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GERTRUDE SAT IN HER recliner, eating pickles straight out of the jar, thinking about the events of the day. She had decided to take the case. No, probably no one would pay her, but if she could get another win under her belt, perhaps people who did need to hire an investigator would take her more seriously.
And once again, she knew more about the case than the police did, simply because the police wouldn’t listen to her. She had dusted her secret bird off and placed him on a TV tray beside her recliner. And Fog, one of the newest additions to her feline family, had promptly swatted it to the floor. But she had rescued it from further deadness, and now she held it in her hand and stared at it as she crunched on her pickle.
The bird seemed to be made of wood, with fake feathers and eyeballs glued on. It was hideous. Even more so since she had dusted it off. But despite its lack of aesthetic appeal, it could be the key to finding Tislene’s murderer.
Gertrude had learned from the news that the victim was Tislene Breen, a twenty-five-year-old Mattawooptock local. According to Channel 5, Tislene was unemployed, unmarried, and had no children. Hence, Gertrude wasn’t sure where to start with her investigation.
She knew that she could look Tislene up on the Internet and probably find some information. But the library was already closed for the day. She could go visit her neighbor, Old Man Crow; he had a computer. But he was also a cranky old coot, and she didn’t want to deal with him.
Wait! she thought suddenly. I’m not paying this whopping cellular telephone bill for nothing! She fished her phone out of her walker pouch, and—though she took a circuitous route—made her way to Facebook and located Tislene Breen’s profile. Lucky for Gertrude’s investigation, Tislene didn’t care much about privacy settings.
Apparently Tislene had lots of friends, more than a thousand, according to the social media behemoth. This number was supported by the fact that her profile page was chock-full of sad goodbyes. Gertrude read through them all painstakingly, learning essentially nothing, and eventually got to the stuff Tislene had posted before she died. She scoured these posts and photos for any hint of a conflict, but she found none. There were only pictures of Tislene laughing with friends; Tislene drinking beer; Tislene posing in the front seat of a car; Tislene posing in the backseat of a car; Tislene posing on a snowmobile. From what Gertrude could tell, Tislene had been a fun-loving, carefree girl, who loved to take pictures of herself. If she had enemies, there was no evidence of them on Facebook.
Either everyone’s life was much better than Gertrude’s, or no one told the truth on Facebook. Gertrude knew she had to actually talk to a real person. But who?
Gertrude clicked on a face claiming to be Tislene’s sister. Maybe I could send her a message through Facebook. Ask her a few questions that way. She pressed the message icon. Then she noticed a cute little phone icon. I can call her through Facebook? She pressed the blue phone.
“Hello?”
“Hello. This is Gertrude. Are you Tislene’s sister?”
Significant pause. “Who is this?”
“Gertrude.”
“Yeah, you said that. But I don’t know any Gertrude.”
“Well, I’m Gertrude, and I’m investigating your sister’s murder.”
“Oh, are you a cop?”
Gertrude scrunched up her nose. “No, but I’m an investigator. Can I ask you a few questions?”
“You know it’s like ten o’clock?”
Gertrude pulled her phone away from her ear to look at the time. Then she put the phone back to her ear. “Yes. I see that now.”
“Well, do you always do your investigating this late?”
“Who do you think killed your sister?”
“Wow. Getting right to the point, aren’t you?”
Gertrude didn’t say anything. She just waited.
“Like I told the cops, I have no idea who killed Tislene. She didn’t have any enemies. She didn’t do drugs, except for pot. She’s never stolen anyone’s husband or boyfriend, at least not since high school—”
“She stole someone’s husband in high school?” Gertrude interjected, mortified.
“No! I mean high school is like the Wild West of hormones. We were all fighting. But that was a long time ago. I’m pretty sure no one from high school decided to kill my sister in Goodwill. I mean, it doesn’t sound like something that was well-planned, right? It sounds like some nutjob decided to hit my sister in the head. I doubt her killer even knew who she was.”
Gertrude nodded, thinking.
“Are we done?”
“I suppose so,” Gertrude said. “Can I give you my number in case you think of anything else?”
“I guess.”
“OK. You got a pen?” Gertrude asked.
“Yep.”
“It sounds like you’re lying.”
“What?”
“Do you really have a pen?”
“Yes! Just give me the stupid number!”
“OK. 5 ...”
“Yeah?”
“Did you get the 5?”
“Yes!”
Gertrude couldn’t imagine why the woman sounded so exasperated, but chalked her rudeness up to grief. She gave her the rest of the phone number and then hung up. Then she thought better of it, and called back.
“What?!”
“Can you think of anyone else I could call? Maybe someone who knew Tislene better than you?”
“I’m her sister. No one knows, I mean knew, Tizzy better than I did.”
“Well, there’s no way her life was perfect,” Gertrude remarked.
“I didn’t say her life was perfect. I said she had no enemies. She was easygoing. She just wanted to have fun, but she was poor as dirt and never really found a job she liked. She wasn’t exactly a genius and wasn’t a big success or anything, but that doesn’t mean she deserved to be murdered in a thrift store!”
“All right then. Can you think of anyone else I should call?”
“No!” The grieving sister hung up.
Gertrude decided it might be more fruitful to focus on finding the murder weapon. She wouldn’t need to figure out motive if she had fingerprints. But, just where was that stupid lamp? She had to get back into Goodwill. The lamp could be, probably was, long gone by now, but she had to make sure. Maybe it was simply stashed in a pile of mismatched linens. Who knew?
Vowing to revisit Goodwill in the morning, Gertrude decided it was way past her bedtime. She checked to make sure her door was locked. (She’d been doing so every night since a stripper had snuck in in the middle of the night and knocked over her slinkies.) Then she changed into some footed pajamas, washed her face, brushed her teeth, and climbed into bed. Some of the cats on her bed jumped out of the way to make a hole for her, but as soon as Gertrude was settled in, they returned, so that almost every part of Gertrude’s body was touching a cat. In this comfy, cozy way, Gertrude drifted off to sleep, and dreamed about dead, dusty birds.
In the morning, Gertrude practically bounced out of bed, hurriedly got ready, and then called the CAP bus. Then she waited impatiently by her door, peering out the window, and wishing she hadn’t donned the coat and hat just yet.
Finally, the CAP bus pulled alongside her trailer, and she said goodbye to the cats and left.
“Where to, Gertrude?” Norman asked.
“Back to Goodwill.”
“Again? I would think you would be a little freaked out, after everything that happened there yesterday. You were still there, weren’t you, when they found the body?”
“Not only was I there, I’m the one who found her. And now I’m going back to find the murder weapon.”
Norman groaned. “Not again. Gertrude, you need to give it up. You’re not a detective. You’re not even a cop. You’re just going to get yourself hurt—or worse.”
“Thanks for your concern, Norm. But I’ll be fine. I pinky swear it.” She stuck out a crooked little pinky finger toward Norman. He glanced at the pinky out of the corner of his eye, but chose to ignore it.
Norman pulled into the Goodwill parking lot, which was already packed, though the store had just opened. “Lots of rubbernecks, looks like,” Norman said.
Gertrude paused with her hand on the door handle. “Well, this just gets my goat. How am I supposed to find any evidence with all those civilians contaminating my crime scene?”
Norman chuckled. “Civilians? Gertrude, you’re a civilian, and I’m pretty sure the ‘crime scene’ has already been processed, or the sheriff wouldn’t have let the store open.”
Gertrude opened the door. “Fine then. I guess I have to do more than just shop here,” she said, climbing out.
As she pulled her walker out after her, Norman asked, “What’s that mean?”
“It means I need to get a job,” Gertrude said, and slid the van door shut. Then she turned and walked into the store.
As the door closed behind her, she surveyed the scene before her. Had she not known any differently, she wouldn’t have imagined that someone had been murdered there the day before. It looked like an ordinary, albeit crowded, Goodwill. Although, she did notice, there were more people than usual in the perfume section.
She approached the customer service desk, where Sherri was ringing customers up.
“Excuse me,” Gertrude interrupted.
Sherri didn’t even look up. “I’ll be right with you,” she said.
Gertrude sighed and leaned on her walker to wait. She saw Roderick peek around a corner and then, when he saw her see him, he ducked back behind the shelves.
Good grief that man is peculiar, Gertrude thought.
“How can I help you?” Sherri asked.
Gertrude appeared to have Sherri’s undivided attention. “I would like to work here.”
“OK, great,” Sherri said, her face deadpan. “You can apply online.”
“Oh,” Gertrude said. “Well, can’t I apply right now? I’m already here.”
“Sorry. We only accept online applications.”
“I don’t have Internet at my house,” Gertrude said.
“You can access the Internet for free at the public library,” Sherri said, as if she’d said that a hundred times before.
“Or!” Gertrude exclaimed. “Can’t I just use my jitterbug?” She pulled out her Android.
“I suppose so,” Sherri said, and turned to ring up the next customer in line.
Gertrude stabbed at the browser icon and then navigated her way to Goodwill’s website. Before long, she was trying not to cuss as her chubby, stubby fingers tried to type her info into those tiny fields.
Twenty minutes later, she had officially applied for a job and had a significant crick in her neck. She stretched, rubbed her neck, and looked around, wondering what to do next.
She decided she might as well do some snooping. So she traded her walker in for a shopping cart and tried to act nonchalantly as she made her way toward the swinging doors marked “Employees Only.” Anytime an employee neared or passed through the doors, Gertrude would pause and feign interest in whatever was closest, which at one point was a bag of golf clubs.
She had finally arrived at the doors, and was about to push her cart through them, when someone busted out through them like a gunslinger storming a saloon. The cart protected Gertrude from injury, but she was knocked off balance, and the doors hitting the cart made a terrific crash.
“What are you doing?” the man with thick glasses cried.
Gertrude steadied herself on the cart handle with one hand and checked her hair with the other. “Why, I could ask you the same thing!” she cried. She wasn’t sure if that made any sense, but she was still a bit shaken by the collision.
The man looked confused. Gertrude often had this effect on people. He pointed at the door and spoke very slowly, “Employees only. You can’t go back there.”
“What’s your name?” Gertrude asked.
The man scowled. Then he pointed at his own nametag and slowly said, “Matt,” giving the “t” sound far more emphasis than necessary.
“Hi, Matt. I’m Gertrude. Did you kill Tislene Breen?”
“What? Of course not. Do I need to get the manager? Because she won’t put up with this kind of crap.”
“Why would you call the manager? I just asked you a question,” Gertrude tried.
“Are you going to stay out of the employee only area?”
Good grief. This man isn’t even making sense. “Yes, Matt. I will stay out of the employee only area.” Gertrude tried to quickly spin away and stalk off with attitude, a move she had perfected with her walker, but it was quite clumsy with the shopping cart and she ended up doing a cumbersome five-point turn instead. Any sassy effect was lost. By the time she headed down the dishes aisle, Matt was out of sight, and Gertrude turned around again—only a three-point-turn this time—and pushed through the swinging doors. This time she made it through, and as the doors swung closed behind her, she paused to take in the scene, and wondered where to look first. There were bins everywhere. Bins of clothes, bins of books, bins of shoes, bins of dishes. This is what heaven must look like, Gertrude thought, and started toward the closest bin.
She didn’t get there.
“You need to leave. Right now.” A sharp voice spoke from behind. Gertrude looked over her shoulder and found Sherri, the manager with the organized hair.
“I was just looking for the bathroom,” Gertrude lied.
Sherri’s facial expression made it perfectly clear she knew this was a lie, but she said, “No problem. I’d be happy to show you. Right this way.”
Feeling beaten, Gertrude walked by Sherri as she held the door open for her. Then she followed Sherri to the bathroom. Gertrude smiled, said, “Thank you,” and then entered the bathroom and locked the door behind her. She leaned on the sink and looked at herself in the mirror. She counted to sixty.
When she figured she’d waited long enough, she discreetly poked her head out of the bathroom and looked around. No Sherri. No Matt. She slipped through the doorway and returned to her cart. Then, she slinked her way to the linens. She felt through every pile. No lumps. She went to housewares to look at the actual lamps. No dead birds. She opened every drawer in every desk and every dresser. Nothing. She surreptitiously began to look for trash cans. This took her back into the restroom, but no lamps in that trash can. She looked around and then furtively ducked into the men’s room, but that trash can was also disappointing. The only trash cans left in the store were those small ones beside each register. She headed that way.
Sherri looked at her suspiciously, and Gertrude feigned interest in the odd assortment of items in the locked glass case: a knife; jewelry; some fine china (three teacups and four saucers); and what may or may not have been an actual Coach purse.
As Sherri got busy checking out customers, Gertrude was able to verify that there was no ugly green lamp in any of the trash cans.
She traded her shopping cart in for her walker and then headed outside to the dumpster.
It was nearly empty, except for one garbage bag. She picked up a nearby stick and jabbed at the bag until it ripped open. It was full of mostly food waste, including something that looked like pink noodles, and Gertrude spread it around the bottom of the dumpster until she was confident there was no green lamp hiding among the chicken bones. She dropped the stick and started to walk off. But then she couldn’t help herself. She went back to the dumpster and reached into it to try to retrieve a plastic Folgers coffee container. She used these to sort some of her smaller collections, and one just can’t have too many. Her fingers just brushed the top of the red coffee container, but she couldn’t quite get a grip.
She was thinking about how to climb into the dumpster when she heard a vehicle pull up behind her. She looked up.
Hale climbed out of his cruiser. “You again,” he said to her. “You know, dumpster diving is illegal.”
“No it’s not. Why are you always trying to scare me with make-believe laws?”