Murder Feels Crazy

by Bill Alive

  Mark and I took a seat across the room on the hard ancient couch that she’d wedged among the furness, and as she settled down into the ordinary motions of working a sewing machine, her thin fingers (with sparkly purple nails) guiding the fabric with obvious skill, I found myself feeling that she couldn’t be a killer.

  That was relaxing. For about three seconds. Then I remembered…

  Rachel wasn’t the only person who lived in this apartment.

  Keeping her eyes on her work, Rachel spoke. Her voice was quiet and grim. “Listen, this might sound harsh, but Aidan and I were ancient history. I hadn’t talked to him in months. Once I found out he was using, it was like… this day was going to come.”

  “I thought he’d been to rehab,” Mark said.

  She snorted.

  Mark said, “I really got the sense that he was clean.”

  “He was an addict,” she said, and a bitter edge crept into her dull voice. “They’ll say anything.”

  Mark frowned, and he leaned forward. “Is that why you never collected on his suit?”

  “I’m going to,” she snapped. “His stupid stepdad called me, all trying not to cry and saying it was the least they could do. How do you think I heard?”

  “Really?” Mark said. “Huh.”

  “Oh, right,” she said. “I totally killed a client to guilt his parents into paying. That makes so much sense.”

  “Do you usually wait six months to collect?” Mark said.

  “How would you know?” she said.

  “I don’t. Tell me. It doesn’t look great.”

  Her jaw clenched. Through grit teeth, she said, “The whole thing with Aidan was idiotic. There’s nothing to tell.”

  I realized I was only half watching her. I kept scanning the racks of furry parts, getting more and more freaked that a berserk Luther was going to erupt from some furry hiding place in a rage. Where was that guy? At work somewhere? Why wasn’t Mark asking?

  Mark said, “Aidan’s dead. You’re carrying his baby. It’s probably worth telling.”

  She swiveled in her chair and glared at Mark, eyes blazing. “This is my baby,” she snapped. “He wanted nothing to do with it, he made that very clear.”

  Mark nodded. “Fair enough.”

  But her cheeks had flushed, and she kept talking. “Aidan was just this idiot who saw me at GORP’s at an open meet and pretended to be all into the fandom so he could hit on me.”

  Although her anger was making me squirm, it felt way more human than the Ice Queen approach. Which is probably why I relaxed enough to blurt, “Wasn’t Luther there too?”

  She flicked me a look like she would have been One Hundred Percent Satisfied to be having this conversation solely with Mark, with me in an entirely separate location. Like China. On a container ship. Under a container.

  “I know I cheated and it sucks,” she said. “But no, Luther was not there. Luther was at a con.”

  “You mean a convention?” Mark said. “For furries?”

  “You got it,” she said. “Luther really loves his damn cons. He goes to more than I do, and I’m the one with something to sell.”

  “I see,” Mark said.

  “But I didn’t just fricking jump into bed that first night!” Rachel snapped. “That tool dragged it on for weeks, coming to the meets and sending me all these texts, and okay, I’m not saying it wasn’t mutual, but ordering a fursuit? Just so he could come over here to be measured, on a weekend when he knew that Luther’d be away?”

  Mark frowned. “But last night it sounded like you actually did make the suit.”

  “Of course I made the damn suit,” she said. “I thought he was serious. Who knows, maybe he did too, for a little. He was bored out of his mind with his busted leg. And yes, it was totally my bad to listen to his bullshit about his medical bills and paying me later. I’m not going to say I wasn’t biased. Sex with customers. Not a good plan.”

  “So what happened?” Mark said.

  “What do you think, Sherlock?” She pointed both hands at her bulging womb.

  “And you were sure that the father wasn’t Luther?”

  She laughed, a short hard blast. “Luther was a fanatic about ‘protection’. He had way too much going on to want to waste time with kids. Fighting this, standing up for that… at first, it was great. A guy who actually cared. Turns out, just not about me.”

  Mark looked sad, which made me feel guilty, because I personally was back to scanning for hiding places for Mr. Fanatic. That might sound paranoid, but you try sitting in that guy’s packed apartment while his girlfriend tells her tale. You didn’t see him rage out against a rival who wound up dead. And what kind of crazy dude would ditch this woman for conventions? A guy like that might be capable of anything.

  Okay, I guess I was paranoid.

  Mark said, “But if Luther was so determined not to have a kid, why didn’t he suspect anything?”

  Rachel sighed. The anger seemed to drain out of her, and she leaned against her worktable and looked tired. “He found a way to make it my fault,” she said. She rubbed her forehead. “I don’t know. Maybe he did guess. I knew I had to tell him sometime. I guess I was hoping he could at least stick around for the labor. Grinding out your first baby solo isn’t exactly every girl’s dream.”

  Mark sat bolt upright.

  “What do you mean, stick around?” he said. “Luther’s gone? Where?”

  She shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  Mark leapt up and marched toward her. She jerked and stared up at him in surprise. “What? What is it?” she said. “We kind of had a big fight.”

  “Luther openly threatened to kill Aidan,” Mark said, towering over her. “And now he’s just… gone?”

  Rachel blanched.

  As far as I could tell, she was only now realizing that her ex-boyfriend might have killed her ex-lover.

  Mark held her gaze, scrutinizing her in dead earnest.

  Then the doorbell dinged.

  Mark startled, then he squinted toward the door, vibing. “What the hell?” he muttered. He strode across and opened the door to…

  Chip Chapman.

  The beefy restaurateur recoiled from Mark in astonishment… and a flash of disappointment? With a nervous fumble, he straightened his white collar.

  “Hey guys,” he said. “Getting in a little early Christmas shopping?”

  Mark squinted, then raised his eyebrows.

  Chip ignored this non sequitur with a waiter’s expertise. “Hey Rachel!” he called around Mark. “Is Luther around?”

  Mark crossed his arms. “You would know. He crashed at your place last night.”

  Chip gaped.

  Chapter 19

  As Chip stared at Mark in disbelief, I had to restrain the urge to fist pump. “Nice,” I muttered. Sometimes empathy rocks.

  But Mark himself grimaced, like he’d made a major goof.

  Why? I was confused. Then Chip’s stare soured into suspicion, and I got it. Catching a lie in the first five seconds just might have put Chip on his guard.

  Rachel swiveled out in her chair and demanded, “Did Luther really crash at your place?”

  Chip edged around Mark into the furtastic living room. “Um… yeah.”

  “Where is he now?” I said, talking too fast. “Whoa! You might have been the last person to see him before—”

  Something poked my side. Like an elbow nudge.

  I flinched. What the hell was that? I was freaking alone on the whole couch.

  I glared across the room at Mark. He was eyeing me with a certain gratification… and maybe a tinge of fear. His arms were crossed, and one finger was poking into his own side.

  WHAT?

  Huh, I heard him think. That’s interesting.

  I thought, You did NOT just mind blast me your own PHYSICAL SENSATION. Oh my gosh, don’t even THINK about going there.

  Mark smirked.

  “Um,” Chip said, his eyes flicking back and forth between Mark and me like a c
ornered porgy. “I’m not sure exactly where Luther went… I hope this isn’t about that assault on the nurse?”

  “Did Luther call anyone?” Rachel said. The color was coming back into her face, like relief that Luther might not be a killer after all.

  Chip flicked Mark another anxious glance, then said to Rachel, “I mean, he was upset. He wanted to talk. What’s this all about?”

  Rachel opened her mouth to answer…

  Then she grunted and clenched her teeth. A contraction.

  With slow, deep breaths, she leaned back and put a hand on her bulge. Beneath her fingers, I could actually see her shirt move as a wide muscle contracted tight. Ouch.

  Her eyebrows hunched, her jaw set, and her eyes went to slits and blazed. She looked like a boxer who’d taken a hit to the gut and was now extremely ready to KO the guy’s ass.

  On the other side of the room, Mark grimaced too.

  He tried to hide it, but Rachel darted him a strange glance.

  So did Chip. “Um…?” he said.

  Still clenched up, Rachel turned toward Chip and hissed through her locked teeth. “Aidan’s dead, Chip. He got a shitload of heroin and OD’d.”

  “Aidan is what?” Chip gasped. “Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh, Rachel, I am… I am so very sorry…”

  “I really… really don’t want… to talk about it,” she ground out. When the cramp finally released her, she eased a deep breath, then frowned at Mark.

  “That was very weird,” she said.

  “I’m fine,” Mark said. “Just a… cramp.”

  “Uh huh,” she said, eyeing him.

  Chip said, “Are you okay, Rachel? Should we get you to the hospital?”

  “I’m fine. First one all day.”

  “Rachel… are they sure about Aidan?” Chip said. “I’m so sorry, I can’t imagine—”

  “Seriously, please, drop it,” she said, her voice going cold. “We were very done a long time ago.” She scowled, and her shoulders slumped. “Honestly, that goes for Luther too. And don’t let him start mooching off you.”

  “He’s not, don’t worry,” Chip said.

  “So he did go?” Mark said.

  Chip tensed up. “He didn’t tell me where he was headed.”

  Mark squinted, then smiled. “That’s cool. Who did he tell?”

  “I didn’t say he told anyone.”

  “You… implied,” Mark said.

  Chip looked confused. But also intimidated.

  “Come on, Chip,” Mark said. He leaned toward Chip and put a hand on the shorter man’s shoulder. As I mentioned, Mark’s not the touchy-feely type, so I was pretty sure he was trying to amp the vibe.

  Chip squirmed. He tried to pull away with a socially approved friendly shrug, but he only managed to jostle into a rack display of those cat ears that Rachel had been wearing last night. (I guess she really had been offering me a spare.)

  “Hey,” Rachel called. “Last time I checked, cops can’t just grab people.”

  “Oh, they’re not cops,” Chip said.

  “They’re not?” Rachel snapped. She flashed me an angry glare, like, caught you lying AGAIN.

  “I didn’t say anything!” I said.

  She wasn’t impressed.

  Mark released Chip’s shoulder, patted it with an apologetic flourish, and took a step away. “We’re detectives,” he said.

  “I thought you were quitting,” Chip said.

  “I’m definitely considering it,” Mark snapped. “Look, Chip, everyone in this room besides you saw Luther publicly threaten to kill Aidan last night. You might want to consider the implications before you stonewall.”

  Chip looked shocked. “Really?”

  But Rachel said, “If you’re not even cops, he doesn’t have to tell you anything.”

  “We’re working with the cops,” Mark said. “And he’d rather talk to us. Trust me.”

  “It’s fine, Rachel,” Chip said. “Thanks, though.”

  “Whatever” she said, with a shrug. “You’re my best client. Well… you would be, if you’d let me replace that disintegrating puppy suit.”

  Chip grimaced, like this was an old argument. “You know I’d do it in a heartbeat if the restaurant would have a decent quarter. There’s just a lot I could do for the business with four thousand dollars.”

  I gasped. “FOUR THOUSAND DOLLARS?”

  “Pete…” Mark said, menacing.

  Too late. I was already gaping at Rachel. “You charge FOUR THOUSAND DOLLARS to make a FURSUIT?”

  Rachel glowered and crossed her arms. “I know you think this whole thing is super duper ridiculous, but you could at least pretend to not be such a jerk.”

  “But that is so much money!” I said. “You could buy a car! A nice car!”

  “So what?” she snapped. “This is art.”

  That was so unexpected that I actually shut up.

  I just sat there, surrounded by furry parts, trying to process the concept.

  Somehow, my gaze fell on that cow leg she’d been sewing… and I noticed that the spot pattern wasn’t a print. On a closer look, the shapes had a surprising interest and energy. She must have done the pattern herself with some kind of ink. Cow spots… who’d have thought?

  Then I noticed that nestled here and there on the walls, nearly hidden by all the furry parts, there were sketches.

  Most were clearly designs for suits, but others were real fantasy sketches. One was a pack of wolves running through a castle ruin by moonlight, another was a woman riding a dragon through a storm. It was the kind of artwork that makes you shiver, it’s so good.

  “Wow,” I said. “You can really draw.”

  She startled, and for the first time since we’d showed up that morning, her face showed a hint of that warmth and softness that she’d had in the restaurant when she was happy with her friends.

  Chip said, “Listen, I know it looks weird, but you guys really need to understand this suit thing, especially if some creep’s buying a knockoff suit and trying to pass himself off as a real furry. When you make a fursona, it’s a big deal, it’s this whole detailed character that you actually create yourself. Your story. At least, that’s how it is for me. I have no artistic talent whatsoever, I couldn’t write a story or draw a picture to save my life. That’s why people like Rachel are so amazing. We’d be lost without her.”

  He looked embarrassed while he said all this, but his voice was firm.

  And I finally understood why Rachel had been so friendly with me in that restaurant booth.

  She wasn’t some preternaturally nice hot girl who took random pity on moonstruck dudes. She’d been trying to gently coax me into crafting a work of art. All those leading questions about animals and such were how she hunted for the details, helping people explore what they’d be helpless to articulate on their own.

  Whoa… was that what made me so uncomfortable around these folks? That they were really amateur artists? Enthusiastic, bombastic, oversharing… flaunting their goofiest, awkwardest, deepest selves on display…

  Just like, oh, I don’t know… a rank amateur writer?

  Wow.

  I mean, sure, dressing as a giant stuffed animal was never going to be my jam. But neither was ballet. I was basically the guy hating on other people’s stuff because it made me feel a teeny tiny little bit more safe that my discerning taste must prove that my own stuff couldn’t suck.

  You know what sucks? Contempt.

  “I’m definitely cool with art,” I said. “Sorry.”

  Now Rachel really looked surprised. As if, in her world, apologies had been spoken of in legend, but no one had ever dreamed they’d walk among us.

  She studied my face, probing for the mockery or lie. But I was for real, and I guess she saw it, because somehow, for a moment, we were both just… present. Shields down.

  Then Chip said, “When you guys say Luther threatened to kill Aidan, do you mean, like…”

  “He was just mouthing off,” Rachel said. “There was a
fricking cop right there.”

  “That’s one interpretation,” Mark said. “But a jury might find it interesting that Chip here won’t say a word.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Chip snapped.

  Mark shrugged.

  Chip frowned. Technically, Mark and I were two random dudes with no more authority than a nosy parking attendant. But we had crashed his restaurant last night with a real cop, and Chip seemed a bit fuzzy on the finer points of the law.

  “Okay, okay,” Chip said. “Fine. Luther did call someone. Katrina.”

  Rachel went still.

  Mark noticed. “What is it?” he snapped. “Who’s Katrina?”

  Chip hesitated. “She’s his sister.”

  “And?” Mark said. He squinted, then said, “She’s on heroin?”

  Chip nodded. “Pretty bad. She’s been living with their aunt for years.”

  Rachel muttered, “I didn’t think of Katrina.” She looked sad again… and scared.

  “Hold up,” I said. “You’re saying Luther crashed at your place and called his sister who would know exactly how to get all the heroin he’d need to kill Aidan? And then took off without telling you his plans?”

  Mark said, “Did you hear what they talked about?”

  Chip said, “I wouldn’t want to—”

  “Did you?”

  “No!” Sweat was beading on Chip’s temples. “Listen, I know Luther comes off as kind of intense, but I can’t… I just can’t imagine…”

  I caught Mark’s eye. We could imagine. Easily.

  But how were we going to find the guy?

  And what if Aidan wasn’t his only grudge…

  Chapter 20

  Chip resisted giving us Katrina’s address, but Rachel piped right up with both the full address and the name of her aunt, Dolores Trudy. But as Rachel said all this, she was looking at me.

  Mark made a quick goodbye, with an ominous promise to keep in touch, and as we walked back down the stale stairway to our car, I tried to avoid reading too much into Rachel’s final look.

  I reminded myself that she had to be thinking that if Luther did have a grudge list, she’d be pretty near the top. I’d have looked imploring too. Or maybe not imploring, there was something else there I couldn’t place… like that first time she’d seen me in the hospital…