Page 116 - Labelle Gramercy, On the Case

Soaked to the Bone

were going: maybe G.F. died here all by himself, a victim of his own
wretched excess. Maybe not. It would not take long to compile a list
of enemies, past and present, who might, at the very least, not throw
a drowning scapegoat a life preserver.
“Fish has one other regular employee beside Alma,” I explained.
“Gene Foss, the gardener and handyman. He also does pool
maintenance—which would include the hot tub. He takes out the
barrels the last thing Tuesday afternoon; he leaves around 5:30 or so
in the summer months. Then, of course, he brings them in
Wednesday morning. The trucks come through fairly early: he usually
has them back in here by the time I arrive—not that I’m here every
Wednesday morning!”
My last remark had no audience. Labelle Gramercy had already
gone through the gate at full speed. She cleared the yellow tape
around the property like an Olympic hurdler and came to a
screeching halt in front of the ubiquitous city trash receptacles.
Would she sterilize herself before diving in, to avoid contaminating
their contents? No: a quick glance seemed to suffice. And she didn’t
have to touch them: their lids had been flung open by the forceful
embrace of a garbage truck’s mechanical arms. So, I wondered, where
was Gene? Alma and I, dutiful and prompt, had shown up and
become enmeshed in the machinations of the law. My resentment of
Gene’s absence quickly turned to relief: my imaginary moving finger
of suspicion now pointed firmly at his balding pate. What greater
satisfaction can one get in another’s assumed discomfort than when it
immediately eliminates one’s own?
Labelle issued orders to a nearby uniformed officer and returned
to my side at a brisk walk. She was not even breathing heavily. I made
a mental note to spend the money and get back into that aerobics
class; to hell with being embarrassed about jumping around in circus
leotards facing a street-level plate glass window!
“They’ve all been emptied,” said the lieutenant. “Trash, garden
clippings and recyclables. But did the city collectors get here first?” I
took that as a trick question and remained silent. “Quickly, Ms.
Sliner: do scavengers go through the trash up here?”
“Scavengers? You mean raccoons? No: you mean grubby
homeless people with shopping carts, right?” She nodded. “Hmm.
Yes, I do remember seeing one guy now and then. It’s not easy

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