Communal Kitchen Crimes

Petra hunched over her quinoa salad and watched them closely; the first of the eaters. There was a microwave pasta, yoghurt from the fridge, and a toasted sandwich. So far, there had been no indiscretions.

But it was still early.

As if to confirm her misgivings, Gary, the head of marketing, waltzed in, dropped his mug in the sink and turned to leave.

“Gary!” Petra yelled.

He started in shock and looked blankly at her as though he’d never seen her in his life, even though she worked three pods away in the strategy team.

“You forgot to put your mug in the dishwasher,” Petra said.

Gary stared at her like she’d just told him his head was on fire. He looked at the offending mug. “Right, yeah, sorry?” he said, his voice raised as though he either wasn’t sure if he should be sorry, wasn’t sure what he was sorry for, or just, as a general rule, had no idea what was going on.

“It makes it easier for everyone if we all take care of our own dishes,” Petra said.

Gary extracted his mug from the sink, took a step back to examine the area below, and eventually located the dishwasher a step to his right.

Serial offender, Petra thought.

“Kitchen duty?” a familiar voice said.

Petra turned to Arun from IT.

“You know it.”

He pulled out a chair and sat next to her like they were detectives on a stakeout.

“What are you doing down here?” Petra said.

“Lunch room’s full upstairs. And someone was eating tuna. Like, more tuna than anyone has ever eaten for lunch, ever in their lives, anywhere in the world. I’m going to need a hazmat suit before I can return to my desk.”

Petra rolled her eyes and snorted. “Worst. And I feel your pain. For the past three days, somebody has dropped a disgusting bowl of leftovers on the bench and done a runner without so much as dumping the scraps in the bin.”

“Appalling,” Arun said. “I mean, who are these animals?”

Petra nodded in agreement. She liked Arun’s stance on personal hygiene. That must be how he managed to find a wife despite his low-grade haircut.

“So do you spend the whole lunchtime here?” he said.

“Of course. If I didn’t, I’d have to clean it all up myself at the end of the day and that’d be a waste of the company’s money.”

Arun tilted his head. “But the money is better spent turning you into a kitchen vigilante?”

“If people just behaved like adults, we wouldn’t have this issue at all, and I could go back to my desk and get some work done.”

“If people just behaved like adults, we wouldn’t have reality television.”

There was a sudden clatter, followed by some low level, office-acceptable swearing. Julius from finance had knocked over his bottle of Pepsi. Petra knew it was his because there was a yellow Post-it-Note with his name on it and the entreaty: Please do not steal my Pepsi again. He’d been a victim on inter-company thievery, he’d explained to Petra on day one of her shift. That crime was committed two years ago and the shaming yellow note had been a better protection than six armed guards. “Haven’t lost a drop since,” Julius had boasted.

Too bad the note didn’t protect him from his own acute lack of coordination.

Julius grabbed the communal tea towel, which had the shape and texture of a giant, stale papadum, and wiped over the spill. Petra sat higher in her chair, her back straight and eyes focused, like a cat that’s just spotted a bird. She watched closely as Julius’ half-hearted attempt at cleaning ended and he chucked the tea towel back on the bench.

She stood up at her table. “Julius, there are paper towels and cleaning spray beneath the sink.”

He recoiled, apparently deeply offended at the criticism of his sanitation skills. “I already cleaned it up.”

“No, you didn’t. You just spread the Pepsi all over the bench.”

He looked at his handiwork and sighed theatrically.

Petra smiled in triumph. She could see the sticky streaks from three metres away. There was no way he could deny it.

Julius took out the spray and towels, executed his duty and gave Petra a mock friendly wave on the way out.

“Don’t you want to have friends at work?” Arun asked.

“Not friends like that.”

Arun spooned a load of distinctly unappealing looking curry into his mouth and chewed quietly.

Petra did the same with her salad and they both watched the comings and goings of the lunchtime crowd in silence. The focaccia makers, the cold leftover mixers and one protein shake fixer all cast furtive glances towards them. Petra suspected word was getting out about her exacting surveillance and it was now acting as an effective crime deterrent. She was like the playlist of barking dogs you put on to keep burglars away when you were out for the night; deal with it neighbours, it keeps lawlessness out of your backyards as well.

Arun waved his fork at the kitchen. “You know,” he said thoughtfully. “We’ve got a mini surveillance camera in the cupboard that could stream to your phone so you wouldn’t have to sit here. Might help you catch your phantom bowl dropper.”

Petra considered the idea. “It wouldn’t record them, though, right?”

“No, just live streaming.”

“Good. Because I wouldn’t feel comfortable recording people without their permission.”

Arun looked, inexplicably, like he was trying not to smile. There was nothing funny about this. “Of course,” he said. “Live streaming’s ethically above board, though.”

Back at her desk, Petra set up her phone just beneath her screen so she could see any movement with her peripheral vision and switch focus as needed. The first thirty minutes of video surveillance passed uneventfully, and then something highly unusual caught her eye.

Arun had positioned the camera so it took in the kitchen and the adjacent walkway, which included a door to the stairs. The door opened, which wasn’t out of the ordinary, but then a woman stuck her head out and trained it back and forth as though she was scanning the area for cops. Satisfied the coast was clear, she darted out like a mouse, dropped a bowl on the bench and bolted back to the doorway.

Petra leaped to her feet and raced through the cubicle pod. She hit the green exit button and tumbled through the unlocked glass doors into the elevator well, rushing to the set of stairs opposite those that opened up to the kitchen. She bounded up them so fast that her legs burned and her lungs screamed for relief. She burst onto the floor above, the only other level her company occupied, and was momentarily overcome by the lingering stench of tuna. She gathered herself and sprinted to the other side of the floor, ignoring the gawking desk dwellers on all sides.

She reached the door that led to the stairwell and tried to stand up straight. But she couldn’t actually breathe so she leaned over, hands on her knees, and sucked in as much air as her bursting lungs would allow. Her mind raced with imagined pictures of the perp; a slovenly human being at best, a downright monster at worst.

The door opened and Petra saw a pair of women’s shoes take a single step and then abruptly halt. She’d got her. The crime spree was over.

Petra smiled as she raised herself up, but the smile turned quickly to a look of disbelief. Standing before her was a perfectly presented woman, not one of the beastly hordes as she’d expected. Makeup expertly applied, not a hair out of place, clothing cut like it was designed for her alone.

And, most shocking of all, Petra knew exactly who she was. “Olivia,” she gasped. “You’re the one who’s been dumping your lunch?”

Olivia bit her bottom lip and took Petra’s hand. “Please, Petra, please don’t tell Arun. He’s the worst cook in the world. His curries taste like warm dirt heated over a garbage fire. But he tries really hard and I don’t have the heart to tell him he’s so awful.”

“So you’ve been leaving his cooking in our kitchen to stop him from catching you throwing it away?”

“I’m a terrible person, aren’t I?”

“I’m not married but I don’t think sparing your husband’s feelings makes you a terrible person.”

“So you won’t tell him?”

“On one condition.”

“Anything.”

“You do my kitchen duty for the rest of the year.”

Olivia’s jaw dropped. “You monster.”