Accessory to Murder (4 page)

Was she going to have to date Stan to prove to her daughter she wasn't gay? Josie loved Stan like a brother, but that was the only way she liked him. His cheap knit shirt clung to his pear-shaped body and gave him bigger breasts than she had. If you dated a guy with breasts, did that count?

“Grandma's on the front porch, waving,” Amelia said. “I think she wants to talk to you.”

Jane came running out to the car, leaving a vapor trail of old cigarette smoke. Josie wrinkled her nose. Jane handed her the cordless phone. “It's Alyce. She's called three times. She can't reach you on that overpriced cell phone. What's the point of buying that thing if you turn it off when I'm trying to reach you? Alyce needs to talk to you right now. Are you two joined at the hip or what?”

Thanks, Mom, Josie thought. That really helps the lesbian issue.

“Alyce wouldn't call at this hour unless it was serious.” Josie speed-dialed her number. Her friend picked up on the first ring.

“What's wrong?” Josie said.

“The police were here asking questions about Halley,” Alyce said. Josie could hear the raw panic in her voice.

“Sure,” Josie said. “You were her neighbor.”

“But they have the killer in custody,” Alyce said.

“They're probably tying up some loose ends.”

“But why would they ask me about—” Alyce stopped suddenly. Josie could hear the rumble of a garage door in the background. “It's Jake. I can't talk now. I'll call you tomorrow.” She slammed down the phone.

Alyce never called when Jake was home. At least that routine hadn't changed.

But why was Alyce so panicked? She was the most law-abiding person Josie knew. Alyce didn't even get parking tickets. What could the police ask that had her so frightened?

Josie would have to wait until tomorrow to find out. She'd never guess this one.

“Was the staff polite?”

Ha. Josie knew that answer. She'd been waiting for the question. It was number four on the mystery-shopper form for the Pretty Things store. She'd waded through the routine ones:

“Was the stock properly displayed?”

“Was the store clean?”

“Were the dressing rooms clean?” Yes, yes, and yes.

Now for the good part.

“Did the staff offer to assist you?”

“Were they courteous?”

“Did they thank you for shopping at Pretty Things?”

No, no, and no.

Josie was itching to report Saber, the outrageously rude salesclerk. She'd made notes on the scene at the store as soon as she'd gotten back to her car. She was so stunned by Saber's behavior, she'd wanted to remember every word. Now she reread her notes. The questions didn't begin to cover this situation. How about:

Did the staff insult the customer? How many times? Verbally? Physically?

Let me count the ways, Josie thought. She'd been in this job for nine years, and had seen this kind of rudeness hundreds of times. But it always amazed her. Sales-people would insult, ignore, even verbally abuse customers—and still expect them to shop at their store.

“You from New York?” Saber had asked Josie. “I figured you didn't buy that here. St. Louis is too Dutch and dumb.”

Would Pretty Things's New York headquarters understand the depth of that insult? It was a slap at the city's supposedly styleless German population: “Dutch” was a corruption of
Deutsch
. St. Louisans were fiercely proud of their city, and felt it wasn't properly appreciated.

It wasn't just a tactless remark. Saber had piled on the insults. “St. Louisans have no style. New Yorkers understand fashion. This cow town doesn't.”

In case Alyce thought she was attacking only the city, Saber had sneered at Alyce's clothes. “Old enough to start school,” Saber had said. “Too old to wear.”

That made the insults personal. Josie could still see the hurt in Alyce's face.

Saber was too much like her name. How many other customers had she stabbed? Josie's job was to make sure Saber never hurt another innocent shopper.

Josie had a mission: to protect the American consumer. Josie called her Mrs. Minivan. In Josie's mind, she was a tired woman with a job and a family. Mrs. Minivan had a hard life. She didn't need salesclerks like Saber slashing at her.

I can't feel your pain, Mrs. Minivan, Josie thought. But I can make sure it never happens again.

She wrote her account in straightforward sentences. There was no need to exaggerate. She signed her report with a flourish and faxed it from her home office—a grand name for a secondhand computer and a garage-sale table in a corner of her bedroom. It went to her boss at Suttin Services, Harry the Horrible. He would forward her report to New York. If Pretty Things liked her work, he would take credit for it.

Oh, well. The best part of this job was she rarely saw Harry. If she worked in an office, she'd have to face him every day.

Josie checked her watch. Five thirty. Amelia was suspiciously quiet, which meant she was probably instant-messaging her friends. It was time to get dinner going, but Josie didn't feel like cooking. She wondered if she could fix something easy, like Amelia's favorite, mac and cheese. Her mom had left an apple pie on the kitchen table. Maybe if Josie made a salad and—

“Mom, the toilet's stopped up in my bathroom,” Amelia said. Her daughter stood in the doorway, balanced on one foot, dark hair swinging almost to her shoulders. “I flushed and it went all over the floor.”

Just what she didn't need. Josie raced down the hall. There was an inch of dirty water on the black-and-white tile floor and a hint of cigarette smoke laced with lemon air freshener.

“Were you smoking in here, Amelia?”

“No, Mom. I just flushed and the water ran all over. I don't know what stopped it up. My shoes are gross.”

Amelia seemed genuinely distressed. Well, the plumbing was old and cranky. It probably wasn't Amelia's fault.

“Throw your shoes in the washing machine,” Josie said. She rummaged in the hall closet for the plunger. It was buried under a pile of boots and canvas carry bags. Josie stuck it in the commode and pumped the wooden handle. The john made sucking and slurping noises, and more water surged out on the floor. Yuck.

That sound you hear is the money being sucked out of your bank account, Josie thought as the dirty water swirled around her ankles.

“We need a plumber,” she said.

“Grandma calls Mr. Ansen,” Amelia said.

Mr. Ansen was sixty years old with a big belly and a smelly cigar. Josie had a better idea. “I'll call my own plumber.” She opened the Yellow Pages. There it was, a nice big ad: “Mike's Dogtown Plumbers. Call us 24-7 for all your plumbing needs. Double the work at half the price.”

Yes, indeed. Mike could fix her john and her daughter's worries, Josie decided. Two problems handled with one call. Was that efficient or what?

Josie spent ten minutes mopping up the water. Then she dashed into her bedroom. She combed her hair, put on fresh lipstick, a crisp white blouse, and jeans that weren't soaked up to the knees. She studied the effect in her mirror. Nice, but not overdone. She also changed her shoes, since they were marinated in toilet water.

Mike was at her door in twenty minutes. He was even better-looking than she'd remembered. At this hour, he had a slight stubble she found manly. She checked out his hands: strong, clean, and free of wedding rings—not that that meant anything. Some married men didn't wear rings. Josie felt they should all be branded on the hand. It would save a lot of trouble.

“I remember you,” Mike said. “You're friends with the pot-filler lady.”

Josie blushed. “You got here fast. Do you really live in Dogtown?” It was a zingy little neighborhood near Maplewood.

“Right on Tamm Avenue,” he said.

Amelia was standing in the doorway. “We learned about Dogtown in school,” she said. “Stephanie gave a report. She said the name came from the 1904 World's Fair in St. Louis. The fair had a lot of ethnic groups on display, including the Igorots from the Philippines. The Igorots ate all the dogs in Dogtown. Is that gross or what?”

“I don't know,” Mike said. “My neighbor Mrs. Riley has a yappy poodle that I wouldn't mind turning into a pot roast.”

Amelia looked shocked.

Mike saw her face and said, “I'm sorry. I'd never eat a poodle. I don't even touch hot dogs.” He grinned. Amelia giggled.

Mike squatted so he could talk to Amelia eye to eye, and Josie couldn't help notice the muscles in his thighs. “I've heard that story about Dogtown,” he said seriously. “I think it's a legend. My guess is we got the name because we have so many dogs. We always have. Dogtown is proud of being Irish and we're proud of our dogs. A hundred years ago, when strangers came through our neighborhood, the dogs would bark like crazy to protect their territory. They still do. Everybody on my block has at least one dog.”

“What do you have?” Amelia said.

“A lazy Labrador, although I think that's an oxymoron. Speaking of lazy, I'd better get to work. I have to keep Chudleigh in dog chow.”

“Off to your room,” Josie said. “Mike needs room to work.” She shooed her daughter out of the cramped bathroom.

“I'll be in the kitchen,” she said to Mike. She caught herself before she added, “If you want anything.” I've avoided another attack of
Desperate Housewives
syndrome, she thought.

By the time she had the washer chugging away at their shoes, it was after six. Josie decided on pasta with marinara sauce for dinner, which was even easier than mac and cheese. She dumped half a jar of sauce in a pan and set the water on to boil for Scroodles.

When Amelia was little, she loved the name of the screw-shaped pasta. “Scroodles. Scroodles. Screwy noodles,” she'd say over and over, until she and Josie were breathless with laughter. Calling the pasta by its proper name, “fusilli,” wasn't half as much fun. But that was a million years ago, before Amelia knew words like “lesbian.”

The pasta water was boiling when Mike walked into the kitchen with a handful of swollen, soggy cigarette butts. Amelia trailed after him. Josie could read that look on her face—half-defiant, half-defensive.

“I found the problem,” Mike said. “It was stopped up with these.”

“Amelia, you told me you weren't smoking,” Josie said.

“I don't think your daughter wears red lipstick,” Mike said.

Amelia gave him a grateful smile. “Grandma does,” she said.

“That your mother?” Mike asked.

“Yes,” Josie said. “But she's not supposed to smoke in my house.”

“There you go,” Mike said. “She must have dumped a full ashtray down your john. I bet you surprised her by coming home early and she flushed the evidence in a hurry. I've been through this. My mom smokes on the sly at my house when she babysits my dog.”

“Let me guess,” Josie said. “She says she's too old to die of cancer.”

“Not quite,” Mike said. “Mom claims she doesn't have the cancer gene. Her mother smoked like a chimney and died at ninety.”

Here goes, Josie thought. “What's your wife say?”

“I don't have a wife,” Mike said. “I'm not married.”

The silence stretched for eons. Amelia looked at Josie. Josie looked at Mike. Now or never, she thought. If I mess this up, the worst that can happen is I'll have to call Mr. Ansen next time.

“Can I see you again?” Josie asked.

“You need your plumbing looked at?” Mike said. His blue eyes were guileless. Also, clueless.

Amelia stared at her mother as if she'd suddenly sprouted shiny green scales all over her skin. Don't look at me like that, Josie thought. I'm doing this for you, you ungrateful kid. Well, a little bit, maybe. Oh, who am I kidding? This is all for me.

Josie took a deep breath. “My fixtures are fine.” Damn. There it was again: creeping innuendo. She stumbled through the next sentence, saying the words as quickly as possible: “Would you like to go out for coffee sometime?”

“No,” Mike said.

Josie's face flamed red.

“I'd rather go out for a drink,” Mike said, and grinned. His little-boy grin was nearly as nice as his big-boy build. “Are you doing anything Saturday night? My partner's on call that night.”

“Just like a doctor,” Josie said. “How about seven o'clock?”

Josie was staring dreamily at Mike's blue panel truck, watching him pack away his tools, when Amelia said, “Mom, I can't believe you did that.”

“What?” Josie said. She liked the
24-7 Service
on Mike's blue truck. The white script letters were classy.

“You were, like, all over him,” Amelia said. “It was so gross. You're worse than Zoe.”

Funny how much my daughter sounds like my mother when she disapproves of me, Josie thought. “Hey, at least you don't have to worry that your mother is a lesbian.”

“No, you're a slut,” Amelia said.

What did she say now? Josie hadn't read anything about that in her parenting magazines. Jane would have grounded Josie for a month for a remark like that. When the phone rang, she grabbed it gratefully.

“Hey, Josie, that you?” The voice that oozed out belonged to Harry the Horrible, her boss. Josie's gratitude evaporated. Harry's calls were usually trouble.

“I want to see you in my office first thing tomorrow,” Harry said. Josie heard him devouring something.
Crack. Crunch. Slurp.
It sounded like a giant breaking dead men's bones.

Harry was on the Atkins Diet, and had gained and lost the same three pounds for as long as Josie knew him. One look at Harry and most people switched to the South Beach Diet. It wasn't Dr. Atkins's fault. Harry never followed the diet, except to eat prodigious amounts of meat. Josie figured in another life he must have been Henry VIII.

Crack. Crunch. Slurp.
The noise was unnerving.

“Harry, can I ask what you're eating?”

“Alaskan crab legs and butter. I got them on sale.”
Crack. Crunch. Slurp.
Josie had an awful vision of legless crabs scooting around in wheeled carts. “Nine o'clock tomorrow morning OK?”

Harry was asking her if she liked the time? Something was haywire. She rarely went into the offices of Suttin Services, but when she did, it was at King Harry's command. He never cared if the time was convenient for her. “Is there a problem, Harry?”

“No, no. Not a problem. Just a little question about your report.”
Crunch.

“I can answer any questions now,” Josie said. “I have time.”

“No, no,” Harry said. He was suspiciously jovial. Josie didn't like this. Harry was a screamer and a bully. When he sounded like Santa Claus, she'd better watch out.