Chapter 30 #2
really tired and not crying and hope my eyes haven’t already gotten puffy.
Benny doesn’t notice. He’s tipsy and getting nostalgic and starts reminiscing about Claudia. He’s an artist, which is how
he and Claudia met; he draws and paints portraits (not nudes, he assures me) and she, well, clearly loved The Legend of Zelda, and he happily modeled for her (again, not in the nude—“just topless,” he says, blushing).
It’s bittersweet—they’re good stories, she was a fun, kooky old lady, and I wish I’d gotten a chance to know her better. But
the thrill of Benny being out of jail has long since waned, and I can barely even fantasize about him posing topless. Now
I’m just in a funk about the sad state of my broke-ass life, and really I just want to leave and crawl into bed and try to
sleep for once this week.
Plus, there’s that nagging feeling at the back of my head that I can’t seem to shake. Probably just the reality of my inevitable
second eviction of the year.
That’s when it occurs to me—I could take a loan on the eleven-point-five K. Just a teensy one? Like a payday advance. A down payment. Earnest money. That’s a thing, right?
Because if I can’t get through the month financially, then I can’t solve this murder. I feel like Tond would understand that.
And if I had his phone number, I would totally tell him.
I wrap up our conversation a little abruptly, but Benny is, at this point, many many cold red wines in and doesn’t notice. We hug goodbye, so I guess we’re friends now, and I feel my mood on an upswing as I
head over to Claudia’s with the dogs.
We sneak into her backyard through the alley, across the disheveled lawn, and creak open the bulkhead doors. The four of us
trundle down the dusty concrete steps by the light of my phone, and I shine the beam over to the messed-up Benny statue—
—whose abs are open to the world.
No envelope in sight.
No eleven-and-a-half K.
Nothing.
Nada.
I give the chest cavity a good scour, sticking my hand in, and feeling up into the inside of messed-up Benny, behind his ribs
all the way to his neck.
Nope.
It’s gone.
My body goes hot and then cold. What. The. Fuck.
The dogs won’t stay still, like they sense something.
“What do you smell?” I whisper, scouring the shadows.
They don’t answer, and I can’t breathe. And there are no paper bags anywhere.
All I wanted was a dang loan, and now I’m in a creepy basement with a possible lurking murderer. They could murder me right now.
How long will it take for anyone to notice I’m missing? Days?
How long would it be before someone found my body?
It is a depressing state of affairs that the person who will care most about my absence is definitely Sheila.
My only hope right now is that whoever was here has already left. Please please have already left.
“Is anyone there?” My voice sounds hollow in the darkness.
Nobody answers. I fumble for my phone, and the flashlight throws creepy shadows around the workspace, but no one’s skulking
in the dark. I wait for my heart rate to slow.
“All right, guys,” I say to the dogs, trying to keep it upbeat for all our sakes. “What do you say we really quickly look
for clues and then go eat a lot of ice cream to calm our nerves?”
Jean sits and offers to shake my hand.
Okay, so he does know a few tricks after all.
And since I, too, am motivated not just by my impending potential murder, but also by ice cream, I get on with my snooping.
But for what kind of clue, exactly?
I poke around as fast as I can, digging through filing cabinets and scoping out random papers on the workbench, but it’s all
drawings of grown-up Link from different angles (some of them in various states of undress: very imaginative, Claud). All her art supplies, already gathering dust.
I kneel down and shine my light sideways on the floor because I saw that on a show once, but the only footprints I see are
ours.
I can feel myself getting more desperate. Nothing appears to have been moved since I was here last. Except the money, obviously.
The cellar is totally clue-less.
Just like me.
The poodles and I climb the stairs to the outside, where I shut the bulkhead doors carefully behind us. While the dogs romp through the yard, I flop down into the tall, buggy grass and try not to hyperventilate.
Who took the money? I have to open my mind to all possibilities.
So I picture Val in her beige suit sneaking down and grabbing the money.
Then I imagine the same with Merle, stumbling over his crutches.
Then Benny, snagging some oil paints on his way out.
Tond, sobbing the whole time.
But here’s the problem—nobody knew where the money was.
Sweat prickles my forehead. My throat starts closing up. Is it hot out here?
Almost nobody.
There was one person I trusted. Someone who works closely with the alderman. Someone who works early and late and on Sundays.
Someone who knows everything that happens in the office. Someone friendly and smart. And sexy.
That lady gave me the envelope . . .
The one in the suit . . .
It feels like the ground beneath me falls away as I put the pieces together.
I didn’t tell anyone where I hid the money.
Except for Tasha.