Ginny Aiken - Priced to Move

“I’m sorry. And you’re right. I must have come off as some bad TV gumshoe. But you know? When some creep turns you into target practice while you’re crashing and bumping down rutted dirt roads, you tend to look at your world through suspicion-colored glasses.”

“Can’t say I blame you.” He’s quiet for a minute . . . two. I prop my behind against his desk again.

Roger tents his hands, then, “His rubies, huh?”

“Why else? I don’t think anyone’s that sick of his mouthy parrot. At least, not to the point of rubbing out the guy— instead of the bird, that is.”

His laugh sputters out. “Rubbing out the guy?” Another laugh. “Andie! What have you been doing down in your backwater? Watching prehistoric B movies? That’s awful.”

“So’s walking into your employer’s vault and finding a dead guy—a dead guy you’ve known for a couple of years and liked very much.”

His humor vanishes. “I can’t imagine how that must have felt. But look at it from my point of view. I’d heard nothing about Pak’s death until you walked in and stunned me with the news.”

“I’m surprised. I told the cops I’d met Mr. Pak through you.”

“Well, they didn’t come here to ask questions. You did.” I wink. “And how did I do?”

“Weird. But that’s normal—for you.”

I throw a play punch at his shoulder. “That’s support for ya.” A glance at my watch tells me my flight home might just leave without me. “So you can’t think of anything that could help.”

“Nothing, Andie. Nothing comes to me. Sorry. Wish I could help. This can’t be a good time for you.”

“You’re right about that.” I jump off the desk. “And you can imagine what it’s done to Aunt Weeby.”

“Her?” He laughs. “She must be in her element, playing sleuth.”

“Bite your tongue! Miss Mona left Aunt Weeby in charge of her brand-new, very successful TV shopping channel.”

“Are you kidding! For all that Miss Mona of yours knows, your aunt’s already turned it into . . . oh, I don’t know. Maybe a brokerage for . . . I’ve got it! Pygmy angora goats with blue fur. Is that insane enough for her?”

Aunt Weeby and a herd of fluffy blue goats. “That’s scarier than a Stephen King book.”

“Your aunt’s scarier than Stephen King.”

“But so lovable.”

“And way older than you. You’re at the age where you need to come back to New York and get a life.”

“Look who’s talking, Mr. I’m-Working-Too-Many-Hours-For-My-Wife. You want me back here so I really don’t have a life, like you!”

“I have a life.”

“Sure you do. And an angry wife—”

The bell on the front door chimes into my words. “Roger?” a woman asks.

“And that angry wife’s here,” I say. I grab my handbag, drop a quick kiss on Roger’s suddenly greenish cheek, and head for the back door. “Gotta go. She’s all yours, pal.”

“Traitor,” he mutters, then steps toward the front. “I’m here, honey! What brings you to the store?”

As I let myself out, I hear Tiffany’s little-girl voice, but I don’t catch her words. I’m glad. I’m not crazy about Roger’s trophy wife and her extravagances. Yes, I do like designer duds, but I shop discount—something Tiff would never dream of doing. She’s all about that price tag and the “because she can” factor.

I hurry down the back alley to the sidewalk, make my way down to the corner, and check my cell phone. As a proud procrastinator, I haven’t deleted New York numbers yet, and right there, on my contact list, is the one for my favorite cab company—the one with English-speaking drivers, since I’m not multilingual—that doesn’t have speed issues.

When the company promises a cab in six minutes, I shut my phone and get ready for my short wait. And that’s when I get a hinky feeling.

I turn around but see no one. Well, no one but the messenger guy on his bike, the suited exec fixated on his blackberry, the young woman in a tailored tan suit—you get the New York picture. Still, the short, downy hairs at the back of my neck are all lined up like good little soldiers. I know that I know that someone’s watching me.

That’s all I need.

Lord? More trouble? It’s been coming at me for ages now, and I think a dead ruby vendor, gun-happy Burmese goons, a nutty aunt, and a shrieking parrot are enough. Oh yeah. And about the cohost? You know I really don’t need him, on any of many levels, so you can send him back to Podunk, Missouri, or wherever he came from. Don’t you think I’ve earned a vacation?

When I realize what a self-serving excuse for a prayer that is, I try again. I’m sorry. That reeks of pride, doesn’t it? Let me put it a different way. I know you know everything, especially what really matters. You also know what’s coming down in the future, and while I’d rather think about new designer shoes, I don’t think it’s looking like that’s going to be my top concern anytime soon. So . . . if you could, please keep an eye on me. I wind up in more trouble than anyone else I know. Help me listen to you better—I know, I know. You don’t bellow, but sometimes I’m kinda thickheaded and don’t catch your warning. I can use some help there too. Especially with that pride thing. It’s not pretty. I’m sorry. And thanks.

The cab squeals to a stop, bringing the traffic to a standstill in the already nasty snarl on the street. The guy in the car behind the cab honks his horn, rolls down his window, and yells an obscenity. The one in the red Chevy behind him is another story. He stares at me, then at the loudmouth, at the cab, and at me again.

Goose bumps pop out all over. It’s splitsville for me, especially since I’ve begun to see a bad guy behind every cab, hot dog stand, and trash can or two.

I collapse on the backseat. The guy behind the wheel isn’t sporting a turban, but he doesn’t look like the all-American guy next door either.

“JFK, please, and I have to be there yesterday.”

“Excuse, please? Yesterday? I no understand.”

“Are you new with RideSafe?”

“Yes. I come from Greece three months back.”

“Who owns the company now?”

“Own? Company?”

“Sure. Your boss.”

“Oh. Cousin Spiros new boss. He good man. Give me work.”

I fight to squelch the urge and touch of hysteria that zip right through me. It’s all Greek to me won’t exactly win the driver’s cooperation.

Instead I say, “I’m flying US Airways.”

“Okay.”

While it isn’t a white-knuckle ride, it isn’t a Sunday drive in the country either. I pay, jump out, and then I see it again. The same red Chevy whose driver stared at me back at the street corner near Roger’s store. When I’m about to call 9-1-1, a tall brunette in a designer black suit walks up to the car, opens the rear door, puts in her overnight case, and then sits in the front passenger seat. They pull out, slowly, too slowly for my comfort.

Still, they’re gone.

Who says there’s no such thing as coincidence?

While my flight home is uneventful, I know that I know that I know something out there made me feel weird. Paranoia isn’t usually a problem for me. I didn’t imagine what I felt. I also know what I saw the driver of that red Chevy do. On the one hand, he stared. On the other, he drove away when his companion hopped into the car.

So I must have imagined that someone’s-looking-at-me feeling before he drove up.

Right?

Wrong?

If someone was staring at me, who could it have been? And why?

Well, I’m pretty sure I know the why. Mr. Pak. And his rubies. But that doesn’t get me any closer to the who. More to the point, was it tied to the Burmese shooting spree on the dirt road to Mandalay?