Turn up the Heat

that was when I was staying at the hotel. “All of these?”
    “No, of course not. Not all of them. I’m not stupid. But probably half the stuff there, yeah, from different trips over the years. For what it costs to stay in a hotel these days...” She shrugged again. “It’s no big deal, Chloe. Don’t look so shocked. Do you think I’m the first person to take shit from places?”
    Was everyone on the planet except me so light-fingered? Was everyone else a damn thief? Was I expected to pick up the habit and start leaving the nail salon with files and polish remover? Start grabbing life vests from public pools and popcorn machines from the movie theater? Had the rest of the population gone crazy?
    “What other stuff do you take?”
    “Just little stuff. Souvenir kinds of things. Cream pitchers, salt and pepper shakers. I’m not leaving restaurants with barstools or anything. I’m sure people take stuff from Simmer all the time. Josh’ll tell you that.” She looked at me doubtfully. “You’ve never taken anything in your life?”
    “Apparently I’ve been missing out this whole time.”
    “Are you mad at me?” Ade looked hurt.
    “No, no, not at all,” I said honestly. “I just didn’t realize... I just didn’t know that people do it all the time. But I guess you’re right about it happening a lot.” It was certainly happening at Simmer.
    As I continued filling the closet with purloined goods, I couldn’t help thinking that Adrianna needed a linen service as much as Simmer did! I smiled to myself but then, at the thought of linens, my mind turned in a serious direction: toward the apron-turned-murder-weapon that had been used on Leandra. Until today, I’d assumed that the murderer was someone with access to Simmer; that is, someone who had been inside the restaurant, grabbed an apron, strangled Leandra, put her body in the truck in the alley, gone back into Simmer, set the alarm, and locked up. But if everyone except me was pilfering everything, then Owen would have had no need to enter or leave Simmer on the night Leandra was murdered. Owen, who was often in Simmer, could have taken an apron anytime he pleased. He could have waited until Leandra left for the night and strangled her with an apron that was already in his truck. It was even possible that the apron thief had been Adrianna and that Owen had used one that she’d stolen! “Chloe?”
    “Ahhh!” I looked at Adrianna’s surprised face. “Sorry. You startled me.”
    “What the hell is wrong with you?”
    “Nothing.” I shook the growing panic out of my head. “What did you say?”
    “I said, I hope Owen gets this account he’s meeting with today. This restaurant is actually one of three that the owners have, so he could get three new accounts!”
    “I’m sure he’ll do great.”
    “I hope so. You know how charming he can be. I bet he’ll be able to schmooze them into going with him.”
    “Yeah, he is very charming,” I agreed.
    Charming the way the DSM described certain pathological people as being charming? Charming meaning manipulative? What then popped into my head was the Psychopathy Checklist, a rating scale designed to measure the traits of people with psychopathic personality disorder. The first item was ”Glibness/superficial charm.” Owen scored a two on that one, meaning “item definitely applies.”
    “Are you done in there? Do you want to help push some furniture around in the living room?”
    “Sure.” I started breaking down the boxes to clear some room. “Let’s get you guys set up!” I did my best to sound cheery.
    The living room was small, but it had a beautiful bay window that overlooked the street and let light into the room. Once everything was unpacked, the visible floor space would make the room feel larger than it did now.
    “Shit, what a disaster area this is!” Ade looked exasperated. “Easy there, Mommy. You better start watching what you say,” I scolded her. “Are you gonna kiss your baby with that mouth?”
    “Sorry. You’re right. But what else am I supposed to say about this chaos?”
    My sister, Heather, learned the hard way to clean up her language when her son, Walker, spent six months exclaiming, “Son of a bitch!” at every mundane event. “Heather did it, and so can you,” I encouraged her.
    “Great, you think I should be like Heather saying ‘Jeepers creepers!’ and ‘Mercy me!’ when the kid throws up on me? Or ‘Criminy! What a giant, disgusting poop