Jessica Conant-Park - Cook the Books

When the phone awakened me the next morning, I rolled over in bed and glanced at the clock. It was ten. I’d slept for twelve hours, maybe a bit too long. I lifted the phone to my ear and curled back up under the covers.

“Chloe? It’s Ellie. Digger is a stupid son of a bitch!” Her voice was loud and forceful; she sounded nothing like the soft-spoken, crying girl I’d talked to yesterday.

I yanked the covers off my head and sat bolt upright. “What’s going on?”

“After everything I did for him? He can go to hell! In fact, that’s probably where he is right now, and he can burn there for all of eternity!”

“Did something happen, Ellie?”

“Yes, something happened. What happened is that Digger is a goddamn asshole, and so screw him! At least I’m not crying anymore, so that’s a good thing, right?”

“If you think so,” I said doubtfully. “I’m not really sure what’s going on. Did you go to his apartment?”

“The building is condemned, so I couldn’t get in. Not that I give a crap anyway! I don’t want to see anything that reminds me of him, anyway, so don’t ask me to go back there! I hate him!” she screamed into the phone.

“What am I missing here, Ellie?”

“Digger is a self-centered, smug jackass! That’s what you’re missing.” Ellie abruptly hung up.

I flopped back on the bed. What the heck was that all about? One minute Digger’s girlfriend was a crying mess, and now she’s a swearing mess. And so much for the recipes. I couldn’t very well call Ellie back now and insist that she sneak into a condemned building and search through the charred possessions of a dead man she suddenly hated.

But, I realized, there was nothing to stop me.

There’d be no one guarding the building. The police certainly had better things to do than assign officers to stand outside a burned-out building to prevent the illegal entry of cookbook assistants. At least I hoped they did. I didn’t relish the prospect of going alone, but I couldn’t think of anyone to enlist as an accomplice. Adrianna was far too glamorous to go galumphing around in an incinerated building, and since she was a mother, I couldn’t ask her to do anything even slightly risky. Besides, if I told her about my plan, she’d try to prevent me from going. In contrast, Owen would be game, but now that he was a father, he was finally acting responsibly, and I shouldn’t encourage bad behavior. My friend Doug was fastidious beyond words and wouldn’t even consider accompanying me; the thought of even a hint of soot on his shoes would send him into convulsions. My sister, Heather, would never agree. Kyle was out of the question. At least for now.

So I was going to have to go alone. Fine. Another step marking my independence! I hopped up, started a pot of coffee, and tried to decide when to go. Daylight seemed none too smart, since the neighbors would be bound to notice me. Drawing on my in- depth study of adventurous undertakings-via TV and movies-I thought of 24 and asked myself, What would Jack Bauer do? Well, Jack had only twenty-four hours to do a lot more than look for recipes in an apartment, so unless I had to fit my plan in between disarming a nuclear bomb and torturing criminals, I didn’t have Jack’s time constraints. Good! If I went to Digger’s when it was totally dark, I’d have to use a flashlight; the electricity must have been turned off. But a flashlight would attract attention and make me look like a burglar. Although I wasn’t totally committed to social work, I wasn’t about to abandon my career choice for life as a burglar, especially one who got caught. The best time seemed to be late afternoon, when it would be somewhat dark but when there would still be enough light coming through the windows for me to see my way around. And on my key chain was a penlight I could use if need be.

For the rest of the day, I puttered around the house nervously, waiting for the sky to start darkening, and when it did, I drove to Digger’s. Dressing for my first breaking and entering had been a challenge. Nothing dressy, obviously, but I couldn’t look suspicious, in case someone saw me and called the police. All black had seemed too obvious, so I’d gone with dark jeans, a dark ribbed turtleneck, and brown boots. I also did my hair and makeup. It might sound stupid to get dressed up to sneak into a condemned building, but I wanted to look normal and ordinary, as if I had some legitimate reason to be in the neighborhood and in Digger’s apartment. I mean, rescuing recipes was legitimate, but it might not seem that way to spying neighbors. Or to the cops, either.

I parked a few buildings down from Digger’s, locked the car, and pulled on a white fleece hat. I wanted to cover my red hair, which stood out and made me identifiable. Stupid hair! I walked assuredly toward the apartment and up a long driveway to the back of the building. Bold signs on the front door declared the building to be condemned, and plywood had been nailed over some of the lower windows. I tried to march with confidence and radiate an air of authority, as though I worked for the city or for some company that required me to inspect the premises. Aha! I could pretend to represent a homeowner’s insurance company. From my purse, I retrieved a pen and one of the small notebooks I’d taken with me when I’d met Kyle. I furrowed my brow and stared intently at the building while I wrote in the notebook: Very burned. Fire, obviously. Still stinky here. There, that should fool anyone who might be watching me. If I had planned this masquerade ahead of time, I’d have brought a camera so that witnesses would see me taking pictures.

I rounded the back corner of the building and ascended the short flight of fire-escape stairs to Digger’s back door. A hell of a lot of good the fire escape had done him! Ellie had given me no opportunity to ask to use her key; I prayed that I’d be able to get in. One look at the door told me that there’d be no need for a key. The door had obviously been smashed in, probably by the fire department. Splintered wood hung in jagged fragments behind yellow caution tape. I glanced left and right, and then ducked under the tape and into the kitchen.

The kitchen was a disaster. I felt sick as I looked at the remains of the cabinets. The little that was left of them was black and unsalvageable. The counters and floors were covered in ash and chunks of ceiling. The stench nearly made me gag. I didn’t know whether its source was rotting food in the fridge or whether I was just smelling the fire; either way, the reek was nauseating. I suddenly wanted to move quickly. For the first time, it occurred to me that this place might have been condemned not simply as a matter of routine but for real safety reasons. I had no interest in having a support beam come crashing down on my head. Also, I’d miscalculated my time of arrival. It was darker inside than I would have liked; I should have arrived fifteen minutes earlier. Still, I could see that the kitchen opened onto a hallway, one that presumably would lead me to the bedroom, by the front door, that Digger had used as an office.

I gingerly stepped across and around the debris on the floor while holding out my arms to keep my balance. I kept my eyes focused exclusively on the area directly ahead of me; I wanted to see no more than was required to let me move safely. As much as possible, I avoided taking in the details of the scene, because every bit of damage made me acutely aware that the same fire that had caused the destruction surrounding me was the fire that had killed Digger. With each passing second, I longed more and more to escape the ruined apartment and the thoughts that it triggered. When I reached the hallway, my stomach dropped. Ahead of me was blackness. I took my key chain from my pocket and turned on the penlight. Its inadequate beam was only slightly better than no light at all, but the penlight did let me see a piece of supporting timber that hung from the ceiling and stretched down to reach the floor. Coming here at all felt like a colossally stupid idea.