No kidding,” said Bill. “You out on bail?”

He was quite the charmer, old Bill. “No, I’ve not been arrested,” I told him in my haughtiest voice. “The police are still looking for the perpetrator.”

“Yeah? Cause when they talked to us they were pretty interested in you. Don’t worry. We told them you were a nice lady. We were shocked that you would kill anyone. You were pretty hammered last night though. Guess you’re one of those problem drunks. We told them we’d never seen you like that before.”

“You saw me last night?”

“Around midnight. We got home at the same time,” piped in Amy. Annie. “We went to see
The Passion of the Christ
at the Imax. For Christmas. It was amazing.”

I never would have pegged them as religious fanatics. Just shows you never can tell about people. “What did you see exactly, when you saw me?” I asked her. I wanted to keep Bill out of things. He rubbed me the wrong way.

“You were drunk as a skunk,” said Bill. He wasn’t the type to stay out of a conversation. “Staggering around. Both of you were. You and the little dead guy. I was surprised you could make it up the stairs.”

“Did it look like we were together?”

“You were holding each other up. I figured things were going to get busy back at your place if one of you didn’t pass out first. We had a bit of a laugh about it, him being so much smaller than you.”

I looked at Annie. She could do so much better than this guy.

“Well thank you. I appreciate your insight. Very helpful.”

My cutting sarcasm was lost on Bill. “No problem. Look I gotta get inside.” He gave a little wiggle. “Too much coffee today. Gotta go drain the potatoes.” He gave me a little pat on the shoulder. “We’ve all done things when we’re drunk. Course I don’t know any one that was so plastered they killed someone.”

In the interest of furthering my investigation I chose to ignore that comment. “Did you see anyone else lurking around?” I asked.

“Nahh, we were too busy having a laugh watching you,” said Bill. “The police asked us if you were arguing, but you weren’t. Who’s Sophie?”

“I don’t know — ”

“Well — good luck and all that Val,” said Annie.

“Thanks,” I said with a little smile. A sad little innocent person smile. I gave her a limp wave as I headed toward the car.

“Hey,” Bill called to me. “Make sure you pick up the
Sun
tomorrow. I did an interview. Told them everything I know about you.”

Ahh — something to live for.

Rather then head straight for Julie’s I decided to take a little detour and drive by Evan’s old elementary school. I was feeling beset upon by a heaping dose of depression with a side of nostalgia. I slowed down as I drove by the old brick building. There were the kindergarten steps he used to race down, so happy to see me standing there waiting for him. Would Evan be a regular visitor if I was in jail, or would he gradually forget about me, finding it a bother to show up every Sunday? My eyes welled up as I pictured myself sitting in the waiting room, alone, my hair grey because I wouldn’t be able to color it anymore, twenty extra pounds from all the starchy food, waiting for a visitor to break the monotony of my days. The sound of a siren startled me out of my merry reverie. I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the flashing lights. A police car. They weren’t going to arrest me right now were they? I pulled over to the side of the road and opened my window.

I watched in my side mirror as the officer hitched up his pants, adjusted his holster and approached my car with what looked like a jaunty step.

“Afternoon ma’am.”

“Afternoon officer.” He looked familiar. And young. He still had pimples on his chin. Quite a few pimples.

“We meet again.”

I looked at him in confusion. I wasn’t good with faces. Oh Lord, he must have been one of the cops from this morning.

“Do you know you went through a stop sign back there?”

I certainly did not go through a stop sign. I might not have come to a complete stop but I didn’t drive right through it.

“Did I not stop long enough?” I asked him.

“Ma’am you didn’t stop at all. Just drove right through. And this is a school zone.”

“It’s a Sunday so there’s no kids around. And I’m sure I didn’t drive right through it.”

“Oh you definitely did. But I’ll tell you what. You’ve had a big day. You head straight to wherever you’re going and I won’t write you up.” He looked in the back seat. “No dead bodies in the trunk are there?”

Did he think he was funny? “Maybe you should check,” I told him in the steeliest voice I could muster.

He leaned in the window a bit closer. “How about you pop the trunk then?”

He was serious. The cretin was actually going to look in my trunk. I pushed the button that opened the trunk and was hit by the realization that I had no idea what was in there. After today, who knew? “Please,” I prayed. “Please don’t let there be a body in the trunk.”

The officer took out his flashlight and slowly walked to the back of my car. Could he be any more dramatic? He spent a long moment back there, a long heart-pounding moment and then he slammed the trunk shut and slowly made his way back to my driver’s side window. “No body,” he said.

“What a relief,” I said, my voice bathed in sarcasm. It was a relief. A hell of a relief. “Can I go now?”

“You’re free to go. For now. Try to get home without hitting anybody.”

Jerk. I turned the key in the ignition and the cop took a couple of steps back, then started walking to his car. I stuck my head out the window as I pulled away. “I’ve heard Proactiv is very effective. You might want to look into it.” Why did I say that? Why couldn’t I just let things go? He was just doing his job. He was somebody’s beloved acne-covered son, just trying to be a good cop.

I pulled into Julie’s driveway and sat for a moment, willing myself to get out of the car. I was exhausted. I contemplated just sitting in the car, watching the elves make toys until someone forced me to get out, but it was freezing and my back tended to stiffen up if I lingered too long in the cold.

Julie greeted me at the door. “Oh good. You’re just in time for dinner.”

I took off my coat and boots and was hit by a food-like smell wafting from the kitchen. “What’re we having?”

“Mince and mash. I’ll just go slop it on the plates.”

Mince and mash. The most traumatic day of my life and it’s mince and mash for dinner. Mince and mash is Julie’s version of Sheppard’s pie. She believes in truth in advertising so her mince and mash is fried hamburger covered with mashed potatoes. Not even a little onion because that might add flavor.

I wandered into the dining room where Andrew was sitting at the table, reading, awaiting the feast. He looked up as I came in and gave me a welcoming smile. “Hey Val. Any luck?”

“Apparently I was seen arriving with Mr. Potter. Shitfaced we were.”

“Someone saw you together?”

“Hmmm. We were holding each other up.”

I sat down and eyed over the table. There was a plate of Pillsbury crescent rolls in a basket on the table. I took a bite of one, finished it off and picked up another.

“It’s like a prelude to Christmas. Homemade bread and I think Julie has a mincemeat pie for dessert,” said Andrew, joining me in demolishing the crescent rolls.

Mincemeat pie to go with the mince for dinner. That sounded about right.

Julie came in carrying two plates. “Hey, don’t eat all those before you get your dinner. They’re supposed to be a treat.”

“Julie, all you had to do was crack the container on the counter and roll them up.”

She gave me a blank look as she set down our plates. “Just save me a couple. We hardly ever bother with fresh bread.”

For all my inner turmoil, I managed to choke down a healthy serving of mince and mash, and a big slice of mincemeat pie topped off with some delicious whipped topping out of an aerosol can. Remembering my mother’s advice to always compliment the chef when I was invited out to dinner, I asked Julie for her recipe. “So let me get this straight,” I said. “You dump hamburger in a pan and fry it up. And you boil some potatoes and mash them. And then you put the hamburger in a casserole dish and you put the mashed potatoes on top and you serve it up. Did I miss any steps?”

“Salt and pepper. Maybe a little margarine in the potatoes if you’re feeling fancy. And stick it in the oven for a few minutes so the flavors can blend.” Being razzed about her cooking didn’t bother Julie at all. As she says, “my self esteem is not tied to the tenderness of my pot roast.” Just as well.

When I woke the next morning there was a brief, wondrous moment of luxuriating in the well-worn flannel sheets and forgetting where I was and what had happened. Then I opened my eyes and saw Julie’s wedding picture on the wall and it all came back to me in horrible high definition color. I hopped out of bed and then right back in after my bare feet hit the cold floor. Julie’s guest room is in the basement and it gets a little chilly on a winter morning. It suddenly struck me that it was Monday, a work day. Should I go into work? Did I still have a job? I threw on the terrycloth bathrobe that Julie had kindly left for me and headed up the stairs.

Someone was in the bathroom. Honestly — what kind of house only has one bathroom? I entertained myself by perusing the family photos on the wall until the door finally opened and Andrew came out, dressed in his work clothes and carrying the sports section. “Morning Val. You might want to wait a minute before you go in.”

“Morning. Thanks for the tip. What do you think Andrew? Should I go to work today?”

Andrew looked flummoxed by the question. “I hadn’t even thought about that. Hey Jules,” he called. “Does Val go to work today?”

Julie stuck her head around the corner and headed toward us. “I hardly think so. It’ll be pretty awkward.”

“Well I’ve gotta break the ice eventually.”

“Hmmm.” Julie appeared to be deep in thought. “An ice pick. Maybe he was killed with an ice pick. Do you have one?”