Page 4 of Always Murder (The Last Picks #9)

The next morning, Millie drove me to Clatsop Parcel and Freight in her Mazda3.

It was not what I expected.

In a couple of ways, actually. The drive itself was unusually quiet; aside from a few mumbled comments, Millie kept to herself. She was wearing sunglasses, and she had an enormous coffee in the cupholder (there was one for me too, because Millie was always thoughtful like that). A couple of times when I glanced over, Millie was squinting, as though the light were too bright even with the sunglasses—or as though she had a headache. I thought about asking what was wrong, but my general policy—and my specific policy with Millie—was that if she wanted you to know, she wouldn’t be shy about telling you. Still, it made the drive long, and the silence became strangely oppressive.

Clatsop Parcel and Freight wasn’t what I’d expected either. I’d pictured one of those huge Amazon fulfillment centers—cavernous acres of reinforced concrete, the kind of place where you know zombies would be hiding after a zombie apocalypse. (Yes, I did just binge The Walking Dead —why do you ask?) Or maybe something like a FedEx or UPS hub. Heck, I’d even been to some really impressive post offices.

(Okay, that’s a lie. But I’ve been to some really busy post offices.)

Clatsop Parcel and Freight, in contrast, looked…provincial.

What must have been the administrative-slash-customer-service offices were located in front, in a single-story frame build-out with clapboard siding. The siding was a beige that reminded me of those creepy “flesh”-colored crayons in the big Crayola boxes. The windows were small and dark. Behind the frame building sprawled a brick warehouse with a pitched roof. The brick was worn and weathered. The glass-block windows were cloudy. Rust and algae competed for purchase on the metal roof. Fifty years ago, it probably would have been considered outdated; now, it was a relic. The only hint of holiday cheer was dollar-store tinsel hung around the office windows; it was so old that it didn’t look particularly tinselly anymore—perhaps the politest word would have been bedraggled .

A chain-link security fence topped with razor wire surrounded the facility, but when Millie turned down the drive, we saw that the gate was open, and the security booth next to it was unmanned. A handful of cars were parked in front of the clapboard office, but Millie kept driving toward a larger lot farther back on the property. This one, parallel to the warehouse, held more vehicles—cars and trucks, most of them domestic, most of them the kind of thing you saw on the coast. A brown Chrysler minivan. A mint-green pickup that had to be from the 1950s, its wheel wells rusting out. Even an ’80s-era Honda, all sharp angles, with tires that desperately needed air and a bumper sticker that said CERTIFIED SILLY GOOSE.

Broken asphalt ran in an expanse toward the warehouse and the loading docks. The bay doors were rolled down, and there were no trucks pulled up to the bay.

As Millie parked in the warehouse lot, I said, “Okay, what’s the plan?”

“We’re going to find out if that lady, Ms. Hernandez, stole Paul’s packages.”

“Right, well, that’s more of a goal than a plan. I wish Paul had worked here longer; it would be nice to talk to another of the delivery drivers.” I frowned out the window. “I guess we could try to charm our way past the receptionist.”

Millie took off her sunglasses—dramatically enough, as a matter of fact, to make me turn. Something was different, and it took me a moment to understand what: she was wearing makeup. I mean, maybe she always wore a little makeup, but today she’d gone at it shovel and trowel. (Uh, is that an expression?) She looked pretty, don’t get me wrong. Actually, she looked beautiful. And then I added in the other things I hadn’t noticed because I’d been so preoccupied by her silence: she was wearing a cream-colored satin blouse with black pants, and as I watched, she reached into the back seat for a gray blazer.

“Millie,” I said.

And then I stopped.

Because I might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer (that is definitely an expression), but I’d been alive long enough to realize it wasn’t a good idea to say things like Are you wearing makeup? or Why are you wearing makeup? or (God help you) You look different today.

“Uh, maybe we should—” I tried.

“We’ll figure it out,” she said and got out of the car.

I said a few choice words under my breath. See, I’d been snooping and sleuthing and investigating for almost a year and a half now. And let me tell you: We’ll figure it out never went the way you hoped.

On the other hand, Millie was power-walking, and she was already halfway to the loading docks.

When I caught up to her, I was out of breath (probably because these weren’t my jogging joggers). Millie, of course, looked as fresh as a spring morning—and she was wearing heels, another first. She charged toward the building, went up a flight of rickety metal steps to the concrete slab of the dock, and yanked on a fire door. If it had been me trying this, the door would have been locked, but for Millie, it opened easily.

It was totally unfair.

Inside, the warehouse was much more modern than I’d expected. Bright industrial lights hung overhead from exposed rafters, and the floor was sealed concrete painted with yellow lines that probably meant something to somebody. Much of the space had been given over to rows of metal shelving, where large wooden shipping crates and pallets of boxes were stored. Smaller sections of the warehouse were clearly workstations of some sort, with tables and equipment that I didn’t recognize. The area immediately around us was cluttered with hand trucks and pallet jacks and a bag that had been cut open and was spilling foam peanuts onto the floor. It was cold, and the smells of cardboard and plywood met us. In the distance, a machine beeped in a familiar sound I recognized as something dangerous is backing up. To our right, across the warehouse, a door led into what I assumed were the offices.

A handful of men stood toward the back of the warehouse, all of them dressed in matching uniforms, all of them staring up at the rafters.

“—get in here because you leave the door open,” one of them was saying. “Then they build a nest. Then they die and stink up the place.”

“I’m telling you, it’s not a bird,” another one said.

“Find a ladder and we’ll see.”

At that point, one of them noticed us.

“Uh, Millie,” I said. “We’ve got company.”

Millie took off at a brisk clip toward the offices.

“Can I help you?” the man called.

Millie waved at him and smiled and kept walking.

I said a few more of those words under my breath and hustled after her.

“Millie,” I said when I caught up, “we can’t just walk around in here—”

“Yes, we can,” she said. “I saw it on one of those old Matron of Murder episodes. Genevieve Webster walks right into an office building like she owns the place, and when the security guard tries to stop her, she holds up her library card and says, ‘Winifred Rush, Securities and Exchange Commission. This is an unannounced inspection.’ And the security guards let her walk right in.”

My body kept moving while my brain tried to catch up.

“I’m sorry,” I said—but a small voice inside my head observed that I didn’t sound very sorry. I sounded like I was choking on my own rage. “Your plan is based on an old TV show, which in turn is based on Vivienne Carver’s books, where someone pretends to be a—a federal inspector by flashing their library card?”

“It worked for Genevieve Webster.”

“It’s not going to work here!”

Admittedly, that came out more loudly than I intended, but to my surprise we’d already gotten farther than I expected. The man who had called out to us hadn’t tried to stop us (maybe because he was so caught up in his bird conversation), and nobody else seemed to care who we were or what we were doing.

Millie must have recovered her spirits, though, because she just flashed me a smile, patted my arm, and said, “Oh, Dash,” like I was—I don’t know. Being a ninny, I guess.

The door led us into a narrow hallway with worn carpet and dinged-up walls. It was warmer, and it smelled like a dusty furnace, and a framed picture on the wall showed a man dressed a little like Harry Truman (including a fedora) with a brass plaque underneath that said RICHARD MOORE, FOUNDER, FATHER, FRIEND. He looked like the kind of guy who’d dock your pay if you were a minute late, and I imagined every woman at Clatsop Parcel and Freight had probably been forced to endure Mad Men- levels of sexual harassment. A pair of restroom doors were immediately next to us, and beyond them, a door had a small sign that said LOUNGE.

Millie didn’t even hesitate. She pushed into the lounge.

Lounge wasn’t the word I would have used to describe it. Lounge suggested comfort. On one of my more generous days, I might have called it a break room, but honestly, it was closer to a weird kitchen-and-locker-room combo. There was a small, two-burner stove, a sink, and a stretch of laminate countertop. And there was a spavined sofa and a few tubular chairs with pilled upholstery. A sorry-looking Santa costume had been draped over one of the chairs, as though Santa had sat down for some milk and cookies (or a beer) and then evaporated. And some generous soul had left a stack of the National Enquirer on a beat-up coffee table. Apparently, Bat Boy was still on the loose.

Lockers lined two of the walls, and Millie moved straight toward these. The lockers were marked with masking tape that had been written on with a Sharpie. Millie stopped in front of the one that said PAUL. If there had been a lock, it was gone now, and when she tried the door, it opened.

There was nothing inside.

Millie frowned.

“I didn’t know Paul had a locker here,” I said.

“Neither did I,” Millie said.

“Then why did you—”

“Come on, Dash. HURRY!”

If nobody had heard us yet, I thought.

We returned to the hall and made our way along it. The next door was marked LOSS PREVENTION. Millie paused. We both listened, but I couldn’t hear anything. Millie gave me an inquiring look. I shook my head. Millie nodded. And then she opened the door.

(Honestly, did anybody ever lock any doors around here?)

It was a small office, with a second door on the far wall that I guessed, based on my mental map, connected directly to the warehouse. It looked like the rest of what I’d seen in the CPF offices: a drop-tile ceiling, walls that were probably supposed to be gray or cream but looked yellow under the fluorescents, carpet squares with a color and pattern combo that could best be described as “chili mac.” Some metal shelves filled with binders, a filing cabinet with a massive dent on one side, and a desk topped with a chipped walnut veneer were the room’s only furniture.

A woman was kneeling on the floor near the desk, an overturned can of Cherry Coke next to her. She wore work clothes, and she was solidly built, with a quiff of blond hair. Her mouth opened in silent outrage, and then she said, “Who are you?”

I opened my mouth, praying to the god of sweet, innocent little gay boys that a believable lie would miraculously spring to mind.

If the god of sweet, innocent little gay boys was listening, he (or SHE!) had a sense of humor.

Millie whipped something out of her pocket. I had a moment to glimpse HASTINGS ROCK PUBLIC LIbrARY, and then another moment to regret every life choice I’d ever made.

And then Millie barked: “Jinx St. James with the Ridge County Sheriff’s Office.”