Laura Caldwell - Red Blooded Murder

I squeezed the box. It was thin. I managed to squash it into a V-shape. Now, where to put it? I looked down at myself. I was wearing straight-legged black pants and a black blouse. The pants were so fitted that the pockets were useless, but the blouse was loose and full. I stuck the rolled-up box between my breasts, anchored by my bra. Now what to do with the keys?

Josie was just outside. I could hear the angry clack of her shoes. Lacking anything else to do, I stuck the keys under one armpit and clamped down my arm, holding them there.

“What are you doing?” she hissed. Josie stood, a hand on her hip, a snarl on her face.

“I had to use the restroom. I’ll get back out there.”

I hustled toward her, pressing my arm down harder.

“Have you seen my keys?” Her eyes, narrowed and suspicious behind her silver-framed glasses, darted around the back room. I prayed that I had pushed the metal box back into place, just like it had been.

“They’re by the register, aren’t they? Let me look.” I scurried past her before she could say anything, rushed to the register and bent down, dropping the keys from underneath my arm. I stood back up. “Here they are!” I said.

A customer came to the register, and I rang up her purchases, trying to breathe, trying not to move too fast, trying to squeeze my breasts together to hold the thong box in place. Never had a greater pectoral exercise been performed.

Josie came up behind me. “Where were they?” she said when the customer was gone. She picked up the keys that I’d placed by the register.

“On the floor.”

“How would they have gotten on the floor?” Her tone was now cold, cool. It was much more nerve-racking than her irritated voice.

“I don’t know.” I peered through the front window again. The Midwest Gas truck was still there.

The customer left the store, and suddenly there was a lull. Josie and I were alone. I moved around the register, trying to act nonchalant, straightening some robes that had slipped from their hangers.

Meanwhile, Josie watched me. Just watched me. Had she heard what the women had been saying, that I looked like the newscaster accused of killing Jane? Did she know I was the newscaster accused of killing Jane? Or was she staring at me because of the key incident?

“Lexi, I’d like to talk to you,” I heard her say.

I turned, nodded as casually as possible.

“Please come here.”

I walked to the register, trying to make my face bored. But the damn thong box started to slip. I clenched the muscles of my neck and chest, trying to hold it in place.

“I don’t trust you.” She said it like that, no lead-in, no explanation. Just laid it out.

“Uh…why?” Because I just stole one of your thongs and I’m holding it between my boobs?

“I’m not sure.” Her eyes searched my face. “I’m not sure what we should do about you.”

It was that word-we-that scared me. Did she mean her and “Steve”? Or was she just using the royal “we”?

Josie and I stood there, just the two of us in the store, her gaze unflinching. Outside, I could hear cars streaming by, then occasional laughter from people walking past. But inside the store, it was silent. Meanwhile, I was starting to sweat, and the thong box slid lower.

Josie glanced at my chest, frowned deeper.

I tried to give a breezy smile, but with the energy I was exerting to hold the box, I’m sure it came out like a grimace.

“What are you doing?” She glanced up and down my body.

The sweating continued; the box slithered lower. Any minute now, it was going to fall, right onto the floor.

I let myself grimace again. “I’m not feeling so good. I need to use the restroom again.”

Before Josie could respond, I headed toward the back, putting a hand on my chest as soon as I passed her. When I got to the back, I ran to grab my purse and stuffed the box inside.

“Lexi!” I heard her call, and once again I heard the snap, snap of her heels.

I stood, frozen for a second.

“Lexi!” I heard again. She stepped into the back room and glared.

“My stomach feels awful,” I said. “Something is wrong with me.” I put a hand on my stomach. “Sorry.”

She stared at me suspiciously. She took a step toward me, then another.

Suddenly, there was a pounding at the back door. We both jumped a little.

Josie marched past me and opened it. “Hey, Steve,” she said in a distracted tone.

But Steve didn’t look too distracted. In fact, he was looking right at me, his bearded face twisted not so much into a leer this time, but a hard, pensive expression, as if he was trying to remember something. He ran a hand through his oily black hair. I got a flash of that night in the alley-the brutal crack on the side of my helmet, falling into the garage, a massive shove from behind, blood trickling from my knees. Had he told her about the prowler in the helmet the other night or did they not have that kind of relationship?

Steve held out a box to Josie, although his eyes didn’t leave mine.

Blast, it was more pearl thongs. Which meant Josie was about to get that stool, unlock that box and see that one was missing.

Josie took the box from him, moving away and mumbling thanks.

Steve stood there, grimacing at me now, some kind of intensity lighting his eyes.

My stomach started to churn then. I really did feel sick.

Josie stopped, looked at him. “Okay, thanks, Steve,” she said, obviously trying to get him to leave.

But he didn’t budge. Instead, he stood, and he stared, and his eyes narrowed further.

My heart rate tripled. I was trapped. Josie was blocking the door to the store. Steve stood in front of the door to the alley.

I glanced behind me. It was time to bolt, but neither of them moved. Josie glanced at Steve, then at me, as if she was trying to figure out what was going on. Steve remained still.

The front door trilled as someone opened it.

We all looked toward the sound.

“Hello?” I heard a male voice say. I knew that voice.

“Hello?” the man said again.

Mayburn. Thank you, thank you. He must have been watching. He must have sensed I was in trouble.

“I’m looking for a present for my girlfriend?” he called.

Josie huffed, then shook her head. “Get out there and help him,” she said tersely to me.

She didn’t have to tell me twice. “Sure, sure.” Holding my purse, I dashed into the front room.

The sunlight from the front window hit me in the face.

Mayburn stood, hand holding open the front door. “Did you get it?” he mouthed.

I nodded fast and walked right toward him. “Go!”

Outside, we rushed across the street. Mayburn yanked open the driver’s door of the van and gestured with a hurried hand toward the other side.

“Wait,” I said. “What about my scooter?”

“We’ll come back for it,” Mayburn said. “Get in!”

M y phone kept ringing as Mayburn and I drove through Lincoln Park. I ignored it, instead telling him the whole story and handing over the black thong.

Finally, I looked at the phone as Mayburn stopped at a light at Armitage and Sheffield. It was Maggie. She’d called four times.

I didn’t have to fake a stomach illness now. I felt my insides diving and twisting. Was there some news from Vaughn, some rumor on TV, the declaration of Izzy McNeil as official suspect?

I called her back. “It’s me.” I waited for the worst.

I heard Maggie sniffle. Bad sign. It must be truly awful. Maggie never cried about work. But then again, it was hard to represent your best friend in a murder investigation.

“Mags, what is it?” I watched a group of high school guys come out of the 7-Eleven, glugging Slurpees and smacking each other around. I had never wanted to be a seventeen-year-old, Slurpee-glugging guy until that moment.