"What's taking so long?" The woman on the other side of the counter tapped her foot in time to the clock.
I poured today's special—a vanilla hazelnut blend—into a paper cup. "Ma'am. There's three customers ahead of you." I love my job, I do. For the most part. But some days it just doesn't pay to deal with other people.
She huffed and clenched her hands to her hips. "I only ordered a coffee. It shouldn't take this long."
I kept my voice even but stern. "I'm going as fast as I can."
"Starbucks wouldn't take this long." Starbucks had twice as many employees and faster, more expensive equipment.
"This isn't a Starbucks."
"Well, that's for damn sure." She crossed her arms over her chest but stayed glued to her place by the counter where she could watch my every move. "The only reason I'm here is because the Starbucks near my house closed and the reviews for this place were stellar, but I can see I was misinformed."
"I'm sorry to hear that, ma'am." I turned back to one of my regulars and slid the coffee across the counter. "Here you go."
The irate woman did not take my hint to stop talking. "And you should learn to be a bit more professional, young lady." She started tapping her fingers on the countertop. "I expect a free bagel for the trouble."
Next order was a latte. "We don't do that ma'am."
"Could I speak with your manager."
I smiled. "I am the manager. And the owner."
Her shoulders deflated a bit as she leaned back and checked the clock. "Ah. Well, doesn't hurt to ask."
Maybe if I'm rude enough she'll never come back. "Just give me a couple more minutes."
"Well, fine."
By the grace of God that calmed her. She stood there waiting; passive-aggressively sighing and checking her phone but otherwise quiet. I just wish she had been my only difficult customer today. But as luck would have it, she was only the first in a line of complainers who couldn't wait to take their frustrations out on me. I bore it, as I do and handled the brigade of assholes with a dignity that would have made my mama smile. Of course, there was that part of me that wanted to start chucking hot coffee at people's faces but, you know, that's assault or something. And I'm too pretty to be someone's prison bitch so I restrained myself.
By that afternoon the sun was low and warm. I took my break in the back alley—a dingy but quiet sanctuary in a turbulent day. Taking a seat on the top stoop, I whipped out my phone and opened the contacts. I hit Manny's number and waited.
It rung. I waited. It rung some more. When his voicemail answered, I hung up and sighed. Okay, probably busy. No prob. I dialed Henry next. It rung and rung and rung. When the automatic voicemail kicked in, I sighed and hung up. Probably locked in his office editing. I knew better than to call Alice during business hours, so I didn't even try.
Why is everyone busy when I want to rant and blow off steam? Oh yeah. Because they're working adults. I'd bitch to Jackson, but he was already gone. And I hadn't seen Johnny in a few days so I couldn't bum a smoke and then make a big to-do about how I don't smoke and how it's a filthy habit, and other assorted, annoying things I say to him that tickle me for some reason. Even the old alley cat, Tumnus, was MIA, so I guess I'm on my own for now.
Okay, heifer. You're an adult. Days almost over. Power through.
I spent ten more minutes hiding out back before I stood and went back to work. It wasn't so bad, really. All I needed was an attitude adjustment and the day would just sail by.
*************************
Okay, I just want to say for the record, that I am a very nice person.
But fuck all these people out here.
Fuck that dude in the Toyota riding his brakes. Fuck that guy on the bicycle who wants me to run him over. Fuck that old lady walking across the street. Fuck this Florida traffic. Fuck this Florida rain. Fuck that asshole in that...whatever kind of car that is blasting that shitty rap music that's making my windows shake. Fuck this shitty radio station that plays nothing but EDM like I'm in a goddamn club—I'm not! I'm in a car! Where's the easy listening? Where's the classics? Just that Bum, Bum, Ba, Bum over and over.
Just go ahead and fuck everybody on this planet as a matter of fact. Has there ever been a worse animal than humans?
I think the fuck not.
And deep down I know this terrible traffic is only exacerbating an already lousy day, but I don't even care! The day was awful, I was tired and hungry, and the pounding in my right temple was growing worse by the second. I just want everyone to disappear for a sec so I can breathe. I'd tried to call Manny again, but he was still AWOL. What the hell was he doing? He can't answer one phone call? Just...whatever. I don't really feel like talking to any one anyway.
As I was sitting and waiting on another red light, since we can't seem to figure out how accelerators work today, I spotted Publix. It wasn't a part of the plan but there was no way I was getting through the rest of the night without alcohol. So, when the light changed I drove through the intersection and pulled into the parking lot. It was busier than I preferred but I didn't care. I stomped through the aisles as careless as a tantruming toddler. Everyone needs to stay out of my way tonight! And I know I have resting nice face, but no old people better start conversations with me about the good old days or call me miss or young lady or say I remind them of their granddaughters or whatnot. If they do, I'll...still be perfectly polite, but I'll be scowling on the inside damn it!
I went through the aisles throwing Takis, Honey Buns, and reduced-price wine into my handbasket with no regard for sugar, salt, or calories. I also picked up some honey, sugar, and pink lemonade to mix with my wine since I didn't feel like going to a proper liquor store.
From the checkout line I fiddled around with the snacks I know are set up here to tempt me while I wait but I considered it anyway. I deserve happiness, right? I deserve a fucking Butterfinger. Even though I know its supermarket aisle placement marketing. I know marketing. I took a couple of classes about it—but shit it's there and I'm angry and craving chocolate.
As I grabbed that Butterfinger my eyes wandered to the pharmacy. A woman was seated in one of the hard-plastic chairs of their waiting area, her face was a mask of impatience. A pharmacist rounded the corner with a small capped needle in her hands and walked toward the waiting woman.
Little late for flu season ain't it?
Or do they give other shots in supermarket pharmacies? Either way, not my business, I guess. I turned my attention back to the most important decision I've ever made. Which pairs better with cheap red wine and Takis—a Snickers bar or a Baby Ruth?
As my mind was in intense deliberations—more satisfactory vs better priced—my attention strayed back to the pharmacy. My eyes lingered on the pharmacist's hands; gloved and steady as she finished administering whatever drug that was.
Corrine had somehow been able to procure herself drugs and administer them to her patient without notice. Was that what Malik meant when he said Corrine gets a bigger cut based on how much work she did? Was she the one who killed Diana? Did she do it with a lethal dose of prescription medication? And if she did how would I prove it?
My eyes drifted back to the pharmacist. She held the used needle in her hands as she chatted with her patient. Then my eyes found my purse.
The syringe I'd pocketed from Diana's room was still inside.
Coincidence? Maybe. Just because it was in Diana's room does not mean it was the murder weapon. But could I afford to risk not looking into it?
I got to the front of the line, paid for my snacks, then got home. It'd been awhile since I'd mixed a poor girl's cocktail, but it came back to me like riding a bike and in no time I was sipping my ghetto sangria, throwing back Takis, and curled up snug in my bed. I had intended to relax but thoughts of the mysterious syringe destroyed all my lazy plans.
My laptop was propped open in front of me, the keys dusty with Taki prints—I'd clean it later. I scrolled on my chocolate covered wireless mouse (I'd clean that later too) through pages of ads for local drug testing sites. Most of them seemed to focus on testing humans—bit of a hitch but there may be a workaround.
I grabbed my cell and dialed the first number. It was after business hours, so they were closed so I waited through the automated window before leaving a quick message.
"Hi. My name is Evelyn Harper. I'm calling to confirm if your lab can test objects. Please call me back at..."
Then I did the same for three other companies. When I was done, I contemplated a date with Netflix but then remembered something. At the reading the will had named Corrine as Corrine Thomas.
If that was her real name—and that was likely as I'm sure she wants her money—then I could run a background on her.
I pulled up my background check running software and put in as much info as I could. While it did its thing, I did end up watching some trash but funny movie on Netflix. It was nice relieving the pressure of a difficult day with supermarket wine, an absurdly bad movie, and a dinner of empty calories but no amount of booze could settle my hyperactive brain.
If I could get the syringe to a lab, I may find my murder weapon. That would open this whole thing wide open. Of course, the odds of this random syringe being the actual murder weapon were...slight. It was a long shot for sure but what else did I have?
And then there was Corrine. The others had been easy enough to unearth but Corrine was a woman who didn't want to be found. With her real name my detailed background check could turn up more info. Or it could be another dead end.
Like clockwork the laptop dinged. It was ready.
I paused my movie and wiped my hands on a paper towel before grabbing the laptop and looking thoughtfully at the screen. There were three hits. The first was for Corrine Loretha Thomas, age thirty.
I looked over the results with my fingers tapping restlessly and my lower lip clinched between my teeth. Corrine L. Thomas. Age; thirty. No children. Parents: George and Linda Thomas. The employment history was shaky. She really did go to nursing school, though. She even practiced for a time, but her license got revoked five years ago for taking medications without authorization.
Hmm... Gabe had called Corrine a two-bit pill pusher. So, she has a job working with some potent schedule two type drugs—Oxycodone, Ritalin, Adderall, etc—then she steals some from work and has a side gig reselling to people like Gabe. She gets caught, she's fired, and her license is revoked. Then Gabe introduces her to Malik and possibly gets her the job at the manor...
Then Malik or perhaps Robert comes up with a plan. Use Corrine to keep Diana so drugged up she doesn't realize she's signing a new will. A will that leaves most of her fortune to the son she fell out with. But why kill her? Why not just keep her drugged until she inevitably died?
As I scrolled through the list the picture of Corrine's life became clearer and clearer. There were several phone numbers over the years and several addresses too. There were also several social security numbers, but I couldn't do too much with that.
I jotted down the last three most recent phone numbers and addresses before logging off. I would have to check every one, but the good news outweighed the bad for once.
I got her.
****************
The next morning, I awoke with a mild headache and a renewed purpose. After a shower and a Tylenol, I grabbed my cell. There was a call from Manny. I called back; sure he was already awake even though it was five in the morning.
"Hey." I greeted him.
"Sorry I missed your call."
I smiled. "Its fine. I know you get busy. You have to work." The phone vibrated against my ear. The number was unknown. "That's my other line. I need to take this."
"Alright. Talk to you later."
Manny hung up and I answered the unknown caller. "Hello. Evelyn Harper."
"Hello, Ms. Harper," said a chipper voice. "This is Cheryl from Pharma Check. We got your message. What sort of object are you looking to test?"
"I found a syringe." I jumped up and grabbed a pen and paper.
"Okay. We absolutely can test that if you send it in."
"How long does it usually take?"
"About three days."
I scribbled that down. "Is there any way to fast track that?"
"How fast do you need it?"
"As soon as possible."
"Hold on." Cheryl put me on hold without another word. She was gone for about three minutes, then came back with her voice no less chipper. "I spoke with my supervisor. We can get it out in about a day or two if you drop it by before noon."
Two days wasn't that different from three, but time was of the essence. "What's your address?"
It had been quite a drive to Pharma Check. Took thirty-five minutes to get there. I dropped the syringe off in a Ziplock bag and drove near across town to an apartment complex across the street from a strip club. I checked the number for the unit I was looking for, then got out of my car and walked on up to the third floor. Unit 3F was pretty ordinary looking from outside. A worn welcome mat sat crooked near the door and a pair of rain boots were drying under the porch light. I rung the doorbell and waited.
Corrine opened the door with flourish; her eyes wide with excitement, a fine layer of silk barely hid her curves. She wore nothing but the lingerie and Diana Dupont's ugly necklace around her neck.
When she saw me her jovial greeting died in her throat. "Helllooo...oohhhh..."
"Hi! Corrine Thomas? Evie Harper, but you know that."
She frowned. "I have nothing to say to you."
"Oh, really?" She attempted to close the door, but I slid my foot into the opening and winced when it got jammed on my leg. "So you have absolutely nothing to say about the fact that you're an unlicensed nurse administering medicines without any sort of authority."
"Get the hell out of here!"
"One question. Was she even really that sick? You don't work for Hospice. Did they try everything before they sent her home? Was there chemo? Or did you just let her waste away?"
"You don't know what you're talking about!"
"Then enlighten me. I'd hate to have to show up at the police department with educated guesses when you can make this easier and tell me what the fuck's going on!" She wasn't applying any more pressure on the door but I kept my foot firmly in place just in case. "And I know you're a swindler and a cheat but stealing that tacky-ass necklace was low."
She touched her fingers to the pendant. "I didn't steal anything!"
"Nothing but a dying woman's dignity!"
She shook her head. "She really did die of cancer. I didn't kill her."
"But someone did." I stared her down. She knew as well as I did. "You were more acquainted with her health than anyone."
"She had a few weeks left in her...I thought..." She stammered. "I don't know! It was just an estimate..."
"Which one of them did it?"
"There's no proof she was murdered!" Her voice raised. She looked around me and out toward the parking lot to be sure no one had heard.
"But there is proof of tampering with her will." I screwed my mouth up and looked down my nose at her. "When the police find out what Malik and Robert did—they'll get a slap on the wrist, but you and your history of fraud...ten years easy."
"I didn't mess with the will."
"No. That was Robert's job. You just messed with Diana, right? Kept the drugs flowing. Kept her nice and lethargic so she'd sign that bullshit Robert wrote up."
"You can't prove I drugged her."
"I can't prove you beat her either, but I know you did."
"If they catch me talking to you, they'll kill me." I wonder if she means figuratively or literally. "I have company coming. You need to go."
I thought about that for a moment. I could wait on this porch for her 'company' and confront him—no, that wouldn't work. If I stay out here, she'll just call and warn him.
"Fine. But I want the necklace."
"Malik gave me this necklace!" And that confirms who took it.
"Keep it. It's ugly anyway."
Back in my car I watched her door like a hawk. Three minutes later a black BMW pulled into the lot and parked near the entrance. Malik stepped out in a tight-fitting tee shirt and designer jeans. He walked into her apartment like he had not a care in the world—and he didn't. He was inheriting one hundred million dollars including assets.
Or at least he would if I didn't stop him.