Karen MacInerney - Margie Peterson 01 - Mother's Day Out (28 page)

I stood in the dark hall for a moment, debating my next move.  I was dying to see what was making all the whirring noise, but was pretty sure that opening one up to peek through would be tantamount to blowing a whistle and announcing my arrival.

My other option was the stairs I had glimpsed at the end of the darkened hallway.  Maybe it would lead to offices, or something that would tell me what the building’s purpose was.  My main concern with that option was whether or not I’d find anyone up there.  Since it was a sure bet that the area behind the double doors was occupied, though, I figured my odds would be better on the stairs.

I felt my way to the end of the hallway, discovering the stairs when my shin banged into the bottom step.  I climbed slowly, wincing when something crunched beneath my stockinged foot.  At the first landing, I felt around for a door, but my fingers only found concrete.  I climbed the second flight, and discovered the end when my nose bumped into a door.

I put my ear to it, listening for voices or footsteps.  Silence.  After several long minutes, I risked easing the door open a crack.

Light flooded the staircase.  I closed it and backed away, waiting for the thundering of feet.  As my heart hammered against my ribcage, I realized that it hadn’t been the sick greenish light I had seen downstairs, but softer, like filtered sunlight.  I cracked the door open again and peered into the room.   An old wooden table sat in the center of the room, papers stacked neatly on the scarred surface, with a row of filing cabinets on the wall behind it.  Apparently I’d located command central.  Fortunately for me, no one seemed to be at the helm today.

I swung the door open a little wider and slipped inside. The whiff of pine deodorizer was a welcome improvement on the aroma downstairs.  The light came from clouded skylights dotting the metal ceiling, and from the huge plate glass windows that stretched across the inside wall.  Excitement coursed through me. The office looked down on the area hidden by those big double doors.  I crouched down immediately, not wanting to be spotted from below, and crab walked over to the huge window, squatting beneath it and peered over the sill.  Now I understood the whirring sound—and the purpose of the giant rolls.

They weren’t paper.

They were fabric.

Huge sewing machines and tables heaped with bolts of brightly colored cloth crowded the warehouse’s concrete floor.  As I watched, a hundred pairs of brown hands measured, stitched, or hauled new bolts of fabric over to one of the huge cutting tables. 

The watery sunlight from the skylights glinted off of a bolt of fabric being carted to a table.  It was the same fabric in the mermaid gown I had seen at the Couture with a Conscience show.

So Bitsy wasn’t having the dresses delivered from factories in Mexico after all.  They were being made right here. 

All the secrecy must be because the workers were illegal aliens, doing their jobs for less than minimum wage.  The Junior League wouldn’t be pleased to find that out, but the truth was, most of them employed illegal aliens to do their house work and yard work.  It wasn’t quite on the scale of running a factory, but it was the same basic concept.  If Bitsy were discovered, what would the punishment be? Back taxes plus a penalty? I couldn’t imagine that would be enough to murder Maxted. Not in such a savage fashion.  And how was ISC involved? Or my husband?

As I watched the workers below, mesmerized by their quiet efficiency, something caught my eye.  One of the men carting fabric looked familiar under his red ball cap.  My eyes followed him around the huge room, willing him to move closer, or at least take off his cap so I could get a better look at his face.  Finally, he stopped at one of the big tables and heaved the bolt onto the table.  Then he mopped his brow, pushing his cap up and giving me a full view of the puckered skin on the left side of his face.

It was Graciela’s husband Eduardo.

I ducked down, heart thundering against my ribs, putting it all together.  Eduardo had disappeared a month or two ago, using a
coyote
to transport him back and forth over the border.  Graciela knew he’d made it to Mexico, but he had never come back.

Only he had.

I sat back against the hard wall, stunned as the truth hit me.  Bitsy McEwan wasn’t just employing illegal aliens. 

She was using them for slave labor.

I’d read stories in the paper about enterprising business owners who promised aliens safe transport, only to hold them hostage and force them to work for free.  Many of them eventually let the immigrants go.  After all, what were the poor people going to do, turn them in? If they approached the authorities, they’d risk being deported. 

Now the small kitchen, the decrepit toilet, the horrible mattresses downstairs made sense.  The workers below were being held prisoner.  And the “new batch” Bitsy had been talking about yesterday wasn’t fabric. It was people.

I fumbled in my waistband for my cell phone.  I needed to call the police.  I had dialed 9-1-1 and was about to press Talk when it occurred to me what would happen to Eduardo.

He’d be deported, and Graciela would be alone with her kids again.

I cleared the display and shoved the phone back into my waistband.  I had to get him out of here.  But how?

I peered over the windowsill again.  Two men loitered by the double doors below me, but the smaller door—the one Maria had gone through last night—was unguarded. I squinted harder at the lock, and my hopes faded.  It required a key from the inside, too.

I hunkered down again, trying to think.  I probably couldn’t do it on my own.  Who could I call for help?

Peaches
. I pulled the phone out and dialed, then hit Talk.  As I raised the phone to my ear, I heard voices.  My eyes darted to the stairway door. I had left it ajar.  I hit End just as the first footstep hit the stairs. 

I scanned the room, looking for a place to hide.  My eyes flew to a small doorway at the far end.  I scooted over to it as the footsteps approached the first landing.

The doorknob turned, but the door wouldn’t budge.  The footsteps grew closer.  I hurled my shoulder against it, and it opened with a crack. 

“What was that?” a woman said.  The door to the stairwell began to open wider.

I scrambled through the doorway and pulled it shut.  It wouldn’t wedge back into the doorframe, so I left it slightly ajar and hoped no one would notice, and took a few small steps backward, my hands out cautiously behind me.  I had glimpsed several stacks of paper and a few old chairs in the cramped closet.  The last thing I needed to do was knock one of them over.

“Probably a rat,” a man’s voice answered.

“A rat? You don’t think they’ll chew on the fabric, do you?”  I recognized the voice as Maria Espinosa’s.

“I set some traps,” the man said in heavily accented English.   I edged forward and peered through the slit in the door.  It was Maria Espinosa, talking to a tall, dark-haired man. 

“Do you have those production numbers?” Maria asked.  “She’s been asking for them.”   I heard a door slide open, then thunk shut a moment later. 

“Si.  It is not so good this time.  The patrona, she want to give less food, so they work harder.”

“I think it’s a mistake to cut the food back.  They need the energy to work…”

He shrugged.  “That’s what she tell me.  She the boss.”

Maria sighed.  “Whatever she says, I suppose we have to do it.  I’ll let Sergio know.”

A cell phone rang.  “It’s her,” Maria said, then, “Hello?” A moment later, she said, “Xenia told me she’s got a few new prospects, but the property values have gone up lately, and it’s not going to be cheap.  There are some inexpensive factories down by Mexico City, though.  We could hire one of them…”

Silence again.

“I suppose you’re probably right,” Maria said after a long pause.  “Still, we might want to work on the conditions.  I think cutting rations is a mistake.”

She was quiet for a moment.  Whoever she was talking to evidently disagreed and had changed the subject, because the next time Maria spoke, she sounded excited.  “It just came this afternoon.  I think it’s going to be great.  I so appreciate you letting me help you design it…”

Bitsy
. Of course.  I shook my head in disbelief.  If what I was hearing was correct, the president of the Junior League was using slave labor to create her “Couture with a Conscience.”   

Maria continued, her voice still excited.  “Once we get the new factory online, we’ll be fine.  If I place the order for the machines now, I should have them by next month.  I’ve got a new group ready to come up at any time, and we’ll get things going as soon as you close on a property.”

She was a quiet again, then said, “That will increase our production by seventy percent.  More than we need right now, but it’s good to plan for the future.  I was down at the shop earlier, and the orders are starting to pour in.  The show was a big hit.”  After a moment, she said, “Don’t think twice about it.  I’ll talk to Sergio immediately.  Call me if you need anything else.”

She evidently hung up then, because she let out a big sigh and said, “Well, I tried.”

“It is all you can do,” he said.  Their footsteps receded as they headed toward the stairway, and I let the air out of my lungs.  I had escaped undetected.

Then a loud ring sounded right behind me.

It was my cell phone.

TWENTY-THREE

I fumbled in my waistband and jabbed at buttons until it stopped.  But it was too late.

“That wasn’t a rat.”  Maria sounded scared.

The man spoke, his voice menacing.  “Who’s there?”

I froze, waiting for the door to open and expose me.  Why hadn’t I turned off the ringer? I crouched down, ready to explode out of the room. 

Then the door swung open, and I found myself staring down the barrel of a gun.

“What are you doing here?” Maria gasped from where she stood, a few paces behind the man with the gun.  Her dark eyes were fixed on my face; the whites showed around them.  “Nobody’s supposed to be here!” 

“Oh, I was just in the neighborhood.”

“How did you find this place?” Maria’s voice was panicky.

I said nothing. 

The man with the gun ignored her and looked at me.  .  “Out.”

Maria stepped aside, her hands at her mouth, as I emerged from the closet. 

Maria’s voice wobbled.  “How did you get in?”

“When the delivery came… I slipped in through the bottom of the door.”

The man narrowed his eyes at me.“Call the
patrona
.”

Maria pulled the cell phone from her purse and hit a button, still looking like a spooked deer. 

“I am so sorry to bother you,” she said when the caller picked up, “but one of the ladies from the fashion show is here.”  She was quiet for a moment, but I could hear an angry voice coming through the phone.  “I don’t know.”  She looked at me.  “What’s your name?”

“Margie,” I said, without thinking to lie.  “Margie Peterson.”

She told Bitsy—I was assuming it was Bitsy, anyway—and from what I could make out, she did not sound pleased.  “How did you know to come here?”

“I saw the address in one of the International Shipping Company files.”

She relayed the message, then said, “Which files?”

“The ones in my husband’s office,” I said.

I didn’t hear Bitsy’s response to that, but I was guessing I wouldn’t have liked what she said, because when she hung up a moment later, Maria was looking very grim.

“So,” I said, my stomach flip-flopping as I smiled my brightest smile.  “What do we do now? If I promise not to mention any of this to the authorities, can I go home?”

She looked at Carlos.  “She said you’d know what to do,” she told him.  Her words sent a chill down my spine.

“Get Jorge,” he said.

“Fine.”

As she turned and hurried down the hallway, he looked at me.  “Give me the cell phone.”  I pulled it out of my waistband and handed it over him.  “And your car keys.”  I fished them out too.  We stood there for a moment, evidently waiting until Jorge showed up, which he did—all too soon.

“Put your arms out,” Carlos ordered.  I extended both arms, and Jorge, who had a scary set of tattooed tears on his right cheek, patted me down roughly.  Normally I had an assortment of wadded-up Kleenex and broken toys in my pockets, but the suit was new, and contained only my keys.  Fortunately, he missed the pepper spray, which was tucked into the back of my skirt.

“Now what?” I asked.

“Turn around,” Carlos said in a flat voice.  Fear coursing through me, I reached under my jacket for the pepper spray as I shifted around to face the closet.  But before I could grab it, something heavy crashed down on my head, and I crumpled to the floor.

#

It was the smell that woke me.  My face was pressed into a filthy blanket, and my stomach heaved in protest as I opened my eyes to darkness.  When I tried to shift my head around, I discovered that my hands and feet were bound.

Although it was black, I recognized the whirring of the sewing machines, and the slow drip-drip of the bathroom’s leaky faucet.  I was in the sleeping room on the first floor.

As I rolled away from the reeking blanket, my head throbbed.  Vomit rose in my throat, partly from the smell, partly from the panic that had begun pressing on my chest.  I wasn’t dead.  But I didn’t imagine they were planning to let me go with a wink and a handshake, either.  I strained to move myself to an upright position, pain stabbing through the base of my skull from where Carlos had brained me.  I struggled to corral my racing thoughts—which were skittering in a number of unpleasant directions, including death and dismemberment by a variety of methods, and the disturbing thought that I might never see Elsie and Nick again—and focus on what to do now.

I raised my bound hands, feeling for the pepper spray canister.  It was still there. I wasn’t sure it was going to be any help—after all, if I couldn’t get my hands free, it was useless—but it was a comfort to know I wasn’t completely unarmed.

Then I tested the bonds on my hands.  They didn’t feel rough, like rope, and from the way they pulled at my skin, I was guessing Carlos had used tape.  Whoever had bound me hadn’t taken any chances. The tape dug into my wrists and ankles, and my hands and feet were tingling from lack of blood.  The first thing to do was get my hands free.  Had I seen any sharp objects in the room from before? I tried to heave myself to my feet.  My head throbbed as lurched to a half-sitting, half-kneeling position, trying to contain the panic that rose in my throat like a scream.