"Guilty thoughts?" A big, tall brown-haired man in a grey suit stood in the doorway. He came in without asking for permission and sat on the edge of the desk, making me seriously concerned he would break it.
"I'm Detective Minsk."
Detective Hanson was right behind him, holding his notepad again.
Interrogation? "How can I help you?" I said. "An Easter basket, perhaps?"
Detective Minsk took a pen from our plastic cup, studied it and put it back. "We were wondering if you or your little…" he looked around and grinned, "company had lost any money recently."
"No. Actually, profits are better than ever," I said proudly.
Hanson scribbled on his notepad.
Minsk nodded. "You see, most of Mr. Allen's other girlfriends lost a few dollars."
"Girlfriends?" I said and swallowed. "How many?"
"Four so far," Minsk said, studying my reaction. "And more are added to the list every day. We're checking outside the state of Colorado."
I nodded, afraid my voice wouldn't support me right now.
"Mr. Allen was a con artist," Hanson spoke behind his partner. "He would charm women to get their money, even marry them under a false name. Made it his business."
"He didn't take any of my money," I said.
"Do your baskets contain any steak knives?" Minsk broke in, leaning forward so I couldn't see Hanson anymore.
"Some," I answered. "Some of the cheese and sausage baskets…" I mumbled. "He was stabbed." The coin dropped now.
"It appears with a knife that may have come from one of your baskets." Minsk stood and buttoned his jacket. "Your associate…"
"Maria Spinoza," Hanson said, after flipping through his notepad.
"…has assured us you'll fax us your accounting data," Minsk went on, reaching inside his jacket, pulling out a card. He tossed it on the desk. "We'll be expecting that information as soon as possible."
The two men left in tandem, leaving me staring at my desk, the business card and the papers underneath. Our first quarter figures. And the coin dropped again.
A year ago, when the logistics of the business got to be overwhelming and our accounting more complex, we hired a part-time bookkeeper. Stacy came in for three hours a week. She was due in Tuesday morning -tomorrow- but I couldn't wait.
I had my index finger entwined in the phone cord when she picked up.
"Stacy? Hi, it's Noelle."
"Miss Porter? I'm coming in tomorrow -is something wrong?"
"No, no, not at all," I said. Liar. "I just need to know something about the first quarter numbers."
"Christopher!" she yelled in my ear. I heard some noise in the back ground. "Sorry, kids you know."
I didn't.
"What's wrong with the financial statements?"
"Nothing. They were excellent. I was just wondering… Our sales were way up, but our expenses weren't." I stared at the printout Maria had given me while I spoke to Tracy. None of it made any sense: if we sold more, we should have the expense in supplies to match. It just didn't add up.
"Yeah, I saw that too," Tracy said. "Maria gave me the money orders. Some last minute sale, she said. When I asked her about matching the inventory expense, she got all irritated. So I just booked the check."
"Okay," I said, feeling my suspicions sink in. But why?
"Maybe you need to talk to Maria," Tracy said.
"I will."
Maria was sitting at the table we used to wrap our baskets, paper filling and baby gifts spread out, cellophane wrapping crumpled on the floor. For the first time since I'd known her, she looked unraveled.
"Having problems?" I said, hearing the tension in my own voice.
Maria looked up and tried a smile. "Nothing is working out today."
I walked over and sat on the edge of the table, like Detective Minsk had on my desk just an hour earlier.
"Those detectives wanted the financials," Maria said, pretending to work on the basket, propping a baby rattle against the wicker only to have it fall on its side.
"I called them just now. They're on their way."
I saw her shoulders tense.
"You stabbed him," I blurted out.
She looked up, defeated. "Yes."
"Why?"
"He…" She played with a pair of tiny yellow socks with ducks on them. "I met him at the university, before you and I became friends," she went on in a soft, calm voice. "We dated. I fell crazy in love. I thought he was too. He even met my parents and they loved him." She laughed, sarcastic and chilling. "He asked my father for my hand, before proposing at dinner. In front of my whole family.
"We married quickly, when I told him I was pregnant. Then he took all my money, the money I was going to use for my Masters degree, the money my parents saved for all those years. All of it." She waved both her hands. "He took everything. And with all the stress, I lost…" She tossed the tiny socks into the basket.
"I'm so sorry," I whispered.
She shook her head. "I was fine. I had moved on, away from Denver, the business was great. Then I see him here, right in our office. Ready to hit me up twice."
Of course he had been there to get me, but I wasn't about to argue with her. I wanted to hear the rest, what happened a week ago.
"I took one of the cheese baskets, in case someone would ask why I was at his apartment, you know. I followed him. He let me in."
"He tried to charm me again and boy, it was hard. But then, we were…" She stopped.
"What?"
She looked up, staring into space, her face expressionless. "I carried the cheese basket into the bedroom, and suddenly I was holding the knife and I just stabbed him. Five times," she said and looked at me with a half-grin. "Once for every ten thousand dollars."
We both sat in silence for a while.
"The first quarter profits," I said.
"I found some money -not all of it, but a lot- in a shoebox under the bed. I converted it to money orders, added it to the business profits," she said and smiled. "I got my money back."
Maria went with Detective Minsk, who was surprisingly soft mannered. Hanson didn't show, and I was slightly disappointed. I was left alone in our very quiet and empty office, the basket with the rattle and baby socks looking like an accusation to me.
Hanson showed up a few days later, looking very relaxed.
"Just here to get those accounting papers," he said when he walked into the office.
I was grateful for the interruption. I handed him the papers. "Quiet here without my partner," I said.
"I heard she has a good lawyer. Considering the circumstances, she may not do too much time." He folded the papers and tucked them inside his jacket. "You did a nice job with those numbers. Good detective work," he said. "We might be able to use your sharp eye in the future."
"Thank you. But I think I've had my share of misery," I said.
He nodded and turned to leave.
"You have my number, then," I said to his back. "If something should happen."
In the doorway, he showed my crumpled business card between his middle and index finger. I smiled.
THE END
Dozens of Fleur Bradley's stories have appeared online and in print, in places like Shred of Evidence, The Thrilling Detective and Pequin. She's written a YA novel, Death to Terry Fontaine, that her agent is finding a publisher for. Find out what Fleur's up to at www.fleurbradley.com