Page 18 of What Doesn't Kill Her

She unlocked her weapons safe, the tall thin steel safe that kept her firearms out of the way of small curious hands. She stashed a thin sharp knife in a nylon holster up her sleeve. She removed her favorite pistol, a Glock 21 SF, and placed it in a nifty little holster that hid inside her pants below her belt. Tug on the loop, the holster slid up and placed the grip into her hand. She’d found that tricky little devil while she was recovering in the hospital, cruising the internet out of sheer boredom. She hadn’t expected to try it out so soon, though.

She showered and dressed in layers, tough clothes that would hold up against trouble. Not that she expected trouble. But. She thought it was General MacArthur, or maybe Jimmy Kimmel, who said, “Shit happens, especially when a mummy’s head is involved.”

She was as ready as she’d ever be, so she went out and sat on the front porch step like a kid waiting for the school bus.

In less than a minute, she saw Rita Grapplee hurrying out of the tasting room and toward her.

RITA GRAPPLEE:

FEMALE, RUSSIAN ANCESTRY, MIDDLE-AGED, BROWN HAIR, PALE SKIN, PALE EYES, 5'10". EXUBERANT, INTELLIGENT, TOO ENTHUSIASTIC. WORKED FOR MAX FOR THREE MONTHS AFTER RELEASE FROM DRUG REHAB; ANSWERS PHONE, STOCKS SHELVES.

As soon as Rita got in earshot, she asked, “Kellen, I saw you sitting there—are you all right?”

Funny. The men and women who had served with Kellen frequently called her “Captain.” She never asked them to; they were welcome to call her by her first name. Bank tellers, waitstaff, all kinds of service people called her “Kellen”; she thought nothing of it. But the familiar way Rita said her name made her want to snap out an order to stand at attention and salute. Rita was one ofthose; the people who got by doing as little as possible while wanting everything. The other employees hated her, and Kellen had been through too much in her twenty-eight years to admire that lack of initiative.

Yet today, Rita had done nothing except express concern, so Kellen took a patient breath. “I’m fine, why?”

“You were hurt just a few weeks ago, and you calledme, remember?”

“I didn’t call you in particular, I called the winery’s emergency number, and you were on duty. In any case, I’m simply waiting for a ride.”

Rita smirked. “How nice. Is Max coming to take you for a drive?”

Kellen didn’t understand how one woman, a near stranger, could be so presumptuous. “No.”

“Another suitor?” Rita sounded shocked.

It was on the tip of Kellen’s tongue to tell Rita to mind her own business. But she knew that Max and Rae and Kellen and their situation was the source of rampant speculation among the employees and she didn’t want to cause Max more grief, or imagine Rae being pulled aside and pestered with vulgar questions. So Kellen contained her impatience. “No, Max found me a job. I’ll probably be gone for a day or two.”

A white Ford van with dark tinted windows turned up the drive. It veered toward the winery, so she stood and waved. The driver waved back and headed toward the farmhouse. “There’s my ride now.” As the van pulled to a stop, Kellen saw the discreet monogram, RM, on the door.

“RM? What does that stand for?” Rita didn’t wait for an answer. She pulled out her phone and looked it up. “Richart Movers? You’re going to work for a moving company?”

“Apparently.”

Rita continued to read from her phone. “Ohhh. They move fancy art stuff. Rich. Art. Get it?”

“Yes. I get it.”

“That’s a weird job for you. Where are you going?”

A man slid out of the driver’s seat, came around and offered his hand.

Ignoring Rita, Kellen moved to meet him.

He said, “Hey, I’m Horst Teagarten. Horst isn’t a family name, my folks just had a weird sense of humor, giving that to a kid from Florida.”

Kellen filled out her mental file with speed and precision; he checked all the boxes as a cliché.

HORST TEAGARTEN:

MALE, NORTHERN EUROPEAN, 6'2", SHAVED HEAD (BALDING), BLUE EYES, UNIDENTIFIED ACCENT. TIGHT T-SHIRT, JEANS. MUSCLED SHOULDERS, TIGHT BUTT, FATTY BULGE AROUND THE WAIST. SMILING, CHARMING. IMAGINES WOMEN ARE IMPRESSED WITH HIM.

She shook. He had a good grip, didn’t try to crush her fingers like guys so often did. “I’m Kellen Adams, glad to work with you.”

His gaze shifted to Rita.

She leaped forward and in that overly loud voice of hers, she said, “Hi, I’m Rita Grapplee. I work here at the winery with Kellen. Good to meet you. So you move art?”

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