Laura Caldwell - Red Blooded Murder

Josie drew in a quick breath. “Are you serious?” But then she made a face. “I thought you said he left town.”

“He did. With her.”

A gasp. “So she’s here because she’s about to marry your fiancé?”

Hmm. Tricky. “Well, no. She dumped my fiancé and then she got with someone else. So really she broke two hearts.”

“The bitch!”

“I know.” Sorry, Faith. “So, I really can’t help her.”

Josie huffed and looked at me sympathetically. “Of course you can’t.”

I gestured at the stock. “I’m going to get all this done, though.”

Josie nodded. “I’ll handle the bridal party.” She grunted. “And all those negligees that were on sale up front? They are not on sale any longer. Not for that girl.”

“Thanks, Josie.” I felt the first bond with her, and then guilt for having engineered it.

She stomped back to the front, and I could hear her addressing Faith in a saccharine voice.

I pulled the notebook from my purse again and wrote for Mayburn, Will raise prices when doesn’t like a customer. Then I went back to work on the stock, attacking it with a vengeance, determined, at least, to do a good job for Josie.

A minute later-bam, bam, bam-a knock came from the door that led to the alley.

There was a little window cut into the door. I peered out and saw a guy in a black baseball cap holding a large cardboard box, almost like a big pizza box. Behind him was a white van. More stock?

I was about to open the door, when Josie rushed into the back room. “Got it,” she said breathlessly.

She opened the door. “Hey, Steve.”

Steve, a mean-looking guy with black oily hair and a meager beard, grunted and held out the cardboard box. He stopped short for a second when he saw me. He dragged his eyes up and down my body, smiled slightly. He was probably my age, in his late twenties, but he was one of those people who looked as if life had treated him hard. Or maybe he had treated life hard.

“This is my new clerk,” Josie said.

Steve nodded, leered in my direction.

Josie took the box and held the door open so he could leave. But Steve wasn’t moving. He was still staring at me, a weird, twisted kind of smirk on his face.

“Thanks, Steve.” Josie’s words were loud. “See you later.” She shut the door so he had no choice but to step back. When he was outside, she locked it. Then she opened the box. Inside were smaller black boxes, like the one she’d sold to Nina a few days ago.

“More pearl thongs?” I said.

“Yeah.”

“If you want to give me the key, I’ll put them up there.” I gestured to the locked box on the high shelf. “That way you can get back out front.”

“No, I’ve got it.” She sighed. “That evil woman has her girls trying on fifteen different nude bras. They’re never going to get out of here.”

Out came the step stool and the keys. She quickly arranged the pearl-thong boxes in the lockbox, tucked her keys in her pocket and then shot back into the front room.

I stood there for a moment, thinking. Why not just let me take the delivery of the pearl thongs? Why not let me put them away? She trusted me with the rest of the merchandise, even the more pricey pieces. And then there was the fact that she kept the thongs locked up.

I hustled to the back door and peered through the window. Steve was sitting in his van, using his steering wheel as a writing desk, making some kind of notation. Then he started the van and pulled down the alley. I opened the door and watched his taillights trail away in the dark night. He kept heading down the alleyway, clearly one of those Chicagoans who knew how to avoid the traffic on the main streets. Just like I did.

My scooter was sitting right there. I watched that van, still making its way down the long alley that ran perpendicular to Racine Avenue.

I thought of what Mayburn had told me when he’d gotten me on this case. Pay attention to everything. Pay attention to anything that seems off. Even a little bit. I just need you to collect the pieces.

And then I thought of another thing Mayburn had said to me-Don’t plan. Improvise.

I rushed to my coat and put it on with my helmet. Then I grabbed my scooter keys and phone from my purse and tucked them in a pocket. It sounded as though Josie would be with Faith and her friends for at least another fifteen to twenty minutes, maybe longer.

I opened the back door and wedged a small piece of Styrofoam into the base of it, then I jumped on my scooter and followed the van.

I saw the van’s lights-at least I hoped it was the van-nearly two blocks ahead of me, still in the alley. I pulled back on the gas, trying to catch up.

I decided I would tail the van for just a little while, to see where it went. It would be a piece I could collect for Mayburn.

A barely there spring rain dotted the visor of my helmet with mist. Be careful, I told myself. Scooters were the fastest way to get around the city, but they didn’t take well to bad weather.

I gained on the van, coming within a block of it, then only half a block, so I could almost make out the license plate. Z2…There were four more characters, but I couldn’t read them. As gently as possible, I pulled back harder on the gas.

But just then the van reached Armitage Avenue and turned right. By the time I caught up, three cars were between us. I curved around one of them at a stop sign and kept an eye on the van. It went left at Racine, where Armitage dead-ended, then took a quick right where Armitage started again. I followed him on the bridge over the Chicago River, the grates of the metal making my scooter feel wobbly, the slick rain not helping.

Once over the bridge, the car in front of me turned, and I could see the van under the streetlights. I tried again to see the plate number, but the misting rain obscured my view.

When the van turned onto Cortland Avenue and I followed, the third car continued onward, removing the barrier between me and Steve, whoever he was. I pulled over to the side of the road, putting a little distance between us, then resumed following him. The van made its way through Wicker Park, taking a few turns and finally heading into another alley.

I slowed, waited, then turned down the alley myself. Damn. It was gone.

I zipped down the alley, my eyes scanning either side. Nothing. The houses here were a mix of brick three-flat apartments and older bungalows, all with garages behind them.

I was about to turn around and head back to the store, when I saw it. About a block down the alley, behind a tan-painted bungalow, the van was parked next to a garage. I sped toward it. As I reached it, the van’s interior lights suddenly went on, and Steve got out of the driver’s seat. He looked at the scooter as it passed, and it seemed he stared right through the visor of my helmet.

I looked away, and pulled back hard on the gas, causing my back tire to fishtail a little.

Half a block later, I stopped and glanced behind me. No sign of Steve. I parked in an empty spot by a garage. A sign on the garage screamed No Parking!!!!, replete with small print practically threatening a gangland-style shooting. I parked there anyway, squinting at my watch. I’d been gone eight minutes. I could only spare a few more before I had to hightail it back to the store.

I got off the Vespa and peered around the garage.

The alley here was darker than those in Lincoln Park. Only one streetlight blinked anemically. The rain began to fall harder, making a soft but ominous rattle on my helmet. I tucked my hair under the collar of my coat, but left the helmet on. Walking around, I must have looked like a Martian. The helmet killed my peripheral vision, but it protected me from the rain and from being identified.