by Bill Alive
Sibyl’s face sagged over her beer. Her poofy hair seemed recently blonde, and she looked like she’d done her makeup in the last day or two, but used extra to make it last. She wrapped her chapped, smudgy lips around her bottle for another pull. Then, her glazed eyes still locked on the TV, she spoke.
“Detectives, eh?” she said dully. “Did Dad hire you?”
“I’m afraid that’s confidential,” Mark said, before I could blurt that we hadn’t even met her Dad yet.
“Hope you guys don’t charge much. Dad really can’t afford it.”
“We heard about his pittance,” I said. “Did your mom put him on an installment plan too?”
Might not have been my brightest interrogation question ever, but I’ll admit I was a bit peeved about the defiled beer. I was trying to find an inconspicuous spot to ditch the thing.
Sibyl snapped away from the TV and fried me with a furious glare. “Oh, so Dad told you how Mom wanted to treat me like a twelve-year-old? Didn’t work out so well, did it?”
Fidelio settled beside her and muted the TV. He gave us a smile, then rubbed her shoulder. “Your mom’s been good to us,” he said.
“She fricking died at our wedding!”
“What?” Mark and I blurted. I guess we’d been synchronized-blurting a lot lately, but come on.
“He didn’t tell you?” she said. Her loose face tightened and animated with malice. “That was the one thing I would have had over Lindsay, that Mom actually came to my wedding. So of course she had to go and die. Right during Lindsay’s toast for me! Down Mom goes, ker-splat, face first in her damn special-ordered vegetarian veal!”
“Wow,” I said. “Was she murdered?”
Mark rubbed his eyebrows.
“Of course not! She just fricking died! She did it on purpose, she couldn’t bear to see me get anything right!” Her bulgy gray eyes were tearing up.
Fidelio slid his arm around her shoulder and hugged her close. “It’s been a hard few weeks.”
“I can imagine,” Mark said. “Looks like you just moved in.”
Fidelio flashed a slight frown, but his face cleared into Grownup Serious. “Yes, we’d had our eye on the place for awhile, but it hadn’t quite been the right time. With the tragedy of Mom’s sudden passing—”
Sibyl snorted, and turned back to the silent TV.
Fidelio continued. “We felt she would have wanted us to use the inheritance to start our life together here.”
“Must be a decent monthly installment,” Mark said. “The mortgages out here are highway robbery.”
Fidelio squirmed. “We did close on the loan before the details of the installment came out. But we were still going to make it work.”
Sibyl snorted again, a full-on deep-throated masterful performance this time. “Oh yeah. The ‘business’.”
“Wait, that’s where I heard the name Fidelio Samson!” I said. “You scammed Mrs. Zapotocka into cleaning out her retirement account to buy some course on ‘how to make money with an online business’!” I turned to Mark. “She told Vivian all about it at the store. Now she’s totally broke! She keeps using her last credit card to get Golden Topaz crystals to attract abundance.”
Fidelio stiffened. “Our courses weren’t guaranteed,” he said, with the firm voice of a professional sales call. “Not everyone’s going to get results.”
“You charged her twelve thousand dollars to make a one-page ‘business website’!” I said.
“Really?” Mark said, with an obvious pang of professional envy.
“Yes, so she could be a ‘life coach’!” I said. “And when it turned out no one knew she existed, you started selling ‘consultations’!”
“Look, I just worked in sales,” Fidelio protested, now in yet another voice, the Might Sort Of Be My Actual Self Voice. “Fulfillment was a whole different department, and anyway, I’ve got my own business now. Sibyl does too.”
“Who the hell cares about our business failures?” Sibyl demanded. “The cops already asked us all this shit, and even they didn’t get into anal detail about our personal lives. You want to know how many tampons I need?”
“Not so much,” Mark said mildly. “Just how many millions you need.”
She stared, mouth open, like she was finally comprehending that she might possibly be seen as having a motive for murder.
Then she burst into gut-wrenching sobs.
“This was supposed to be the happiest time of my life…but first Mom dies, then Lindsay…and it’s all questions, questions, questions, as if Lindsay wasn’t the one person who actually cared whether I live or die!”
Fidelio pressed her to his chest, and she openly wailed. Over her back, he pleaded, “Maybe we can pick this up another time.”
“Sounds good,” Mark said.
“And tell Dad to fuck off!” Sibyl screeched.
“Duly noted,” Mark said, and left.
Her sobs followed us out into the night. At the car, Mark paused, taking in the view of the valley. Below, Back Mosby glittered in the darkness. I always think it has a lot of lights for such a small town.
I felt ill, a queasy trembling in my chest and gut. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been near such raw misery.
“That was a disaster,” I said.
“On the contrary, Watson. I obtained a most excellent vibe.”
His light tone startled me. Then I studied his face in the glaring security lights, and I saw that above his smirk, his eyes were grim.
“What vibe?” I said, struggling to forget my quease. “Sibyl wanted the money?”
“No. Not greed. Jealousy. She was mortally jealous of her sister, Pete. She stinks of it.”
“Jealous enough to kill her?” I said. “She can barely get off the couch.”
“It doesn’t take much effort to use poison,” he said. “Or to hire help.”
“That’s true!” I said, with a fresh surge of the thrill of the hunt. “And who needs to hire anyone, when your husband’s a professional scammer?”
He nodded. “He certainly seems like he could use the money. Could be either or both.”
“But how do we find out? And how’ll we ever prove any of this?”
“Keep talking to people,” Mark said. “Next up is Lindsay’s disinherited father. Ramsey Mackenzie.“
“He’s Sibyl’s father too,” I said. “Great. Can’t wait to meet that woman’s parental unit.”
Technically, I was wrong. I could have waited. And I should have. I should have waited a long, long time…
Chapter 17
The next morning, Mark actually had more client work, so I took Thunder in to Valley Visions. Vivian acted a little too enthusiastic to see me, and she mentioned that now that it was September, tourist Autumn Splendor season wasn’t far off, so pretty soon I might have to start, you know, working normal hours again.
I gave her a glowing report of how Mark was practicing his shielding.
When I got home after work, Mark was ready to head out.
“I called Lindsay’s father a couple times, no answer,” he said. “But he’s retired, probably at home. Let’s drop by.”
Ramsey Mackenzie lived in town, in a cruddy townhouse on the outskirts where the backyards border the railroad track and the driveways are gravel. The neighborhood’s not as bad as the ghetto apartments over by the old factory (one of the first ever Superfund sites in America, yay Back Mosby!), but the street was so jammed with aging cars that we had to park around the block. In this neighborhood, the cars-per-housing-unit ratio is off the charts.
We knocked three times before Mr. Mackenzie creaked open his door. He jutted out his sallow, angular face, shielding his body behind the scuffed wood. I’d only ever seen him at a distance, when he was telling that story about Lindsay at her funeral. Up close, his skin was mottled and pale, and it hung loose like the wing on a raw chicken.
“You’re the PIs who called earlier?” he squawked. “I don’t have to talk to you. My daughter died of a seizure, end of story.
Wait.” He squinted. “I saw you two idiots at the funeral. Amateur screwballs making trouble.”
Mark winced. At first I thought he was insulted, then I realized with excitement that he was probably getting a vibe. But I’m not an empath, so I’d just have to wait.
I hate waiting.
“Sir, we’re sorry to trouble you,” said Mark, “but we’re hired professionals and we’ve been asked to look into this.”
“Professionals? I saw you drive around the block in that trashy beater. How many cases have you solved, ace?”
Mark’s eyes flashed. “I’ve been serving clients in various capacities for over a decade.”
Wow. That dude can seriously mentally enervate.
Mackenzie scoffed. “Meaning, none.” He retracted behind his door like a supercilious turtle.
That made me mad. “At least he didn’t blow his wife’s money on the dot-com tulip bubble!”
The thin year-bitten head snapped back out. “That was my money, piss-ass! And it wasn’t my decision, I was following the experts. That was the smart play, hire a firm, get the expertise. Well, Ivy Holly Financial blew all our money, they went belly-up bankrupt before you were old enough to jerk off, but I’m still here, aren’t I? I still got time to make my pile and screw the experts.”
“That’s just it,” Mark said smoothly. “It’s the ‘expert’ cops who refuse to give you a proper investigation. What if your daughter was murdered?”
I expected a blast of outrage, but instead, Mackenzie’s bleary eyes drooped. The anger drained from his face, and it sagged with grief. “What difference would it make?” he muttered. “Either way she’s dead.”
Mark nodded. “That’s true. Nothing can change that. But—”
“But nothing. Lindsay had potential. But she threw it away, and now she’s gone. All those years as a damn housewife.”
“I thought it was more your wife who objected to Crowley.”
“I never objected to him, he’s always been a decent provider. It’s pathetic how much my wife detested him, they were two peas in a pod, hardworking, successful, power-hungry control freaks. But Lindsay just lazed around all those years playing house. And then when she finally has the freedom and the money to make something of herself, she goes and leaves it all to her screwup sister.”
“And her scammer husband,” I put in. “He definitely has plans for all that cash.”
Mark rubbed his eyebrows. Too much more of that, and he was going to rub away half his remaining supply of head hair.
Mackenzie’s red-rimmed eyes blazed. “Listen, you numbskulls. I know I don’t look like much, but I’m still in the game and I have a lawyer. This family’s had enough trauma in the last month. You stay out of this, period. Or I’ll sue.”
He slammed the door.
Like, loud. I know you read about slamming doors all the time, but in real life, it’s pretty freaking loud.
“You really have quite the bedside manner,” Mark said.
“You’re the one who’s been doing this for ten years, apparently. Did you get a vibe?”
“Of course. Beneath that crusty facade—” His phone rang, and he whipped it out. “Crap! The client who calls!” He put the phone to his ear and hustled down the street toward Thunder.
As I followed him down the street, darting for safety whenever a car drove past (why don’t they make sidewalks anymore?), I wondered who was left to talk to next.
What happened when we ran out of suspects? Did we just cycle through and start over again with that pilot Waterbury who might have liked her? I had vague memories of mystery stories rehashing the same suspects over and over again until somebody cracked. That sounded unbearably tedious.
Then I thought of one interviewee I wouldn’t mind seeing again.
“Oh, hey,” I said, “I was thinking…we should talk to Jivan—I mean, Dr. Kistna…”
Mark was still walking and explaining into his phone with desperate professional patience. “No, it actually makes sense that the site would look broken on Internet Explorer Six,” he told his client. “That’s actually quite an old version, not that many people are using it anymore.”
I figured he could still hear me. “You look like you might be busy tonight,” I said. “Plus you don’t really do hospitals.”
“Is there any way your boss could upgrade his browser?” Mark said.
“Maybe I could just talk to her?” I said. “Can I use the car?”
He finally swiveled, held the phone to his chest, and whispered, “Whatever! Fine!”
Score.
I’d already put her number in my phone, just in case she called, although now that I think of it, she would have to look me up first. Anyway, I took my phone out and stared at her number. My elation vanished into crisis. Decision time.
Call or text?
I texted. After extensive edits, the final, somewhat epic, message was: Hi Dr. Kistna! :) This is Pete, the detective from the other day. Hope you are doing super great. :) We’ve had some new developments, and I was wondering if you could possibly meet tonight to talk about the case. If not tonight, no problem, another night is totally fine. How about somewhere relaxed, where we can talk in comfort? Like … a winery?
Before I typed winery, I experimented with Thai restaurant, scenic trail, and maybe we can just park somewhere with a gorgeous view. But I decided that winery hit the perfect note of both classy ambiance and ambiguity about whether this was a date.
Thirty anguished seconds later, she texted back.
Which winery?
Holy crap, was that a yes? Was that a yes?
And which the hell winery was I going to take her to? I knew nothing about wineries! In a panic, I stabbed a search on my phone.
Mark tapped my shoulder.
He still had the phone to his ear. “Drive,” he mouthed, and thumbed the car.
“Hold up,” I said, swiping desperately through search results. How the hell was I supposed to pick one? How many wineries did the valley have? How did they all stay in business?
“Now,” he whispered. “I need to get to my computer.” Apparently, this was the one time he hadn’t thought to bring his Rube Goldberg Traveling Office.
“Give me a second!” I said.
He glared. Hard.
A strange anxiety spiked in my chest, like we had to get home now or I’d make someone powerful mad.
“Dude!” I said. “Are you broadcasting? You trying to mind blast me?”
“What?” he whispered. He looked surprised, for real. “No!”
“You better not.”
“Fine. Get a taxi,” he whispered, and spun toward Thunder.
“Wait wait!” I said. I swiped back to the top of the search results. Black Oaken Cup Winery. It sounded vaguely familiar, like it might be the same winery I’d gone to once in college that was a cozy converted barn with soft mood lighting and couples murmuring alone in intimate shadowy nooks. That would be perfect.
Black Oaken Cup, I texted. If that works for you.
Thunder roared to life.
“Coming!” I yelled.
I hadn’t driven a minute before my phone pinged the return text. Like an idiot I’d put the phone in my pocket, and as I struggled to dig it out, Mark gave me the eye, while still nodding and soothing his client.
When I finally got it out, Mark grabbed it.
“Don’t you dare text and drive, you Millennial narcissist,” he hissed.
“But—”
He held my phone out the open window.
“Okay, okay!” I said. “Relax!”
It was a long drive across town. And up the mountain.
Not till I’d parked did he toss it on my lap, still talking into his phone as he launched from the car for the house. I fumbled to read her text.
Sure. See you at 7.
I couldn’t believe it.
Looking back … I shouldn’t have.
Chapter 18
I hadn’t gone on a date in awhile, not even an am
biguous not-technically-a-date date, and I’d forgotten how much time I could burn in preparations. Then I forgot to check how long the drive was to Black Oaken Cup.
Then I forgot that every extra minute you’re late on a date feels like half an hour. Especially when you’re racing Thunder around back country roads, trying to find some damn new winery you’ve never seen in your life.
“Just breathe,” I shouted to myself. “She’s had a hard day of helping people and being gorgeous. She’s probably sipping a Merlot, soaking up the ambiance in Full Chillax.”
That’s when I saw the parking lot. More like a parking mountain. The distant hill swarmed with cars, sparkling in the sunset like the minaret of a shrine.
“That better not be it,” I said.
Right.
The parking lot at Black Oaken Cup Winery was not only laid out on pilgrimage proportions, it was also packed. On a Wednesday night. Normally I would have enjoyed the sweeping panorama of hillside vineyards, preposterously picturesque. But at the moment, I was fifteen minutes going on eight hours late, and there wasn’t a free patch of grass on the entire damn mountain.
When I hit twenty minutes, I jammed Thunder in front of some compact car in a weird biggish space around a tree. I felt bad, and I hoped they’d just gotten here. Then I totally forgot about it.
The summit of the Black Oaken Cup hill was crowned with a concrete-plywood structure that featured a long service counter propped on barrels and an entrance provided by gigantic gaping garage doors. This jewel of a keep was surrounded by a moat of continuously packed benches, creaking chairs, and clusters of talkers so excited that they were delighted to stand. Couples had to jostle other couples to squeeze into a seat.
I scanned the crowd, forcing slow breaths so I wouldn’t hyperventilate. Maybe she was late too. Maybe she’d agonized at the mirror, obsessing over the perfect outfit—
“Mr. Villette!” Her raised voice pierced the hubbub.
She was waving from a bench packed with a bunch of dudes who looked like a J. Crew catalog. And she was still in her doctor coat. Probably no obsessing, then.
“You dressed up,” she said, surprised, as I squeezed in across from her and tried to acclimate to the cologne.
