Lizz Lund - Mina Kitchen 02 - Christmas Bizarre (16 page)

“Well, at least you’re working.”

“Thanks.”

“So, do you want to hear our news?”

OMG! “Did Ethel have the twins?”

“Not yet! She’s going to be induced!”

“Wow! Do they have a date yet?”

“No, they’re supposed to find out Wednesday.”

“Great! Call me then, okay? I gotta run.”

We said our good-byes and off I dashed away into the no
n-fallen snow.

Vito was wrestling around in the back of my van while Miriam and the crowd of seniors looked on, holding their noses.

“Got it!” Vito yelped triumphantly, pulling out several bags filled with litter, and the stuff the litter’s for, from the wheel well.

“Yuck! I thought your guy got rid of those last summer?”
I covered my face with my scarf.

Vito nodded.
“He did, Toots. This here’s a different vintage.”

“What the heck?”

“That’s what I think. I’m gonna take these off your hands, and see if I can get them analyzed.”

“Geez, honey – it doesn’t take much to figure out what’s in there!”
Miriam coughed into her glove.

Vito shook his head.
“Whoever did this, was probably the mook who done it before. Just with a different spin.”

I stared at Vito, feeling the blood draining from my face.
“You mean this time, there were no explosives set up under my van?”

“Under the van might be the least of your problems.”

I tried not to shudder. “I better go or I’ll be late.”

“Where are you working now?”

“The mall.”

Vito shook his head.
“Maybe you want to borrow a car? Driving the Doo-doo may not be so healthy for you. If you know what I mean.”

“Well, of course!” Miriam yelped, springing toward the back of the van.
“Here!” She whipped out a vial of perfume from her purse and sprayed the inside of the van for all she was worth.

We took a collective step back
ward.

“You like it?
I’ll get you some!”

“What is it?” I coughed.

“Rosé Femanique! Smells just like fresh roses, don’t it?”

I nodded, clambering in and opening the windows.
I started the ignition. It sputtered and died.

“Oh! You forgot, didn’t you?”

I pounded my head gently on the wheel. “Yes, Miriam, I did.”

“Well, that’s no problem! C’mon gang!”

I launched down the driveway as Miriam conducted the gang’s serenading my exit with, “There’s No Place Like Home for the Holidays.”

The mall was packed.
I waited in line to claim a parking space – even the employee ones at the way back were filling up. A dark navy blue Lincoln Towncar sped past me, leaving the mall. I looked up just in time to see Myron Stumpfs behind the wheel. Wasn’t that Buddy’s new Towncar? Or did they buy matching ones, for Mail-It-2? Weird idea for branding, if you asked me.

I
pushed through the crowds towards Santa’s stand. It was empty, except for Santa sitting on his throne, eating a seven-dollar cookie.

I threw off my jacket and donned my Sidekick wear like a whirling dervish.

“What’s with the cookie?”

Santa pointed.
“The ‘Cookie Break’ sign is up.”

“That was from the last shift.”

“You want the kids should think Santa fibs?”

I rolled my eyes back toward the North Pole.
The line of kids waiting to sit on Santa’s lap was slightly less than one to sit on Justin Bieber’s.

I looked around
, then stared at Santa. “Where’s the other Sidekick?”

“Got me.
I’m not HR. I just make toys.”

“
Very funny.”

I got ready to switch gears and launch into solo mode – ugh – when a high school kid climbed over the
rope and stood in front of me. He continued to text.

“Can I help you?”

“Sure.”

“If you want your picture taken with Santa, you’ll need to wait at the end of the line.”

The kid actually broke eye contact with his phone. “I’m not having my picture taken with Santa!”

I shrugged.
“Well, you do seem a little old for that.”

“I’m here to be a Sidekick!
I’m supposed to report to the other Sidekick, Mina Kitchen.” He pulled on his Sidekick vest with as much disdain as a seasoned veteran.

“Really? Oh. Well, that’s me.”

“You’re a Sidekick?”

“Yep.”

“Aren’t you a little old for that?”

“My checkbook doesn’t think so.”

Several lifetimes later, we approached the end of our shift. As usual, my knees had been knocked, my shins smashed and for a little added variety, I stubbed my foot against a step and was pretty sure I’d broken a toe.

Text-boy did nada regarding
crowd control. Zippo. He was the black hole of social interactions. Except online. He was instrumental at making sure the line stayed strong and linear via Facebook, Twitter, and God only knows what other social media. On the upside, he was good with the computer – so for once I didn’t have to call Nelson.

Jane came up behind us.
“So, how did Stevie do?”

I whirled around.
“Oh! Ah, great! Hey, can I…”

“Star.”

Jane turned to him. “You’re interrupting.”

“Mom, how many times to I have to tell you?
It’s Star now, you know?”

Mom?

Jane rolled her eyes heavenward, and back to me. “So?”

Realizing that dissing the boss’ progeny might be unwise, I retro’d back to my Jersey roots:
I lied like a cheap rug. “Terrific! He’s some kid!”

Jane smiled.
“That’s wonderful.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Oh, and Kitchen, here.” Jane handed me a brand new vest. “I noticed the back of your vest is somewhat… soiled.”

“Another vest?”

“It’s all right, Kitchen. Just get yours cleaned and return the new one, and we’ll call it even.”

“Oh.
Okay.”

“But just this once.”

The mall was open until midnight, so there were still throngs of shoppers packed inside. As I passed the Mail-It-2 kiosk on my way out, I noticed a closed sign. A huddle of disappointed gift-givers stood around grumbling.

“Crap.”

“Now what am I supposed to do?”

“UPS, here I come.”

“With that kind of delivery cost, I might just as well take it myself and visit them after all. Rats.”

I wondered why the kiosk would be closed with Christmas
around the corner – less than two weeks away. It seemed funny that all three of them— Bernie, Myron and Dexter— would be off at the same time. Then again, they didn’t strike me as rocket doctors. They probably got their wires crossed and were going to have a fit and fall in it once they realized they gave themselves the same shift off, and their stand stood closed.

I drove home
, muttering to myself about vests. I couldn’t take it to Lickety-Split – especially while Mrs. Phang was AWOL. And I really didn’t want to fork over another thirty bucks. I pondered the idea of calling K. and asking about his dry cleaning network, when suddenly I looked up and realized the car in front of me was at a complete stop and I was not.

My van
banged nose to bumper with a dark green Crown Vic.

The driver got out and walked steadily toward me.

“Hey, Mina. I figured we’d run into each other again.”

“Ha, ha.
‘Run into each other.’ Good one. Wow, really sorry, Dexter. Complete accident on my part.” Dexter! OMG WTF?

“No it wasn’t.
I made sure to slam my brakes hard. But the cops will figure it was an accident.”

“You’re calling the cops?”

He shook his head. “No need to. They’ll figure it out after they find your van.”

“Huh?”

He opened the door and grabbed my arm. “Why don’t you step inside my office and I’ll explain it to you?” He dragged me out of the van toward the Crown Vic.

I responded reasonably by
slamming him upside the head with my clipboard.

“Youch!”

“Hey, how come the Doodoo’s pulled over? Your radio on the fritz?” Trixie pulled up in her Jeep. Mike was with her.

Dexter threw me down on the ground hard.
Before I could look up, there was a squeal of tires and he was gone.

Mike helped me up.
“Should I call that in?”

“No.
I don’t know. We had an accident.”

Mike checked out the bumper, while Trixie checked my bumps.
“Yeah, I know about these kind of accidents. Usually these guys wait by a traffic light. Then, when the light turns and the victim accelerates, they ram into him, creating an ‘accident’. The victim gets out of his vehicle, ready to trade papers, and then he gets jumped.”

“But I hit him.”

“Really?”

“Actually, he said he hit his brakes hard on purpose.”

Mike looked at me. “You know this guy?”

I gave him the thumb-nail sketch of our unhealthy mall employee relationship as well as Dexter’s psychopathic tendencies.

“You’d be better off staying clear of this guy.”

“You think?”
I was about to tell Mike about feeling followed, and all the Crown Vic sightings I’d had. But something held me back. It was probably my humiliation-alarm warning me I was about to sound like a whacko.

“I just called Vito. He’s expecting you in
fifteen minutes.” Trixie clapped her phone shut and shoved a piece of gum in her mouth.

“Vito? You
sic’d Vito on me?”

Trixie shrugged.
“You won’t get a cell phone. And we’ve got tickets. So I can’t follow you home.”

I pretended to kick a rock.
“I can drive myself home. I don’t need a babysitter.”

Trixie shook her head.
“If that looney’s this hostile toward you about some stupid mall job, he could be waiting for you at home.”

Well.
That was a sobering thought. Maybe Vito and Miriam weren’t so bad after all. At least, as long as they didn’t make me eat their food.

“
Actually, he might be sore about the bird repeating his conversation in the men’s room.”

“You were in the men’s room?”

“Just outside it.”

“A the bird was in the men’s room?”

“No. The bird was with me. After I rescued Walter from it.”

“Walter was with a bird? He hates birds.”

“I know. That’s why Ida Rose had me take the bird.”

“Ida Rose?”

“She was helping Walter with his book signing.”

“Damn! I knew there was something I forgot! So whose bird was it?”

“No one’s. It was up for adoption at the mall, and kind of got out. Along with the mastiff.”

“Mastiff?”

“Yeah. I was walking the mastiff and the bird back, when we overheard Dexter and Myron arguing something about boats and vacations and Buddy Bergers.”

“The fast food chain?”

I shook my head. “It’s an unfortunate coincidence. Apparently Buddy’s an old pal of Vito’s.”

“This smells like trouble. You better keep your left up. You might want to fill Mike in later. Or Appletree.”
She unwrapped another piece of gum, and popped it in her mouth.

“Didn’t you just put a piece of gum in your mouth?”

Trixie shook her head. “Anti-smoking gum. Smoke-Done. Right now I could use double strength.”

Trixie and Mike waited to make sure I drove off okay (thank you,
“Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer”) and they took off for the Yankee Music Theater. Dusk was falling, and the rosy pink sky grew dark quickly. I made my way home with nary a Crown Vic in sight.

I said it before,
and I’ll say it again: I hate Mondays. I shuffled downstairs and into the kitchen with all the enthusiasm of a minimum wage laborer. 

“I guess I got a little carried away.”

Vinnie agreed.
He thwacked his tail against a pot on the floor. I sighed and wiped some sauce off of it. His tail. Not the pot.

As promised, last night Vito stood waiting for me on the front porch, looking as anxious as a dad on his daughter’s first date.
Miriam compounded the mix by insisting on inviting me over, and producing cocktails. That’s when I discovered Miriam’s mixology skills keep an even pace with her recipe replacements. How the heck can you screw up a Bloody Mary? Oh, I remember: substituting rum for vodka (they were all out) and cramming burnt bacon strips for stirrers into it (they were also out of celery).

After insisting I was fine dining solo (“Gosh! I almost forgot! I already ordered a pie to be delivered! Sorry!”) I was finally released.
It was my second virtual kidnapping for the week and I was feeling a bit nervy. As soon as I got inside the front door, I got cooking. I had to— otherwise I’d break out in hives.

Yesterday
had been an off-putting day, at best. Especially with visions of Dexter dancing through my head. Quicker than I could put a finger to the side of my nose, I’d whipped up several pans of roasted vegetables, a creamy cauliflower casserole, home-made pickled red cabbage and a pork tenderloin with reduced balsamic vinegar and raspberry gastrique. It took a while to make and by nine o’clock I was feeling hungry. Luckily I had last night’s lasagna at the ready.

But
as quickly as I’d become possessed by the culinary crazies, I crashed. I’d wimped out big time in the clean-up department and now there were dirty pots and pans karma to pay.

I set to washing until Vinnie stood up, patted my hip and sauntered over to the pet food cabinet.
He sat in front of it, gave me his silent meow, and nodded his chin toward the cupboard.

“Oh, geez.”

Marie piped up in agreement from upstairs. Another county heard from.

I made the rounds and got them
happy, then decided to make myself happy with some gourmet coffee I’d been saving. This morning might not be a special occasion but it sure needed something to get the lead out.

I no sooner got my hands submerged in the sink, when the phone rang.
I glanced at the clock and muttered an oath. It was just past eight o’clock. I really, really hoped Barry wasn’t calling in sick again.

“Mina Kitchen?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Lori, from the Kinzers Employment Agency.”

My heart did a flip-flop. Could a normal job actually be on the horizon? “Yes?”

“You interviewed with us several months ago.
Are you still available for temporary assignments?”

Oh.
Temporary. Well. But, maybe it would lead to something? “Yes, unfortunately, I am; ha, ha.”

The joke fell flat.
I heard papers being rustled. “Wonderful. Do you do transcription?”

I assured her I could,
and she quizzed me about the technical details.

“Now, the rate for this assignment is
eighteen dollars an hour. It’s marked as an ongoing assignment, so it could be through the end of the week, the end of the month, or longer. Are you okay with that?”

Eighteen
bucks an hour!
After what I’d been getting paid at my part time jobs, I felt like I’d moved into the next tax bracket. Hey, maybe I could quit the Sidekick job – woot! “That would be acceptable.” Jersey girls never let you see them sweat.

“Now the law firm is located on Lime Street, just before you get to Orange.”
She gave me the address of the firm.

“Oh, yes.
I know where you mean. When do I start?”

“Actually, this morning.
They open at nine. Can you be there?”

I
stared at the clock, wishing it were in a time warp. “Wow, this is cutting it close.”

“I understand.
If you’d rather decline the assignment…”

“No! I definitely want it.
Can you let them know I’ll be there as soon as I can?”

We hung up, and all Vinnie saw of me was my dust as I flew upstairs.

I raced downtown and parked at the Duke Street garage. My high-heels clicked along the pavement, and I felt a little ill at ease. It’d been a long time since I’d worn heels, or worked in an office. I hadn’t really missed it – but my creditors had. Luckily, I had tons of nine-to-five outfits that still looked cute. Even though I berated myself for wearing the heels. They’re not appropriate footwear if I seriously thought I was being followed by a psycho like Dexter. But it was daylight, and besides, vanity won out. What kind of a psycho attacks first thing in the morning?

I stepped out of the elevator and into a large reception area.
I walked toward the receptionist to introduce myself.

The gal at the front desk was hissing into the phone.
“I told you I mailed them! Two weeks ago! What do you mean, they’re not there?”

“Excuse me?”

“I can’t track them. I don’t have the stupid number. They sent it.”

“Pardon?”

“Look, I am not going to buy those Xbox games again! They cost a fortune!”

“I’m here to see…”

“Fine! Go ahead and tell them I’m the meanest Auntie in the world!” She slammed the phone down and clasped her forehead.

“I’m here to see Mr. Hamilton?”

She looked up and noticed me for the first time.

“We don’t accept solicitations.”

I sighed. “I’m not selling anything. I’m here to work for Mr. Hamilton.”

“Oh.
You’re the temp. Just a minute.”

She buzzed the inner sanctum.
“Madeline, our office manager, will be out in a minute. Have a seat.”

I sat my temp butt down in a
temp wing chair and waited. Temp. Feh. But I reminded myself it was a way to get my foot in the door. You never know. Although I was not digging the office vibe.

Madeline Craybill came out and introduced herself.
She escorted me past a series of cubicles and offices with uptown furniture and downtown views. She stopped in front of a secretary’s station. “This is where you’ll be working. There’s a coat closet, just there,” she pointed.

I hung up my coat.

Then she walked me over to the nearest office door. “Mr. Hamilton, your temporary assistant, Mina, has arrived.”

“About time.
We start work here promptly at nine, miss.”

I
stared at them both. “I’m sorry. I thought the agency told you…”

“They did.
Mr. Hamilton, Mina was contacted just this morning.”

“I see.
Well, see that you’re here on time tomorrow. You do transcription?”

“Yes.”

“Here.” He handed me several micro tapes - the old fashioned kind. I took a deep breath. It was going to be a long day. Week. Month. Yes.

“Thanks.”
I plastered on a smile and turned to leave.

“Oh, and while you’re at it, take this and get me some coffee.”

Get him
coffee
? Was he joking? What did he think this was, 1964?

“I’ll show you to the break room, Mina.”
Madeline walked out and waited.

Well.
I stood corrected. I wondered where to buy my pill-box hat. As well as what they’d make of the internet and Priuses if they ever ventured outside the office doors.

I took the coffee mug, dumped the cassettes on my desk and followed.
Madeline gave me the run-down of the office schedule and made the usual small talk. Was I from Lancaster? How long have I lived here? Cold winter this year, yes?

“This is regular, and this is the decaf,” she pointed toward the pots.
“We have extra mugs in this cabinet, in case Mr. Hamilton has a visitor. He usually doesn’t.”

“Thanks.”

“Oh, and feel free to help yourself to coffee.”

“Oh! Thank you.”
Huh. I guessed I’d been a tad judgmental.

“Certainly.
The donation box for staff is just there, to the left of the creamers.”

I stood corrected
— again. A certain lyric from bygone days of “The Music Man” sprang to mind, from the song “Iowa Stubborn.” Musical theatre buffs take note. ‘Nuff said.

Madeline left as I went to toss the leftover coffee into the sink, but found it wouldn’t budge.
That’s because it was held back by a giant green stopper. This, in fact, was a thick, round layer of mold. It had taken apparently taken residence inside Hamilton’s mug since dinosaurs roamed the Earth. Yick!

For a moment, I considered pouring the new coffee on top of the putrid growth.
I took a breath, counted to ten, and decided to make eighteen-bucks-an-hour my new mantra.

I scrubbe
d out the gunk, poured Hamilton’s coffee, and grabbed some creamers and sugars and stirrers for him. Just to be on the right side of karma.

Outside Hamilton’s office door, I heard him yelling into the phone.
I placed his beverage and fixings on the desk and fled. I sat at my new desk and started transcribing. After several false starts, mostly because I couldn’t hear the tape above his ranting, I got up and quietly closed his door.

Lunchtime came, and I’d
finally finished the first drafts. I bundled them up and went to his office and found the door still closed. I knocked. No answer. I went back to my desk, and saw his line was still busy. Was he still on the same call? Couldn’t be.

It was
almost one o’clock and I fretted about fitting into Madeline’s lunchtime parameters. I walked back and knocked timidly on the door. “Mr. Hamilton? I’ve got your drafts.”

Silence.

“I thought I’d go to lunch, if that’s all right?”

Not a peep.

Well, this was a conundrum. I couldn’t just leave. I had to give him his drafts. Otherwise he’d think I hadn’t done my job, right?

I thought for a moment and figured the best bet would be to leave a note on top of the stack letting him know I was leaving for lunch and when I’d return.

I finished the note and walked back to his door. I knocked once again – for luck? No response.

I was a bit nervous about getting HA’d (hollered at) for inte
rrupting a private conversation, but there wasn’t much choice.

I turned the door handle and stepped inside.
Hamilton sat in his chair, with his back to me. I walked over and quietly put the papers down on the desk. His head leaned forward, slack on his chest. This made sense, given the fact that his 23-inch monitor was blinking full tilt with a gambling site that flashed a 54 font sized message: he’d just lost $96,000. That, and he appeared to be dead.

I flew out of his office and slammed the door shut.
I leaned against the door, panting.

“Hey, are you al
l right?”

I whipped around to find a woman walking briskly toward me.

“Uh, yes.”

She shook her head, and lowered her voice. “You don’t want to be slamming doors around here. Especially Mr. Hamilton’s.”

I nodded.

“You’re his new temp, right?”

I nodded again.

She motioned me to follow her. “I’m Amber. I started out as a temp here, too. It’s not so bad.”

“It’s just that Mr. Hamilton, he’s umm…”

She rolled her eyes. “Let me guess. Told you to get him coffee, screamed on the phone at his wife for an hour, and then locked the door.”

“He didn’t lock the door.”

“Holy crap! You walked in on him?”

“I didn’t mean to.”

Amber looked around a little furtively. “What was he doing in there?”

“Not much.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing.”

“Really?”

“Really.
”

“Why?”

“He’s dead.”

“What?”

Amber ran into Hamilton’s office, with me hot on her heels. “Oh. My. God.”

“I know! I know!
Who starts a job and her boss croaks on the first day?”

Amber put a hand to her forehead.
“C’mon, let’s get out of here. We better call Madeline ASAP.”

I glanced at what remained of Hamilton and his coffee.
I had an uneasy feeling that maybe the last coffee maid had ignored the mold.

We walked over to Amber’s desk and she dialed Madeline’s
extension. “Yes,
dead!
Really!” There were a few more uh-huh’s and she hung up. “Madeline wants us to meet her.” We walked back and waited outside his office.