Turn up the Heat

behind the wheel of a big truck. So, hoping for a little thrill, I opened the driver’s side door, took a tall step up, settled myself in the seat, and refrained from making revving noises as I placed my hands on the wheel. I didn’t envy Owen having to drive this beast through little alleys like this one and, worse, having to fight with crazed, speeding Boston drivers, but I could see that it would be fun to be up so high. I hopped out and slammed the door, which was significantly heavier than the doors on my car. I walked around to the back and tried to compose glowing comments to make to Owen about his beloved truck. With its square refrigeration unit, the truck had a funny shape that reminded me a bit of old-fashioned paddy wagons. Instead of having two doors that swung open to allow prisoners to move in and out, Owen’s truck, however, had one garage-style door that slid up and down. A thin metal cord ran from top to bottom on each side of the door, and a heavy cloth strap hung from the bottom, both presumably parts of a pulley system to raise and lower the door. A rectangular metal handle with a keyhole stuck out.
    I stared at the door and tried to think of some interesting comments I could make to Owen. I rubbed my nose in an attempt to wipe away the mild, but distinctly present, stench that emanated from the back of the truck. I’m a big fan of seafood, but the stink coming from Owen’s delivery truck was more than unappetizing. What did I expect of a fish truck? Well, cleanliness, at least. Had Owen been foolish enough to leave fish to rot in the back of the truck overnight? Even I knew that the refrigeration unit ran only when the truck was on, so anything left inside was at the mercy of the weather. Maybe in the winter Owen could get away with this carelessness, but not in early spring! The smell wasn’t even all that fishy. It was just plain gross. So far, my observations didn’t exactly convey the enthusiasm that Owen was hoping for.
    Eager to avoid disappointing Owen, I decided to check out the interior of the unit. For all I knew, the source of the foul odor was some large, rotting object—a rat?—on the pavement beneath the truck, whereas the refrigeration unit held gigantic lobsters kept fresh on ice or clever, attractive storage boxes or something else, in fact, anything at all, that would assure Owen that I loved the truck as much as he did. Owen had said last night that the lock was broken. Braving the stench, I grabbed the handle. To make the door budge, I had to use both hands. A high-pitched squeak suggested that the sliders could’ve used a shot of WD-40. Once I’d managed to raise the door halfway up its tracks, I climbed onto the step under the door, gave the door a good shove, and sent it fully up.
    On the floor of the truck, surrounded by empty plastic crates, a metal dolly for moving heavy objects, shallow pools of water, and low piles of melting ice, lay the body of Leandra, our server from last night.

FOUR

    LEANDRA was on her back with her feet toward the door. She wore the same outfit I’d seen her in when she’d waited on our table. The white lettering on her trendy black Simmer apron almost shone in the daylight. Her dead eyes were open, and her skin was pale and slightly blue. Her head had rolled to the side. I could clearly see red marks on her neck. Staring at Leandra wouldn’t bring her back to life. I jumped backward off the truck, bent over, gagged violently, and emptied my stomach.
    “Chloe! What’re you doing? I thought I was going to get to show you everything!” Owen’s scolding voice came from the direction of Simmer. “What’s wrong? Oh, my God, why are you throwing up? Snacker’s cooking that bad?” He started to laugh and then looked at what must have been my ashen face. “Chloe?”
    I pointed to the open door of his truck. “Owen, Leandra is in there. She’s dead.”
    “What?” Owen paused. “Who’s Leandra?” After another pause, he said, “You mean our waitress?” He rushed past me and flew up the step to the back of his delivery truck. He braced himself with one hand by gripping the side of the door frame. His other hand flew to his forehead. The gesture belonged in a silent movie. “Holy shit! Holy shit! This cannot have happened!” Owen dropped to the pavement. Then, repeatedly, almost compulsively, he ran both hands through his hair as he paced back and forth behind his truck. “This cannot be happening. I can’t have her in