“Wrong gas?” Ninety percent of the time the knocking, sputtering engines are caused by the wrong fuel.
Grant makes a gun with his fingers. “Right you are. We’ll be driving that around tonight making sure the good residents of Riverside feel extra safe.”
* * *
The shop is super busy today. Likely everyone is here for the same reason—gossip. I’m here for that as well. There’s no better place in town—not even the coffee shop —to hear everyone's crazy and not so crazy speculations. It is amazing what a woman will tell her hairdresser or her best friend while the technician is working on her nails. I swear, people reveal shit in the beauty parlor that they wouldn’t even tell their priests.
Talk stops when I walk in the door, but I march over to my station and unpack my things as if today is just like any other day. And soon enough, the chatter starts up again.
Maggie, the owner, stops to give me a hug. “You holding up okay?”
“Yup, I’m just fine.”
“You need anything, you tell me.”
“Thanks Maggie.”
Given that Judge holds the Cut-n-Curl lease, I suppose Maggie has to be nice to me but she didn’t have to go out of her way, like she just did, to show everyone in the shop that I’m still part of the Cut-n-Curl family. I settle into my station as my first appointment arrives. Shelby Montauk is a dark-haired dark woman with razor-sharp cheekbones. Tall and gorgeous, I often wondered why she never had a steady boyfriend. If I was a guy, I’d totally be panting after her. She supports her deadbeat dad and her brother who has special needs by cleaning houses. I wonder if she ever cleaned the Trainor’s place.
She must use rubber gloves because her hands don’t look like they spend hours getting wet and dirty.
“You want the gel nails or regular?” I ask.
“Just regular,” she answers. “My girlfriend works at the Sephora store at the Mall of America and she bought me some glitter kit. I want to try it out but my cuticles need a trim and my hands are tired from scrubbing so give me a good long massage.”
“You got it.” I dip her right hand into the bowl of soapy water and get to work on her left hand. I frown when I see the perfect nail beds. There isn’t a stray cuticle to be found. An itch sets up residence at the base of my neck. This doesn’t feel right.
I lightly file her already trim nails.
“Your friend give you a manicure too?”
Shelby purses her lips. “She did.”
“She did a nice job.”
Her head dips lower. “But I was cleaning the other day and I worried I may have messed up her good work.”
“Yeah?” I say abandoning the file and deciding I’ll just give Shelby an extra-long massage.
“You wouldn't believe the stuff I have to clean up. Sometimes I wonder what exactly people are doing in their houses. I've even had people tell me they want me to burn the trash.”
The itch turns into an ache and my heart starts beating faster and harder.
“That doesn’t seem right. Aren’t there burn laws?”
“Exactly, so sometimes I just leave the trash in the garage because I’m not taking that stuff home with me and frankly I don’t know what kind of mess I’d create if I did burn it.”
“Sounds like leaving it is the smart thing to do.”
“But you have to do what your clients ask you to, because otherwise word gets around that you’re not trustworthy or careful.”
I squeeze her hand. I know exactly what she’s telling me. Being a cleaning lady means you go into people’s houses and are privy to a lot of shit that goes down. If the people of Riverside or even the rich folks that own the munitions plant got word that Shelby was loose lipped, she’d lose her clientele and with her responsibilities, she can’t afford that.
“It’s the same thing here.” I tell her truthfully. “If a customer can’t say something in your shop without worrying about it being blabbed all over then people aren’t going to come back and sit in these chairs.”
Her stiff shoulders relax. In an even lower tone, she says, “No one thinks Wrecker did anything with Mrs. Trainor. He doesn’t deserve this.”
“Thanks.” I answer but don’t lift my head. Instead, I concentrate on giving Shelby the best hand massage she’s ever received.
Two seats over Victoria, a blue hair, says something that catches my attention. “He's an accountant or something to do with numbers with offices in the IDS Tower.”
“Where'd you hear that Victoria?” Maggie calls out. She’s giving Laura Kramer blonde highlights.
“My daughter started working at the clubhouse over at Riverside and that’s what she tells me,” Victoria answers proudly. “And he’s never home and when he is home, he spends all his time up at the clubhouse. In the summer, he’s on the golf course. 36 holes and sometimes more.”
“Your daughter just started. How’s she know this?” Laura challenges.
“It’s all over the clubhouse. He probably has a woman in the city and his poor wife is here all by herself. Emma says he hasn’t been home since that poor woman was shot.”
“I heard she was getting it on with the tennis pro,” Laura says.
“They don't have tennis courts out there just the golf.” This tidbit is from Jeanette Verrier. Her husband owns the bank and they have a membership at the country club. She twists in her chair causing her stylist Jolene to bite back a curse. “Where was Wrecker that night, Chelsea?”
“With me.” I answer truthfully. Laura raises an eyebrow in disbelief. While most people in Fortune like the Death Lords, there are those like the Riverside set who think the association brings the town down. Some people view them as a gang, a dangerous one. It's true that the Death Lords don’t operate wholly inside the law. Judge’s opinion is that most laws are pretty dumb. And when you had someone like Chief Schmidt trying to throw his weight around, and doing it in real inappropriate ways, then following laws didn’t make much sense. But that’s a convenient sort of excuse because even if we had a good police chief, there’d still be things that Judge and the Death Lords did that most folks wouldn’t approve of.
“That alibi doesn’t sound real good if you ask me,” Jeanette sniffs.
“No one is asking you.” Maggie marches over to Jeanette and spins her around so that she is facing the mirrored wall. “You better sit still or Jolene will end up cutting your layers at an angle.”
Jeanette shuts up right away once she realizes her vulnerable position given that her hair is half cut and Jolene’s got a fierce frown on her face.
Despite all my talk this morning, running away is starting to look more attractive by the minute. But then I remember the information that Shelby took the time to deliver. We’ve got a lead, a small one, but it’s something. The rest of the day is much the same. Lots of speculation is tossed around and there are a few arrows shot my direction but I manage to shrug them off.
Wrecker texts me about lunchtime to let me know he is working straight through.
You okay?
Fine. Got some info for you. Discuss later.
OK. Love you.
r />
Love you too.
7
CHELSEA
“Which garbage can?”
“Don’t know. She said that sometimes she leaves the trash behind even though she’s supposed to get rid of it.”
We parked the security car in one of the visitor bays that are peppered throughout the club. Those are spots that hold two or three cars so that the club resident’s don’t have people’s cars in their driveways. After parking, we jogged down a cart path that the members of the club apparently use for running. It’s dark but the pavement is clear.
Once we arrive at the back of the Trainor house, we climb up an embankment with Wrecker dragging a couple of pine branches behind us. Our footsteps aren’t totally obliterated but there’s been a lot of activity around here given the shooting so we aren’t the only visitors.
The nice thing about the golf course is the lack of lights. It’s dead-ass dark back here. We have two black garbage bags tied around our waists and Wrecker has a set of lock picks. I made him leave the gun at home. If we did get caught, having a weapon on us was just begging for trouble. The house looms before us, huge, silent, and dark.
“Just two people live here?” I ask. I’ve never stepped foot inside the Riverside Country Club and until now I didn’t realize just how humungous these houses really are.
Wrecker nods. There’s a wide deck that spans nearly the entire back of the house and stairs that lead down to a flagstone patio. Several chairs are centered around what is likely a fire pit. Wrecker bends over and picks up a rock which he throws toward the house.
“What are you doing?” I hiss.
“Checking to see if there’s any motion activated lights.”
“Oh, good call,” I say, mollified. Good thing I didn’t try to do this myself.
When no lights flicker on, Wrecker leads me up to the backdoor of the garage.
“You know I’m never gonna be able to give you a house like this,” he grunts as he fiddled with the back lock.