Unfinished Business - Barbara Seranella (20 page)

"You gotta exit through the bookstore,"
Lenny said, pointing toward the shop of sex supplies.

"Bookstore?" St. John realized this was a
marketing ploy.

Obviously Century Entertainment had taken a lesson
from Disneyland, herding everyone getting off the rides through the
souvenir stand. He pushed through the one-way door of the attached
shop, past mannequins with spike-studded leather bustiers and the
rack of porn magazines. He stopped and bought a copy of each of the
latest issues. The cashier was surprised and a little offended when
St. John insisted on a receipt.

D.W. called Munch at a couple minutes past three.
"Robin's fine," he said.

"Did you talk to her?" Munch asked.

"She left a message at the hospital that she was
going away for the week"

"The hospital?"

"Yeah, she talked to some volunteer with the
Meals-On-Wheels program."

"I wish she had called me," she said.

"She probably will."

That afternoon business picked up. It more than
picked up. It flooded in. Sometimes Munch wondered if all those
customers waited huddled behind some starting line and at a
prearranged signal all agreed to come in at once.

She didn't even get a chance to use the bathroom
until just before she left. The wad of toilet paper she had jammed
into the hole above the dispenser was on the floor. Whether it had
fallen out or been pushed from the other side, she didn't know. She
picked it up and stuffed it back in. Whatever was going on here would
have to wait until tomorrow. She washed up and then went into Lou's
office to use the phone.

"Who you calling?" Lou asked.

"The school."

"St. Teresa's," a woman's voice answered.

"Mrs. Frowein?"

"Yes, this is she."

"This is Munch Mancini. Do you know if Asia was
picked up yet?"

"Yes. I waited with her myself. I even made Mrs.
St. John show me her driver's license."

Munch smiled. "Thank you."

"My goodness, dear,
it was the least I could do."

* * *

The house was quiet when Munch got home. She turned
on the television and took a long bath. The phone rang at six-thirty.
She switched on the tape recorder and then lifted the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Hi." Asia's high voice was breathless.

"Are you having fun?" Munch asked.

"Caroline and me are making cookies," Asia
said.

"
Caroline and I," Caroline said in the
background.

"Caroline and I," Asia dutifully repeated.
"And I saw a rabbit at school today. "

"What kind of cookies?"

"Chocolate chip."

"Are any of them making it into the oven?"

"Yesss," Asia said in that long-suffering
tone of hers.

"I miss you."

Munch heard the phone drop and Asia saying, "Sit.
Sit. Good girl."

Caroline's voice came on the line then. "Sorry
about that," she said. "Were you through talking?"

"
Yeah. She sounds like she's having a good
time."

"How are you?" Caroline asked.

Lonely jealous. “Fine."

"Do you want to come over?"

"No. Really, I'm fine. I'm going to have some
soup, and then climb into bed with a good book."

"We're here if you need us," Caroline said.

"I know that. You always have been."

After hanging up, Munch felt too exhausted to worry
about Robin anymore. Asia was safe, that was what mattered most. She
double-checked all the doors and windows before going to bed. Sleep
was a long time coming.
 

Chapter l 7
 
FRIDAY

Friday at work was even busier than the last part of
Thursday. Munch was grateful for the pace. Even Lou was less than
dour. The workload forced him to roll up his sleeves and perform two
tune-ups and a carb overhaul.

He actually grinned at her when she drove past him on
her way into her lube bay to service a Chevy Luv. Feeling good, she
set the hoist and lifted the pickup into the air. After draining the
oil, changing the filter, and squirting grease into the zerk
fittings, she inspected the rear axle assembly. Checking the
differential fluid level involved unscrewing the fill plug and
sticking her finger in the hole. After confirming that the axle
housing was full, she brought her finger to her nose. She loved the
pungent smell of the molasses-thick ninety-weight gear oil. She would
always groan if it spilled into her hair or down her shirt, but
secretly she really didn't mind. It was the smell of her making her
own living, doing a job she loved. What did she care if someone else
had gone to some college so that he or she could spend a life at a
desk inside an eighteen-story office building, window view or no? The
rest of the day breezed by with all of the back-room crew running
from job to job, making horns blow, air-conditioning colder, and
stumbling idles smooth. The only hassle was some guy in a Suburban
who claimed to have an appointment with Pauley for a detail. Munch
had to tell him that Pauley had called in earlier to say he was
spending the day mobile. This meant that instead of working out of
the station, Pauley loaded up his various supplies and went to his
customers' homes instead. The guy in the Suburban wanted to make
another appointment, and Munch had to explain that Pauley was an
independent contractor. She didn't have a home phone number for him.
The guy in the Suburban didn't leave before giving Munch a whole
ration of shit about how that was no way to run a business.
 

When she arrived home that evening, Munch left her
GTO idling in her driveway as she got out to unlock the padlock on
the chain-link fence. She arched her back to relieve her stiff
muscles, now aggravated by cold and the commute home—the first time
she had sat still all day. She knew she had cleared close to three
hundred dollars. If only every day could be so profitable!

A movement by the house caught her eye. It was
Garret, waiting for her on her front porch. She raised a hand in
greeting. He must have hopped the four-foot chain-link fence
encircling the front yard. They had plans to attend a cocktail
reception at Logan Sarnoff's home in the Palisades. Tonight's party
was a thank-you to all the vendors and volunteers like Munch who were
contributing to the Charity League-sponsored ftmd-raiser to find a
cure for cancer. Most of the funds raised were already earmarked for
the Bergman Cancer Center, though it seemed to Munch that if they
spent less time and money on all the thank-you and congratulations
parties, they'd have a lot more for the charities. She wished the
party had been canceled out of respect for Diane. The only
appointment she wanted to keep was with a hot bubble bath and maybe
some good boom-boom with Garret.

Her fingers refused to cooperate. The numerous tiny
cuts on her knuckles broke open anew as she fit first one key then a
second into the dual padlocks on the gate. Black-stained lines
delineated the calluses on her thumbs and forefingers where they had
gripped countless bolts. Her cuticles were hopeless: split at the
quick and encased in grease. She knew that even if she soaked for an
hour, her hands wouldn't come completely clean. That would take a
week—it only happened on the last day of one of her twice-a-year
vacations.

"Sorry" she said, taking in Garret's
scrubbed face and newly pressed slacks. "I'll try to be quick. I
got tied up at work with a Chrysler; the customer wanted it back for
the weekend." She paused before opening the door and smiled at
him. "Man, what a day."

"How about a kiss?" he asked.

She obliged him, then opened the door. After kicking
off her shoes, she strode across the living room. Garret followed.
"I'll get cleaned up," she said, "and we'll go."

"No problem," he answered. "What can I
do to help?"

"Turn back the clock," she said, shedding
her greasy uniform as she headed for the laundry room. She threw her
uniform shirt and pants in the diaper pail she kept for that purpose.
At the end of the week she took the dirties in to work for the
uniform company to launder and replace with a clean set. Until then,
she didn't want her house to smell like the shop. Once she was home,
she preferred gardenias.

"Don't stress," he said. "It's
actually fashionable to arrive a little late."

"We're going to fashionable, all right."
The washing machine was full with a load of towels and sheets. She
had meant to run it that morning. She picked up a box of laundry soap
and began to scatter it on the dry wash.

"I'll do it," Garret said, taking the box
from her. "You go. Make yourself pretty . . .er."

She wished he would stop trying so hard to flatter
her. She didn't need it. "Thanks," she told him, forcing a
smile. Just because she was feeling rushed and irritated, she
shouldn't take it out on him. Maybe he gave her so many unasked-for
strokes because he was hungry for them himself. The problem was, she
hated to offer him any extra encouragement. She was already granting
him as much as she felt comfortable with. But she couldn't very well
explain that, could she? That she was willing to share her bed a
night a week but drew the line at emotional involvement.

She walked through the kitchen in her underwear,
grabbed the dish soap, and took it into the bathroom with her.
Squeezing a liberal dollop under the rushing water, she waited for
the tub level to rise in a fluffy layer of lemon-scented bubbles that
would cut the grease from her body and prevent a bathtub ring.

She usually allowed twenty minutes for her evening
bath. She needed the time to herself, a decompression period to give
her a chance to unwind and make the transition between work and home.
Ruby had suggested this when they were still speaking regularly.

With a small X-Acto knife Munch carefully scraped
away as much grease as she could from under her fingernails, letting
the curls of black grease fall into the open toilet. She then
finished undressing, undid her hair, and sank into the steaming
bubble bath with a sigh of short-lived relief as Garret joined her.

"Need me to wash your back?"

"More like watch it," she said, hunching
her shoulders forward.

"Something happen?"

"Remember Diane Bergman? The nice lady l told
you about who hired the limo last weekend?"

"Yeah, the one you're helping raise funds for
cancer research. She'll be there tonight, right?"

"No. Haven't you seen the news? She died."

"She did? She was only like fifty, wasn't she?"

"It wasn't natural causes. And another customer
of mine, Robin Davies, who lives down the street from the station,
got raped last month."

"Jesus," he said, stunned. He closed the
toilet lid and sat. "Did they catch the guy?"

"No." She soaped up a washcloth and started
working on her knuckles. "The guy is still out there. He's been
calling Robin and we think he's the same one who called me."

"What?" Garret jumped to his feet. "When
was this?"

"Tuesday night."

"Why didn't you call me?"

"It was late."

"And you probably figured it was just some
prank," he said. His expression was so hopeful she didn't want
to deflate him by mentioning the note on Asia's coat or the second
call.

"Yeah, right. But then I was at Robin's house
with Mace St. John . . ."

"When did you see him?"

"He came by the other day "

"So he's the 'we."'

She hesitated before answering. "He's involved
in the case."

"He wants to get into your pants."

"No he doesn't. We're friends, Garret. You knew
that when I met you."

"That's what you said."

She felt the tension increasing in her neck and
shoulders. "I've told you a million times, he's not like that.
He's Asia's godfather, for Chrissakes. You know I help him with the
Bella Donna."

Garret snorted. "And I suppose you're the only
mechanic around."

"Maybe he just recognizes genius."

"Yeah, I'm sure that's it."

The bubbles around her were beginning to pop. She
covered her face with the washcloth and inhaled.

"Why were you at Robin's house with him? For
that matter, why are you even involved at all?"

"I thought he, we, could help her. While we were
there she played a message the rapist left her and it sounded like
the same guy who called me."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I've been trying. And now to make matters even
more complicated, Robin has disappeared."

"Are you in danger?"

"No, I don't think so. The cops gave me a
recorder to tape the calls."

"How many times has this guy called you? What
does he say?" He ran his fingers through his hair and paced the
small floor.