Prodigies of Mystery: Limited Edition I

By Heather Fraser Brainerd, David Fraser, Lisa J Lickel and M.G. Thomas

Prodigies of Mystery: Edition I offers you 3 novels in 1.
José Picada, P.I.: Deception Al Denteby Heather Fraser Brainerd and David Fraser…Paranormal Mystery. New detective Josie Cates never thought her first real case would lead to the world of black magic.
The Last Bequest by Lisa J. Lickel...Cozy Mystery - Just how high a price does buried treasure command?
Wild Vengeance by M.G. Thomas...Suspense Mystery - Deaths, threats and sick attacks in a small, rural English town and the local church is the scene of several incidents.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MuseItUp Publishing
• Release date: Sep 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9781771275859

Heather Fraser Brainerd

Heather Fraser Brainerd is a renaissance woman. After earning a degree in Anthropology, she embarked on an incongruous career as a workers’ compensation insurance adjuster. She rapidly climbed the claims-handling ladder before surprising her colleagues by leaving the high-powered world of lumbar strains and carpal tunnel syndrome to run a child care center. Thousands of dirty diapers and gallons of strained peas later, she decided that maybe the insurance industry wasn’t quite as bad as she remembered. Unfortunately, it was. Fortunately, a few years later, she met the most wonderful man in the world. Now a stay-home mom to three amazing boys, she is able, at long last, to focus on her writing. Heather lives in New York with her family and their crazy pug/terrier. David Fraser was born on March 25, 1973. March 25, incidentally, is International Waffle Day (Vårfudagn in Sweden) and Tolkien Reading Day (The Ring was destroyed on March 25). Elton John shares his birthday. So next March 25, you should eat a waffle while reading Lord of the Rings and listening to Rocket Man. I know Dave will. Before deciding to become an internationally-famous author, Dave held a number of different jobs. He processed small business insurance policy changes, tested software on digital copier/printers, put out little orange flags in pick-your-own strawberry fields, installed internet cable in schools, shelved books in a library, taught college calculus, and handed out raffle tickets at a Barry Manilow concert. Granted, this last job was a one-day temp job, but it was awesome. He currently does little fix-up jobs around his house and chauffeurs his kids while trying to find time to write.

Book preview

MuseItUp Publishing Presents

Prodigies of Mystery: Limited Edition I

3 novels in 1

José Picada, P.I.: Deception Al Dente

by Heather Fraser Brainerd and David Fraser

The Last Bequest

by Lisa J. Lickel

Wild Vengeance

by M.G. Thomas

* * * *

Mystery is as old as time itself, as old as the writings in cave walls, piecing them together to discover their meaning. In novels, authors take you through their fictional worlds and characters, offering you foreshadows and red herrings as clues, storylines that are gripping and entertaining, moving forward so you, the reader, can solve their puzzle before The End comes about.

In this bundle, you’ll discover three extraordinary authors and their tales.

Enjoy.

Lea Schizas

Publisher

MuseItUp Publishing

Prodigies of Mystery: Limited Edition I © 2014 Heather Fraser Brainerd, David Fraser, Lisa J. Lickel, M.G. Thomas

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, or events, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

MuseItUp Publishing

14878 James, Pierrefonds, Quebec, Canada, H9H 1P5

Cover Art © 2014 by Celairen

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-77127-585-9

Layout and Book Production by Lea Schizas

Al Dente

Speculative Cozy Mystery by Heather Fraser Brainerd & David Fraser

Having left the dull life of workers’ comp insurance behind to strike it out as a private detective, things aren’t going well for Josie P. Cates. Her new career isn't as exciting—or lucrative—as she thought it would be. As her bank account dwindles, her first major client finally walks in the door. Chef Marco, a successful local restaurateur, hires Josie to find out who's skimming money from his business. It doesn't take long for Josie to discover that things at Bistro Italiano aren’t what they seem. Secrets seem to cling to Chef Marco like splattered marinara sauce. With the help of friends both old and new, Josie unravels a case that takes her from the bistro to the world of deadly dark magic. At least it keeps things from being too boring.

Monday, September 12

Hey, doll, is José around?

It’s kind of embarrassing to admit, but I didn’t hear the speaker enter. I sat with my back to the door, looking out the big window behind my desk, absorbed in people watching while pedestrians passed on the sidewalk below. It wasn’t very stimulating stuff, but it beat sitting there twiddling my thumbs.

Still, I should have heard a prospective client come through my office door. A good private investigator is supposed to have nerves of steel, the reflexes of a cat, and the senses of… I don’t know, something with really good senses. To make matters worse, the guy must have weighed in at two hundred fifty pounds, easy. There’s no way he made a stealthy entrance.

Um, no, he’s not here right now. Is there something I can help you with?

He plopped down into the seat across the desk from me. I held my breath, waiting to see if the old wood would hold together under his weight. Like everything else in the office suite, I’d bought it second-hand. The suite wasn’t very big, consisting merely of a small reception room with my office off to the left and a walk-in storage closet to the right. I didn’t have much of a budget for decorating, so the place had been completely outfitted via Craigslist. Well, almost completely. I’d also picked up a few things off the curb.

The chair held, at least for now. For its sake, I’d try to keep the meeting short.

I’m Marco Augustino, he said as if the name should mean something to me. My face must have been a blank stare, because when he continued, he sounded a little hurt. "Marco Augustino. Chef Marco. I own Bistro Italiano."

Still, nothing. A glance at my garbage can showed wrappers from all my regular fast food joints. Just the name of it told me that Bistro Italiano was way out of my price range these days. If business picked up, maybe someday. Or, if I did a good job on his case, maybe this Chef Marco would float me some free food. But I’d prefer cash.

Anyway, he said with a chuckle, I need to hire a private dick.

It wasn’t the first time I heard this particular line, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Usually, it didn’t merit a response, but something about Chef Marco annoyed me. I slipped into my best intellectual accent, the one used by all the talking heads on the Sunday morning political talk shows. The one that normal people like me use to try to sound smart.

"For what reason, sir, do you require a private investigator?"

I need…hang on a second. Marco picked up the name plate from my desk, the one I brought with me when I left the Charles Harrison Insurance Company. You’re Josie?

Yes. I’m Josie.

He let out a loud laugh. My eyes went to the chair to see if it would tolerate his shaking. It gave one little creak, but held. Thirty seconds or so later, he stopped laughing while wiping tears from his eyes.

Did I miss something, sir?

No, it’s just… José… Josie. Anyone ever mix you two up?

No, never, since José didn’t exist. But I couldn’t explain the whole thing right then and there. It would take too long and I had a chair in danger.

No.

Okay, so anyway, I’m doing okay with my restaurant, right? It’s, like, packed with people all night. My kitchen is busy as hell. But for some reason, I’m not making any money. I think someone’s stealing from me.

Have you consulted a financial professional?

I got me an accountant, yeah. Thing is, since money’s involved, he might be in on it, you know? Plus there’s more to it than just missing money.

Such as?

Such as someone slashed my tires a couple nights ago. Such as someone leaving hundreds of dollars of meat on a counter overnight so it spoiled. Such as at least once a week someone squashes my cannoli. There’s a bunch of other little things, too many to list. I’m telling you, someone’s messing with me, and I want to know who.

Do you have any known enemies, sir?

What? No! Of course not!

I gave him a measured, knowing look, just to see what kind of reaction I would get. He began to fidget in the endangered chair. Interesting.

Well, maybe. I mean, a man in my position… Us chefs are the new rock stars, you know? There might be a lady or two out there who thinks I owe her something.

Taking a pen and notepad from a drawer, I slid them across the desk to my potential client. Write down their names, addresses, cell phone numbers, and dates of birth. E-mail addresses, too. This last was an afterthought, but I thought it sounded good.

Chef Marco muttered something about ladies not giving out their birthdays and then hunkered down over the pad, occasionally consulting his phone, scribbling away in what was sure to be almost illegible handwriting. After a couple of minutes, he straightened up and slid the pad back to me. What’s next?

I do a little recon, see what I can see.

He looked a bit skeptical at this. You’re doin’ the recon? What about your boss?

It took all the self-control I could muster to keep from rolling my eyes. I do the initial legwork, and then pass my findings over to him.

He nodded, apparently satisfied for the time being. And if you don’t find anything?

I gave him a flat gaze, though my mind raced to come up with an appropriate response. If the research doesn’t turn anything up, then we take it to the next level.

What’s the next level?

Well, then we… I paused dramatically, giving myself time to think. The answer occurred to me a beat later. …go covert.

You mean, like a spy?

Exactly.

He looked baffled. How do you spy in a restaurant?

Well, Mr. Augustino, I announced, rolling with my latest inspiration. You may be looking at your newest waitress.

I don’t know. His face showed a mixture of amusement and dismay. "It’s not as easy as you might think. My wait staff is the best in town. They’ve been in the business for years. Some of them have even worked in New York City." He spoke these last few words with a sort of hushed reverence.

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’ll nose around, see what happens, and we’ll take it from there. Okay?

Sure, toots. Here’s my card. He tossed an expensive-looking, tastefully designed business card onto my desk. Be sure to keep me in the loop.

He heaved himself from the chair, which emitted a thankful parting squeak, and turned to leave.

"Uh, just a moment, Mr. Augustino. We haven’t discussed my, er, our fees."

He glanced back at me with a smirk. Do what you have to do, hon. Have José send me the bill.

He lumbered out the door. As it slammed behind him, there came a thump from the storage room on the other side of the suite. I waited until his footsteps faded down the hall, then took a key from a desk drawer, left my office, and crossed the reception area to the door on its far side. Wondering what had made the noise, I peeked into the tiny room, which was really just a big closet. At least, it was a storage closet for now. Each visit to the ATM reminded me that my savings were rapidly dwindling. If I didn’t start making some money soon, odds were good that I could afford either an apartment or an office, not both. Since I couldn’t really have clients coming to see me at home, the office would win. I had it all arranged in my head: a twin bed in one corner, a dresser in the opposite corner, and a mini-fridge in another. The one major downside to living here, and it would really be a major downside, was the lack of a shower. There was a public restroom down the hall, but I’d either have to ask my friends to let me use their shower every so often (which is kind of creepy) or get a membership to the YMCA.

The thumping noise had been caused by a box falling from a shelf when the door slammed. After putting it back in place, this time a little farther back on the shelf, I closed the door again, locking it with the key. If anyone else surprised me with a visit, I didn’t need them looking for José in his office.

Monday, September 19

The recon turned up exactly what I suspected it would: absolutely nothing.

I ran background checks on Chef Marco’s lady friends, the women whose contact information he’d given me. Nothing remarkable came of it. No surprise there.

I’d then moved the investigation on-site. My first visit to Bistro Italiano caught me a little off guard. I’d been expecting the usual cheesy Italian restaurant décor, complete with checked tablecloths, candles stuffed into wax-drip-covered Chianti bottles, and framed prints of faux Italian ancestors or actors like Marlon Brando and Sylvester Stallone. Instead, the place looked tasteful and chic, with Venetian plastered walls, crisp white linens on the tables, and exquisite fixtures emitting a soft, soothing light. Either Chef Marco had way better taste than I would expect, or he’d had a lot of help.

I went to the restaurant at least once a day for a week, wearing different styles of clothing and even a couple of old wigs I’ve had kicking around since college. My budget didn’t include food, just lots of coffee and the occasional pastry. If I had thought of it at our first meeting, I would have tried to get an advance from Augustino. I couldn’t exactly flag him down and try to score some free food. I was supposed to be stealthy. Showing the employees that I knew the owner was anything but.

So it was on to Plan B. After a call to Chef Marco, during which he again tried to talk me out of it, I arrived at Bistro Italiano to start my first dinner shift on the wait staff. It didn’t go so well. In less than an hour, I mixed up orders, couldn’t remember the specials, and confused schiacciata with sfogliatelle. I was demoted to bussing tables and washing dishes.

So there I was well after 1:00 a.m., washing dishes next to Al. Most places had big, industrial automatic dishwashing machines. Not the Bistro Italiano. Chef Marco insisted that everything was washed by hand. Al, a nice-looking guy in his early twenties, was one of the line chefs. Tonight, however, he was washing dishes so he could stick around a little longer for some overtime.

How was your first day?

For the previous hour, I had done nothing except scrub plates while I tried to eavesdrop on any conversation within range. Al’s question caught me off guard; I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. First day of what?

Of working here, he said patiently.

Mental face palm. Of course that’s what he meant.

It was okay, I guess.

There wasn’t much in my reply that he could use to continue a conversation. Another moment of silence broke out. Most people had left, limiting my eavesdropping opportunities, so I opted to mine Al for information.

So, Al, you like it here?

He threw a look over his shoulder, in the direction of Marco’s office. Yeah, I guess. I haven’t been out of culinary school for too long. This is my first real job, so I don’t have much basis for comparison, you know?

But Chef Marco seems like a good guy to work for. He knows lots of stuff. I’d like to go to foodie school someday, so maybe I can pick up some tips from him before then.

Yeah, right.

There was something in his tone I couldn’t quite place. It was almost a warning.

What do you mean? I feigned wide-eyed innocence.

It’s just… He paused to gather his thoughts. Marco’s been a little off lately. It’s like he’s stressed out or something. He used to be a lot more approachable. Now he snaps and starts yelling at people. I mean, more than usual.

As someone with financial problems of my own, I could understand the stress Marco was under. And I didn’t even have someone messing with my cannoli.

Al turned his attention to the square white dinner plate he was scrubbing.

I focused on my own sink full of dishes, trying to think of a tactic to get Al talking again. Before I could come up with anything, a door slammed behind us, making both Al and me jump. A salad plate slipped from my hands, plopping back into the soapy water. I turned to see Marco storming out of his office.

Hey, Lou! he bellowed for the restaurant’s manager.

Yeah, Chef? Louisa came in through the swinging door from the dining room, where she’d been, well, doing whatever it is restaurant managers do. She was the droopiest-looking woman I’d ever seen. Her eyes drooped, her limp hair hung over her shoulders. Even her cardigan fell around her in a sad, saggy sort of way.

I got a freakin’ emergency I gotta take care of. He nodded his head in the direction of the sinks. Make sure these two finish, then button the place up for the night. Got it?

Lou’s eyes followed his nod, landing on Al. She straightened her stance, smoothed her hair back behind her ears, and tugged at her cardigan so it sat more securely on her shoulders. Interesting.

"I said, got it?"

Oh, yeah, of course. Lou’s face began to flush. She turned, hurrying back through the swinging door. Something on the other side of it clanged to the floor.

Timing it carefully, I said to Al, Be right back. Potty break.

He didn’t respond.

I made it to the door of the employee restroom just as Marco walked past.

Anything I should know about? I asked him.

Nah, nothing major. Just a friend who needs a shoulder to cry on. The guy’s a big, overemotional wuss. You got a problem with that?

Alarm bells went off in my mind for two reasons. First was Marco’s delivery. He didn’t look at me, he wrung his hands, and he was a little too defensive. Second, and even more telling, he didn’t strike me as the sort of guy that a friend would turn to for comforting. My client was lying to me.

He could have just told me his so-called emergency was none of my business. For some reason, he felt he had to cover up his activities. I knew investigating himself wasn’t what Marco hired me for. In that moment, however, it’s exactly what I wanted to do. Though my gut told me to follow him, I couldn’t just abandon my cover. There was a significant pile of plates left to wash.

Um, Marco, could I have you take a look at one quick little thing first? asked Lou, standing in the doorway to the dining room and staring at a spot on the floor.

Marco let out a half-sigh-half-grunt and trudged off toward her.

This gave me my one opportunity, and I had approximately a nanosecond (one billionth of a second, meaning that I had no time at all) to decide if I’d do it or not. In hindsight, I wonder what made me take so long to decide. I darted through the kitchen’s back door and sprinted to my car parked along the street. I fumbled with the keys while trying to open the passenger side door, costing me a valuable four seconds (or four billion nanoseconds). In the glove compartment was a GPS device, one of the few things from my investigatory wish list that I had been able to afford while finding more paying clients.

Marco kept his car at the pay lot across the street, where the attendant could keep an eye on it. I watched the attendant as I made my way down the sidewalk that ran past Marco’s brand new Jaguar. Slowing as I approached the car, I waited until he was looking the other way; then I threw myself to the ground next to the car and reached up, moving the GPS around until I felt like it had a good magnetic grip.

I stood up slowly, and it was good that I did. Through the Jag’s glass, I saw that Marco was almost at the car already. Crouching low, I crept to the other side of the car next to Marco’s and waited until I heard his tires squeal down the road.

The back door was slightly ajar when I got back to the restaurant, saving me from having to go around to the front of the building. Thank you, Marco.

After all that running around, I was panting when I returned to the sink. Al gave me an odd look. Wow. That must have been one intense bathroom break.

What? Oh, yeah, I had to go, and…

I don’t need to know, he grimaced.

What do you think Marco’s big emergency is? I asked a short while later.

I don’t know. It isn’t any of my business. Or yours.

It was clear that I wouldn’t get any farther with Al, at least not tonight. I finished up my last few dishes and said good-bye to my new co-workers, wondering if Lou could handle being all alone at the restaurant with Al. Or if Al should be the one I worried about.

It was after 2:00 a.m. when I punched my timecard. The kitchen was filled with all these high-tech cooking gizmos, but the time clock could have been hanging in the same spot for the last fifty years. Maybe Marco just hadn’t gotten around to upgrading it yet.

I went out the back door. The alley was everything an alley should be: dark, steamy, and smelly.

A rumble came from the dumpster near the door. I turned to go back into the restaurant, but the door had already closed and locked behind me.

I started walking around the dumpster, keeping plenty of space between us, when a dirty face appeared over the edge of the container. He smiled at me, showing a mouth full of teeth that were in pretty good shape considering the current location of their owner.

Hey, got a dollar?

Not only did I have a dollar, but at the moment, I had two jobs. To support my cover, the restaurant was paying me an hourly wage. I’d also bill Marco for the time, since technically I was investigating.

Here’s five.

Thanks, miss.

Safety first. It was a dark alley, after all, so I set the money down on the ground without getting too close to the dumpster. Then I turned and hurried toward my car.

* * * *

My smartphone (one of the other things from my wish list) led me right to Marco’s car. It was parked on the street outside an old brick warehouse converted into fancy condominiums.

The first order of business was to retrieve my GPS. It had done its job; no reason to risk losing it.

The second order of business was to find Marco. He could be in any of the condos, or could have just parked here and gone somewhere else altogether. I settled into the back seat of my Honda. A lot of light from the area’s fake vintage streetlamps came in through the windshield, so I would have been too visible sitting up front.

It was a long wait. I spent the time practicing my Sudoku. By the time I spotted Marco, the sun was starting to rise, and the phone said I had reached Expert level.

Sure enough, he came strolling out the main entrance of the converted warehouse. I typed the address into my phone, in case I forgot it. I glanced up again and was surprised to see that Marco wasn’t alone. Coming out the heavy glass door, following a few paces behind him, walked Lou.

I had to look twice. Not because I wasn’t sure that it was her, but because I was surprised it was her. Maybe I had been too engrossed in Sudoku or maybe she had gone in through a side entrance. Either way, it was clear that there was a lot more going on than Marco was letting on.

Tuesday, September 20

Waking up at three in the afternoon was a little disorienting. I looked around my messy bedroom in a daze, noting the piles of dirty laundry strewn at random across the floor. My eyes wandered to the window. I tried to figure out why so much light was coming in around the edges of the mini-blinds. Then it all came back in a flash, making me realize why I was still in bed at such a late hour. I grabbed my phone off the nightstand where it was charging, determined to call Marco and give him a piece of my mind. I didn’t appreciate being led on a wild goose chase, especially when it messed with my sleep. I liked my sleep.

I only got as far as the contact list before it dawned on me that calling Marco would be a bad idea. At the very least, he’d withheld information he didn’t think was relevant to my investigation. At the worst, he intentionally misled me.

Clearly, I needed to do a little more digging on my dear client. I dragged myself from bed, heading out to the L-shaped living room/kitchen area. This more public section of my apartment was marginally neater than my bedroom. Grabbing my laptop from amongst the clutter on the kitchen counter, I plopped down on the couch and started typing away.

It didn’t take me long to locate my friend, Robert Newman III, known affectionately to his friends as Bobby the Computer Geek. He was perpetually online, or so it seemed. The chat went something like this…

JosieCat: What up Bobs?

UberBobs: hey, where u been?

JosieCat: New job, remember?

UberBobs: right. p.i.

JosieCat: I could use a hand if you have some time.

UberBobs: maybe, what is it?

JosieCat: I need research on a guy.

UberBobs: name?

JosieCat: Marco Augustino, owner of Bistro Italiano.

UberBobs: middle name?

JosieCat: Don’t know. Do you need it?

UberBobs: not really, just to make sure it’s the right guy

JosieCat: How many Marco Augustinos can there be in Rochester?

UberBobs: good point

JosieCat: I want to know about Bistro Italiano.

UberBobs: like its menu?

JosieCat: Like its owner and who he might owe money to.

UberBobs: got it. when u need it?

JosieCat: ASAP.

UberBobs: payment?

JosieCat: Pizza. Bonus case of Mt. Thndr if by tomorrow.

I could probably find what I needed on my own, but Bobby was way faster, especially when Mountain Thunder, Bobby’s over-caffeinated beverage of choice, was involved. If Chef Marco had any known associates, I’d soon hear from Bobby.

I yawned and stretched, feeling my stomach rumble in the process. It wasn’t used to waiting so late in the day to eat. A quick inspection of the refrigerator revealed that my breakfast choices consisted of leftover lo mein, green grapes that were going brown, and a six-pack of blueberry yogurt I bought during a misguided fit of health-consciousness. Since I wasn’t in the mood for Chinese, didn’t feel like eating spoiled fruit, and detested yogurt, I grabbed my purse and went to the donut shop on the corner.

After my very late breakfast, there was still quite a bit of time to kill before my next shift started. My first instinct was to look into Lou. Since I didn’t even know her last name, however, that wasn’t going anywhere. I’d be sure to learn it at the restaurant tonight. My second choice was to go back to bed, but that wouldn’t get me any closer to figuring out where Chef Marco’s money was going.

I figured going for a walk might clear some of the cobwebs from my head and get me thinking straight. There was a small park nearby. I settled on that as my destination.

Calling it a park was being generous. It was little more than a vacant lot that the neighborhood residents had cleaned up and put in grass seed, a few wooden benches, and a garbage can. Someone had the idea to name it Hendersen Park, after the recent mayor who was known for closing down parks as a cost-cutting measure.

To my surprise, Al was there. I spotted him first, so I held back to watch him for a few minutes. He sat on a bench. Every so often, a group of kids would bring him a tennis ball. He’d throw it, then they would race after it and wrestle on the ground for possession.

My money’s on the tall blond kid, I said once I’d snuck up behind Al.

His head turned back quickly. Oh, yeah, he’s pretty fast.

There was no objection when I took the seat next to him. I couldn’t start off giving him the third degree on Lou or Marco; I had to ease into it. At least, I had to ease into something. I never did understand what the third degree was. Something about karate black belts. Or burns. I’m not quite sure what either of those has to do with interrogation.

So, Al… I said, trying to spark a heart-to-heart conversation with a practical stranger, what’s that short for? Albert? Allan? Alfredo?

Um, no. Actually, it’s short for Orenthal. My dad was a big Buffalo Bills fan, so he named me Orenthal James. You know, after O.J. Simpson. But that’s not really a cool nickname to go by anymore.

Like it ever was. Huh. Why not go by James?

My younger brother is named James Kelly, after the quarterback. So I went with a shortened first name. I took Al instead of Oren.

Huh, I said again.

So, he said after a few seconds, looking like he was trying to come up with a reply, do you live around here?

I motioned back in the general direction of my place. Yeah, couple of blocks over.

Cool. He pointed in the opposite direction. I’m a couple of blocks that way.

Cool.

The conversation paused while he threw the ball again. Once the kids were on the ground in a pile, he said, Maybe we should carpool sometimes. You know, if we keep working the same shifts.

His suggestion appealed to me in the gas-money-saving sense, but looking at it from the I-might-have-to-spy-on-people-after-work-just-like-last-night point of view, it was a bad idea. Maybe. What if, um, Lou needs you to stay late or something?

All the better, he said with genuine enthusiasm. I hadn’t thought of it like that, but this would give me a good excuse to get out of there.

Not too crazy about Lou?

Well, she’s all right. I just think she’s a little too crazy about me.

It was time to start fishing. Oh. I thought that she and Marco were, you know, an item.

He barked out a laugh, and then said, Lou and Marco? Not in a million years. He’s way too old for her and she’s way too…not modelish for him.

Not modelish?

Yeah, sort of frumpy. He goes for the glitzy type. I heard he’s dating Linda Butterworth.

The Channel 7 weathergirl? I was surprised. Her name had been conspicuously absent from the list Marco gave me. It seemed like a relationship he’d want to brag about.

Meteorologist, Al corrected me.

So there probably wasn’t anything between Marco and Lou, at least not romantic. That still left a lot of ground for some other relationship. I thought I’d explore the financial angle. I lost my last job when the restaurant ran out of money. That won’t happen here, will it?

Shaking his head, Al said, Doubt it. At least, not any time soon. The place is packed every night.

A thought suddenly occurred to me. I watched Al throw the ball again while mulling this new idea over. It was risky, but what fun is playing it safe?

Al, I broached the subject, there’s something I’d like you to help me with.

What’s that?

Well, you see, the thing is… I’m not just there washing dishes. I’m an investigator. Marco hired me because there’s a lot of money going missing. He wants me to figure out where it’s going. I decided not to muddle the issue by explaining how Marco had actually hired the non-existent José.

Al didn’t answer for a while. When he did, his tone sounded much less friendly, more businesslike. It made me second-guess my rash decision to tell him the truth. What do you want from me?

I want you to talk to Lou. Be all nice. See if she might be willing to, I don’t know, float some cash your way or buy you expensive presents.

You want me to trap her into admitting she’s skimming money from Marco? He didn’t seem thrilled at the idea.

Yeah, pretty much.

He stared at the ground, unwilling to look me in the eye. He thought it over for a minute before giving me an answer. Okay. I mean, I’ve been learning a lot from Marco. Plus, he’s letting me do the apprenticeship part of my training while I work there, which is way better than an unpaid externship. I feel like I owe him.

Great! Well, now that we’ve got things settled, I’d better get going. See ya later!

Yeah, see ya tonight. He didn’t sound too enthusiastic about the prospect.

I started to walk away, and then turned back to Al with one last question. Hey, by the way, what’s Lou’s last name?

Uh… Underhill. Why?

Just wondering.

* * * *

That night, it was a quiet shift. Lou penciled me in for bussing duty, which kept me out of the kitchen a lot. I could only catch little snippets of conversations, not nearly enough to get any useful information.

By the end of the evening, there I was scrubbing plates, Al right next to me. I tried unsuccessfully a few times to get him talking. I wasn’t even trying to learn anything new from him; I just wanted some conversation to relieve the boredom.

Suddenly, Lou came rushing in from the dining room. She looked more disheveled than ever—frazzled, even—as she carried an armload of receipts toward Marco’s office. A few stray slips escaped her hold, floating down to the tile floor in her wake. I saw this as an opportunity for Al to start his new assignment, so I nudged him with my elbow. His head snapped in my direction. Apparently, I’d jolted him from some sort of daydream. I pointed to the fallen receipts, then at Lou, giving Al an urging look. He sighed and hastily dried his hands on the white apron tied around his waist.

Uh, I think you dropped something, he said to Lou, walking over to gather up the receipts and hand them to her.

Oh! Thanks! Lou replied, reaching out to retrieve the slips of paper. I noticed that their fingers brushed as the receipts exchanged hands. Al smiled at Lou. He had a really nice smile.

No problem, Al said warmly. You know, you work too hard, always flying around this place. You ever slow down? Stop to smell the roses?

Oh, Lou said as a slight flush appeared across her cheekbones. I do my share of rose smelling. I almost burst out laughing, she sounded so goofy. Poor Lou needed a lesson in the art of flirting.

Lou! came from the other side of Marco’s closed door. Where’s those damn receipts?

Oh! Lou started, whirling away from Al and resuming her beeline for the office. Al rejoined me at the sinks.

Nice job, I said to him quietly.

Whatever, he answered.

* * * *

I darted out into the alley, my shift finally over. I walked at a good clip, hurrying to my car. Before I quite made it there, my phone alerted me that I had a new message. After getting into the car and locking the door, I checked the message. It was a text from Bobby.

Yo jcat, got the info u need. same day service. not bad, eh? maybe worth two cases of thunder?

After midnight so technically next day. One case. I’ll bring it over tomorrow with the pizza. Lunchtime ok?

Yup. Peace out.

After stowing my phone back in my purse, which occupied the passenger’s seat, I put the key in the ignition. Before I could even turn it, however, I heard some yelling coming from the alley behind me. I was curious, yet exhausted. I sat there for a moment, debating whether to go check it out, or just head for home. All I wanted to do was go to sleep. However, there was something to be investigated, and I was supposed to be here as an investigator.

By the time I got out of the car, leaving the door ajar so that it wouldn’t make any noise when it closed, the shouting had stopped. Then came a noise that was hard to place. It was half thud and half clang. It sounded once, and then everything went quiet.

I crept to the end of the alley. Everything looked nice and peaceful. I had missed the action.

Just as I was about to go back to the car, something shaped vaguely like a human stirred on the ground halfway down the alley. As I approached, I saw that it was shaped vaguely like Lou.

She let out a groan and put a hand to her head. In the low light of the alley, I could see some dark substance covering her forehead. I hoped it wasn’t blood.

It was blood. On closer examination, I could see a deep gash just above her right eye. Both eyes were blinking rapidly, though the interval between blinks was starting to get longer.

Lou propped herself up on her elbows and said, eloquently, What? I was… huh?

What happened?

What do you mean?

I knelt beside her and looked into her eyes, which were having a hard time focusing on me. You were shouting with someone. By the time I got back here, you were on the ground bleeding.

I’m not bleeding, she insisted as the blood ran down into her eye.

Talking to her was going nowhere. I searched the area. It didn’t take long to find what I was looking for. Lying on the ground, less than a foot from Lou, was a large pan from the kitchen. I recognized it instantly, since I had scrubbed it clean less than an hour ago. There was blood on it, and I was pretty darn sure I would have cleaned that off. My sharp deductive reasoning told me it was Lou’s blood.

Ow. That’s really…ow. Lou’s voice interrupted my inspection of the pan. Her eyes looked like they were back to normal.

Lou, do you know who it was?

Who what was?

The person who hit you with a frying pan.

A frying pan? I don’t remember anything about that.

You were having an argument with someone. I heard shouting.

I don’t remember anything, she said, nearly hysterical.

I reached in my pocket for my phone before remembering it was still back in my car. I’ll call 911. We’ll get an ambulance here and some police to look into it. I started to stand.

Lou grabbed hold of my arm and said, No police. I just…slipped and fell. That’s all. Could you give me a ride to the emergency room?

I hesitated, mentally debating whether to insist on calling 911, or going along with Lou’s request. Keeping the police out of it would give me more flexibility in my investigation. Plus it would help me gain Lou’s trust. Sure thing, I agreed.

Very carefully, I helped Lou to my passenger seat. Once settled in, she said, almost to herself, Oh, I hope I don’t have to miss any work because of this.

Don’t worry, I answered. You said it was a slip-and-fall, right? Even if you already punched out, technically you were still on the employer’s premises, so both your medical bills and a good portion of your lost wages will be covered by Marco’s Workers’ Comp policy. Wait, you don’t punch in and out, you’re probably salaried, right? Well, either way, whether you’re exempt or non-exempt, you’re covered.

What? How do you know that?

I didn’t answer. Hang on a second, Lou. I need to go get something.

In the trunk of my car was a garbage bag full of empty bottles and cans that I kept forgetting to take back to the grocery store. I emptied the bag, dumping everything into the trunk. Back in the alley, I turned the bag inside out, since the inside was all sticky with old soda. I didn’t want to contaminate the frying pan, my first official piece of evidence. Since it had been washed so recently, there would probably be only one set of fingerprints on it and they would belong to whoever hit Lou. Well, mine would be on there, too, but I was pretty sure I wasn’t guilty.

* * * *

A few hours later, I sat in my car outside Lou’s apartment. Before going home and getting some much needed sleep, I had to call Marco with a request.

"You want what?"

Over the phone, his voice sounded groggy. I could almost see him speaking to me with his eyes still closed.

The time cards. All of them. And I need them right now.

Right now? Do I get to know why?

I told him the story of what happened to Lou, starting with finding her in the alley and finishing with dropping her off at her apartment after sitting with her for a couple of hours in the emergency room. Interestingly, her apartment wasn’t anywhere near the place I’d followed Marco to, where I’d seen Lou with him. Of course, I didn’t mention this part of the story.

Geez, yeah, okay. He sounded wide awake now. I’ll gather them all up so you can check ’em for prints. Meet me at the bistro in twenty minutes or so.

You’ve got latex gloves at the restaurant, right?

Yeah, sure.

Use them. No sense cluttering the time cards up any more than we need to.

* * * *

By the time I drove to the restaurant and back to my office, the sun was already up. My little collection of fingerprint powders and brushes were all lined up on my desk, but there was no sense in botching the job because of fatigue. I decided to leave it for later.

I folded my arms across my desk, laid my head on them, and closed my eyes.

Wednesday, September 21

Surprisingly, I had remembered to set the alarm on my phone to wake up in time for my lunch meeting with Bobby. Not surprisingly, I used the snooze function a few too many times. It would have to be a late lunch meeting.

When I got to Bobby’s place, he was sitting out on his screened porch, his laptop on top of his lap.

I thought you were gonna stiff me, he called before I was completely out of my car.

Bobby, come on. Do you really think I would alienate the only computer nerd I can afford? He didn’t answer, having already turned his attention back to his laptop.

I carried the large pizza box and case of Mountain Thunder up the porch steps, somehow managing not to drop anything. Unable to open the screen door with my hands totally full, I paused outside it. Uh, a little help here?

Hang on…one…second. Bobby hit one last key with a flourish, closed the computer, and finally noticed me hovering on the top step. Oh! Need some help?

Um, yeah. He came over and held the screen door open for me. Gee, thanks.

He hurried across the narrow porch to the door leading into his apartment, holding this one open for me, too. Allow me, he said.

Your chivalry knows no bounds, I answered as I went past him.

Walking into Bobby’s place was kind of like walking into a demented version of Santa’s workshop, if Santa dealt almost exclusively in Sci-Fi and Fantasy action figures and accessories. Seriously, everywhere you looked there was something toyish. Bobby had been amassing collectibles for most of his life, though he insisted he was not a collector. Collectors, he once explained to me, keep their acquisitions in the box. Toys were not meant to be kept in boxes, they were meant to be played with. Bobby felt nothing but scorn for the words mint condition and all this entire phrase implied. In accordance, his all-time favorite movie was Toy Story 2.

So, how’s the latest video coming along? I asked him, spying a large doll house set up in one corner of the living room, lit to perfection, and looking like a miniature movie set. Bobby’s hobby-turned-career was making comedic YouTube videos featuring his larger-sized action figures. Sounds kinda strange, I know, but they were actually pretty hysterical.

Not bad, he answered. The ending still needs some work, though. Maybe you can help me with it later?

Uh, yeah. Maybe.

Bobby led the way into the kitchen, where he swept a jumble of junk mail and stray papers from the table. I set down the pizza box and soda, and we dug in. Silence reigned for a while, interrupted only by the occasional belch from either side of the table.

So, anyways, I finally said through a mouthful of pizza. What’d you find?

Not a whole lot. Just that Marco Augustino isn’t really Marco Augustino.

I swallowed with a loud gulp. What?

Bobby gave a wide smile. His real name is Mark Underhill.

"What!?"

I know, right?

But that’s Lou’s last name!

Lou?

The manager at the restaurant. Lou Underhill.

Oh, right, Louisa Underhill. She’s Mark’s wife.

Until that point, I believed that spit-takes never happened in real life. When Bobby said wife, I had a mouth full of Mountain Thunder, but only for a second. A geyser of soda sprayed all over Bobby, the table, and the pizza.

Oh, that’s disgusting, he scolded, taking off his glasses to clean them.

Sorry. By wife, do you mean ex-wife? Or current wife he’s separated from?

From what I saw in the records, they’re still married. I didn’t see anything regarding a separation or divorce in the works. I can dig into that a little more if you want.

Yes, I want. I very much want.

He drummed his fingers on the table and said, Sounds like you really need this done. Two cases?

With a nod, I agreed to his price.

You’re charging all this to your expense account with José, right?

Of course.

Bobby was one of the few people who knew about José, or, more accurately, the lack of José.

* * * *

There was still half a pizza left after we ate. I was tempted to claim part of it for my dinner, but it was supposed to be Bobby’s research fee. He’d certainly uncovered a doozy, so I left it for him.

With a few hours left before my shift at the restaurant, I sat down at my desk with the fingerprinting kit, the frying pan, and the time cards. The frying pan was the easy part. Just as I thought, I could make out two sets of prints, mine plus one other.

It took over an hour to work through the time cards. There were no names on the cards, just employee numbers. When it was done, I was left with one irrefutable conclusion: I sucked at fingerprint analysis. Maybe a professional could have pulled more prints from the cards, but I could only get a handful.

I was able to pull one particular set of prints that were found on almost every card. Wouldn’t you know, they matched the second set on the pan.

There were two people that I could think of who might have gone through all the timecards. One was Lou, the other was Marco. I felt a chill go up my spine as I pictured Chef Marco (Mark) Augustino (Underhill) clobbering his wife over the head. But, just to be thorough, I felt I needed to exclude Lou.

Out in my car, on the passenger side, were many places on the dashboard and door where Lou’s hands had been when I drove her to the hospital. Ten minutes later, they were covered in black powder, bringing her prints to light. A quick comparison told me that the second set on the pan belonged to Lou.

I breathed a sigh of relief as my vision of Marco the Attempted Murderer dissolved. But that only meant I was pretty much right where I started. All I knew was, at some point, Lou carried the frying pan, and whoever hit her with it wore gloves.

* * * *

Lou wasn’t at work that evening. For some reason, Marco gave Al her job for the night. This was good for Al, yet bad for me. I had to do all the dishes on my own. Keeping up with them didn’t allow much time to snoop.

At one point during the night, Marco slowed as he walked past me and said, trying not to move his lips like a ventriloquist, You, me, and José gotta sit down and figure out where we are.

I didn’t answer; my mind was too busy trying to come up with excuses why we couldn’t meet.

When my shift ended, I took a walk around to see if I could find Al, wondering if maybe he got a look at anything interesting. He was nowhere to be found, so I decided to get to bed early. With the little I’d been sleeping the last few days, I figured I could use one good night’s sleep. I tossed my apron in the laundry bin, shrugged into my jacket, grabbed my purse, and headed out the back.

The door slammed shut behind me. My eyes went instinctively to where I’d found Lou the night before.

I pulled a flashlight from my purse, having thought ahead to bring one. There wasn’t any time to give the area a good search last night, and I didn’t have a chance to get back here during the day.

You’re not going to find anything.

The voice startled me. I spun to find its source. There was the guy from the dumpster. He leaned against the wall of the restaurant, smoking a cigarette. I wondered how I’d missed him when I came out. My guess was that the smell of the dumpster masked his smoke.

I’m not?

He shook his head. No, you’re not.

How do you know what I’m looking for?

You were here last night. With the lady who got hit.

I took half a step back, prepared to bolt from the alley if things turned any weirder. You saw what happened?

Yes.

You saw who hit her?

Yes.

So who hit her?

She did.

Who?

She did.

Who is ‘she’?

He pointed to the ground at my feet. That lady.

This was going nowhere fast. I could either go home and crash for a few hours or stand out here playing Abbott and Costello. Home won easily. I dug into my purse for another five bucks. Okay. Thanks. I’ll figure it out on my own.

No, what I mean is she hit herself.

My hand froze in my bag. "She hit herself with the pan?"

Yep.

You’re sure?

He threw his cigarette butt on the ground. Yes. I was… He motioned farther down the alley. …down there, behind those boxes. I heard someone yelling, so I looked out and saw the lady all by herself. Then she just up and… He mimed hitting himself in the head as he yelled, "Wham!"

Thursday, September 22

I’d finally gotten the good night’s sleep I needed. It was time to get some answers. I went to Lou’s.

She opened the door looking groggy. Not surprisingly, she wore a shapeless gray bathrobe. Her hair hung limply around her puffy, tired-looking face. The white bandage above her eye was the most interesting part of her appearance.

Oh! Josie? What are you doing here?

Just wanted to see how you were doing. My first order of business was to get into her place and check it out. She hadn’t let me past the door when I’d dropped her off after the hospital. My plan was to decide where to take the conversation as it progressed. Not much of a plan, I know, but I like to operate on the fly. Mind if I come in?

Oh. Well. I guess that would be okay. She took a small step backward. I squeezed in past her.

What met my eyes was an apartment just as disheveled and devoid of personality as Lou herself. Old, saggy furniture filled the small living room. Through an archway, I could see that the kitchen table was covered in piles of newspapers and junk mail. The windows were covered in mini-blinds. There was not one photograph or other family item to be seen. Everywhere you looked, there was something that seemed to be out of place, like she’d just randomly set things down without thinking. Her housekeeping skills were almost as sucky as mine.

So, how you feeling?

Oh, well, I have quite a headache.

"Didn’t they give you some pain meds at the hospital?’

Well, yes, but I don’t like to take them. They make me kind of loopy.

Yeah, that’s too bad, I said while trying to glance surreptitiously around her apartment.

Um, are you looking for something? I guess my surreptitiousity needed some work.

What? No! Just… admiring your place. You’ve got a lot of pretty candles.

Um, thanks. She sat down on the couch. It’s not exactly a palace, I know, but…well, I’ve recently separated from my husband. Money’s a little tight right now.

I took the easy chair opposite her. Really? I’m sorry to hear that. I don’t want to pry, but I’m a really good listener, just in case, you know, you need to talk.

Lou sighed, looking down at her hands resting in her lap. Oh, it’s just the classic story. Boy meets girl, girl does everything for boy, boy dumps girl for someone younger and less intelligent.

Gee, Lou, I feel so bad for you. It sounds pretty awful.

She looked up from her hands, staring at me with burning eyes. You know what the worst part is? I made him what he is today. I got him all the start-up money. I did all the grunt work. He’d still be a nobody if it wasn’t for me!

Wow, that’s pretty low of him. If I were you, I’d want revenge.

Revenge? Her eyes lost the crazy look. Now she just seemed confused.

Yeah, you know, hit him where it hurts. In the bank account.

Oh, no, I could never do anything to hurt him.

Why not? He’s sure done a lot to hurt you.

But I still love him.

Against all reason, I believed her.

* * * *

I left Lou’s apartment more confused than I’d entered. Sure, she had motive to try to drain Mark/Marco’s profits, but she sure didn’t seem to have the nerve. Plus, I’d really wanted to grill her about the self-inflicted head wound but couldn’t seem to steer the conversation in that direction without giving away too much of my own information. I didn’t want to compromise my investigation, but I was starting to wonder if I really wanted to work for someone like Marco.

My cell phone rang as I drove home. Speak of the scumbag, I thought, seeing Marco’s name pop up on the phone’s screen.

I hit the speakerphone button. Yeah?

Nice way to answer the phone, toots. Real professional.

I took a deep breath and counted to ten.

You still there? came through the phone.

Yes. Sorry. It’s been a rough day.

Tell me about it. Lou being out is playing havoc with my schedule. I got staffing problems up the wazoo.

You called me to discuss staffing problems?

"Nah, nah. I called to let you know I was serious about what I said last night. The three of us have gotta sit down and figure out where this is going. I can’t afford to keep paying you to wash dishes and investigate."

Well, unfortunately, Mr. Picada is currently unavailable for meetings.

I heard a deep inhale/exhale. There was a pause while Marco could conceivably be counting to ten. "Okay, listen up, doll. You