Murder Feels Bad

by Bill Alive

  I whirled. Hannigan-Quinn was grinning over his camera, his beady eyes agleam.

  “Crap,” Mark said.

  Chapter 2

  The wedding kind of got postponed.

  Meaning, a mob of guests in their shiny finest swarmed back after us to investigate. But they cleared out fast, as the word passed around that you probably didn’t want to let your kids back here, or your mother, or anyone who wasn’t a licensed mortician.

  Ceci volunteered to guard the scene. Being a nurse, she had seen even worse in the Mangled Human Remains department. Plus, she may be short and Southern sweet, but she’s been working out for years, and I’ve seen her intimidate dudes three times her size.

  The guests separated into anxious, muttering knots that sprawled across the lobby and spilled to the wide outside patio. Mark and I went outside too, and I felt like we were kids who’d been evacuated when the school fire alarm got pulled. Now we were waiting for the cops to show up.

  Except that back when I was a kid, I didn’t know and dread the actual individual cops. Well, mainly one…

  “I hope they don’t send Gwen,” I ventured.

  Mark snorted. “Sure, they have so many homicide investigators to choose from out here.”

  “Rats,” I muttered.

  Gwen is Ceci’s sister. She is not short and Southern sweet. She is pretty much permanently stuck in Terrifying Viking Queen Mode.

  Unfortunately, this includes being tall and relentlessly gorgeous. Even (and especially?) in her uniform as Sergeant Gwen Jensen, head of the (tiny) Back Mosby Investigations Division.

  Given that both Gwen and Mark like to catch murderers, you’d think they would have reached an understanding. Especially considering how everything had gone down with that first case.

  But there was this little problem…

  A cop car screeched up to the curb, the lights still piercing even in the bright sun. Gwen thrust out from the driver’s side and rushed for the entrance with long strides. When she saw us, her chiseled face darkened.

  “Mr. Falcon,” she said dryly. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  Mark smirked. “Gwen! Really? So forward!”

  Gwen’s face hardened to Level Granite, and she marched away.

  Like I said. It’s not working out so great.

  Officially, Mark says that Gwen is the one woman he can’t read. He claims this is why he enjoys needling her. It’s exciting, for once. Every other woman, he can tell how she takes it.

  Unofficially, I think they might as well both be in junior high.

  Which wouldn’t matter so much, if she wasn’t going to be in charge of every investigation around here we ever try to help out with.

  Not to mention being my other best friend’s sister. Awkward.

  “Do you have to antagonize her?” I said. “What if we want to look into this case?”

  He humphed and shrugged, but I caught the glint in his eye.

  “What is it?” I said. “Are you getting anything?”

  He turned away, scanning the milling crowd.

  A small chill crept low across my back.

  Even after all we’ve been through together, I can never quite get used to what Mark can do.

  Here we were, standing with an ordinary crowd on an ordinary sunny fall Virginia day, and beside me, this ordinary-looking dude was trying to sense whether any of these chatting strangers were secretly seething with murderous hate.

  Then the flashing police lights caught my eye, and my mind flashed back to the horror staining the ancient brick. Okay, maybe the day wasn’t totally ordinary.

  “Not sure,” Mark finally said. “Something’s off. But I can’t tell what.”

  I sighed. You’d think the whole empathy thing would make it super easy to catch these people. Not quite.

  It felt like hours before Gwen finally came back out to grill us. Just when I’d managed to think about something besides that wreck of a body, she made us dredge it all up and give her the play-by-play.

  At last she nodded and said, “All right. Thank you both for your cooperation.”

  “No problem,” Mark said. “Any identification yet on the body?”

  Gwen frowned and hesitated.

  “It’ll be in the papers anyway,” Mark said.

  Gwen sighed, pulled out a tablet, and swiped it. “We’re pretty sure the name is Olivia Fassell,” she said quietly, and she showed us a face on the screen.

  I gasped.

  The woman was super young. She looked maybe old enough to be in college, but still with a hint of teenage baby fat in her cheeks. Like the girl in Labyrinth. (Man, that’s an old movie.) She had the same dark cascading hair, and that air of dreamy, unconscious beauty, steeped in a dangerous innocence.

  “Oh my God,” I said.

  Gwen nodded. “Twenty-one years old,” she said. “Too damn young for a suicide. Not that it’s uncommon.”

  “Oh no,” I said. “It wasn’t suicide, was it?”

  “Of course it was,” Gwen said. She whisked the tablet out of sight, like she was already regretting showing us. “Why would you want it to to be murder?”

  “Suicide’s the worst!”

  “Murder requires a murderer,” Gwen said. “Not my favorite thing.”

  “I know, but … it’s like … what I mean is…”

  I faltered. I couldn’t explain it on the spot. Somehow I write way better than I talk. I need time to mull things over, snap the words together.

  Not that I can even get it right now, but what I wanted to say was like … with a murder, at least both people involved want to stay alive. As horrible as it was to imagine someone wanting to destroy Olivia Fassell, it was so much worse if she wanted to destroy herself.

  I’ve never lost a loved one to suicide, not yet, but I have friends who have. I can’t even hear them mention it without wanting to cry.

  Mark interrupted my floundering. “So you’re not going to investigate?” he asked Gwen.

  She stiffened. “The body will certainly get the full treatment from the Medical Examiner in Manassas,” she said. “But I can’t imagine the cause of death will be a surprise.”

  Mark shrugged.

  Gwen’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

  “Just a feeling.”

  Gwen rolled her eyes. “Care to elaborate, Mr. Falcon?”

  Mark flicked a glance at Gwen’s assistant officers who were hovering nearby. She shooed them away on some pretext and then turned on Mark with folded arms. “Well?” she demanded. “Convinced you’ve ‘vibed’ another murderer?”

  Despite the harsh disbelief of her voice, her dark eyes were alert and watchful. They had seen too much to dismiss Mark out of hand.

  “Not exactly,” Mark said. “But I’m pretty sure someone here didn’t find Olivia’s death a surprise.”

  Gwen’s eyes dimmed with disappointment. “That’s it?”

  “Let my try that again,” Mark snapped. “Someone here is not surprised at a random young woman hanging herself from a church bell rope. On the day of a wedding.”

  “Mr. Falcon, with all due respect, that’s hardly grounds to open a murder investigation. This town’s just beginning to recover from the last one.”

  “Fine, no worries,” Mark said casually. “Pete and I can look into it.”

  Gwen’s eyes flashed, and she seemed to spike at least two inches taller.

  I squirmed.

  “Mr. Falcon,” she said firmly. “This is a tragic suicide, and will be treated as such by the police. You are officially advised—”

  “Come on, Gwen!” Mark interrupted. “I was right last time! And I thought we had a truce.”

  “I thought you wanted to be a team!” she snapped.

  Mark looked surprised. Slowly he said, “What are you talking about?”

  “How far have you gotten on the studies for your investigator license?” she demanded.

  “Are you serious?” Mark said. “It’s only been a few weeks.”

  “How far are
you?”

  Mark scowled. In a lower voice, he said, “I didn’t need that crap last time.”

  “I thought so,” Gwen said. “So much for your commitment.”

  Mark smirked. “You’re already looking for a commitment?”

  But even before he’d finished the dumb jibe, Gwen was scowling so deeply that he quickly added, in a more respectful tone, “Gwen, if you don’t feel like investigating, that’s totally fine. But why does that mean we can’t?”

  “It’s not about how I feel,” she snapped. “You have no concept of following a process.”

  Mark frowned. “Come on, Gwen. You’ve already got your officer dudes who do everything you say.”

  “They follow orders, and so do I,” she said. “We’re all in the same chain of command.”

  “Yeah, I’ve never liked chains.”

  Gwen clenched her jaw. “Mr. Falcon—”

  “What, you’re going to threaten to arrest me? Say my car isn’t street legal? Maybe scare away the witnesses? Again? Even though you actually promised—”

  “I didn’t promise I had to treat you like a real investigator.”

  Mark’s eyes blazed, but he also flinched.

  Gwen ground on. “While you’re out playing detective, I have actual drug dealers I’d like to get off the streets before this cute little town looks like a West Virginia addiction disaster area. That’s the unglamorous help I actually need … but I take it you’ll be busy?”

  Before Mark could snap back, his phone buzzed with a text.

  He checked it, grimaced, and started thumbing a response.

  “Don’t let me keep you,” Gwen said.

  “Just a second, it’s just a client.”

  “That Theodore guy?” I said.

  Mark nodded.

  “Theodore Tusa?” Gwen said. “He was in the wedding party, I just spoke with him.”

  “This isn’t about that,” Mark said. “His company wants a website.”

  “You’re soliciting business from a potential suspect?” Gwen demanded. “Don’t you think there could be a conflict of interest?”

  “I thought you said it was a suicide!” Mark said. “Would you make up your mind? Or is it just, whatever Mark does is never going to be good enough?”

  “Mark obviously does whatever Mark feels like,” she said. “But some of us honor our commitments.”

  She marched away.

  I exhaled and looked around. Most of the crowd had drifted off, leaving Mark and I alone.

  “What did Theodore want?” I said, hoping to lighten the mood.

  Mark rubbed his face. “Another stupid meeting. In person, of course. Tomorrow.”

  Mark hates in-person meetings. He says phone or email are way more efficient — plus, they don’t involve the long bumpy drive down our mountain. Myself, I’m more than happy to make that drive twice a day or more, if I get to see other actual human beings.

  “You think a web client maybe could be a conflict of interest?” I said.

  Mark scowled. “I’ll put a clause in the contract. Full refund if you turn out to be a murderer.”

  “Mark! I just mean, it’s hard enough asking people questions—”

  “Don’t you start too! You want to sit this one out?”

  I sighed.

  Mark eyed me, then grumbled, “Sorry. I just hate that I still have to take these crap jobs in the first place.”

  “Why?” I said. “We only got started like, last month.”

  “That makes it worse.”

  “How? Aren’t you comparing your beginning to someone else’s middle?”

  Mark groaned. “If I get that on a poster, is the kitten extra?”

  “I mean it! Gwen and her peeps all went to Police Academy, they’re only full time now because they already spent years—”

  “What the hell do you know about years? Not all of us just popped glistening out of college, Pete.”

  “Hey! I’ve been out for, what … sixteen or seventeen months!” I said. “That’s a long time!”

  Mark stared at me in disbelief. Then he shook his head. “I keep forgetting, you’re old and jaded. But some of us young guys, we still feel like if we don’t start soon with doing something real, we might not make it.”

  I almost asked what that was supposed to mean, but his face had gone so serious, the words died on my lips.

  Which, as a metaphor, is pretty gross. So now I have dead words in my mouth? Can I spit?

  It does kind of feel like that, though … the nasty taste of rotting words unsaid.

  We found Ceci and drove her home. The shock was settling in, at least for me. Even though we’d hunted a murderer, I’d never seen an actual corpse.

  So we were fairly subdued. Conversation was sparse and practical. Including that Ceci couldn’t ride me in to work tomorrow, and since Mark needed to meet Theodore in the early morning, I’d have to sit in on his meeting if I wanted to get to work on time.

  “Cool,” I said dully, and shoved my dress shoes deeper into the pile of empty iced coffee bottles littering Thunder’s passenger side.

  So much for my resolution to never meet Theodore, the Daughter-Scowling and Now Possibly-Murderous Jerk. I expected, at best, to be thoroughly bored.

  Looking back, “bored” would have been a relief…

  The next morning, we rolled into GORP Gourmet a full half hour before Mark’s meeting. Clearly, Mark needed this gig. Which, us being housemates, meant I did too. I can’t exactly cover the mortgage working hourly retail.

  We slid into a booth with a gorgeous view of the Blue Ridge Mountains, which were looming cozily over an aging strip mall in the early morning sun.

  But Mark was frowning at his phone.

  “Oh no,” I said. “Did he cancel?”

  “No, it’s some woman,” Mark said. “She wants to meet. Like, now.”

  He frowned deeper and started texting back.

  “Now?” I said. “Did you tell her you have a meeting?”

  “I’m trying, she’s saying she’ll be super quick, it’s really important.”

  “Tell her no! You need this gig!”

  “Crap, she’s coming.”

  “What?” I said. “She can’t just come over!”

  “What am I supposed to do? It’s a public restaurant!”

  “Why’d you even tell her where you were?”

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “You’re trying to sabotage this, aren’t you?” I said. “Or else you’re hoping she’s gorgeous.”

  Mark groaned. “Could you just not? For once?”

  “She could be gorgeous. Jivanta was gorgeous.”

  “She’s not going to be gorgeous!”

  Across the room, a lush, velvet voice called, “Mark Falcon?”

  It was the blonde from the wedding.

  We both gaped.

  She clacked toward us, fast but with a lilt, like a runway model in a hurry. As she moved, her summery pink blouse and white Capri pants shimmered around her perfect curves.

  She reached our table and leaned in, her perfume enveloping us in strawberry and peach.

  “Someone killed Olivia,” she said, in a husky near-whisper. Her mesmerizing, eyelined eyes were wide with fear. “And now they want to kill me.”

  Chapter 3

  Mark was first to recover. Sort of.

  “What the hell?” he blurted.

  The blonde drew back, stung and hurt. For an instant, her pretty face twisted ugly, almost unrecognizable.

  “Sorry,” Mark said, smoothing his face and downshifting into Client Mode. “Can we start with your name? And I remember seeing you at the wedding, but what makes you think—”

  She smiled and tinkled a self-deprecating laugh, blossoming back into gorgeous. “Oh gosh, sorry,” she said, and slid lightly into the seat opposite us. “I’m Vanessa. Vanessa Kimm.” She offered Mark a delicate hand glittering with rings.

  They shook once. I wanted to touch her too, but I hesitated that extra i
nstant and lost the chance.

  Instead, I got a friendly smile, with no hint of whether she even remembered we’d already “met”. Her eye contact wasn’t dismissive, but it wasn’t warm either. I strained to hold her gaze, but it was no good, she flicked away and focused on Mark.

  Sadness.

  “I saw you in the paper this morning,” she said. “On the website, I mean. For the Gazette.” She leaned toward him, eyes agleam. “I didn’t even know Back Mosby had a detective.”

  Mark cleared his throat. “But you probably knew we have police,” he said.

  “Oh, they wouldn’t believe me!” Vanessa said. She flung her hand in an impatient wave. “They already made a statement that the whole thing’s a suicide. But that’s ridiculous. Olivia couldn’t have killed herself.”

  At this, Mark’s sky blue eyes shone like searchlights, but his voice grew even more casual and calm. “So you knew Olivia?”

  “Of course! We both got the same milk,” she said.

  Milk? I thought.

  But she kept going as if this made perfect sense. “We weren’t best friends or anything, but I know she was anything but suicidal! She was such a sweet kid, super quiet, always a big smile. And she’d been trying to get into this dance school for like a year, and she’d just gotten news of a full scholarship!”

  “Really?” I said.

  “Absolutely!” She favored me with an earnest look, and my heart jolted again. This girl could do connection like crazy.

  But she turned back to Mark and kept talking about Olivia, leaving me to watch her face with a yearning ache, desperate for even a glance my way.

  “Hold up, Vanessa,” Mark said, interrupting a play-by-play of how Olivia had not only had a boyfriend, but he’d practically proposed. “I hear what you’re saying, Olivia had plenty of reasons to live. But I’m short on time right now, I’m meeting a client—”

  “But what about me?” she pleaded.

  “You haven’t told me about you,” Mark said. “If someone did kill Olivia, why would they want to kill you?”

  Vanessa’s voice sank low and confidential. “First off … I’ve been getting a major vibe.”

  “A vibe?” Mark said, dripping with skepticism.

  I kicked his foot. Seriously?