Coming Unclued Page 2

  “Your choice,” said Julie, with a tight-lipped expression, that clearly said “fine, you indolent wastrel.” Julie has an excellent vocabulary. For most of her adult life she’d been a high school English teacher, but she gave it up a few years ago. She said she just didn’t have it in her to read one more plagiarized essay on The Great Gatsby. Now she ran a very successful dog poop removal service — Super Pooper Scoopers. She drove all over the city in her poop van, emblazoned with the words “We Stoop for Your Dog’s Poop,” complete with an illustration of a dog that left nothing to the imagination. People tended to stare, and sometimes laugh, which didn’t bother Julie. “They laugh, they remember me,” she said. And there was a surprising amount of money in the poop scooping business.

  “I’ve got to run,” Julie said. “I’ll call you later.”

  Feeling vaguely depressed, the way one often does after a night of drinking, I wandered into the kitchen, poured myself a cup of coffee, sliced off another piece of bread and was suddenly transfixed by the greasy range hood. There were a couple of tiny flies, entombed in the grease. Well that wouldn’t do. One of these days I’d have to clean that up.

  And then I heard a snap. A loud snap. The mouse. I’d already forgotten about the damn mouse. A snap, and then some scratching and the distinct sound of the trap being dragged along the floor, fast, like he’d planned a getaway route. I put down my coffee, spilling it over the counter and ran into the living room just in time to see the mouse disappear into my bedroom, one skinny little grey leg dragging the trap. Damn Julie, deserting me, leaving me with a rampaging mouse. I could hear the trap thumping. What was the vile thing doing? Why couldn’t it just accept its fate? I would have to free the stupid bugger. I couldn’t let it suffer. Unless I left the condo and couldn’t hear it. Then maybe I could let it suffer. Damn it. Who could I call? This wasn’t the kind of thing I dealt well with. Heather? At least she would have rubber gloves and she’d be sure to dive right in there to protect an innocent animal.

  The banging stopped. Had the mouse died? Or chewed its leg off and escaped? Please, not that. I couldn’t deal with that. Just a nice quick painless death that a mouse would hardly notice and then a quick trip down the garbage chute. I peeked around the corner and saw the trap lying on the floor by my bed. No mouse. The little bastard had escaped. It sure had left a lot of blood behind though. Way too much blood; enough blood for a whole colony of mice.

  I glanced up at my bed. My beautiful bed with the new 400 thread count sheets and gorgeous white duvet cover I had splurged on in anticipation of my Christmas bonus. The Christmas bonus that had turned out to be a pink tote bag emblazoned with the office logo and a coupon for a ham. And, for a moment, as my gaze rested on my first ever magazine-worthy bed, my heart actually stopped. I’m positive it stopped beating. There was someone in my bed. Someone very still and covered in blood.

  I was shaking and whimpering as I stumbled across the room. My legs felt like cheap rubber, as if my ankles were going to completely give out. I couldn’t even tell who it was lying there. Oh my God! Evan? Was it Evan? Had he decided to come over during the night? It wasn’t Evan. The body in the bed was small and had thin, grey hair and a distinct bald spot. Mr. Potter? It looked like Mr. Potter from the back. Like Mr. Potter would look if he was lying in my bed covered in blood. Steeling myself, I gave the stiff little body a push so that I could see the face. It was Mr. Potter. My boss. The annoying little man who just two days ago had called me an incompetent imbecile in front of the entire office. Dead. In my bed.

  CHAPTER 2

  I took a couple of slow, deep breaths trying to calm myself down. 911. I had to call 911. Should I tell them there was no rush — he was already dead? No. I wanted help as soon as possible. I punched in the number and the operator answered immediately. “You have to send someone right now,” I gasped. There’s been an accident. A bad accident.” Even as I said it I realized I had no idea how Mr. Potter died. There was so much blood. Was he bleeding from every orifice?

  “Is the victim conscious?” asked the operator.

  “He’s dead!” I screamed.

  “Are you sure?” she asked. “Have you checked for a pulse?”

  I gingerly picked up Mr. Potter’s hand, which was cold and stiff and definitely not pulsing.

  “He’s dead as a doorknob. Nail. Doornail.” In my panic I was screaming into the phone.

  “And are you injured?” she asked.

  “I’m fine,” I screeched. “Just send someone.”

  “Please calm down. Help is on the way,” said the operator.

  Well finally. I gave her my address in the most composed voice I could muster and hung up the phone. Mr. Potter was still lying there. Lying there, cold, splattered in blood and staring at nothing. Why were his eyes open? It was like he was still watching me, waiting for me to screw up so he could regale the office with my latest misstep. I backed away from the bed and rested against the wall. The sound of sirens broke the silence. Lots of sirens. I ran to the living room and looked out the window. There was a fire truck, paramedics and two police cars pulling up to the curb. I live on the corner of a busy street in what used to be an old bank building that has been converted into eight condos, two per floor. I’m on the top floor and there’s no elevator. I figured walking up four flights a few times a day would keep me in shape, which didn’t turn out to be the case.

  A moment later there was a banging on the door and I mentally braced myself. Be calm I intoned. Keep it together. You can get through this. I opened the door to what appeared to be a good percentage of Toronto’s finest, a couple of them looking a little winded. “He’s in my bedroom,” I said to the officer in the front. “Don’t bother with your boots.” The policeman gave me an odd look. I was just trying to be friendly. Normally in the winter I would expect people to take off their boots at the door.

  The policemen, the paramedics and the firemen followed me into the bedroom. It was a shock all over again to see Mr. Potter lying there. “Can you tell me what happened here, ma’am?” Ma’am? When did I become a ma’am?

  “I’m not sure what happened,” I answered in a quivery voice I could barely recognize as my own. “I came in this morning and there he was. He was on his stomach. I had to roll him over to see who it was.”

  The officer looked a little taken aback.

  “Do you know who it is?” another officer asked.

  What did they think? That some stranger wandered into my condo and bled to death in my bed?

  “It’s my boss. Mr. Potter. Mr. Harry Potter. Like the book.” Why did I say that? Like the book. But it was something that came up a lot. Word has it, back when the books first came out, Mr. Potter tried getting people to call him Harold, but it just wouldn’t stick.

  A tall, lanky policeman seemed to be the one in charge. He had latex gloves on and was poking at the body. “Looks like multiple stab wounds.”

  Multiple stab wounds! My God. He was murdered.

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Looks like it. He’s been dead for a while. Can you tell me when this happened?”

  My knees were shaking so badly I was sure I was going to topple over. I braced myself against the wall in case I took a tumble right into Mr. Potter. “I have no idea. I came in this morning and found him like this. I don’t even know what he’s doing here. We had our office Christmas party last night and he must have come home with me. I don’t know why. He doesn’t even like me. I don’t take my work as seriously as I should.” I was rambling now. I needed to pull myself together.

  One of the policemen touched my shoulder and said, “Maybe you should come into the living room and sit down. Could I get you a glass of water?”

  Finally. Someone who empathized with what I was going through.

  “Yes. Thank you. I do need to sit down.”

  As I wobbled into the living room I heard the tall policeman say, “We’ll need a full forensics team.” Forensics. He really was murdered. In my bed. Who
would do that? Why would anyone kill Mr. Potter? He was kind of an uptight, fusty old thing. Not even that old really. He just seemed old. He was the only person in the office who didn’t go by his first name and I’d never seen him without a suit jacket and tie, but still, he wasn’t so bad. I can’t imagine anyone liking him exactly, anybody choosing to spend time with him, but he wasn’t so terrible you’d want to stab him. Well — maybe occasionally when he was particularly sarcastic and used that kind of whiny voice he always pulled out when he had something particularly cutting to say, but still. Murder? I just didn’t get it. Who would break into my apartment and stab him? And even crazier, what the hell was he doing in my bed? Oh God, I didn’t even want to think about that. I’ll never drink again. I’ll never drink again.

  I sat down on a chair by my front window. The neighbors on the side street were out on their porches, chatting, drinking their coffee, buzzing with excitement. Didn’t they have anything better to do? You’d think they’d never seen a fire truck before.

  A handsome young policeman brought me a glass of water. “I’m sorry,” I told him. “I made a pot of coffee right before I found the body.” The body. I just called Mr. Potter “the body.” “I could really use some right now. I’ll go get it.”

  “No problem,” he responded. “Let me.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “With just a little milk. Just enough to color it.”

  There was a knock on the door and the police officer answered it. It was Heather. I gave her a weak little wave.

  “I’m sorry,” the officer told her. “This is a crime scene. You can’t come in right now.”

  Heather looked stricken. “A crime scene? What happened?”

  The officer looked somewhat awestruck himself. Heather might be looking a little wan this morning, a little overly cleansed, but she was still pretty striking.

  “Are you all right Val?” she called.

  “I’m fine. I’ll tell you everything later.”

  “You’re not hurt?” she called, sounding quite panicked.

  “Don’t worry,” I told her. “It’s nobody you know. My boss.”

  “Your boss?”

  “You’ll have to leave Miss,” the officer said, shaking his head a little sadly.

  Miss. She’s only six years younger than me. Heather hesitated. I could tell that she was contemplating whether or not to argue with the officer. She was used to getting her own way. She must have decided that this wasn’t the best time to force the issue. Heather shot me a concerned look. “Call me. I’ll be at home if you need me. Have you eaten? I can run down to Starbucks.”

  That was typical of her. Quite sweet really. Always feeding people. She subsisted on salad, water, olive oil and the occasional protein bar but she took great pleasure in watching other people eat.

  “I’m fine,” I called. I was far from fine, but I was trying to appear strong. Actually I was quite hungry. “There’s banana bread in the kitchen. I’ll grab another slice of that.”

  The officer gave me a bemused look. Well maybe he’d had breakfast, but I needed something in my stomach. I’d never been one of those people who can’t eat when they’re upset.

  As Heather left, two men, both in black suits and unbuttoned coats, showed up at the door. The young officer seemed to know them. The men trekked into the bedroom and the young fellow came over, handed me a coffee and sat down beside me. I thanked him and gave a wry little smile. A ‘can you believe this?’ smile. I sat there, sipping my coffee and wracking my brain, trying to come up with some images, some memories from the night before, that would help make sense of this. I could remember sitting at the table in the restaurant. We’d had a private party room at Hy’s steakhouse. The party committee, which consisted only of Annette, Mr. Potter’s long-suffering assistant, had decided that given the tough economic times this should be a no spouses or dates event, which meant the Christmas party was even less festive than usual. All dressed up and no one to talk to. I could remember sitting beside Mr. Potter while he droned on about something, more than likely complaining about the poor quality of my work. I had a vague vision of myself continually sipping from my wine glass as he talked, inhaling the aroma of the wine, trying to protect myself from the foul stench of his breath. Mr. Potter was renowned for his halitosis. I’m actually surprised that he has any clients at all. It suddenly struck me that perhaps that was why I had evidently drank so much at the party. Escaping into my wine glass to evade Mr. Potter’s breath had caused me to overindulge and black out. Was it possible that Mr. Potter’s halitosis is what had got me into this predicament?

  I shut my eyes, trying to dig deeper, dredge up something that would answer the question of why my boss had come home with me. At least I assumed he’d come home with me. Could he have shown up later? Maybe he dropped by to cry on my shoulder after a fight with his wife? It could happen. No it couldn’t. We weren’t exactly close. Our communication didn’t normally extend beyond him giving me a disappointed look when he dropped off a piece of paperwork that needed to be redone because of my less than persnickety attention to detail. Or the incident on Friday when he totally lost it. He caught me shredding a pile of documents I was supposed to be filing. They keep way to much paperwork in that office. It’s ridiculous. You would think they had never heard of the digital revolution. Luckily Mr. Potter thought I was tossing everything into the shredder because of my incredible stupidity, rather than cleverly trying to avoid hours spent filing, but he was as angry as I’ve ever seen him. Even so, it didn’t seem likely that even he would follow me home just to gripe some more about my shoddy work habits. And there was no way he would come running to me if his wife had kicked him out. Why would she have thrown him out anyway? Mr. Potter wasn’t the kind of man you had a screaming fight with and tossed to the curb. As long as he didn’t breathe on her he was likely so innocuous his wife wouldn’t even notice if he was there or not. Oh God. And now he was dead. The late Mr. Potter. My eyes welled up as I pictured him lying there on my brand new bed, his blood soaking into my new duvet cover and the nicest sheets I’d ever owned. The poor poor man.

  Through the blur of my tears I saw one of the black-suited men hovering over me. He nodded to the young officer to get up, heaved himself down in the chair and flashed his badge at me. “Detective Crowley. Homicide. Can I ask you a few questions?” The detective had a fat, friendly face and a belly that strained to escape the confines of his shirt. Skinny little legs though, which made him look a bit like a large hand puppet.

  “Of course,” I said, in a gracious, cooperative voice. “I don’t know how much I can help you.”

  “Your name?”

  “Valerie. Valerie Valentyn.”

  The detective winced slightly. And why wouldn’t he? But as my mother once said, “Sorry, I thought it was a cute name at the time. So sue me.”

  “This is your apartment?”

  “Condo. I own it.”

  He glanced around. “Very nice.” But he looked less than impressed. Concrete walls and exposed pipes aren’t to everyone’s taste. Including mine as it turns out. “The deceased was your employer?”

  “He owns the company. I didn’t actually work with him that much.”

  “What company is it?”

  “Secure Your Future. Financial services. I do admin stuff. Paperwork. Booking appointments.”

  “Hmmm.” He wrote something down in his notebook. “And what was your relationship with the deceased outside of the office?”

  “Nothing. We didn’t have one. We barely have a relationship inside the office.”

  “He was in your bed. Normally that indicates some sort of relationship.”

  “Not in this case. I have no idea what he was doing here.”

  The officer scratched his nose and squinted at me. “Nothing intimate going on between you?”

  “No! God no. Uchhh!” What a revolting thought. Me and Mr. Potter. Intimate. “We were at the staff Christmas party last night. I may have had a little too much to dr
ink. I can’t remember every detail of the evening.”

  “How about you tell me what you do remember?”

  This was going to be a problem. “It’s all pretty hazy. We were at Hy’s steakhouse.” I gave him a little smile. “Just your typical office party. Pretty boring.”

  The detective didn’t appear captivated by my charm. “Except that your boss ended up in your bed with multiple stab wounds.”

  “That part I can’t help you with. I wish I could.” I had a sudden, horrible thought. “Who’s going to tell his wife?”

  “We’re taking care of that.”

  The poor woman. I’d never much liked Mrs. Potter actually. She came in occasionally and strutted through the office in her expensive clothes like she owned the place. Technically she did own the place, but since she didn’t work there it was off-putting. But still, she must be beside herself, worrying that her husband hadn’t come home from the office party and then getting a phone call that he’d been murdered.

  The firemen and paramedics were leaving. Now it was just the first two police officers, the homicide detectives and the forensics team. The forensics guys must have been busy in the bedroom, but the police didn’t seem to be doing much. I could hear two of them lamenting the previous night’s Leafs game.

  “Have you dusted for … with your hands … on the end of them?” Oh no. I was losing my nouns again. Perfect. Yeah, perimenopause. “You know …dusting…” I waved my hands around. C’mon. Think. What were they called? “Fingers!” I exclaimed with satisfaction.

  “Fingerprints?” asked the detective.

  “Yes,” I replied, in a dignified voice.

  “The forensics team is here.”

  “Because there must be something on the doorknob. Oh no — it’s probably too late —with all these people coming in and out. You’ll never get a clear print now.” I wasn’t a fan of cop shows. I had no idea if they could get a good fingerprint off the doorknob with all the people that had been barging around, but it didn’t seem likely.