Killing Silence: The Loser Mysteries, #1

By Peg Herring

Loser washes up in gas station restrooms, wears Salvation Army giveaways, and eats what she can find, beg, or filch. Life on the streets of Richmond, Virginia, is hard, but it's better than facing her demons. That is, until she meets Bryn, a little girl who steals her heart. When Bryn's daddy is accused of murder, there's no one willing to help except Loser. Penniless, almost mute, and terrified of failure, Loser attempts to gather her resources and prove Nick Saraff is innocent of the crime. The problem is that now she's in as much danger as Nick. Someone is working against her--someone who's more than willing to kill again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gwendolyn Books
• Release date: Dec 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386176596

Peg Herring

Peg Herring is the author of several series and standalones. She lives in northern Michigan with her husband and ancient but feisty cat. Peg also writes as Maggie Pill, who is younger and much cooler.

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Killing Silence

Loser Mystery #1

By

Peg Herring

KILLING SILENCE

© Peg Herring, 2018

Printed in the USA

Killing Silence is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents are entirely the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, transmitted, or recorded by any means whatsoever, including printing, photocopying, file transfer, or any form of data storage, mechanical or electronic, without the express written consent of the publisher. In addition, no part of this publication may be lent, re-sold, hired, or otherwise circulated or distributed, in any form whatsoever, without the express written consent of the publisher.

2nd Edition

First published by LL Publishing, 2012

This one’s for Julie

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Other books by Peg Herring

Chapter One

First rule: Don’t answer questions. They start with, How are you? Then it’s, If you were a car what make and model would you be? And before you know it, they’re asking why someone is dead on your bathroom floor.

Loser! You got your head on straight tonight? Opening my eyes a slit, I saw pant legs and ancient Rockport shoes. Following my first rule, I ignored the voice and closed my eyes again.

The second time was louder and accompanied by a gentle but insistent kick. I looked up at the owner of the pants. Verle had come out to the alley where I slouched against an ancient brick wall. He leaned over me, his homely face crunched with curiosity. It had seemed like a quiet place, out of the nasty wind that blew dirt in my eyes and made my nose run. Appearances are deceiving, however. And there’s no rest for the wicked.

I got a job for a hard-working girl like you if you’re living in the world today. And if you’re hungry.

I made eye contact to indicate attention and wiped my nose on the rough wool of my sleeve in an attempt at social acceptability. Verle made his proposition. I need the hydro-vents cleaned. Got a tip that the health inspector will be in the neighborhood tomorrow, and they’re, um, they need attention.

I stared some more, which he took for interest. You stay after closing, clean the vents, and I’ll give you dinner. You up for that? When I continued to say nothing, Verle looked slightly peeved. I said I’ll feed you. Did you eat today?

Now, that I knew the answer to. No. But I didn’t speak. Verle was doing well all by himself, and I have my rules: Don’t answer questions–at least not until you have to. Speak no more than thirty words in twenty-four hours. When possible, keep responses under six syllables.

My rules probably don’t work for everybody, but they’re important to me.

I considered the offer. Verle was the owner, operator and host of a small restaurant on Broad Street next to the alley I currently occupied. It was the type of place people go to for cheap meals with large helpings and not much in the way of ambiance, unless you long for the smell of fryer grease. He sometimes gave me odd jobs: sweeping the sidewalk, washing the exterior windows, stuff like that, and I trusted him as much as I trusted anybody. I knew what hydro-vents were, knew cleaning them was back-crunching, dirty work. It wasn’t the offer of a lifetime, and probably everyone in his employ had already turned him down. With his age and oversized gut, Verle certainly didn’t want to climb up there and clean the vents himself, inspector or no inspector.

If anyone else asked, I would have shaken my head to indicate a no. When you work for people they talk to you, try to get to know you. Once that happens, they start trying to help you, whatever that means to them. The last things I wanted were talk, interest, and help from people.

But Verle wasn’t most people. He didn’t chat, and he always offered a straight deal: work for food. In addition to that, a part of me that I hadn’t been able to kill in the last year and a half liked the idea of being useful. On a cold night in March, fed and warm didn’t sound bad, either. I met Verle’s eye and nodded once. His answer was a grunt of satisfaction.

As he led me inside, I remembered why I avoid indoor work. Inside is a place of once-familiar sensations that are now alien to me: food smells, warmth, and the bustle of human activity. As those things smashed against my face, a feeling of panic arose. There were people here.

People have rules different from mine, and they make judgments based on those rules. I almost turned to go, but Verle, sensing he might lose his cheap labor, placed himself between me and the door, smiling to encourage me onward. I stayed.

Of course, he didn’t let me anywhere near the dining room. Instead, I hunched over a stool in a corner of the kitchen, my duct-taped tennis shoes wedged on the lowest rung, my lowly bundle of possessions stuffed underneath. The kitchen was functional but hardly modern, with scarred butcher-block counters and seventies-style appliances. The overhead lights were fluorescent and glaring, the walls an institutional green. The whole place could have used a visit from Mr. Clean. I kept my head down, hating the lights, the metallic clatter, and the proximity of people.

Verle brought me a hamburger with everything on it. I would have bet, if I had anything to bet with, that it had been prepared for someone who sent it back. The fries on the plate were barely warm, soft, and kind of mealy. The coffee he set near my elbow was so dark it looked like enamel. None of that mattered. I have learned to eat when food is offered. I tucked in, ignoring the ketchup that seeped through my fingers and ran down my arm.

After watching for a moment with what might have been mild disgust, Verle said, Just hang here till closing time. He moved off and returned to his duties, having solved his most pressing problem.

I surveyed the kitchen disinterestedly. Once the customers were gone, I’d climb up to the stained, smelly hoods above the grills and scrub away the caked-on grease of a month or more. No problem. I couldn’t get much dirtier than I already was.

As I ate, I observed the staff surreptitiously, mildly curious as to their reaction to me. An acne-ridden young cook moved efficiently between appliances, checking the orders clipped to a wire and getting meals underway. The grill sizzled as he threw down a burger patty. Seconds later he added a chicken breast and a handful of onions. He’d looked up briefly when I entered but quickly returned to work, uninterested in Verle’s odd guest.

The waitresses, on the other hand, were interested—no, horrified—by my presence. There were two, a washed-out blonde and a twenty-something with lots of blurry tattoos and razored, clownish hair dyed shocking blue. They were busy, bursting in and out the swinging double doors, but at every opportunity they exchanged outraged looks and harsh comments. They spoke loudly and glared in my direction, as if I were deaf and blind.

What is he thinking, letting that psycho in here?

Blue Hair raised an eyebrow at me, the one with the stud poking through it. "He says she can be trusted." The emphasized verb stressed Verle’s doubtful judgment.

Well, it’s his funeral. The blonde said. "And at least we don’t have to clean the damned thing." They grinned at each other. Waitresses in a junky, run-down diner, they still saw themselves above me in societal hierarchy. People need that.

It was hot in the kitchen, but I didn’t take off any of the five layers of clothing I wore. Revealing the scruffy clothes under my tattered coat, the dirt on my arms, the hair in my armpits, would only provide fuel for more derisive comments. Besides, when you wear all your stuff, you know where it is. It won’t get lost or stolen. The warmth of the room felt good, but honestly, so had the bite of cold outside. Both reminded me to feel, something I sometimes forgot to do.

As the other occupants went on with their work, I finished my dinner and resisted the urge to return to the alley, the street, the out-of-doors. I couldn’t leave. I’d agreed to do a job, and I’d already been paid. To relieve my mind’s objections to being among civilized folk, I focused on nothing, a pastime I’m pretty good at. I forced myself to pay no attention to Verle or to his coven, Karlyne of the blue hair and Sandra of the brows plucked to constant surprise. Good at ignoring disapproval, I kept my head down and avoided eye contact.

Thinking of nothing worked for a while, but the mind has a mind of its own. Without intent, I tuned in to sounds beyond the kitchen doors, which, like everything else in the place, were askew. They didn’t quite close, so I heard clearly a conversation that came from a dining table near the door. Peering through the opening, I managed to see one of the parties involved, a little girl with curly brown hair and eyes that truly danced. I recognized her, having seen her a few times in the neighborhood. As always, the sight of her singed my mind, left me hurting but unable to look away. She was so alive.

Her name was Bryn, and she lived somewhere near the elementary school. For some reason she always tried to be nice to me. The first time I recalled seeing her, she’d stared at me for a long time, her face serious. Though I usually resent pity, her unembarrassed gaze made me picture myself as she must see me: dirty, hunched, and disgusting. After that first time, when we met the little girl made eye contact and gave a little wave, like she was glad to see me. Against my will, I’d begun to look for her as I roamed Richmond’s streets, to feel a little thrill when she made eye contact. Not that I ever responded, but I felt Bryn’s good will.

Tonight, apparently at Bryn’s request, three people had come to Verle’s restaurant for Sunday dinner: Bryn, her father, and a boy I assumed to be her older brother. The boy, Keith, was unhappy with the choice, and the dad’s voice was artificially jovial as he tried to create an enjoyable dining experience. As I listened, I put some things together. Whenever I’d seen Bryn with her dad, walking in the park or passing on the street, the guy seemed thrilled to be with her but maybe a little sad. Was it because their time together was short? I guessed there’d been a split between Mom and Dad and Sunday was his weekly shot at making his kids forgive him for leaving. He was pathetically earnest about it.

I saw the two males briefly as Karlyne pushed the door open with her butt, her hands full of steaming food. Dad was thirty-ish and pleasant-looking with a Semitic cast to his features that Bryn didn’t share. The brother’s hair was light, but that was about all I could tell. He kept his face determinedly downward, focused on his lap, where an electronic game of some sort made discreet beeps and buzzes.

What do you want today, guys? I saw the dad lean toward them as Karlyne returned with a stack of dirty dishes. Keith didn’t look up. They’ve got liver and onions on special.

Oooh, Daddy! Liver is nasty! The twinkle in Bryn’s eyes said she got the joke.

All right, then, let me guess. Chicken nuggets and fries, like always.

The girl grinned. Yup.

Sandra’s back appeared and blocked the small slice of view I had. She was apparently ready to take their order but said nothing, not even one of the usual canned pleasantries waitresses use to ensure tips. I could picture her heavily made-up face taut with impatience, no softness for the little girl, no admiration for a man trying his best to be a good father.

Keith, what are you having today? There was a murmur of sound. I pictured the boy muttering into his chest and the man’s look of embarrassment at Sandra’s inevitable twitch of irritation.

Speak up, son, and look at the lady.

Keith spoke with exaggerated clarity and undisguised contempt. I will have a hamburger and onion rings. Please.

What on the burger? Sandra’s tone was abrupt.

His head was down again and the whole process repeated, Dad gently chiding, Keith acting put-upon. The man sounded apologetic but let it go as he added his own order. As the once-a-week host for his own children, he wasn’t about to start a fight over the boy’s mumbling or lecture him about his bad attitude.

Sandra turned in the orders and moved off, this time with a coffee pot. She wrinkled her nose as she passed me, but I couldn’t have cared less. When the food for Bryn’s table was ready, she took it out to them, and the child clapped her hands in delight. Yay! French fries and chicken nuggets!

Like you never had them before. Stupid twit.

Now the father reacted. Keith!

The kid knew he’d overstepped his bounds. Sorry, Nick. Sorry, Bryn.

So Bryn called him Daddy but Keith didn’t. A child and a step-child? If so, it was good of the man to take both children to dinner, especially since the boy was doing his best to be a jerk.

Bryn was temporarily cowed. Daddy, what’s a twit?

It’s not you, Punkin, so just forget it. Keith didn’t mean it.

Hey. Verle stood a few feet away. You gotta move away from the door. I looked up, momentarily confused, and he added more softly, Sorry. Sandra says you reek.

I couldn’t argue with Sandra on that one. I pulled my bag from under the stool and moved in the direction his meaty paw indicated. The back of the kitchen was probably a better place. At the very least, Sandra would be farther away.

Just after ten, Verle approached me again. Come on, Loser. I’ll show you what I need done.

The restaurant’s last customers had gone, and the lights out front were off. No neon Open sign, just a fluorescent night-light that traced the counter in a bluish glow. In the kitchen, the waitresses hurried to finish the closing tasks and do the setup for morning. Verle got out a stepladder, removed the cover to the hydro-vent, and explained the job. Disgusting, but who was I to complain? I reeked.

Nathan here is going to stay until you’re done. He’s got some studying to do. Nathan, the short-order cook, waved a German textbook at me and grimaced.

In a few minutes, it was just me and Nathan. Looking at the vent, I decided I’d have to shed the coat. Getting inside to clean the thing would require a lot of bending and twisting, and I was sure to get filthy. My floor-length wool overcoat wasn’t much, but I didn’t want stray dogs following me because I smelled like meat. I removed my top two layers, the coat and a heavy sweater, and wrapped them around the mesh shopping bag that held everything else I cared about. Picking up the tools set out for me, I climbed the ladder and attacked the greasy surface.

I was hard at it, maybe fifteen minutes later, when Nathan interrupted. Hey. How long before you’re done? I looked down in surprise. He wore a navy pea coat and held a cell phone, its screen lit as someone waited for a reply. What can I say? I got a better offer than studying. Nathan grinned, and I caught a whiff of freshly-applied scent, either hair goo or after-shave.

I looked up at the vent, not even halfway done. Shrugging, I held up two fingers.

Two hours! Shit! It’ll be too late then. He glared at me for a moment then raised his brows. Tell you what. I’ll leave you to finish the job. I must have looked doubtful, because he rushed on. There’s an apartment in the back where Verle used to live when he was single. If you want, you can finish the vents and then catch some sleep back there for a few hours.

I shook my head, thinking how angry Verle would be if he heard that offer.

It’s cold out tonight, Nathan coaxed. There’s a shower back there and everything. How long since you slept in a bed?

The bed wasn’t what got to me. I can’t sleep inside any building, so a bed means nothing. But a shower! In all the months I’d been on the streets, showers were what I missed most. I was used to sleeping rough, but I was uncomfortable with, in recent days even ashamed of, being dirty.

Sensing his advantage, Nathan turned toward the hallway. Come back and look.

Warily I followed as he led me back through the narrow hallway, past the storeroom, (which I immediately made plans to raid), past the walk-in cooler, past the tiny cubicle where Flo, Verle’s wife, did the bookkeeping. I’d seen her once: tough as nails and twice as sharp. Flo wouldn’t approve the offer Nathan presented any more than Verle would.

Again he seemed to sense my thought. All you gotta do is be gone before anyone gets here in the morning, say, six-thirty. He paused. So, is it a deal?

After only a moment’s hesitation, I nodded. In my head was a vague thought that I should say something, but I couldn’t pin it down. It didn’t matter, because Nathan was busy ending his phone conversation with assurances of a speedy arrival. We returned to the kitchen, where my work waited. Nathan shifted from one foot to the other. You got everything you need?

Another nod. I might have said thanks, but it didn’t come out. Sometimes they don’t, even when I’m under my daily limit.

Okay. I’ll see you later.

When he was gone, something inside me relaxed. Dealing with people is hard. Even when they don’t talk to me, they make me nervous. I turned again to the job.

Work was something I missed almost as much as showering, and that showed when I took on a task requiring physical labor. The gradual appearance of stainless steel from under the layers of grime was satisfying, and I didn’t mind the effort it took to reach the hard places and clean the difficult spots.

A hydro-vent is just what it sounds like: a vent equipped to spray water into rising droplets of cooking grease, trapping them and dragging them into a trough that sluices them away. Of course, it doesn’t capture all the grease, so it gradually builds up on the sides. Someone like me has to use a hose and whatever else it takes to remove the gunk that clings to the vent. It’s messy work, but with a will and some elbow grease, it’s doable. It was a crime that Verle had let it build up this long.

Around two o’clock, I judged the vent clean enough. It was actually shiny, and I doubted if anyone before me had gotten it so close to its original state. My hands, already battered, now stung from detergent and had slices in several places from edges I’d tangled with. My back ached from crouching under the vent hood. Still, it felt good to have done something and done it well.

Riding the high of accomplishment, I went on cleaning. The sinks had been swabbed but not scoured, the floors wiped but not scrubbed, and the walls were spotted with suspicious bits of red, brown, and green. In a sort of frenzy, I attacked the floors, bringing them to what had to be their cleanest state in years.

When I finally stopped, it was five a.m. I’d ignored the chance at a bed for the night, but I would have to hurry if I was going to benefit from the shower. Putting the cleaning supplies in the bucket and setting it aside, I went to the apartment.

The place was kind of inviting, kind of terrifying. I sat on the edge of a chair for a moment and took it in, tense with the presence of so much furniture, so much softness. I wandered through the three tiny rooms: bedroom, bathroom, and everything-else room. I touched the bed, wondering if I would ever again be able to sleep on something like that. Too many nights on benches, or on the earth itself.

The bath was small but had an adequate shower, a corner-fit base with a plastic curtain that was only a little moldy. The head was one of those hand-held things that lets you put water where you want it. In another corner of the room was a stacked mini washer-dryer combination. After a moment’s consideration, I stripped off my clothes and threw everything but my coat into the washer. Digging around, I found some laundry soap and started the cycle. Then I