Coming Unclued Page 7

  I watched in my side mirror as the officer hitched up his pants, adjusted his holster and approached my car with what looked like a jaunty step.

  “Afternoon ma’am.”

  “Afternoon officer.” He looked familiar. And young. He still had pimples on his chin. Quite a few pimples.

  “We meet again.”

  I looked at him in confusion. I wasn’t good with faces. Oh Lord, he must have been one of the cops from this morning.

  “Do you know you went through a stop sign back there?”

  I certainly did not go through a stop sign. I might not have come to a complete stop but I didn’t drive right through it.

  “Did I not stop long enough?” I asked him.

  “Ma’am you didn’t stop at all. Just drove right through. And this is a school zone.”

  “It’s a Sunday so there’s no kids around. And I’m sure I didn’t drive right through it.”

  “Oh you definitely did. But I’ll tell you what. You’ve had a big day. You head straight to wherever you’re going and I won’t write you up.” He looked in the back seat. “No dead bodies in the trunk are there?”

  Did he think he was funny? “Maybe you should check,” I told him in the steeliest voice I could muster.

  He leaned in the window a bit closer. “How about you pop the trunk then?”

  He was serious. The cretin was actually going to look in my trunk. I pushed the button that opened the trunk and was hit by the realization that I had no idea what was in there. After today, who knew? “Please,” I prayed. “Please don’t let there be a body in the trunk.”

  The officer took out his flashlight and slowly walked to the back of my car. Could he be any more dramatic? He spent a long moment back there, a long heart-pounding moment and then he slammed the trunk shut and slowly made his way back to my driver’s side window. “No body,” he said.

  “What a relief,” I said, my voice bathed in sarcasm. It was a relief. A hell of a relief. “Can I go now?”

  “You’re free to go. For now. Try to get home without hitting anybody.”

  Jerk. I turned the key in the ignition and the cop took a couple of steps back, then started walking to his car. I stuck my head out the window as I pulled away. “I’ve heard Proactiv is very effective. You might want to look into it.” Why did I say that? Why couldn’t I just let things go? He was just doing his job. He was somebody’s beloved acne-covered son, just trying to be a good cop.

  I pulled into Julie’s driveway and sat for a moment, willing myself to get out of the car. I was exhausted. I contemplated just sitting in the car, watching the elves make toys until someone forced me to get out, but it was freezing and my back tended to stiffen up if I lingered too long in the cold.

  Julie greeted me at the door. “Oh good. You’re just in time for dinner.”

  I took off my coat and boots and was hit by a food-like smell wafting from the kitchen. “What’re we having?”

  “Mince and mash. I’ll just go slop it on the plates.”

  Mince and mash. The most traumatic day of my life and it’s mince and mash for dinner. Mince and mash is Julie’s version of Sheppard’s pie. She believes in truth in advertising so her mince and mash is fried hamburger covered with mashed potatoes. Not even a little onion because that might add flavor.

  I wandered into the dining room where Andrew was sitting at the table, reading, awaiting the feast. He looked up as I came in and gave me a welcoming smile. “Hey Val. Any luck?”

  “Apparently I was seen arriving with Mr. Potter. Shitfaced we were.”

  “Someone saw you together?”

  “Hmmm. We were holding each other up.”

  I sat down and eyed over the table. There was a plate of Pillsbury crescent rolls in a basket on the table. I took a bite of one, finished it off and picked up another.

  “It’s like a prelude to Christmas. Homemade bread and I think Julie has a mincemeat pie for dessert,” said Andrew, joining me in demolishing the crescent rolls.

  Mincemeat pie to go with the mince for dinner. That sounded about right.

  Julie came in carrying two plates. “Hey, don’t eat all those before you get your dinner. They’re supposed to be a treat.”

  “Julie, all you had to do was crack the container on the counter and roll them up.”

  She gave me a blank look as she set down our plates. “Just save me a couple. We hardly ever bother with fresh bread.”

  For all my inner turmoil, I managed to choke down a healthy serving of mince and mash, and a big slice of mincemeat pie topped off with some delicious whipped topping out of an aerosol can. Remembering my mother’s advice to always compliment the chef when I was invited out to dinner, I asked Julie for her recipe. “So let me get this straight,” I said. “You dump hamburger in a pan and fry it up. And you boil some potatoes and mash them. And then you put the hamburger in a casserole dish and you put the mashed potatoes on top and you serve it up. Did I miss any steps?”

  “Salt and pepper. Maybe a little margarine in the potatoes if you’re feeling fancy. And stick it in the oven for a few minutes so the flavors can blend.” Being razzed about her cooking didn’t bother Julie at all. As she says, “my self esteem is not tied to the tenderness of my pot roast.” Just as well.

  When I woke the next morning there was a brief, wondrous moment of luxuriating in the well-worn flannel sheets and forgetting where I was and what had happened. Then I opened my eyes and saw Julie’s wedding picture on the wall and it all came back to me in horrible high definition color. I hopped out of bed and then right back in after my bare feet hit the cold floor. Julie’s guest room is in the basement and it gets a little chilly on a winter morning. It suddenly struck me that it was Monday, a work day. Should I go into work? Did I still have a job? I threw on the terrycloth bathrobe that Julie had kindly left for me and headed up the stairs.

  Someone was in the bathroom. Honestly — what kind of house only has one bathroom? I entertained myself by perusing the family photos on the wall until the door finally opened and Andrew came out, dressed in his work clothes and carrying the sports section. “Morning Val. You might want to wait a minute before you go in.”

  “Morning. Thanks for the tip. What do you think Andrew? Should I go to work today?”

  Andrew looked flummoxed by the question. “I hadn’t even thought about that. Hey Jules,” he called. “Does Val go to work today?”

  Julie stuck her head around the corner and headed toward us. “I hardly think so. It’ll be pretty awkward.”

  “Well I’ve gotta break the ice eventually.”

  “Hmmm.” Julie appeared to be deep in thought. “An ice pick. Maybe he was killed with an ice pick. Do you have one?”

  “No I don’t have an ice pick. I don’t even know what an ice pick is. Why the hell would anyone need to pick ice?” My voice was getting screechy.

  “Okay. Relax. I’m just trying to help.”

  “Very helpful. Thank you.”

  “I picked up some cranberry muffins for us. Andrew, why don’t you have some cereal?” Julie nodded toward the bathroom door. “Something with some fiber in it.”

  I so missed my condo. I dearly loved Andrew but I really didn’t want to be this conversant with his need for fiber.

  Julie and I debated the work quandary over coffee and very tasty muffins, while Andrew slurped and crunched and dribbled his way through a bowl of cereal. My hostility must have been obvious, because as soon as Andrew left for work Julie decided to give me a class in staying married 101. “It’s an accommodation you have to make. The longer you’re married the more you want to take their face and shove it in the cereal bowl. Or the plate of spaghetti. But you don’t. You grit your teeth and soldier on. And that’s why I’m still married. Quite happily for the most part.”

  “I don’t know if I can do it,” I said. “I’m probably going to be alone forever.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What do mean maybe? You think I’ll never find someone?
”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you will. But any man is going to have habits that annoy you. And let’s face it, you’re not a tolerant person.”

  “I’m plenty tolerant. I would just prefer that people eat quietly.”

  Julie gave me a blank look as she sipped her coffee. Slurped her coffee if you want to be accurate.

  “So what’s the verdict? You going to work? The police will want to speak to you again today. I’m surprised they haven’t called yet.”

  “If I’m at work it will be easy for them to find me.” I thought about it for a moment. “I’m going to go. I need to face these people. And don’t you think it looks kind of suspicious if I don’t go in? Like I have something to hide.”

  “You’d better get dressed then,” said Julie. “You’re going to be late. You’ll have to wear something of mine.”

  “It won’t matter if I’m late. Mr. Potter was the only one who ever noticed. He used to tap his watch and shake his head and give me his surly, ‘I’m so disappointed in you’ look.” Tears welled up in my eyes. “I’m going to miss him.”

  “You did nothing but complain about him when he was alive.” She patted my hand. “I mean, I know you’re upset, but…”

  “Of course I complained about him. He was a nit picky, snide, pain in the ass. But I’m sad that he’s dead.” I took a last bite of muffin. “Mostly I’m sad that he was murdered in my bed,” I admitted.

  “If truth be told.”

  “It’s so unfair. Why me?”

  “It is unfair. All the vile people out there. Why couldn’t he have died in one of their beds?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Oh well, no use crying over spilt milk. Go get dressed.” Julie was into tough love, but even for her that was pretty callous.

  “Are you calling my poor dead boss spilt milk? That’s pretty cold.”

  And then we were both laughing. Hysterical laugher. Milk. Cold. We were beside ourselves. “No, no,” wheezed Julie. “The situation is spilt milk. You’ve got to get on with it. Spit spot.”

  Spit spot. Onwards and upwards. This is the first day of the rest of your life. I put my head down on the kitchen table and switched gears into a good sob.

  “Oh for crying out loud,” said Julie. “Pull yourself together. Think. What would Mary Poppins do?”

  “Are you kidding me?” I said with a sniff. “My life is in the balance and you want me to look to a Disney character for inspiration?”

  “Mary Poppins was a much loved literary figure long before Disney got their hands on her you illiterate. And my point is, she wouldn’t have slobbed around feeling sorry for herself. She’d be taking charge of the situation.”

  “I had no idea you found Mary Poppins so inspirational,” I said with a sniff.

  Rather than responding, Julie got up and busied herself loading the dishwasher. What would Mary Poppins do? She’d march right into that office with a smile on her face and win everyone over to her side. That was it. That’s what I had to do. I’d be an inspiration to downtrodden women everywhere. An Erin Brockovich. A Norma Rae. “You’re right,” I said. “I’m going to grab this mess by the balls.”

  “There you go,” said Julie cheerfully. “Exactly what Mary would do.”

  CHAPTER 9

  The offices of Secure Your Future are located on a busy street in midtown Toronto. It’s the kind of neighborhood that when we were married Jack always aspired to live in, and now that we’re not married actually does, in a beautiful four bedroom house on a tree-lined street. The pre-divorce Jack worked in insurance, as a claims adjuster, but about a year before we split up he decided he was going to try real estate. I wasn’t supportive. The first time I heard him telling a client that a kitchen was “to die for” I practically keeled over with laughter. Sylvia, who worked with him, didn’t laugh. She “nourished his talent” and Jack is now the Kondo King, enjoying a level of success he never dreamt of when we were together. People now actually say they bought a Kondo from the King and you can tell they mean condo with a K. He and Sylvia live only five blocks north of my office, though I’ve never dropped by for coffee. I do get to look at his face, however, as there is a giant billboard of the two of them smiling down at me as I exit the subway every morning. The first time I saw it I barely recognized Jack, his face looked so puffy and new, but I’ve grown accustomed to it and to give him his due; he’s been a good father to Evan.

  Angie was sitting at the reception desk leafing through the paper and drinking a coffee when I came in. Angie is a glamorous woman a few years younger than me, with hair dyed a sexy red and a vavoom figure. She’s never been married, likely because of her total contempt for men. She isn’t overly fond of most women either, though she’s always been quite friendly to me. Angie is possibly the smartest person at Future, but her bad attitude has kept her from moving beyond reception. Not that she cares. She’s been picking up investment knowledge and putting it to good use for close to twenty years and now has what she refers to as a “healthy portfolio — very healthy”. She’s told me she doesn’t even need to work anymore but she’d be bored staying home all day. Instead she comes to work and entertains herself by misrouting calls, not writing down messages, and neglecting to send out packages.

  Angie looked quite horrified when she saw me. “What are you doing here?”

  “Coming to work, like I usually do on a Monday morning.” I lowered my voice. “Why — has anybody said anything?”

  “Are you cracked? What do ya think? Mr. Potter is dead and you’re on the front page of the Sun. No — no one’s mentioned a thing. Just business as usual around here.” She held up the front page of the paper and practically shoved it in my face.

  Oh shit. The headline read Santa Slain. Blood-soaked Businessman Found Dead in Secretary’s Bed. And there I was, bleary eyed, hair blowing everywhere and it did look like I was kicking that damn cat. There was a smaller picture of Mr. Potter, who clearly didn’t warrant as much attention as me, seeing as he was only the deceased. He was wearing a Santa suit. A Santa suit from the one time he participated in a charitable event. I remember it well. The whole office delivered presents to Sick Kids Hospital and to add to the merriment Mr. Potter decided to dress up as Santa. One of the children was near inconsolable when she saw the five foot five inch 135 pound Santa Ho Ho Hoing at the end of her bed.

  Angie looked at me and shook her head in disbelief. “Wow.”

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  “What the hell was he doing in your bed? How desperate are you? Harry Potter! You must have had to wear a gas mask.”

  “I don’t know why he was in my bed. That’s one of the reasons I came in today. I need to talk to people and find out what went on at the party. What do you remember?”

  “I, the woman who wasn’t doing shooters, remembers everything.”

  Shooters. A forty-seven year old woman doing shooters. I deserve all of this. “Thank God. You have to tell me. I have no memory.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  The front door swung open and Douglas Gimble strode in, a look of revulsion on his face at the sight of me. Douglas was the company’s second in command and Mr. Potter’s heir apparent. He was a decent enough guy but I wasn’t sure I entirely trusted him. Greasy, my mother would have called him. He was great looking though. Tall, fair and handsome with a big, shiny botoxed forehead so smooth you could use it for a movie screen in a pinch. He goes to the gym every day before work and was so disciplined it’s unlikely anything unhealthy had passed his lips in years. When it’s his turn to bring in Friday treat he buys a fruit tray from the grocery store. When Douglas went on vacation last summer he came back with those really white teeth that look like they’re made out of the same material as a bathtub. A little disconcerting at first, but I’m used to them now and hardly notice. Except when he smiles, which is hardly ever.

  “What’s the door doing unlocked?” he demanded. “We’re closed today.”

  “I forgot to lock it,�
� said Angie, in a bored voice. She picked up an emery board and started filing her nails. It must be quite relaxing to have so much money that you really don’t give a shit.

  “You forgot? And what the hell are you doing here?” he demanded of me.

  “Coming to work. I didn’t realize we were closed.”

  “Are you freakin’ kidding me?” he raged. “You’re on the front page of the Sun. What if someone sees you here? Do you know how that looks for the company? Why the hell aren’t you in jail?”

  Jerk. “I’m not in jail because I too am a victim.” I too am a victim? I sounded like an idiot. “And it won’t hurt the company. You know, there’s no such thing as bad publicity.” I’d heard that before, though, upon reflection I could see where it might not apply in this case. “And I have every right to be here. This has all been a terrible mistake.”

  “I can’t deal with this right now. I need a coffee. “You,” — he pointed to Angie. “You make a sign, a nice sign that says we’re closed out of respect to our founder Mr. Harold Potter.” He turned on me again. “I can not believe you showed up here today. What if Sophie comes in? Did you have a plan for that?”

  No I didn’t, given I didn’t know who Sophie was.

  Douglas must have deciphered my blank look. “Mrs. Potter. Harry’s widow. Wife of the deceased.”

  Angie couldn’t take it anymore. “She gets it. His widow. And why would she come by?”

  “Look — I have a ton of stuff to do. Just get out of sight until I figure this out,” Douglas snapped. “Angie, if anyone from the press calls put them through to me. Do not answer any questions. Do you understand?”

  “No, why don’t you run through it again?” replied Angie. Nothing, not even the murder of her boss, threw her off her game.