Janet Evanovich - Takedown Twenty

“Too late. I ate it all.”

“That’s harsh.”

Five minutes later I picked Lula up, and we drove to the Senior Center to get a complete list of businesses involved in the Senior Discount Club.

“We only give this list out to members,” the woman in the small administrative office said.

She had short brown hair, narrow lips, military posture, and eyebrows that looked like they’d been drawn on with a brown crayon. She was in her mid-fifties to early sixties, and she was taking her Saturday job seriously.

“I realize that,” I said, “but my granny is thinking about becoming more active at the Senior Center and she’s interested in this program. I thought it would be helpful if I got some information for her.”

“If she’s thinking of becoming more active she should start now and pick our program brochure up for herself,” the woman said.

“Good point,” I said. “But this is a busy day for her, so I’m helping out.”

“The rules say the list only goes to members,” the woman said. “Your grandmother will have to become a member, and then she’ll get the list.”

“Fine. I’ll sign her up to be a member.”

“Impossible,” the woman said. “She has to do that in person. How would we know whom we were signing up? It could be anyone. It could be a twelve-year-old.”

“What’s with this?” Lula said. “You could vote in this state with less fuss. Nobody cares how old you are or if you’re dead. All’s gotta happen is someone signs your name and they can vote. And here you are saying we can’t get a list of stores for her granny. It’s because I’m here, isn’t it? You’re doing racial profiling. You don’t want no big and beautiful black woman to have the list. I’m gonna call people. I’m calling the newspaper and Oprah. I’m gonna organize and get some signs made. I got posterboard and Magic Markers in my trunk.”

“Rules are rules,” the woman said.

“Well, I’m not leaving without the list,” Lula said. “I’m gonna sit here in this stupid little sad-ass office until I get it.”

“I can have you removed,” the woman said. “I can call the police and have you arrested.”

“Oh yeah, I like that,” Lula said. “I got my iPhone all ready to record. Prune-face volunteer in old people’s home has big and beautiful black woman arrested for wanting to help her friend’s granny. That’s going viral on YouTube. I bet I get famous. I could get a model contract from that.”

“Oh, honestly,” the woman said. “Here! Take the list and get out of here.”

I took the list from her, told her we appreciated her help, and we scurried out of the building.

“I can’t believe you played the race card in there,” I said to Lula.

“I didn’t just play the race card,” Lula said. “I played the race card and the fat card. BAM! My thinking is you gotta use what you got. God didn’t make me a big beautiful black woman for nothing. I got cards to play. You see what I’m saying? And take you, for instance. You got no cards.”

“I’m at a disadvantage,” I said.

“Fuckin’ A,” Lula said.

I plugged the key into the ignition and we rumbled out of the lot. “I thought we’d check out all of the businesses on the list and see if anything strikes us as odd.”

“You mean like some fool standing behind the counter, counting out his newfound money, holding a Venetian blind cord?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Like that.”

“Okay, then,” Lula said. “I’m on it.”

I didn’t stop at the gas station, as most of the dead women hadn’t had cars. And I didn’t bother stopping at Randy’s deli. Been there, done that. Plus I was afraid he’d make me slice up a pig brain or monkey gonads.

Morton’s Bakery on Third Street was part bakery and part convenience store. By now it was midmorning and the store was packed with people buying bagels, donuts, babkas, and cannoli, plus the odd emergency carton of milk, jar of peanut butter, or roll of toilet paper.

I was familiar with this bakery, but I didn’t often shop here. Tasty Pastry was a short walk from the bonds office on Hamilton, and it was my bakery of choice. There were three women working the counter at Morton’s, and a swarthy mustached guy was at the register. I didn’t know any of them. I would have liked to ask about the murdered women, but the store was too busy. Lula bought a bagel with veggie cream cheese and we left.

Next on the list was the liquor store. There were several people milling around debating the virtues of Grey Goose and Ketel One, pondering the price of Macallan single malt scotch, and filling their carts with cheap gin. I recognized the man at the checkout. He’d been my high school algebra teacher.

“Mr. Newcomb,” I said. “I didn’t know you worked here.”

“It’s a part-time job. Friday nights and all day Saturday. It’s a nice break to sell legal addictive depressants to adults after five days of staring into the blank faces of illegally anesthetized juveniles.”

“I guess I could see that,” I said, and I introduced him to Lula.

“Mr. Newcomb was my high school algebra teacher,” I said. “He gave me a C.”

“It was a gift,” Mr. Newcomb said.

“I didn’t have algebra when I went to school,” Lula said. “I studied beauty culture.”

“Did you get a job as a cosmetician when you graduated?” Mr. Newcomb asked.

“No. I went to work as a ’ho. It was one of them tradition things. All the women in my family’s ’hos. Except I’m not a ’ho no more. Well, actually I tried some ’hoing the other night, but I didn’t have no luck at it. The industry just isn’t what it used to be.”

“I understand this liquor store is part of the Senior Discount Club program,” I said to Mr. Newcomb.

“Some of our best customers belong to that program. They go to the cooking demonstrations next door, and then they come in here and load up on booze.”

“Did you know Rose Walchek?”

“She was just murdered, right? I didn’t know her, but she shopped here. I saw her picture in the paper, and I recognized her. She used to come in after the Saturday demonstration.”

“There were three other women murdered. Did they shop here too?”

“You’re talking about the women who were found in the Dumpsters? I’ve seen them here. Lois Fratelli was a regular. She mostly bought wine. Bitsy Muddle was another regular. She bought wine and an occasional bottle of gin.”

“What about Melvina Gillian?”

“She came in just before she was killed. She asked for help. She was having a dinner guest, and she didn’t know what to serve.”

“Do you remember what she got?”

“I suggested a pinot noir. It’s my go-to wine for beginners.”

“I bet she served that wine to the killer,” Lula said. “What kind of man comes and drinks your pinot noir, and then throws you in a Dumpster? This man has no manners.”

Mr. Newcomb and I agreed. The killer had no manners.

“Were the women alone? Or did they usually shop with a friend?” I asked Mr. Newcomb.

“Rose was alone, that I remember. And the Gillian woman was alone. I couldn’t really say for the others.”

Victory Hardware was next on the list. It was a hole-in-the-wall store that was crammed with lightbulbs, boxes of nails, shelf paper, claw hammers, electric screwdrivers, flashlights, Elmer’s Glue, birdseed, tape measures, batteries, cans of Raid, bait boxes, trash bags, toasters, sandpaper, Buck knives, various toilet parts, umbrellas, DustBusters, plungers, bags of charcoal, and replacement cords for Venetian blinds. The store was owned and run by Victor Birch. Victor was as old and cracked as the linoleum on the floor. Both Victor and the linoleum looked like they’d been around for two hundred years, but probably it was more like eighty. Victor had been on the job seven days a week for as long as I could remember, chain smoking and hacking and ranting about the way the world was going to hell in a handbasket. The store reeked of cigarette smoke, and yellow streaks of tar stained the walls and Victor’s fingers and teeth. Victor was both horrible and amazing. He was a living testament to the ravages of tobacco and the determination of the body and soul to survive under ugly conditions.