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We raced to the parking lot where Matilda and my economy ride were parked. I say ‘economy,’ because my budget said ‘cheap used,’ and the cars I drove reflected that price point. It stood out next to the sleek, white, Jaguar convertible owned by our newest resident, Ariel Kominski.
Wayne and I stopped running when we spotted Ariel. Her long arms were wrapped around her new beau in the parking lot. She was a big, blonde-haired woman, à la Anna Nicole Smith. Like some large women, she had a babyish voice and was unaware she wore clothes more suitable for a teenager. She appeared to be in her late-twenties, a few years younger than myself. On this day, she wore a ruffled, low-cut blouse that showed off ample cleavage. A chain with a silver cross was nestled in the crease between the “sisters” of her cleavage.
“Hi, Wayne. Hi, Kate,” she trilled in a breathy tone. She was about to get into the driver’s side of her car when her keys slipped through her fingers. She reached for them with long tapered fingers, the nails brightly polished. The leggings that completed her outfit resembled a worn pair of pantyhose, a fashion trend I passed on. Leggings are not pants.
She giggled as she picked up the keys, taking a few seconds longer than I deemed necessary, giving the man with her a huge smile and a show of her full bust line as she straightened. I clutched my spring jacket a little tighter.
“This is my boyfriend, Paul,” she said, and motioned towards him, giggling again.
Paul was at least six inches shorter than Ariel. He had a permanent smirk, giving him the appearance of a small-time thug. The image was completed by a dark swarthy face, and black hair slicked back into a duck tail. His attitude projected arrogance mingled with smugness. He slipped on gold, aviator-style sunglasses as he slid in the passenger’s side of the white Jaguar.
Ariel giggled again as she got behind the wheel of the flashy car and put on big pink plastic-rimmed sunglasses. Besides gaudy, I recognized the logo as a designer of a line known as “luxury.”
“Hi and bye!” Ariel yelled, as she gunned the engine and waved, dismissing us, and driving away, her new boyfriend slouching in the passenger’s bucket seat.
“Hi, indeed,” Wayne sniffed, and chuckled. “I know that look. How do you suppose she got that car?” He had a gleam in his eye, asked, “How high can we go?” and snorted.
“Nice outfit,” I commented, my eyebrows raised.
Wayne smirked.
Ariel was a puzzle. She worked a regular job as a bank teller, yet drove extravagantly expensive vehicles. The unit she lived in was the same as the others in our building.
My first contact with Ariel had been on garbage pick-up day when I took out an empty pizza box.
She’d given a condescending glare to my grease-stained box, and sniffed at my “hi.” She drew herself up to her six-foot model height and said in a self-righteous tone, her nose wrinkled, “I eat fruits and vegetables. Salads and fish. Healthy food.”
“Does pineapple on pizza count as a fruit serving?” I had asked, kidding, on the fateful trip to the garbage bin.
Ariel had scowled at me and said, “My mother is wealthy and my father is an attorney. They own a line of grocery stores.” She sniffed, adding, “My ex owned the Fitness Salons. It’s a chain of work-out shops.” As she went on and on about her moneyed background, I tuned her out. I guessed she sensed how little that meant to me, because eventually she turned up her nose and strode away. I observed that the heft of her body and her diet claims didn’t match. And, why would someone with all that money and connections work in a bank?
She had moved into the complex in early spring driving the Jaguar with a license plate that started with WJ. The plate had a white background that caught my attention, and puzzled me. I pointed it out to Wayne.
“Whiskey Junction!” he chortled, with a knowing smirk.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s a license plate for someone with a DUI violation. Driving under the influence,” he drawled. “Can’t say I haven’t known a drinker or two, or three,” he winked. Wayne had had a problem with alcohol that he freely admitted. If there was anything more, he kept it to himself. He had beat his addiction with the popular twelve-step program, Alcoholics Anonymous, and was very public about his antics as a free-wheeling youthful alcoholic and, I suspected, druggie.
“Yep, I just never got caught,” he said, and added, “not by the cops, anyways. The wife got plenty fed up, though.” I learned in one of our late-night sessions rehabbing the house that his wife had left him. She’d taken their daughter to Michigan, her home state. That was his wake-up call and he got sober, but it came too late to save the marriage. She decided to stay in Michigan and raise their daughter with her parents.
“Biggest regret I have, never raising that kid of mine,” he said, showing a paternal side that didn’t surprise me. He called me “kiddo” after all.
“I think Ariel’s ex-husband had money.” I shrugged, changing the subject. “Her family is wealthy, too.”
“Uh huh,” Wayne said, skeptically.
“Ariel told me her mother had bought the Jaguar as a present when she graduated from some on-line degree program,” I said absently. “She was quite open about having money on both sides of her family. Good for her.”
She had told me all this in our fateful food conversation on garbage day. Information I personally would never divulge to a neighbor in a casual conversation––even if true and I had the good fortune of a moneyed background.
“Uh huh; we should all be rich,” he laughed.
I could only ponder the mystery of how some people were born into families with money or married into money, and how some toiled their entire lives to make a living. Okay, I get annoyed with people who don’t recognize their gifts.
Could the news of the dead occupant in my rehab project have reached Ariel? Could she possibly have something to do with the body’s appearance in the attic?
I nixed the thought. She and Paul appeared too comfortable to have spent time moving a dead body. Wayne pulled up in front of the rambler and I came to a quick stop just behind his van. When we got to her house, Myra was waiting at the door, appearing first class, wearing a black fleece warm-up jacket, black jeans, and a scarf draped around her neck.
Myra has the inside track on what happens at police headquarters with her brother as the chief of police. She’d entertained me on more than one occasion with tales of how he’d kept another drug dealing scum ball off the streets. I entertained her with stories of Eddy, miserable dates, and finding and marrying Jake. In between, we traded opinions on the perfect color and brand of paint, the pros, and cons of laminate versus wood flooring, and the latest home design project.
“Glad to see you, Wayne,” Myra said, nodding at us as we approached. “Sheriff Don called my brother to let him know they finished the investigation,” Myra said. “They’ve bagged all the relevant samples and they couldn’t keep the house hostage after they were done. The crime appears to be leaving a dead body on the premises. They are taking down the crime scene tape this morning.”
“What ever happened to notifying the homeowner?” I asked, grumbling.
“Oh, I’m sure he tried to reach you. I just got the information, shall we say, a little ahead of the curve?” Myra said, and winked. “There they are.” Myra wore a polite genteel smile for Sheriff Don as he strode up the walkway with another uniformed officer.
“Good to see you again, Myra,” Sheriff Don greeted her with a smile, eyes twinkling. “Always a pleasure talking to the chief.”
“He’ll be happy to hear that,” Myra said pleasantly. I thought I might barf.
“What’s the scoop, Sheriff?” I asked.
“The crime scene investigators are finished with the house. The medical examiner says the man died from injuries sustained prior to being relocated to your house’s attic.”
“Really?” I asked, nonplussed. “That’s what the coroner said? Relocated?”
“Really, Ms. Baxter,” Sheriff Don said, holding my eyes with his very blue ones again, “Mr. Jimmy Woo, or JW as he was called, was a patient at the time of his death. He died from injuries sustained from blunt force trauma.”
“Why was he in my attic?”
“That’s the mystery, Ms. Baxter,” Sheriff Don responded dryly.
“Blunt force trauma? That means, he was hit by an object?”
“I’ll be in touch,” he said. “Remember, stay close to home, Ms. Baxter.”
“What does that mean?” my voice raised an octave.
“Just what I said,” he countered. “We may have more questions.” The sheriff looked perturbed, and I backed off. Ticking off law enforcement wasn’t the best idea. I wasn’t going to be traveling anyway. But it bothered me I was told not to, even if I hadn’t planned on it. He couldn’t possibly think I had anything to do with this, could he? I gulped, fearful that I could be a suspect in this escapade.
Another officer cut yellow tape and wrapped it into a ball, disposing it in a black plastic bag. A wave of relief washed over me as the remnants of tape disappeared into the sack.
The sheriff got in the squad car along with his deputy and drove away. I watched them leave, irritated by Sheriff’s Don admonition to stay close to home. Was that a hint he thought I was involved?
If the past week hadn’t tainted the home’s market value, I could have it sold along with a tidy profit by autumn. The thought that my house could be on the market in time for summer home shoppers after all, softened the blow of the sheriff’s suspicion and cheered me up.