Checkered Crime: A Laurel London Mystery Page 2

  Just like always, all the café tables were taken, but not my stool at the left side of the bar.

  Gia poured hot steaming coffee from the glass coffeepot and talked as fast as the liquid poured out.

  “What are you doing here?” Gia asked over the crowd as she made her way down the counter. She looked back at the clock on the wall behind the counter. “Why aren’t you at work?”

  There was a puzzled look on her face. She pushed the pen behind her ear that was buried under her massive curly black hair that she had pulled into a low ponytail. Envy pinched me. I tucked a piece of my honey-colored, shoulder-length hair behind my ear and wished I had her full head of hair.

  Gia always had that va-voom that girls loved. My va-voom was more like a torn off muffler. A little rough around the edges. I’m not saying I’m a dog, but Gia knew how to wear clothes, bright red lipstick and get a man. Me. . .not so much.

  When anyone crossed me growing up, I’d take them down in a minute, never once thinking I was going to grow up one day and live among them. I was hell bent on getting out of Walnut Grove when I turned eighteen. That didn’t seem to happen.

  “Well?” Gia kicked a small cage around the corner of the counter.

  Henrietta knew the drill. The cage was for her and she knew when she got in, Gia gave her some left over salmon or ham. Henrietta’s favorite.

  Gia leaned on her elbows and chomped on her gum only inches away from my face. The lines between her brows creased waiting for my answer.

  “Morty Shelton fired me this morning.” I flipped my cup over. I did air quotes. “Let me go.”

  My cheeks colored red. I wondered how many people got fired from selling port-a-lets.

  “Fired? Did you say fired? That can’t be right. What is Morty thinking?” She shook her head like she was trying to see if it was working. I nodded. She poured the coffee in my cup and pushed the small bowl filled with creamer cups toward me. “He must not be thinking.”

  “Obviously he wasn’t thinking.” Anger boiled in me. “I was the best salesperson he had. Not to mention the only salesperson he had.”

  Getting people to buy things to me came naturally. In fact, I had been selling things since I was eight years old. I would “collect” items from the foster families’ houses.

  All the other kids in the slammer, which was what we orphans called the orphanage, knew it too and would save the little bit of chore money we got and barter with me on the items I had “collected.” A bar of Dove always went for a lot of money. Even the five-year-old orphans didn’t want to use the cheap yellow bar with “soap” stamped on it. The smell alone made our bellies hurt.

  “Carmine told me they got the big gig you have been working on. Without you that would have never happened.” Gia walked back down the counter and filled empty mugs.

  Carmine Picerilli, Gia’s husband, was the only accountant in Walnut Grove. He rented out a little office in the top of the warehouse. Carmine did Porty Morty’s accounting for free in exchange for free rent. Granted, you could almost lose your life climbing the tiny metal stairs to get to Carmine’s office, but it had a great view once you were up there. His windows overlooked the entire river.

  “Morty got the Underworld Music Festival account?” I asked a little louder than I probably should have. But I wanted to make sure she heard me over the crowd and clanking dishes.

  Meow. Henrietta looked up at me from the little open door on the cage. Her pupils dilated.

  The regular stool warmers, which were all older men from Walnut Grove that came in every single morning to catch up with each other, swiveled their bodies toward me.

  I grabbed my cup and took a sip to shut me up. I couldn’t believe it. I had been working on the Underworld Music Festival account for a year.

  Over a year ago I was at Food Town grocery shopping and picked up the Vogue Magazine at the checkout. That was the only time I got to read Vogue. Sometimes when I grabbed a cup of coffee at the Gas-N-Go, I’d linger at the counter and read the headlines of my favorite magazines—they were too darn expensive and so not in my budget—but the day I was in line at Food Town, I put back my milk and bought Vogue because there was an advertisement for the Underworld Music Festival.

  They were having a contest where you could enter your city or town and the winner was where they would host the next festival. Walnut Grove, Kentucky was perfect. We had plenty of farm land near the river. I knew it would be great for Walnut Grove’s economy and a good client for Morty.

  Visions of rows and rows of port-a-lets had danced in my head along with the dollar signs and a big bonus for me. Here we were today; the visions of dollar signs fallen and crumbled at my feet.

  “Yes. Carmine said he was going to be busy the next few days trying to get all the permits needed for Morty.” The bell over the diner door dinged. “Have a seat anywhere!” Gia hollered out to the people coming into the diner. She grabbed a couple of menus and followed them to their table.

  My blood was boiling. Morty hadn’t wanted to even consider the festival. When I told him about my idea for the festival, he said the family functions, the boat dock parties, funerals, and the Friendship Baptist Church revival was plenty. I knew better. The economy wasn’t growing. There was chatter that eventually Walnut Grove would just merge with Louisville and become a suburb.

  Ugh.

  I didn’t want that to happen. So I took matters into my own hands. In fact, I had to save up my own money to hop on the Greyhound Bus to New York and meet with the big publicity firm in charge of the festival. Little did I know that you had to have an appointment to be seen. The big doorman wasn’t about to let me in.

  I scribbled my name, number, and why I was there on a used gum wrapper I had found balled up in the bottom of my purse and left it with the doorman. I hadn’t heard back so I guessed the doorman hadn’t given my “note” to the publicity firm.

  Gia came back and grabbed a fresh pot of coffee off the pot stand.

  “Carmine said that all the plans will be completed in a couple of weeks. I told him that you told me you were turned away at the door.” Gia talked fast.

  The diner was getting busier by the minute.

  “Some fancy woman with her black hair coiled into a bun on top of her head with chopsticks in it came to see Morty,” Gia snorted. “Can you imagine putting chopsticks in your hair? Did you see anything like that when you went to New York?”

  “There were a lot of things I had seen in New York that I wished I hadn’t,” I murmured trying to take in everything Gia was telling me—getting more and more pissed with each passing breath. “There is no way they will be able to set up a festival as big as Underworld in three weeks.”

  “The festival isn’t in three weeks. The planning stage should be over in three weeks. Gee, Laurel, I’m so sorry. I know how much you worked on that account.” Her perfectly lined red lips frowned.

  “A year,” my voice cracked. I bit my lip trying to hold back the tears. “Over a year.”

  In my spare time I had already put together a business plan that consisted of all the bands, their contact information and a preliminary schedule of events. I had even gone as far as contacting some of the big headliners and their agents in case I did hear back from the Underworld peeps.

  All that work for nothing.

  This whole idea of trying to get on the up and up was starting to have a stink to it.

  “Damn Morty. He wants all the money and glory for himself. I landed that account.” The more I thought about it, the more pissed off I got.

  “Do you know what you are going to do?” There was concern in her voice. Her eyes deepened.

  “I was going to look through the help wanted ads in the Louisville Courier and see if there was a sales job.” I made myself a mental note to go by the Walnut Grove Journal and see if there were any posted jobs.

  “Sales?” Gia laughed.

  “What?” I asked. “I did sales for Porty Morty’s. Okay,” I admitted. “Calling my job a
t Porty Morty’s a sales position might be stretching it a bit but I did have to talk people into using port-a-lets at their functions.”

  “Do I need to remind you about your past sales history?” Gia asked bringing up my ever-so-stained past.

  Once I was sent to a young couple that had just adopted a baby from overseas and felt guilty when all their family said there were plenty of orphans in the United States. Lucky me…they decided they would try their hand at fostering. Unfortunately the husband was an undercover cop. I didn’t know about those Nanny cams, so when the good old cop and his wife played back the tapes and saw me having a vested interest in multiple items in their home, he had me arrested. Luckily, Trixie got me off…yet again.

  “You can always work here.”

  I lowered my eyes and curled my nose.

  “Yes. I remember, but you have grown up.” She smiled one of those sympathy smiles.

  Let’s just say that I was not very good at hearing complaints about Mr. Chiconi’s food when I did fill in for Gia when she had her molars removed. Needless to say…I was never asked to fill in again.

  “I’m sorry, Laurel. I know you had been working so hard on that account.” Gia took in a deep breath before she let out a long sigh. Another group of people came into the diner and took the big six-top table in the front.

  “How about an afternoon cocktail over at Benny’s?” I suggested because I needed a vodka.

  “Laurel that’s not funny.” She didn’t find my humor enduring.

  I’m glad she didn’t because if she said yes, sadly I would’ve been walking to Benny’s.

  “Gia, it’s going to be fine. I’m always fine.” I was lying through my teeth. That no good Morty.

  I’d love to get Morty in one of his port-a-lets and knock it over. I couldn’t help but smile at images of crap rolling down Morty’s bald head.

  Chapter Three

  The next day was turning out much like yesterday. Get up. Watch Henrietta hunt for a bug to eat. Look in the refrigerator at the dried lemon slice.

  “Not today.” I slammed the refrigerator door shut.

  Mrow. Henrietta let out a little cry of hope that I had found a morsel of food. She looked at me with her big star-shaped eyes.

  “It won’t be long until I get a job,” I assured her like she knew exactly what I was saying. “I can feel it in my bones.”

  Truth be told, the only thing I could feel in my bones was hunger.

  “Either way,” I bent down to rub her. “I will walk to the Dollar Store if I have to and grab a couple of Parts of Meat.”

  She darted underneath the futon like she knew what Parts of Meat was. Every time I had to pinch a few pennies, I would pick up a couple of cheapo cans of Parts of Meat cat food. Henrietta wouldn’t even look at her plate when she saw it.

  “Snob.” I glanced at the futon. Henrietta’s long grey tail swept across the floor a few times.

  I unhooked my phone from the charger and threw it in my hobo. Enough was enough. It was time I stopped moping and hoping Morty was going to call me back since The Underworld Music Festival people were in town. It wasn’t going to happen and I had to get my butt in gear.

  I darted out of the efficiency and down the small metal stairs. If I walked north on Second Street and took a right on River Road, The Walnut Grove Journal was down a little ways on the left. It was located right next to Porty Morty’s.

  It was as good a time as any to go in and see Anita Musgrave, the editor, journalist, photographer, and only employee of the paper. She’d been there as long as I could remember. Our last meeting wasn’t all that great; she was the one who I had given my essay to that fateful Christmas I had spent with Pastor Wilson.

  I had written my gratitude letter that Pastor Wilson insisted I do and dropped it off to Anita who ooh’ed and ahh’ed over how great the Wilsons were for not only taking me in but also buying all the Christmas gifts for the orphans.

  Anita called the local news station that just had to do a feel good story on the good Pastor and Rita. Through gritted teeth, the Pastor smiled for the camera and did an on-spot interview claiming it was God’s divine whisper that told them to give all of those nice, expensive presents to the orphans because the orphans were God’s children too, just like every other boy and girl who had a family home.

  Needless to say, to this day all the participants in the situation run in the opposite direction when they see me coming toward them. That included Anita Musgrave.

  Anita sat behind the big metal desk with papers scattered all over the top of it and spilling onto the floor.

  “I don’t have time for fooling around.” Her head was bent in concentration. “What do you want now?” Anita asked.

  I took out enough change from my hobo to pay for a paper. Anita wasn’t budging from her glare. “I would like a copy of your latest paper.”

  I waited for her to respond.

  The years hadn’t been so good to Anita. Her waist had thickened; her face was heavier. And she had a five o’clock shadow on her upper lip.

  “Have you ever thought about making an appointment with Kim at Shear Illusions?” I ran my hands over my own thick eyebrows in need of a little grooming.

  “Are you telling me you hate my hair?” She looked up, shooting me a death stare.

  “Not at all. Just asking.” I looked away.

  Anita was in no mood for me to give her beauty advice. Nor did it look like she was in the mood to clean up the messy joint.

  “I just threw them in the dumpster outside.” She pointed to the one on the side of Porty Morty’s. “You can get one from there.”

  “Fine.” I huffed and pushed the door back open.

  I slipped across to the other side, putting my change back in my bag. I slid the little door on the side of the dumpster. The papers were there and so was Morty’s half-eaten breakfast sandwich.

  I knew it was his because it’s what he had every day and it made him very gassy. White egg omelet with green peppers. I tried to tell him to lay off the peppers, but he never listened. He stunk the place up worse than the used port-a-lets we got back from clients.

  The buzz of a speedboat got closer. There weren’t many speed boats zipping on the river this early in the morning. I scanned each direction to see where it was coming from. Suddenly the speedboat rounded the corner and glided through the turn. The person driving must not have known the river too well because the turn was one that everyone knew you didn’t drive fast around.

  The closer the boat got to Porty Morty’s dock, the slower it went. The driver stood up as he steered. His hand covered his eyes as he scanned the land.

  The man pulled his fancy shmancy boat up to Morty’s dock.

  “That’s not a…,” I stopped myself from yelling after I realized the roar of the fast boat’s engine was way louder than my voice. “A dock for gas,” I muttered.

  Boaters were always stopping at Porty Morty’s to see if there was gas or a little snack store on the dock. For years I told Morty he should invest in some sort of little gas station, but that was another good idea I had that he refused to use.

  The boat driver was dressed in a white button down, white pants, and white shiny shoes. His gold watch caught the sun just right and a flash blinded me.

  The sun was shining and the air was warm. I took advantage of the benches and the beautiful view of the river and sat down.

  I opened the paper and thumbed right past The Hub section and to the help wanted section.

  Originally, The Hub section was supposed to be about events around Walnut Grove, but turned into gossip central from an anonymous contributor. Trixie loved to keep me up to date on what was happening. So I resisted the urge, which reminded me that I had better stop by her house and let her know I had been fired before my news made The Hub section of the Walnut Grove Journal.

  My eyes darted around wondering if I was going to be next week’s gossip.

  I swung my feet back and forth, accidentally hitting a walnut that
was under there. I watched it roll and then slid my eyes to the guy that had gotten out of the boat to tie up.

  “Seriously, Morty should put up a sign that says the dock isn’t a gas station,” I said to myself and watched asshole Morty walk down the dock. “Fall in bastard,” I said hoping Morty would make a misstep right into the river.

  My cell rang. I pulled it out of my bag and saw that the number on the screen of my super cheap flip phone was Derek.

  “I’m driving it over,” he said. “Where are you? Home?”

  “No.” I was too distracted by Morty and boat guy to listen.

  “Okay. I’ll head to Trixie’s,” Derek said.

  “No!” I shouted into the phone. “I haven’t told Trixie about losing my job. I would rather tell her.”

  The driver of the boat glanced my way. I let my hair fall down into my face to give me a little more privacy.

  “What in the hell have you been doing with yourself the past couple of days?”

  “Taking it easy,” I said. “Lying low. Real low.”

  The sound of two men arguing made me look up. Morty and the boat guy were having a heated conversation on the dock. I made a slight part in my hair and snuck a peek at their body language. Morty’s bald head was shining like a diamond in the bright sun.

  “Hey, have you passed the Dollar Store yet?” I asked knowing he was going to have to drive right past it.

  “Getting ready to. Why? Trixie need some powder?” he asked.

  “No. Henrietta needs a can of food.”

  “Fine. I’ll stop,” he added.

  “Two?” I asked, smiling.

  “See you in a minute.” I could tell from his tone that I was pushing my limit.

  We hung up just in time for me to see that the boater and Morty’s argument was getting heated. The man was jabbing his finger in Morty’s chest. The sunshine pinged off his big gold ring and the sunspot hit me straight in the eye.

  The guy stepped one foot out of the boat and kept the other foot in. He lifted out two Styrofoam coolers, kind of like the ones Morty used to store the blue sanitizer pellets for the port-a-lets that we took to events. The smell-good kind—great for disguising the poop smell.