Ed Lynskey

A Jewel of a Job

"Hi, Sharon," Butcher said in his abrasive, loud voice. "I've got a situation here."

She let out a sigh. Astronauts in Apollo 13 hurled out of orbit into the deep vacuum of space had situations, not the owner of a rental storage space facility. "You couldn't have caught me at a worse time," she told him.

"You sound tense," said Butcher. "What's up with that?"

"My mom is due here within the hour," said Sharon. "I have a hundred things to do."

"Maybe I can take her to the museums downtown."

Despite her best efforts, Sharon's outburst of laughter couldn't be suppressed. "Sorry. My life is filled with enough hilarity as it is."

"Don't say I didn't offer to help," said Butcher with a shrug in his voice. "Both of my new lockers have motor oil sprayed all over," he said. "The contract holds Mr. Esposito, my deadbeat renter, responsible for it."

"Let me guess. You couldn't get in touch with Mr. Esposito," said Sharon," and you want me to go hunt him down."

"His phone is disconnected. Look, this falls outside our agreement so I'll pay your going rate. Deal?"

"Time is tight," said Sharon. "Give me whatever information you have. I can't promise a rush on this."

"Hey, thanks. Do what you can. Hell, I can't rent his lockers until they're spotless again."

Just as Sharon cut their connection, a braking engine's drone at the curbside drew her attention out the picture window. She stood on tiptoe to gaze over the hollyhock hedge. A blue-and-white checkered taxi disgorged its fare and pulled away into the street, pistons pinging from cheap gasoline.

"Damn," said Sharon. "She's way too early."

The slim lady half a head taller than Sharon stooped in the knees and hoisted up a 1970s red vinyl suitcase in each hand. Onward she marched. Sharon watched in awe. Leave it to Arlene Knowles to render a mundane chore like lugging luggage up the walk look cinematic and elegant. Her stylish dress in a powder blue suit with matching low-slung pumps left Sharon in her black denim jeans, T-shirt, and Nikes feeling a bit doughty. A sedate rap at the door prodded Sharon's reluctant steps over to answer it. Her mother's also white hair appeared cut shorter, her always ageless clear skin tanned to a creamed coffee hue. Her face -- relaxed, serene, attractive -- brightened with pleasure upon seeing Sharon greeting her warmly.

"Oh Sharon, you look thinner," said her mother. They fell into an affectionate embrace.

"I could've picked you up at the airport," said Sharon, taking up the suitcases from the stoop.

They filed over pine floor planks into the guest bedroom. "Hardly necessary. Tell about yourself. We haven't spoken in such an appreciable while. Are you still employed in that business?" her mother asked.

"What business?" Sharon fought off a rising defensiveness. Old quarrels never died.

"Come now. You know perfectly well what I mean. The PI trade, what you once told me was 'a jewel of a job.'"

"Let's not fight five minutes after you've stepped through my door."

Mrs. Knowles tsk-tsked. "Tell me, dear, what current case amuses you? What MacGuffin are you searching for?"

"MacGuffin? Huh?"

"The secret map or formula or whatever. You've never heard that term used? Sir Alfred Hitchcock, if memory serves, coined it. He was so glib and sly."

Frowning, Sharon wagged her head. "I stay pretty busy. As a matter of fact, my landlord was on the phone with me when you pulled up. He's hired me to track down a deadbeat client."

Her mother exaggerated an eye roll. "Sounds marvelous. What if we pool our resources and wits as a mother and daughter detective team? We'll be bigger than the singing Judds. Has that ever been done before? I have a craving to inject some much needed spice into my life."

"You're in for a real shocker," said Sharon. "Nothing could be less glamorous or more boring than PI work. But come along if you want. I know there's no telling you anything. You have to experience it for yourself."

"Sounds marvelous," said her mother. "It'll be a gas."

"Yes, hydrogen which explodes from a single spark," said Sharon.

Butcher was angry. He'd thrown open two bay doors to his storage lockers. Nothing had changed. The concrete floor, metal walls, and low ceiling were doused with used motor oil. A smudged fingerprint showed where he'd swiped it to examine what filth he was dealing with before calling Sharon on the phone. The slipperiness between his thumb rubbed over forefinger and a sniff test confirmed what he suspected.

"This beats the band," Butcher said. "That Esposito went nuts in here. I can't imagine how he sprayed motor oil on the ceiling. Well, he ain't heard the last of me."

A late-model Honda signaled to turn into the storage facility. In spite of his morose mood, Butcher grinned a little. Sharon was one of his favorite people. He watched her creep up the red gravel lane and through the chain link gate. After parking in her customary slot, both ladies got out and emerged into the sunshine.

"Hey, Sharon," said Butcher. "Is this your beautiful mother, by chance?"

"Yes and she's set to help me on your case," said Sharon. "Mister Butcher meet my mother, Arlene Knowles. Mom, this is my landlord and our current client."

"Pleased," said Mrs. Knowles to Butcher. "Excuse my informal garb."

"We haven't yet checked the street address you gave me for Esposito," said Sharon.

"Yeah well first come have a look at the two lockers," said Butcher. He led them over the gravel toward the end units. Pointing, he said, "Sharon makes her office up yonder. It's a utility closet really, but she has fixed it up nice. She's a great security officer."

"A utility closet?" Mrs. Knowles put on a funny face. "How much does she pay in rent?"

Sharon moved to steer the conversation away from that topic. "Never mind, mom. How did Mr. Esposito manage to fling oil every which way?" she asked Butcher.

"Your guess is as good as mine," said Butcher. They halted in front of the first dirty locker. Sharon wrinkled her nose at the oily smell.

"The oil appears evenly dispersed." She entered the locker and pivoted on her heels. "Butcher, hit the light switch . . . that's better. Okay, let's be logical about this. What might require a film of oil sprayed on it and why?"

"Oil is sometimes used as a rust preventative," said Butcher.

"Good. What steel things have you seen brought into the storage yard?"

Absent-mindedly Butcher scratched an elbow. "Nothing springs to mind. Lots of folks bring stuff inside their vans and pickup trucks."

"Good. What if we're talking about something illicit?" said Sharon. "That might explain why Mr. Esposito took off in the middle of the night."

"Don't even suggest that," said Butcher. "I don't need any more bad publicity."

Sharon's mother, her eyes shining with eagerness, spoke. "Maybe Mr. Esposito is still at home."

"There's only one way to find out," said Sharon, turning to leave the locker. "Come on, Mom. Butcher has plenty to do and we can't keep him from his work."

"I don't mind chatting with your mom," said Butcher.

"Indeed, we have many things to talk about," Arlene Knowles said.

Sharon, hands on hips, confronted them. "I bet. Like what? Give me a for instance?"

Her mother smiled in a sly way. "You, dear. We'll talk about you."

A genial laugh put Butcher in a better mood. "Oh I do have some war stories about Sharon," he said.

"Butcher, good bye," said Sharon. "Mom, come on. Work awaits us."

On the drive over to Mr. Esposito's last known address at 782 Black Zinnia Lane, Arlene Knowles said, "Butcher is friendly. Do you know whether he's married?"

"Very," lied Sharon.

"You're fibbing, aren't you," said her mother. "So I'll just have to ask him."

"That's so rude," said Sharon. "Here's our turn. It couldn't come up at a better time."

Black Zinnia Lane as it turned out was a long, curving cul-de-sac. They parked at the residence with "782" painted on its tin mailbox. Sharon noted an old grain-grinding millstone stacked against a sundial. The brass lawn sprinkler was a cowboy twirling a lariat about his ten-gallon hat which threw out arcs of water. The obligatory ceramic gnome guarded the foot of the brick paver sidewalk they took to reach the door.

Sharon knocked extra loud. Nothing. Impatient, her mother next did the honors. The only noise was kids across the way swiping big plastic loops through the air to create tubular soap bubbles.

"Should we go around back and try there?" asked Mrs. Knowles trying to sound practical as mothers do.

"Hold up a second, mom." Sharon grasping the doorknob twisted it. The door opened on its well-lubed hinges and in they went. The living room unveiled its shabbier aspects when Mrs. Knowles engaged the light switch. "The gentleman, we can see, had distinctive tastes in décor. All of them, I hasten to add, being tasteless and tacky."

"Yes, it's called bachelor chic." The older lady sniffed. "What are we looking for here?"

"The MacGuffin," replied Sharon. "Stay sharp. It could spring out at any moment."

"Touché, dear. Keep in mind that I am your mother even out on an important case."

"Sorry," said Sharon.

"Through there is the kitchen," said Mrs. Knowles.

Easing over the thick-padded orange carpet, both women put down admiring looks once the room enveloped them. Modern metallic gold appliances offset light-grain cabinets, floor and wall, which Sharon identified as maple. The Jenn-Aire grill, built-in china cabinet, center island, and butcher's block table were all nice touches.

"Looks as if he remodeled the kitchen," said Sharon.

"M'm. I wonder." Mrs. Knowles grazed her fingertips over the Corian countertop.

"How do you mean with 'm'm'?" Sharon puzzled.

"Mr. Esposito's philistine sense of style is on display in the den," said Mrs. Knowles. "However this kitchen speaks with a woman's mind. Do you see the difference?"

"There's a Mrs. Esposito?" said Sharon.

"I should think so," said Mrs. Knowles. "Let's check out their bedrooms, shall we?" Feeling as an obedient child again, Sharon trooped behind her mother down the corridor ripe with raunchy smells.

"Phew," Mrs. Knowles said. She toed open the bedroom's door and through the widening slit Sharon saw a nude lady's body draped over the bedside. "Aha," said her mother. "At last, we have found the MacGuffin."

Reacting, Sharon went in and put two fingers to the lady's neck pulse point and registered no sign of life. "She's dead. Shot through the heart. A large caliber gun, too. A 9 mil or .44."

"The sort of gun a man might carry," said her mother.

"My thinking exactly," said Sharon as her own .32 came out of her shoulder purse. "Now that we've uncovered the MacGuffin, let's focus our efforts on rooting out the killer."

Mrs. Knowles tore her pale, pinched face away from studying the poor lady's corpse. "Let me take a wild stab at this and say that the murderer is her husband, Mr. Esposito."

"A PI's instincts must lurk in our DNA," said Sharon, "because that was my exact thought. Next we explore the upstairs."

"Hadn't we better first notify the local authorities?" asked Mrs. Knowles. "Isn't murder a cop matter?"

"Bingo," said Sharon. "Remember how I was also a cop for seven years?"

"I try not to," said Mrs. Knowles after a swallow. "Lead on."

Mother and daughter retraced their trek down the hallway and found a narrow flight of stairs. Grimacing on each creaky bare wood step, they ascended to an unfinished large attic loft. It was musty. A snapped on toggle switch threw light on stacks of old magazines and streamer trunks that thespians once stored their wardrobe costumes inside for travel between venues.

"Nothing here but silverfish and dust motes," said Mrs. Knowles.

"There's a tool shed in the back lot," said Sharon. "I noticed it from the patio doors."

Hurrying downstairs and into the back yard, the ladies strolled over the ill-kempt lawn. The vinyl-clad shed contained space enough to accommodate one parked car and Sharon unlatched its door. Both craned their necks to peek inside the interior's dimness.

Two shoulder-high steel vats consumed most of the area. The smell of motor oil rose into Sharon's face.

"What are these vats for?" asked her mother. "And look, what's that white powder inside of them?"

"Lime," said Sharon.

"Lime? What, to put on the grass and flowers?"

"No, mom." Sharon spoke in a dreary monotone. "It was bought and then poured into these vats for a traceless corpse disposal. I can only guess that the motor oil was sprayed on to keep the steel walls from rusting."

Mrs. Knowles gasped, her shaky hand at her mouth. "That hideous man, that Mr. Esposito, he wanted to put his poor wife into them?"

"Yes, our second discovered MacGuffin was intended for that grim purpose," said Sharon, fishing out her cell phone to contact the police on her speed dial. She let a long, heavy sigh. "Some days this is really a jewel of a job."