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Tamara
Tapping my foot under my desk causing a faint thump every second, I try to settle my heart rate and calm myself. From fear, anger or worry, I can’t tell. What I can tell is that this is a shitload mystery that I need help in solving.
I think it’s all three emotions.
Fear-for the threat that was on my car last night.
Anger-about my tires being slashed.
And worry-because I’m no dipshit, as I can see most of the evidence points to me.
But it isn’t me, so who the fuck is it, then? I don’t know, but I’m more certain than ever it’s someone close here—boss, Charlotte, hell, maybe an oilman.
Deciding to place a call to my detective friend, I write a list of dates and the happenings of that date. I glance over the list and realize this is a real shithole, and someone’s going down the toilet with the shit.
Not me. I call my friend, waiting for him to pick up. “This is Guy,” the friendly voice says.
“Hey, Guy, it’s Tamara. Got a sec?” I ask.
“For you, dear, I’ve got three secs,” he laughs at his silly joke. “What’s up?”
“I need to run some stuff by you and get your thoughts on it,” I ask hopefully, because there’s been a time or two when he couldn’t due to conflict of interest.
“Sure, I know some of what’s going on, but I’m not assigned to your case,” he clarifies and then adds, “Let’s have it.”
“It’s a lot, so here goes,” I let out a sigh and begin my story. “About six months ago, a couple of our rigs were messed up, didn’t think much of it, but then two months ago, the same two rigs, and one more were broken. Two of my co-workers agreed that a person definitely did this because of how and where the breaks are.”
“So, we’ve got a vandal out there, breaking your rigs,” I hear scribbling on the other end, so he’s bored or he’s taking notes. “What else?”
“Right, then I discovered that two company checks were made out to cash for large sums of money,” I say to him.
“How large?” he asks.
“One for ten grand and the other for thirty grand,” I begin to tap a pencil on the notepad.
I hear a whistle blow and then more scribbles. “Damn, that’s a lot of lettuce.”
“There’s more. Those two checks happened before this third rig got busted. We installed some cameras in different hidden locations to see if we’d catch someone.”
“Anything?” he asks.
“Just once there was an image caught, and the person seemed familiar to me. Nothing else except when the camera in the parking lot was spray painted black.”
“Oh, interesting,” Guy says on the other end.
“Well, back up a bit. That morning Charlotte, the boss's wife, comes to see me about the rumors of broken rigs. I didn’t tell her about the cameras.”
“Why not?” he questions me with authority in his voice.
“I didn’t feel a need to and honestly, I’ve never trusted her. She’s been unfaithful to her husband many times over and she humiliates him all the time,” I say, feeling guilty about putting someone’s dirty laundry out there.
“Well, that doesn’t mean she’s doing all this stuff, Tamara,” he cautions me.
“I know, but who? Anyway, I left work last night and my tires were slashed and I found a note on the windshield saying ‘stay out of this’ , a sort of warning. I had to get a rental to come in today, and when I got here, my desk was open and a mess with papers and receipts everywhere. And then I saw the safe unlocked,” I hesitate momentarily as he scribbles some more.
“After I clean up my desk and the safe, I get the ledgers and company checks that I hid in a place that only I know about.”
“You sure ‘bout that?” he asks.
