What a Wee!

Author's note: This story documents a week of life-changing events for a woman who is the victim of a crime, and a man who helps her deal with the after effects. For a while it seems that every crime leads to another one, and they come to depend heavily on a police detective, and a private investigator who has a way with computers. Along the way you will come across robberies, a police shootout, an old murder or two, some sex, and a budding romance.

All of the characters who appear in the story are more than eighteen years old. None are modeled after anyone living or dead. The crimes that are chronicled in this story are not based on any particular events, but are typical of felonies that occur all over the world, hundreds of times every day.

The story is rather long, nearly 50,000 words, to be devoured in one reading. The principal characters' experiences are influenced by events that took place twenty years earlier, and this may be confusing if you are reading while tired. Taking it in two sittings, rather than one marathon session, may enhance your reading pleasure.

Hans

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FRIDAY AFTERNOON

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I sat and watched Celia walk away from me for the last time. She held her back very straight and walked as if she were studying every step before putting her foot down. She was very beautiful, very clever, and very sure she could find someone whose personality would be a better match for hers than mine was. This was the finale of four years of marriage and a year of separation. Seeing her walk away made me feel sad, yet surprisingly relieved that the tension between us had played out and I wouldn't have to listen to her complaints any more. She was probably right, we simply weren't meant to be together. But if so, why did it take us five years to find that out?

I looked down at the table and saw that my cup of coffee was untouched, so I drained it and threw a few bills on the table as I got up. We had just left the lawyer's office, where we affixed our signatures to the final documents to bring closure to the relationship that at first had its ups and downs, and later its downs and further downs, and finally its way, way, deep downs. Celia had walked out of the cafe onto State Street, so I turned the other way, toward the Elm Street exit. I had no idea where I was going, only that I needed to walk in the crisp autumn air to clear my head and get my thoughts and feelings organized a little. An hour later I was still walking aimlessly, up and down unfamiliar streets. The houses looked well lived in, with mature shrubbery and trees in their front yards, and I realized that the placid scene had calmed me down. But by then I had no idea where I was or what direction I had to go to get back to my car.

I remembered that my new smartphone has a GPS function, so I punched in the Vector command and the name of the restaurant we'd had coffee in, and stood in the shade of an acacia tree while I waited for the little electronic marvel to sort out my problem. Sure enough, fifteen minutes of following the phone's directions took me right to the parking lot where my SUV stood waiting. But who was that sitting in the front passenger seat?

I approached the driver side cautiously and opened the door, not knowing what to expect. A young woman sitting there turned her head and looked me over. "Is this your car?" she asked.

"Yes. I didn't expect to find anyone sitting in it. Is there something I can do to help you?"

"Maybe. I need a ride home, and I don't have any money with me for a cab or even a bus. It's in Tempe, about a twenty minute drive. Would you please take me there?"

"Well, to use your word, maybe. I don't know you or anything about you, and before I go driving around town with a perfect stranger I'd like to know what this is all about."

"Fair enough. This all happened an hour ago, and I'm still upset over it, but I've been sitting here planning how I'd say it. Otherwise I'd just start crying again and I'd never get the words out. Please be patient.

"My name is Melanie Sanger. My friends call me Mel. I graduated in May with an MBA degree, and I'm employed as an assistant project manager with an engineering firm here in Phoenix. Unfortunately, my purse was stolen while I was standing waiting for a light to change, and I'm left without my driver's license or credit cards or money, and I don't have any family around here right now. The only thing I have is my employee ID badge, because that was hanging around my neck."

"How did you come to be sitting in my car?"

"Honestly, I didn't know what to do. I saw a lot of cars parked here and looked them all over. Most were locked. Some had so much clutter in them that I formed a negative opinion of what their owners must be like. Yours was nice and neat, with the sort of things I'd expect to find in a car, like your road atlas, sunglasses, and a water bottle. I opened the door and it didn't smell like tobacco smoke or stale beer, so I decided to take a chance that you'd be my hero. Was I right?"

"Again, maybe. What sort of neighborhood do you live in?"

"Oh, a very nice one. Well kept single family homes, virtually no crime, not a risky place to live or drive or walk."

"Well, as it happens, I have nothing pressing to do right now, so I guess I can take you home. My name is Peter Donnelson, and my friends call me Pete. When we get to your house, how will you get in?"

"I know where there's a key hidden."

"Have you reported the theft of your purse to the police?"

"No. I don't have my phone. It was in my purse."

"Then before we go anywhere else, let's go to the police station and you can file a report."

An hour later we pulled up in front of Melanie's house at 1226 East Aurora Avenue. She had described the house to me, with its first floor sided in dark green shingles and the upper story and gables white, contrasting with dark green shutters. I was sure that she knew the house, although that didn't prove that she actually lived there. I got out of the car with her and waited by the front steps while she did something around the side of the house, and came to the front with a key. I unlocked and opened the door for her, and went inside with her to look around to make sure nobody had used her keys to ransack the place. Then I called the detective who had taken the report so she could tell him that she was home safe and sound.

She was looking as if everything was smooth sailing from here on. I hated to burst her bubble. "Look, Melanie, I don't want to alarm you, but somebody knows where you live from your license, and has your keys to get into your house. You'd be wise to get a locksmith here to change all the locks, but I don't know if you could get one to come out and do it on a Friday evening. Your safest move might be to pack up some stuff for overnight and go to a hotel."

"But I haven't any money or my checkbook or a credit card. All that stuff was in my purse."

"Well, I could pay for you to stay one night in a cheap hotel, if that's any help."

"You'd do that for me? Why?"

"I guess for the same reason that I took you to the police station and drove you home. Just trying to help a fellow human who's in trouble. There's nothing in it for me other than knowing that I've done the right thing. But you don't have to accept my help. If you prefer, you can sit up all night waiting to be robbed and/or raped and/or killed in the comfort of your own home. Your choice."

"I don't know that I'd feel comfortable in a hotel room, all alone. I doubt that I'd be able to sleep at all."

"Don't you have any friends you could stay with overnight? Or maybe somebody you work with? Do you have a boyfriend who could come over and stay here with you? Maybe friends of your family? Someone you went to school with?"

"If I had anybody like that, I'd never have gone to sit in your car. We're from Minnesota, and that's where all our friends are. My parents moved here to be close to me when I took this job. I'm a stranger in town, and so are they. Now they're off on a cruise of the Mediterranean, and I'm here all alone." She sniffled a little. "And I'm scared." Then tears began to pour down her cheeks.

"Okay, try this. I've got a guest room you can stay in tonight. You get your things together and I'll be out at my car."

I walked to the car and called Detective Vincent again, and explained how things were shaping up. "Can you find out any more about this young woman? I have no reason to doubt what she says, but the whole thing seems maybe a little too pat. I'm really uncomfortable getting so deeply involved with her, and I can't tell whether I'm keeping her safe or putting myself in danger. What's your take on this?"

"I see your point. Of course, you don't have to take her to your home, but if she's on the level she's in a bad spot without your help. I could get her into a cell here at the station for the night, but that's not a very good accommodation. Suppose we try this: Take her to a restaurant for dinner. Don't rush things. Give me a chance to do some checking. I'll find out what I can about her employer, and try to get somebody in the company to vouch for her. I'll call you as soon as I know something."

We were just finishing up a leisurely dinner at Turner's, a well known restaurant on the eastern fringe of the downtown area, when Detective Vincent called me. "Sorry that took so long. Melanie Sanger has no police record. I got Mr. Jenkins, the owner of the company, who referred me to his personnel manager or whatever he called her, and I finally got my call returned after she used her phone to have a fight with her boyfriend for an hour. She was ready to kill the next man who spoke to her, and of course that was me. Anyway, she verified that Melanie Sanger is a real employee, the photo on her employee ID badge is current, she is entrusted with taking care of a lot of important stuff at work, and there have been no complaints of any kind about her. I guess that's all I can do for you. What you do now is up to you."

"Okay, sorry to put you through so much trouble. Thanks for your help."

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FRIDAY NIGHT

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I took Melanie to my home, a thirty year old split level in a respectable suburban neighborhood. I was glad I'd mowed the lawn early in the week, and that the bushes along the front of the house weren't in need of trimming. Getting out of the car in the built-in garage, she commented on how neat everything was. "The way you keep your garage is the same way I like to keep my bedroom and bathroom. Everything in its place, ready for the next time I need to use it. I think that letters of reference, no matter how glowing they are, serve very little purpose in evaluating job applicants. What employers should demand is a tour of the applicant's private places, to see how they keep their things where nobody's watching."

"So I passed the test?"

"You get a star. I'd paste it on your forehead if I had one. I guess I'll have to owe you one."

"The guest room is down at the end of this hallway. The bathroom is right next to it. That door at the end of the hall is the linen closet. Better check to see that there are towels in there. If not I'll get some from my bathroom.

"While you do that, I'll check the closet in the bedroom. I'll shove the stuff in there over to the left, so you'll have the right half for your clothes." I turned to go out the door as she was coming in. "There are extra hangers just above, on the shelf. Holler if you need anything"

"Oh, thank you. That'll be more than enough room for me."

"That TV on the dresser is hooked up to its own cable receiver, and you can get a lot of channels on it. If you'd prefer to watch a big flat screen TV, come to the living room and you can watch it with me."

"Wow! You really know how to provide a welcome for an unexpected guest. You deserve another star for that."

"Two stars! I'll look like a Major General. Look, Mel, after you get yourself settled in here, you can join me for a beer if you'd like. Or I may have some wine if you'd prefer that, and there may be a few cans of soda. I'll be in the living room watching TV if there's anything good on."

"Working your way up toward Lieutenant General, aren't you? I'd like to take a shower and get into something comfortable first. Save me a seat."

I was settled for the evening in my favorite chair, with news on TV and a book in my lap, when Mel came out. I had to laugh when I saw her blue sweats, the same color as the ones I had on. But the laughter died on my lips as I took in her overall appearance. Her medium brown hair was all out straight, and it just touched her shoulders. Devoid of clever camouflage in the form of hairdo and makeup, she looked like an angel. I think I must have gulped, which led her to ask, "What? Do I look all right? Is there anything wrong? Are my pants split up the middle or something?"

"All right? I'll say you look all right. Beautiful would be closer, and even that falls flat."

"You don't have to say things like that. This is just me - plain, ordinary, old me. But thank you for the compliment. I hope it means you approve."

I was at a loss for words, so I hurried a gulp of beer and almost choked on it. I was sputtering and coughing and Mel came over to my chair and clapped me between the shoulder blades, which seemed to help a bit. I got over it quickly, and looked up to see that she was trying to stifle a laugh. "What's so funny?"

"I was thinking this was the most dramatic entrance I ever made. I'd have been satisfied with 'Hello' but first you looked as if you'd seen a ghost, and then you almost died by choking on your beer. All that's missing is fireworks."

"Wait a minute. You must see yourself in a mirror quite often. Don't you see what you look like? Are you so accustomed to seeing yourself that you no longer see yourself? I don't want to belabor the point, and I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable, but . . . wait, answer one simple question. You go to work, and you see a lot of women on the way. Then at work there must be women that you see every day. How many women do you see who are better looking than you? Be honest, now."

"Oh, I don't know. I see a lot of women who are pretty, I guess. But I never think about it. Once in a while I see somebody who is profoundly homely, and I feel sorry for her, but when I see a woman who is strikingly good looking, I usually notice that it has a lot to do with how she's dressed, and how she carries herself. Packaging and presentation. And here tonight I haven't either. Just me, no makeup, wearing a baggy old sweatsuit. Truth in packaging. What you see is - oh, whatever."

"You were starting to say, 'What you see is what you get,' weren't you. And you got embarrassed because you're not here for me to get anything. And then you got further embarrassed because we're talking about personal matters, and we don't even know each other. And the final anomaly is that we're sharing a house for the night, and planning to have a drink together, yet we're total strangers."

Instead of answering, she turned her head away. "Mel, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. You're a victim of circumstance. You had your whole life in your purse, neatly and systematically arranged, I'm sure. Then in less than a second it was all snatched away, and you feel lost. I shouldn't be making you embarrassed, I should be helping you to relax. Come on, let's go look in the beer refrigerator in the storeroom and see if we can find something you'll like."

I could tell that she got up and went to the storeroom with me just to be polite. Her heart wasn't in it. What she really felt like doing was collapsing into a chair and crying until she was exhausted. I didn't blame her, but any sort of activity, even walking through the kitchen to the storeroom would be better than just giving in. She needed to feel that she was conquering her misfortune, but right then the score was Misfortune one, Miss Sanger zero. She selected a white wine and I poured her a glass, using the fancy stemware. I grabbed a bottle of beer and twisted the cap off, and we were ready to be entertained by the magic box with the big flat screen on the front.

An hour later she was looking drowsy, so I turned off the TV at the end of the show and walked her down the hall to the guest quarters and said good night. I wished I knew something else to do for her, but I couldn't undo what the purse snatcher had done to destroy her brave facade of self sufficiency, alone and friendless in a big city.

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SATURDAY MORNING

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Saturday morning dawned, as it usually does after Friday night. I got up and went to the kitchen only to find Mel already there, mentally inventorying the kitchen refrigerator and my pots and pans. "Good morning, young lady. I didn't expect to find you up already. What's on your mind?"

"I thought a nice omelet might be a small way to show my appreciation for all you did for me. I'll try to make one just like I make for my father on the weekends. This is about the time I usually get up, and once I'm awake I can't get back to sleep again. I was never much for lying around in bed with my eyes open."

I opened the refrigerator. "There's some good cheddar cheese in here that would go well in an omelet, and in that little drawer there may be some sliced pepperoni or hard salami. That big frying pan usually works all right, but I'd spray it with Pam just before pouring the eggs in."

"Do all the burners work?"

"Darned if I know. I just use the one on the right front. Cooktops always have four burners, but for a single guy that's three more than necessary."

"I'll warm the plates. Oh, the oven looks brand new. You don't use it?"

"I wouldn't know what to put in it. I could use it to store my dress shirts, but my dresser drawer works just fine."

"Hasn't a woman ever lived here?"

"Not with me. As part of our divorce settlement we sold our big fancy condo and split the money, and I used my share for a down payment on this house. It was rehabbed just before I moved in, with a remodeled kitchen and all new appliances. Do you need anything you don't see?"

"I think I've got everything I need. Wait, where's your whisk?"

"My which?"

"Never mind. Go in and watch the morning news or the weather forecast or sports scores while I whip up a breakfast for you."

Ten minutes later we were seated at the dining room table. The toast was perfectly browned, the omelet was perfectly cooked, not too dry and not too moist. "Mel, what did you do to this coffee?"

"Why, what's wrong with it?"

"Absolutely nothing. It's wonderful, completely different from what I usually make, but I'm sure you used the same water and the same coffee. Do you have a secret?"

"No, I just made it the way my father likes it. He always says that he can't get his eyes open without a good cup of Joe, as he calls it."

"It sounds as if you're pretty close to your father, am I right?"

"Very close. I'm an only child, so I'm my mother's daughter and my father's son, too. He's always coached me on taking care of myself, and being a productive member of society. When I was a little girl, every morning before I left the house he'd say, 'Mel, don't expect somebody else to take care of you out there today. Keep your wits about you and stand up straight.' Now, every morning I can hear those words, as I look at myself in the bathroom mirror."

"I take it that your parents are retired. What'd they do in Minnesota?"

"They're both teachers. My father was an Economics professor at the University of Minnesota in Minneapolis, and my mother taught English at the same high school I went to."