Diana Orgain - Bundle of Trouble

George stood up and shrugged. “I don’t know anything! You got my bags?”

I remained seated. “Yeah. I do.”

He tapped his foot impatiently. “ ’Kay, where are they? You want me to get them? You stay on the couch. You look tired.”

Part of me wanted George to get the bags and leave. The part that was afraid and wanted nothing more to do with any of this. But the other part, the stubborn part of me that can’t ever shut up, said, “Did you break into our cars, trying to get your bags?”

George flinched as if I’d hit him. “What? No. I didn’t even know you had them until today.”

“Someone did. Both our cars were broken into after I picked up your bags from the ME’s office. Once outside Michelle’s house, the other outside El Paraiso.”

George’s eyes darted around the room.

“Do you work at El Paraiso?” I asked.

George nodded.

“What do you do there?” I pressed, wondering how far I could push him.

He looked momentarily confused. I had almost gotten his guard down. “Oh, you know. .” He waved his hands around, trying to distract me.

“Is it legal?”

“What?” George stared at me, his mouth agape.

I matched his stare. At this point all the runaround was making me angry, and with Laurie tucked away safely in the back bedroom, I felt brave enough to challenge him a bit.

“Whatever they have you do. Is it legal?”

“God, Kate, what are you asking me? I mean, I do. . I do restaurant stuff.”

“Like what? Bus tables?” I probed.

“Yeah, like that.”

“George, I was there. I know you don’t bus the tables. None of the staff even know you exist.”

He paced around the room. “Sure they do. Like who? Who did you talk to?”

“What were you doing on the pier today, George?”

“Pfft, you know,” He waved his hand around and gave me his famous, charming smile, trying to disarm me. “Hanging out.”

“I don’t buy that, George. Your bags were found there a few weeks ago when they recovered Brad. I saw you there yesterday.”

“You were there yesterday?”

“Yeah. I called your name. You took off running. And you left your bag there!”

He shook his head back and forth. “Sorry. I thought I saw. . I thought you were someone else.”

“Who?”

He shrugged. “I thought I was being followed.”

“Why would you be followed? And why did you leave your bag? How’d you get it back?”

“It’s not important.”

“How come you’ve been so hard to get ahold of?” I pressed.

“What do you mean?”

“When the police found your bags, they called here. We didn’t know where to find you. What’s up with all the secrets?”

“No secrets.”

“Where are you staying? Do you have a phone number or anything?”

“Yeah,” He pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket and jotted something down, then handed it to me. “Here’s my cell phone.”

“We tried this number before. No service.”

“Temporary thing. I threw some money at it last week, so it should be fine now.”

“What about the murder weapon?”

“What about it?” George asked.

“How did you know Brad was killed with one of your dad’s guns?” I asked.

“I don’t really know that. All I know is that it was the same type of gun.”

“How?” I pressed.

“I talked to an investigator, a PI. He said he was hired by Brad’s mother. To look into things. He told me Brad was killed by a nine-millimeter. Dad had a nine-millimeter Smith and Wesson.”

“Okay, so how did one of your dad’s guns, or one like it, come to kill Brad?”

I was treading on thin ice here. I knew George was jealous about Jim’s relationship with their dad. George had always thought that we had bought our home with inheritance money.

The truth was, we had worked hard and saved for a long time. George hated that scenario because it involved working.

Everything their father had owned, including hunting rifles or guns, had remained at Uncle Roger’s, where George had lived for a long time. As far as I knew, Jim hadn’t even seen those guns since he was seventeen years old.

George looked trapped. He appeared to be having a conversation in his head about whether or not to come clean with me. He settled on saying, “I had the gun.”

“What?”

“When my uncle kicked me out, I took the gun. I was on the streets for a while. You don’t know what that’s like. I had to find a place to crash every night. I needed it with me, you know, just in case.”

Our eyes locked. George studied me a moment, debating whether or not to continue. I waved my hand, indicating that he should spit it out.

He did a nervous little jig. “When I met Brad, he was putting together El Paraiso. You should have seen it when we started. The place was a dump. He hired me, as casual labor, you know, to paint and stuff. He let me crash in the basement.”

“What happened to the gun?”

“I don’t know. I always kept it with me. In my bag. Only sometimes I left my bags in the basement at El Paraiso, where I slept. No one messed with my stuff. No one really wants to go near a homeless guy’s bag.”

George paused before continuing.

“Well, I got a place now. I’m not sleeping at El Paraiso anymore, but then I was, you know, in June. Anyway, near as I can tell, someone must have taken my gun and killed Brad. I noticed it missing sometime in July. I was going through my stuff. I didn’t think anything about it, except that it sucked to be ripped off. I didn’t think anybody had been killed with it.”

“Jesus Christ, George! Did you report it?”

“Report it to who?”

“To the police!”

“Are you kidding? The gun was never registered to me. Besides, the police aren’t sympathetic to homeless people. I’m only telling you because. .” He collapsed onto the couch next to me. “I don’t know why I’m telling you.”

“I’m sorry. Tell me. Go ahead and tell me. I won’t lecture you.”

George nodded. “When I heard they found Brad dead, I tried to remember, you know, remember anything unusual about that night. But hell, it was months ago. The only thing I really recall is that Michelle was upset when I brought over the cash. We talked for a while. She told me Brad had left her. We drank some, but that was pretty much it.”

“What cash?”

“Uh. . you know, deposits from the. . the restaurant.”

“Doesn’t the manager usually handle the cash?”

George scratched his head. “What?”

“Most restaurant managers make a night deposit at the bank, right? Why were you bringing the money to Michelle’s house?”

George jiggled his knee up and down so quickly it shook the couch. For a second I thought we were having an earthquake. He stood. “I’ve really got to run.”

I jumped up. “C’mon, George, were you having an affair with Michelle?”

“No. Of course not.”

“What about Monday?” I pressed. “The morning Michelle was killed.”

George looked around the room. “Can you get my bags?”

“Do you know who would want to kill Brad and Michelle? Who could have taken your gun? Who knew you had a gun?”

“I don’t know, Kate, geez. And I don’t want to know. Don’t tell anyone what I told you. . the less you know about this, the better. I don’t want you to be involved.”

“I’m already involved!” I exploded. “And you’re up to your ears in ‘involved,’ George. What were your bags doing at the pier?”

“I forgot them there, is all. Stupid. Anyway, I’m taking care of everything. I went to see someone today who can help me.”

“An attorney?”

“No, no. Never mind. I’ve got to get back to the shop.”