“The first, regularly. The second, less regularly after one particularly unpleasant experience involving a family of raccoons who’d taken up residence in our recycling bins and made their intentions to stay very apparent. Let me tell you, you do not want to find yourself locked out with four feisty trash-pandas hot on your heels.”
He stared at me for a moment with a look of what could only be described as bewildered amusement. I couldn’t tell if he wanted to throw his head back and laugh or have me pink-slipped on a 72-hour hold at the nearest psych ward.
“How many times a day do you go in and out of this door,” he clarified. “On average.”
“Assuming there are no trash-panda incidents?”
He gave a tight nod.
I scrunched my nose up in thought. “It varies. At least twice, sometimes three times. Hetti always empties it at six when we close, plus once before her lunch break. Sometimes, if we’re really slammed in the morning, I’ll empty it before things start to overflow. Old espresso beans start to stink up the place after a few hours.”
“Then no one has been out this door yet today?”
“No, I don’t think so.” I shrugged. “It’s still early.”
Graham did not acknowledge this. Instead, he reached into his back pocket, pulled out a slim smartphone, tapped the screen a few times, and lifted it to his ear. “It’s Graves.” He paused. “Confirmed there’s no CCTV in the shop. Alley door is one-way access, no one has been in or out yet today.” His eyes slid to mine. “I’m going to bring her through now. You guys ready? Right. See you in a second.” He hung up, slid the phone back into his pocket, and walked toward me.
“You ready?”
“Ready?” I shook my head rapidly, quick jerks of confusion. “Ready for what? You haven’t told me anything! I have no idea what’s going on here. You show up out of nowhere asking me all these bizarre questions—”
“Glinda.”
“And now you’re asking me if I’m ready, but you haven’t given me the slightest indication of what is going on—”
“Glinda.”
“—and I really think, if something is going on at my place of business, which it clearly is or I’m guessing you wouldn’t be here in the first place, I should have the proper details to deal with it before—”
“Gwendolyn.”
“What?” I exploded, so revved up I didn’t even realize he’d used my actual name.
“There’s a crime scene in your alley. Need you to look at it.”
“A crime scene?”
His voice, unlike mine, was not squeaky with panic. It was the same as always — deep, level, highly controlled. “How are you with blood?”
“Blood?”
“You a fainter?”
“No, but—”
“You got a weak stomach?”
I blinked. “A weak stomach?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You going to hurl if you see something… unpleasant?”
My eyes held his as my stomach clenched. “Whatever is in my alley is unpleasant?”
“Not many pleasant crime scenes, in my experience.”