Page 5 of Saving Bonnie

Her crew comes in, systematically removing rain gear. They hand it to a younger crew member who stacks it in a large, clear plastic bag. The last two bring with them a maintenance cart and an industrial-sized trash can on rollers.

“The usual?” Mate asks, tone all business.

“Get me their belongings.”

The crew remains silent, heads downcast, marching through, single file, to their target in the next room.

*****

Bunny

A line of women in dark jumpsuits marches by in front of me, pulling on gloves. They’re all different shapes and sizes, with at least two of them looking rough around the edges. The Terminator flips on the lights then steps away, letting them go past. He’s frowning, as if he’s upset at the men laid out on the floor. A cleaning cart rolls past, stopping in the next room at the precise spot to block my view of anything above chest level. I’m not an expert on how crime scenes are processed, but TV shows never show the medical examiner bringing cleaning supplies.

Turning, I find the other two women in the kitchen. The one in dark-rimmed glasses goes from station to station with a thoroughness that speaks to a level of expertise. Yet, when she gets to this end, she brushes past, dismissing me like I’m another appliance.

“What do you see?” she asks the woman beside her.

Oh jeez, here we go again.Now the pretty brunette is doing the same thorough search. But her eyes dart around, and her eyebrows meet as she does another sweep.

“Nothing,” she announces, shaking her head. My stomach does a somersault as she turns to who appears to be her mentor with a confused look. “This is the cleanest kitchen I’ve ever been in.”

Well, that’s something, I suppose.

“Who cleans for you?” the mentor asks without bothering to look at me.

“I do.”

She turns in my direction with the same assessing gaze she’s been using.

Now it’s my turn to be scrutinized from head to toe. I swallow hard, yet her expression holds a hint of respect. “If you ever decide to change careers, call me.”

Unsure of what I’m being offered, I clamp my mouth shut. The compliment feels odd, and I still don’t know who these people are or why I’ve nearly been murdered under my own roof.

Not that I can imagine a life where I’m not feeding hundreds of people a day. My earliest memories are of being at the restaurant, small enough to be lying on the floor behind the counter with a coloring book while Grandma tended to customers.

“I’m Bonnie Bustos.” It took a bit, but I remember my manners.

“I know who you are.” The woman tilts her head to the right, checking the next room. I lean forward to follow her line of sight, but she brings her attention back to me, pinning me in place.

“Mate,” she replies, introducing herself. Next door, the familiar pull of plastic wrap sound stops, leaving an unnatural silence.

The brunette’s eyes widen, and her gaze cuts to me for a split second before meeting Mate’s. “I’ll check the other room.” Tension mushrooms around us, making the air brittle.

The sizzle of a pan breaks the silence. Everyone turns, trying to find where the sound is coming from. “It’s my phone,” I announce, “but I don’t see it anywhere.” Yeah, I guess I’m not too original when deciding on a ringtone. Mate ducks, reaching under the industrial metal sink. It must’ve landed there when I was startled by the intruders.

She looks down at the screen. “Opal McClellan.” The eyebrow arches as she pins me with a stare. “Is she your landlord?” Her voice is loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Yes.” I follow her gaze to the doorway where Terminator stands watching in silence. Of course he’ll want to conclude their investigation before speaking to anybody from the outside. But what can I possibly say? I’m the victim here.

“Maybe she found out about…” I stare past him to the dining area. “What happened.”

His attention shoots to Mate, who’s still holding the phone.

The ringing stops, and all I can do is stare from afar. Hopefully the call is going to voice mail. Miss Opal is a nice lady. I wouldn’t want her to think I blew off her call. The McClellans are well known for their ties to real estate in the downtown area. She probably owns half the buildings around mine. Likely, someone she knows heard the shot…or shots and called her. My stomach roils. What am I gonna do now? What if she asks questions I can’t answer?

The phone lights up showing a message amid a backdrop of ripe greenhouse tomatoes.

“Play the message,” he instructs.

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