Murder Feels Crazy

by Bill Alive

  “Forty-five isn’t old,” Mark muttered.

  Whatever, Mr. Mid-Thirties, I thought.

  “I heard that,” he growled.

  Side note: I know we’re besties and all, but I really don’t get why with almost everyone else, Mark only gets feelings, but with me, somehow he sporadically gets access to random thoughts, word for word.

  That’s getting old.

  Meanwhile, the dude was beaming and waving us over to the counter. “I know you guys!” he said. “I read all about you in the paper! The amateur sleuths!”

  Mark tensed.

  Sensing my friend’s discomfort, I plunged into the fray, distracting the attacker with my discreet conversational kung fu.

  “That’s us,” I said. “But what about you? I feel like I know you… I usually recognize people who are into the crystals, they keep buying the same ones over and over.”

  The babyface guy’s grin flinched.

  Oops.

  Vivian gave me a glare, then lifted her eyes to heaven, like a silent prayer for endurance to Vishnu or whoever.

  Fortunately, a phone rang in the back, and she touched the guy’s arm with an apology and then sashayed off to take care of it. Rather than visually skewering me.

  But that left us alone with him.

  Still keeping a plastered smile, he said, “I did start a health food restaurant… maybe you’ve seen me there?”

  “Oh right!” I said, relieved. “GORP Gourmet! That’s who you are! Chip Chapman!”

  Yes, that’s the guy’s real name. Speaking of goofy names, “GORP” means “Good Old Raisins and Peanuts,” a traditional hiker snack. A few years back, Chip had launched GORP Gourmet as a restaurant to cater to the Appalachian Trail hikers who stagger through Back Mosby in various stages of heat exhaustion and terminal body odor.

  Chip himself had a solid reputation for fanatical persistence on his long-distance hikes, which helped explain the sense of strength and energy that simmered beneath his superficial fat.

  On the other hand, as I looked at him now, I felt a frisson of fear about my own future physique… if this pro hiker who’d freaking started a health food restaurant couldn’t lose the extra pounds, where was that going to leave me? I’m lean enough now, but a hyperactive metabolism might not hold out forever.

  Of course, now that I’ve typed all that out, it’s like, hooray, let’s add Fat Shaming to Pete’s List of Public Superficialities. Great.

  I’m really having a hard time here trying to balance “being super honest” with “not inflicting every single secret shame of my inner jerktitude.” And having to write this at breakneck speed isn’t making it any easier.

  I mean, don’t we all have this secret list of things we’re afraid will make us unlovable?

  Maybe my list is a little too long.

  Anyway, Chip was fortunately not an empath, so all he heard was what I’d actually said. So refreshing.

  He beamed, clearly pleased that I’d known his name. “That’s me,” he said, and then he focused on Mark with a thoughtful frown. “I’ve seen you before too.”

  “Oh?” Mark said.

  Chip snapped his fingers and pointed at him. “Yes! You’re the guy who always yells at Kalakos!”

  “Oh,” Mark said, with a slight squirm. Kalakos is this waiter who always shows up to work with severe back pain. Which Mark vibes.

  But Chip didn’t seem to care. “Hey… um…” he said, suddenly shifting into his own awkward squirm. “Listen… I was wondering…”

  “Sorry,” Mark said. “I don’t do love cases.”

  Chip gaped. “Why would you say that?”

  Irritation (with himself) flashed across Mark’s face. But with a casual smile, he said, “Aren’t those crystals for romantic attraction?”

  I checked the tray that Vivian had put on the counter. Mark was totally right; Chip was shopping for red love crystals.

  Chip held up his hands. “Hey, you’ve got me totally wrong here. It’s not like that. I just thought, this guy’s a detective, maybe he’s got a few tips on reading people, he must be great at figuring out what they’re really thinking…”

  I snorted. And somehow, I managed to breathe wrong and start hacking.

  Chip eyed me.

  “Sorry,” I said, when I’d recovered. “Allergies.”

  “I’m really not all that experienced,” Mark said. “In fact, I might be taking early detective retirement.”

  That nearly set me coughing again. Early retirement? So much for avoiding outright lies. Mark has a thing about not lying, he calls it “mental preservation” or something. I’d been wondering when he would quit it with that and just lie as needed.

  “Really?” Chip said. “I’m sorry to hear that. But seriously, I would love to be more observant. I deal with strangers all day…”

  “Microexpressions,” Mark said, smiling again but also backing away. “Do a search.”

  We took refuge on the other side of the store, shielded by a shelf display of room scenters. Chip frowned, then turned back to the counter, ruminating over the tray of red attraction crystals.

  “So much for mental prestidigitation,” I whispered to Mark. “You straight-up lied. No more cases?”

  Mark picked up a fragrance thing that was shaped like a wolf, but with butterfly wings. Studying the mass-produced plastic with deep attention, he said quietly, “I wasn’t lying, Pete. I might be done.”

  I feel I took this announcement with comparable restraint.

  “WHAT?!?” I screeched.

  Chapter 5

  At my outburst, Chip snapped back toward us in surprise, but Mark gave him a reassuring smile… while he gave me a mind blast.

  Take it easy, tiger.

  “Don’t start with that,” I hissed, but I did keep my voice low. “How could you quit being a detective? Are you insane? You just told Gwen—”

  “I’m not going to ditch Gwen,” Mark muttered back, now examining the little card on the stupid wolf-butterfly scenter thing that said how it was handmade by Tibetan grandmothers using traditional techniques, sometimes. “I told her I’d come to that furry meeting, and I will.”

  “Just so you can get her on a date?” I said.

  Vivian, who was now back at the counter, cooed, “Lucky Gwen.”

  Mark shut his eyes and rubbed his eyebrows. That’s his version of a facepalm. Except when he actually facepalms.

  Chip looked confused, but Vivian smoothly started some explanation about washing his crystals to keep them recharged, and she got him checked out and on his way.

  As he left, he gave Mark one last inquisitive look.

  Mark pretended he hadn’t seen him, and he turned his back on the guy. “Look, Pete,” he said. “I almost died.”

  “You’re not the only one!” I said. “As far as I can tell, you’re taking it way better than I am!”

  “Okay, okay. Fair enough. I’ve just been doing a lot of thinking.”

  “About what? You’re a freaking empath. How could you settle for an ordinary life?”

  He frowned. “Are you hearing yourself? Does that not remind you of anybody?”

  I flinched, getting a flashback to this toxic guy Theodore who had also tried to kill us. (Lots of people were trying to kill us lately.) Obviously, we’d survived, but we hadn’t escaped his truly icky monologue.

  Theodore had festered with way too many issues to summarize here, but the particular quirk that Mark was referencing was how the guy had wanted to kill himself because he wasn’t a Super Special Celebrity (by age thirty).

  “That is so not fair,” I said. “Sure, I won’t deny I’ve had occasional delusions of grandeur, especially when we first started. But we are way past that, Mark. Just because I think you should use your gift—”

  “Don’t start,” Mark said. “As if I’ve been crusading as some noble servant of humanity. I did want to be Someone Special. I craved it. I hated myself as a boring failed web developer.”

  “And you’re n
ot!” I said. “You changed! You’re a detective!”

  “Pete, it’s not… whatever I really am, whatever any of us are… can you not see that maybe I’ve been doing this whole detective thing for the wrong reason? That maybe it’s actually better to just be happy being alive?”

  “So, what, you’re going to go join an ashram?” I said. “You’re saving other people’s lives, Mark. If you quit, innocent people will die.”

  Mark frowned, and he seemed to shrink inside himself. He crossed his arms and turned half away. “I’m not Gwen,” he said, his voice low. “I’m not sure I can do this long-term.”

  “Because she’s more badass?” I said.

  “Because Gwen doesn’t hurt.”

  “She’s a cop! I bet getting shot would hurt.”

  Now Mark turned on me, eyes blazing. “You don’t have to worry about either.”

  “I was in that crazy tank too!” I said.

  Mark’s nostrils flared. I could feel that he was holding back the torrent of awful things that the darker part of him wanted to say…

  But at the counter, Vivian gently interposed. “He does have a point,” she said.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “I meant Mark.”

  Mark looked startled.

  “What?” I said. “Vivian! I thought you were all about service! You say all the time that this store barely turns a profit, but you do it for the people!”

  “I do believe in service,” she said. “But not if it stifles your personal growth. Speaking of which…” She checked her watch. “You’ll need to argue behind the counter, Pete. I’m on break.”

  She pranced out from behind the counter holding a yoga mat, which she unrolled in the back corner next to the fountain. (Yes, we have a fountain. With a rock garden.) Without a word, she launched into an extreme stretch that I personally would have done in private. I politely averted my eyes.

  “Doesn’t that hurt?” Mark said.

  “Of course not,” she said. “I wouldn’t do yoga if every time it hurt.”

  The store door tinkled open, and Vivian called, “Mrs. Zapotocka! Pete will be happy to help you.”

  I twinged. Normally I love helping the regulars, but…

  “Don’t mind me,” chirped the elderly enthusiast. “I’ll just have a look around.” And she pottered over to the wall of sparkly puzzles, as if we all didn’t know, including Mark, that she would end up trying to use what was left of this month’s Social Security check to buy more Golden Topaz crystals to attract abundance.

  It’s not that Vivian and I don’t believe in crystals, especially Vivian. But we have a firm policy of making sure that Mrs. Zapotocka keeps working with the crystals she already has, so she can save the rest of her money for stuff like, you know, food. I still worry about her, though. If Mrs. Zapotocka ever discovers the Internet, her heirs will have enough topaz to open a mine.

  (Man, I’m glad I changed her name, at least.)

  Mark said, “Pete, actually, if you’re manning the counter, you can ring me up. I need to head out.”

  “Ring you up?” I said. “You came in here to buy something?”

  Mark’s scalp reddened with embarrassment, but he shrugged and held up the wolf-butterfly scent machine. “You know,” he said. “The man smell.”

  My heart sank. Talking smack about quitting was one thing, but taking a jibe from Gwen and then buying that kitchsy monstrosity? Mark Falcon?

  This was serious. Deadly serious.

  Chapter 6

  When I got home from work that night, Mark was edgy and excited. This is always a bad sign. Especially when we’re going to see Gwen.

  Then, he waited until the last minute to try to set up his new scenter. This proved unwise.

  Scenter malfunction doesn’t seem to be an issue of mainstream concern, but I’d like to take a firm stance here: if the thing is going to break, it is far, far better that it not spray at all than to drench you in an assault-level explosion of “MINTY MUSKY COMFORT”.

  We barely had time to change our clothes before Gwen rolled up.

  I had plenty of extra polo shirts, but Mark, alas, had to downgrade from his only collared shirt. At least he hadn’t been wearing his worn leather jacket before the hit. That’s his trademark jacket. Also, his only jacket.

  We rushed back gagging across the compromised living room, and we made it out onto the rotting porch before Gwen even had time to exit her car.

  This was my first time getting picked up in a police car. I wondered if our neighbors along the windy mountain road would enjoy assuming the worst.

  Mark’s grin was a bit giddy, like he was going on a date after all, instead of interrogating a bunch of possibly hostile furries. But he calmed himself and casually opened the front passenger door as if he popped into cop cars every day.

  That left me the back.

  As in, where they put the criminals.

  Of course.

  You know all those TV shows where the bad guy in the back of the cop car can, like, move? Forget it. I’ve seen roller coaster seats that had more leg room.

  Especially because there’s a steel wall between you and the front seats. Topped by the classic glass partition. As I squeezed in and shut the door, I felt like a lab rat locking myself into the cage.

  The car jolted forward, and then the claustrophobia really hit. Now I felt like a prisoner, gagging to death in his own MINTY MUSKY COMFORT. I rapped on the glass.

  Gwen reached back and pushed open a middle pane. As it swung toward me, I flinched away; I hadn’t noticed the pane had a mounted gun.

  “Don’t touch the shotgun,” Gwen said.

  “Not a problem.” I shrank as far as I could into the hard seat. (Not much.) Had I ever even been this close to a gun? She might as well have warned me not to press the big red button on a nuclear bomb.

  The car bounced in an extra deep groove in the washed-out gravel, and the gun rattled in the rack. Was it loaded? Could it go off by accident? My armpits were seeping with sweat.

  Gwen sniffed. “No offense, gentlemen, but what is that? Bug spray?”

  Mark said, “Pete was concerned about odor issues in the back.”

  “Mark!” I said, feeling betrayed. Yes, I had broached the topic that afternoon, but with the assumption of strict dude confidence.

  “Don’t you have to wash out puke back there?” Mark said.

  I may have whimpered.

  Gwen arched an eyebrow at Mark, disapproving but with a contradictory gleam in her eye. Great. Pete the Third Wheel rides again.

  “Calm down, Pete,” she said. “We keep the car thoroughly cleaned. And it’s been awhile since we had any vomit.”

  I felt slightly less desperate to take an hour-long shower in hand sanitizer. Although, for the record, whoever decided that “puke” was the more edgy term than “vomit” absolutely needs to be fired. I would be totally fine with no one saying “vomit” again, ever, up to and including the heat death of the universe.

  “Thanks, Gwen,” I said.

  “Sure,” she said. “Although we did have a drunk this morning who soiled himself.”

  Mark snorted.

  I considered going into the fetal position. There wasn’t room.

  “So what’s the plan tonight?” Mark said, with a jaunty energy that proved he was already shielding. From me.

  “This so-called ‘furry’ meeting is in a public restaurant,” Gwen said. “We can make the rounds and see what you pick up. On the website, most of these people use their mask, not their face, as their profile picture, but we can still get positive IDs—”

  “No, I meant the plan for dancing,” Mark said.

  I gasped. Then I hoped I hadn’t inhaled fecal particulates.

  The car went deadly quiet.

  Until we thunked into a huge pothole, and I smashed my head on the ceiling. Apparently suspension wasn’t high on the department’s budget priorities.

  Gwen’s voice was cold. “I don’t believe this.”
<
br />   “I don’t know why it’s such a big deal,” Mark said. “I mean, I’m doing you a favor.”

  “Favor?” Gwen snapped. The car lurched faster down the twisty gravel road. “That’s what you’re expecting here? An exchange of favors?”

  “Well, not those kind of favors,” Mark said. “All I had in mind was dancing. Not even slow dancing.”

  “Mr. Falcon—”

  “Okay, maybe one slow number.”

  “Mr. Falcon!” The car shuddered around a tight turn, giving me, even in the dark of the early November evening, far too generous a view of the sheer drop a few feet to the edge. “That’s enough.”

  “Come on, I’m just asking,” Mark said. “What are you going to do? Arrest me?”

  “That can be arranged.”

  “Not really. You’d have to touch me.”

  “What?!”

  “Admit it. You’re afraid to touch me.”

  “You’re delusional.”

  “Sure, you’d have to put your hand on my head when you pushed me into the car here. That would be skin to skin.”

  I said meekly, “Aren’t you already in the car?”

  Gwen said, “You’re trying to get me worked up at the thought of touching your scalp?”

  Mark shrugged. “Not trying.”

  “Seriously, stop.”

  “For how long? Forever?” Mark said. “Or until the next time I impress you?”

  “Forever is clearly not a concept you grasp, Mr. Falcon.”

  Mark frowned. “I said I would help you, and I am.”

  “Yes, now,” Gwen said. “After the drug addict already assaulted my sister.”

  “I’m an empath, not a prophet!”

  “You said yourself you were shielding,” she said. “When that person was clearly unstable and a possible threat.”

  “I was in a hospital,” Mark said. “There was a fricking pregnant lady having contractions. And there was already a security guard… what, am I supposed to be Pain Receiver Central every second of every day?”