Chapter 31 #2
“You know.” I try a casual laugh that accidentally sounds like a wild boar goring someone. “What did you get up to? Were you,
like, around the neighborhood?”
“Yeah,” she says slowly. “At work. As you know.”
“Cool cool,” I say. Rodney O’Malley’s ease-in technique is harder than I expected.
“Why are you asking?” she asks.
“Becauuuuuse . . .” My brain goes blank and I forget the entire comments section I read last night, so I shoot my coffee and
take a big bite of my croissant to buy time. It showers flakes all over me. “Mm.”
“Listen, Mo,” Tasha says, putting down her barely drunk wine. “I have an ex who was super jealous and controlling and hated that I loved my job, and I just—I can’t do that again. Like, not ever. So if you need to know my whereabouts at all times, maybe it would be better if we just—”
“I’m not like that, I swear—” But then I interrupt myself, because this isn’t actually a relationship negotiation and also more croissant is flaking out of my mouth. I should’ve gotten a muffin. “Thing is, I
already know where you were.”
“Right. At wo—”
“I know you took the money,” I interrupt. “You’re the only person, other than me, who knew where it was.”
There. It’s done.
Tasha does a double take. “The what?”
“The bribe money in Claudia’s statue’s abs,” I clarify, my heart pounding. “The question I have now is, did you also kill
Claudia?”
“Oh my god,” she says slowly. “You’re talking about murder again, aren’t you? You catfished me here with a relationship talk.
This isn’t a jealousy thing, it’s that after wrongly accusing my boss, now you’re accusing me, the person who works for peanuts on purpose because she believes in the importance of helping people, of, what is it again?
Stealing an envelope of bribe money from an old lady’s basement, and—bonus round—possibly murdering her?”
Instead of answering right away, I take this opportunity to drink most of my wine. Because when she says it like that, a tiny
little itsy-bitsy bit of doubt creeps in.
“That’s the gist,” I finally say.
“Mo—” She closes her eyes.
“The money is gone, and you’re the only person I told. What am I supposed to think?”
“I don’t know, maybe you could consider not getting tangled up in a fucking murder investigation! Mo, you are a crossing guard,
not a secret agent. And playing at it, accusing innocent people of doing terrible things, is really, really shitty.”
I wince because she’s kind of yelling, and not in the hot date way I made it sound like to Chris. “You’re the one who’s always talking about civic responsibility!” I argue. “How is this different from what you do?”
“God, I take it back.” She stands up. “I wish you were just a jealous girlfriend type. This is so much worse.”
Her face is red and blotchy and she’s about to cry. I really wish I’d gotten those napkins. And I guess I wish some other
stuff too.
She levels a look at me and takes a ragged breath. “I didn’t take the money. After you left, I was on a video call with the
Chamber of Commerce for two hours. Go ahead and check my ‘alibi’ if you want.” She grabs my phone and types a name and phone
number in it, then thrusts it back to me. “I’m not a thief or a murderer, Mo, I’m a regular person trying to make this city better, and I thought you were too.” She wipes her face roughly.
“You know, I’m usually a pretty good judge of character. Guess I blew it this time.” Tasha slides out of the booth, and then
she’s gone.
All the air goes with her.
I dig for my inhaler, cursing Chris for saying I don’t need it. And even after I use it, my chest aches. This must be a record
for me: only five minutes to lose the one good thing I had going. I want to chase after her, but what could I possibly say?
And—also pretty pressing—if she didn’t take the money, who did? Maybe the gas company dropped in for another poke around?
Maybe the murderer just casually came back to the scene of the crime and found it? Or—and I really hate this thought, almost as much as I hate myself for not thinking of it before accusing Tasha of stealing—was the murderer watching me the whole time?
Suddenly I’m not hungry for the rest of this croissant.
My stomach revolts, and I very much regret housing both the wine and the coffee.
I swing by the bathroom, and as I sit on the toilet, I run through the litany of possible fatal diseases that also cause a stomachache: Ebola (again, not in Chicago, not even when it was a thing in the US), sudden onset colon cancer (note to self: google this), food poisoning (unlikely because not usually fatal), oh and that new hotness: botulism.
I pause for a second.
Why would botulism only show up on my anxiety radar now? I mean, yes, the recent death notwithstanding, it seems like exactly the sort of condition I love to worry about. I sometimes
stress about leprosy for crying out loud. But how did I never get around to worrying about botulism until somebody I knew died of it? I’m never
usually this late to the game. I’m kind of a hypochondria vanguard, not to brag.
And then it hits me.
I run out of the stall and slam into Kendra who’s on her way in. “Watch it,” she says, before realizing it’s me and blanching.
“I bet you’d like that,” I say.
But it’s good timing, because then I slide under the vines at Chris’s booth and sit across from him. He flinches and then
covers it with a smile. “Kendra just went to the—” he says feebly.
“Chris. I have a medical question for you,” I say, all business. “How common is botulism?”
That takes him by surprise. “Botulism?”
“Yeah, you know. Terminal botulism.”
“Fatal. Fatal botulism.”
“Right. That’s what I said. What are the chances of dying of botulism poisoning?”
“You’re not going to get botulism, Mo.” He sighs. “I thought we were done—”
“Spare me the lecture and answer the question. Please.”
He cocks his head at me. “It’s super rare. Like five cases a year, maybe.”
“In Chicago?” I say.
“No, the whole country.”
Whoa.
“Thanks.” My whole body is buzzing as I run out of the Petty Pig.
What are the odds that an experienced canner and asshole perfectionist like Cran would make a mistake so huge? Well, the odds are five in however many people there are in the United States.
The odds are astronomically bad.
Which means that according to the odds, Cran almost certainly got murdered too.
Holy shit.
I walk down the sidewalk in a daze, threading my way through the suits and the corpos, the fashionistas and the yogis. As
I climb the stairs to the train platform, every step up brings me closer to understanding.
It was always strange that Cran died in such a weird way. And heck, using botulism to murder somebody—contaminating Cran’s
beets or whatever—was genius, because of course it would look like an accident.
I suddenly remember what Tond said, that after the gas company delay went so long, his brother “almost gave up on the whole
thing.” If Cran backed out of the parking garage deal, then the deal was dead on arrival. DOA as they say. Just like Cran.
Interesting.
The train arrives and I step on, the door sliding shut behind me. At my seat, my phone dings with a new text from Chris. I’m
ashamed that my heart does a little leap.
Chris: Just wanna say I think you look okay
Ah yes, the master of the compliment, that’s Chris.
My phone pings again.
Chris: I mean, it might be a good idea to buy new makeup
Chris: Just like a product refresh
Chris: I don’t think you need work yet. But Kendra has a groupon that’s about to expire if you want it
Okay, what? Did I ask?? And it’s not like Chris to neg so hard. I wonder if Kendra wrote the text.
I don’t respond. Obviously.
But even that shitty text can’t stop me from feeling the thrill/fear cocktail from this new break in the case.
Yes!
Cran got murdered!