Murder Feels Bad

by Bill Alive

  Mark arched an eyebrow my way, but to Vanessa he said, grudgingly, “Fair enough.”

  “Really? You’re into vibes?” She leaned in and practically glowed. “That is so rare in a man.”

  Mark squirmed. “I wouldn’t say I’m—”

  “Mark knows all about vibes,” I said. “Ow!”

  He’d just kicked my foot. Way too hard.

  She hadn’t noticed. “Oh my gosh, Mark, I knew it. You have this … aura.”

  Mark made a show of checking the time on his phone. “Listen, Vanessa, I really am sorry—”

  “No, no! Please! I’m telling you, I don’t feel safe!”

  “Then call the police.”

  “With a vibe? You think they’ll respect that?”

  Mark hesitated.

  She smiled, slowly, like she knew she’d found his weak spot. “I need someone who’s spiritually aware, Mark,” she said, soft and pleading. “Can’t you tell?”

  Mark sighed and set down his phone. “Make it quick.”

  She wriggled with excitement, then forced herself to look serious. “I can tell you in two words. Helga Lubitsch.”

  I gasped.

  Mark did not gasp. “I take it you know her,” he said to me.

  Yes, I knew Helga Lubitsch.

  And now I understood about the milk.

  See, I work at Valley Visions, the best (and only) New Age gift shop in Back Mosby. Most of our customers are either clueless tourists or awesome enlightened locals, but we do attract a select minority of … eccentrics.

  Actually, pretty much anyone who walks through the door is eccentric, including me. But this select minority will creep you right out.

  I’ve had irate grandmothers berate me because our sparkly fifty-piece fairy puzzles aren’t locally sourced. I’ve had overweight Wiccans threaten to hex me when a weight loss crystal didn’t work out.

  And once I had this stringy-haired thruhiker, who looked like he hadn’t showered since he left Georgia, ask if we had any dried human spleen.

  Preferably sourced from an Eastern European, he said, but the local morgue would be fine.

  Geez, I’d forgotten about that guy. Ugh.

  Anyway, at least he kept hiking. Helga Lubitsch was local, and in a class by herself. She had the ORGANIC STARE.

  You do know about the ORGANIC STARE, right?

  The ORGANIC STARE is when people have been eating so healthy for so long that all bodily impurities have been incinerated. Their eyes burn way too bright, hard and glittering, piercing and probing, utterly certain of the last time you snuck a doughnut.

  Any hard-core diet can induce the ORGANIC STARE, from vegan to Atkins, but it definitely kicks up a notch when they’re into organ meats. It must be the concentration of nutrients.

  They’ll tell you how natives in Ancient Perfectland would walk three days just to get a single liver of a wildebeest. Then they’ll offer you a plate with, like, twenty. I’m not sure the human body is equipped to deal with that much health.

  Helga Lubitsch loved organ meats. She sold them.

  She had her own farm, and she was always hauling in a cooler and trying to bark my boss Vivian into setting up a display case with all the frozen cow bits that normal people avoid. Vivian was always polite (she’s super awesome), but when Helga started taking the rejection personally, things got ugly.

  “Pete?” Mark said. “You okay?”

  Vanessa was giving me a bemused smile.

  I flushed. Apparently I’d tranced out. “I’m fine,” I said, shoving down the memory. Let’s just say that Helga was also into spontaneous prophecy. Loud. And dire.

  “So what’s the deal with this Helga woman?” Mark said to Vanessa.

  Vanessa swiped her phone. “I used to think she was such a sweetheart,” she said. “She has this little farm, see?”

  She lay her phone on the restaurant table, her soft hand brushing Mark’s hairy arm.

  Mark edged his arm away. He squinted at the screen, then winced. Hard.

  “What is it?” I said, excited. “You getting something?”

  “You get vibes too?” Vanessa said.

  “No,” he grunted. I assumed he was talking to me, both because he avoids actual lying and also because he was giving me a near-lethal glare of shut-the-hell-up. “It’s just a terrible, terrible website.”

  I looked. Ouch.

  The site had to be at least ten years old. It was totally broken on mobile. Even back then, Helga’s head shot had already been gray and grim. Her thin hairy lips were clamped tight, like it was all she could do not to bellow curses on a doomed civilization that was shoveling down the abominations of factory food.

  “She sells raw milk?” Mark said. “Is that legal?”

  “Of course,” Vanessa said. “We signed the papers and everything. But that was before…” She looked away and twisted one of her rings.

  “Before what?” Mark said. “And why would some farmer lady have killed Olivia and now be after you?”

  Vanessa hesitated, then fixed Mark full-on with her hypnotic eyes. When she spoke, it was almost a whisper.

  “Because Helga Lubitsch … is a witch.”

  Mark stared.

  My stomach flopped, and my first thought was, I wish I didn’t believe you.

  Now, my awesome boss Vivian would get vicariously offended at the very word witch, she’d toss her thick gray-blonded hair and narrow her usually laughing eyes. Witch was one of those trigger words — you could wear it yourself as a badge of pride, but you wouldn’t dare use it on someone else. At least, not like Vanessa had. At Valley Visions, magic might or might not be real, but it was sure as hell a force for good.

  For most magic enthusiasts, I’d totally agree.

  But every once in awhile, you get someone like that thruhiker with his yellow smile. An hour after he’d finally trudged away, I’d still felt cold.

  “A witch?” Mark said slowly. He was straining to stay in polite Client Mode. “And what exactly would she be witching?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Vanessa said. “Youth and beauty. She wants to suck it out, suck it like a vampire.”

  “I hadn’t heard they found any fang marks.”

  Vanessa scoffed like a frustrated cheerleader. “I don’t mean an actual vampire. I mean dark magic. Can’t you see it? She’d have to kill her victim in a sacred church. She could harvest the parts she needs — she knows all about butchering — then make it look like a suicide. The kind of suicide that would conveniently destroy the evidence.”

  Her eyes were gleaming with fear, and horror, and excitement.

  But Mark was wilting with disappointment. I realized how much he’d been hoping this lead was for real.

  Vanessa frowned. “Don’t tell me you don’t believe in witches. I thought you were a spiritual person!”

  “I’m super spiritual!” I piped up.

  She looked my way with a warm smile. For the first time all morning.

  Now I practically glowed.

  Mark shifted uncomfortably in the booth, leaning away from me. “I’m not hearing any concrete evidence here for witchcraft.”

  “Evidence?” Vanessa cried. “I told you, I’m getting a serious vibe with this woman. And she’s a total New Ager.”

  I flinched. I consider myself “New Age,” ish, and I didn’t exactly relish getting lumped in with vampiric organ magic.

  A sudden premonition shook me to the core … did Vanessa watch FOX News?

  Mark hesitated. “Look. I do think something is off about Olivia’s death…”

  Vanessa shone with a beatific smile. My premonition vaporized.

  “…but…” Mark continued, “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “I actually don’t have my investigator license just yet. And as much as I wish I could work for free—”

  “Oh, of course I’ll pay you,” Vanessa said. She waved a hand lightly, jangling bracelets of thin gold.

  My heart lea
ped.

  “I’m sure you can do whatever you did with those plane crashes. I mainly just want you to follow me around.”

  “You’re going to pay us to follow you around?” I blurted.

  Mark flashed me a sizzling rebuke, then turned firmly to Vanessa. “I don’t think this is a good fit for us right now,” he said.

  “But—”

  “If you notice anything more specific, you’ve got my number,” he said. “Now I really have to meet this next client. Sorry.”

  Vanessa glared. Then she forced herself into a final smile, and gave me an imploring look that hiked my body temperature five degrees. But when she turned back to Mark, she glowered. “You’ll definitely hear from me,” she said, and she clacked away.

  Even as she reached the front door, the pudgy Theodore was shoving his way in.

  His brows were crinkled in the same permanent preoccupation I’d noticed at the wedding, and he walked right past Vanessa without even a sideways glance.

  Was that dude even alive?

  And could I still somehow escape meeting him? Going from Vanessa to dealing with this dude felt almost unendurable.

  “Why can’t we work for Vanessa?” I said.

  “Are you kidding? I’m trying to show Gwen I’m a pro, and she finds out I’m a paid stalker-slash-witchhunter for some drama queen hottie?”

  “I know, it’s crazy, she wants to pay us to watch her,” I said. “For, like, hours…”

  Wait, hold up.

  That’s enough, dear reader. I can feel you judging me.

  Trust me, I had multiple Life Lessons waiting to pounce.

  Anyway, Mark rolled his eyes. “Something is very off about that woman.”

  He caught Theodore’s eye and gave a tight professional wave. Theodore returned a curt nod and bore down on us with a moody trot.

  “What do you mean ‘off’?” I said. “Did you vibe something?”

  “Can’t say for sure,” Mark said. He looked troubled. “It was almost like she was shielding.”

  “Really?” I said. “She didn’t seem the type for secrets.”

  “Those can be the worst.”

  As Theodore approached, Mark arranged a smile and leaned up with an outstretched hand. Theodore, still frowning, slid his flabby palm against Mark’s.

  Mark winced so hard I heard his teeth grind.

  Chapter 4

  The thing is, Mark and I still don’t know much about how his empathy works.

  He seems to connect to some people instantly, practically reading their mind. With others, he has to strain to pick up even a hint of emotion.

  In a way, I suppose we can all sense these mysterious connections … we can range with people from instant soulmate to emotional firewall. There’s no way these feelings are completely random.

  But whatever “normal” is for picking up vibes, Mark is about a gazillion times more sensitive.

  And so many factors can affect his reads — whether he’s shielding, whether they’re shielding, who else is giving off feelings nearby … but one huge modifier is proximity. The closer they are, the stronger the vibe.

  And it doesn’t get any closer than touch.

  So when Mark clenched up over the handshake, I knew he’d vibed something huge.

  Maybe even about Olivia’s death. Hadn’t Theodore been at the wedding?

  Meanwhile, Mark had his grin back in an instant. “Good to see you, Theodore,” he said.

  Theodore uncoiled his frown and held his lips flat for a second. His scraggly upper lip bulged, like lips do when flatliners think they’re smiling.

  “Likewise,” he said. His voice had that quiet emphasis of an introvert, clearly assuming that everyone else must be hearing his voice as loudly as it roared in his own head.

  His mouth snapped back to its usual droop. With slow precision, he folded his bulk into the booth and unfolded a menu. Every move was careful and monitored, and I realized that it might be hours, or at least feel like it, before I could get Mark alone and find out what this guy was hiding.

  Great.

  Maybe I could rush this somehow…

  Mark flashed me a warning glance. Don’t you dare blow this.

  I really need to learn how to shield.

  Theodore examined a page of breakfast platters. “Did you two already order?” he said.

  “Actually, no,” I said. “Where the heck’s our waiter?”

  Beside me, Mark yelped with pain.

  I whirled toward him in panic, expecting to see him crushed under a roof beam or something. No, he was hunched forward onto the table, with no obvious wounds.

  Theodore’s eyebrows had hiked up to his overexposed scalp.

  “Are you in pain?” he said. He eyed the menu and lowered it gingerly. “Food poisoning?”

  Mark stretched a half-grin and forced himself upright. “Not at all,” he said, through grit teeth. “Just a little back trouble.”

  Then I saw who stood behind him in the aisle.

  “Oh,” I said. “Hey, Kalakos.”

  Kalakos is a fixture at GORP Gourmet. Which is unfortunate.

  Sure, he’s a nice guy and all, if you don’t mind small-time drug running and big-time beard gel. (I mean, okay, I do mind, but Gwen made him quit the drug stuff. Sadly, the gel’s proving more addictive.)

  The thing is, Kalakos has a weirdly super-strong connection to Mark … and also, severe chronic back pain.

  In fact, the pain must be even worse for Mark, otherwise I don’t know how Kalakos could even walk around, much less wait tables.

  “Hey, Pete!” Kalakos said, his huge bearded cheeks creasing in a grin. Then he saw Mark and stepped back, eyes wide. “Mr. Falcon!” he chirped. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize—”

  “No worries, buddy,” Mark ground out, giving Theodore an attempt at a reassuring smile. The result was truly ghastly. “I was just telling my friend Theodore here I had a little back pain myself. How’s yours these days?”

  “Um…” Kalakos said, confused. We’d been in here a couple times over the last few weeks, and his last run-in with Mark had ended in threats of legal and/or bodily harm if the guy couldn’t avoid our table. Cautiously, he ventured, “Actually, today’s pretty bad.”

  “Is it?” Mark said, almost polite.

  “Sorry you’re suffering,” Theodore said, but to Mark. “I hope it won’t affect your work?”

  Kalakos said, “Oh, I can’t really afford a day off.”

  Theodore ignored him, pointing Mark a questioning look.

  “No problem,” Mark said. Drops of sweat were beading on his temple. “I’m good to go whenever you guys are ready.”

  “Excellent,” Theodore said. “We’re almost ready to pull the trigger on this. But we have had some tempting other bids. Plus, my supervisor still has a few concerns…”

  The next hour or ten was like watching someone take an exam. In slow motion. Hanging over a shark tank. And every time I thought they were done, the sharks asked another extra question.

  It made me want to keep working for Vivian at near-minimum wage for the rest of my life.

  At last, after a half hour exploration of “SEO tactics for maximum rapid growth,” Theodore abruptly rose. He’d be back, but he needed to “use the john.” Poor john.

  Mark exhaled and slumped back against the booth, eyes closed.

  “Quick,” I said. “What’d you vibe?”

  “Mark Falcon is not available right now,” he intoned in a monotone. “His soul is under temporary corporate oversight.”

  “Mark!” I gave him a light shove. “I saw you flinch when you shook his hand. Tell me, it’s driving me nuts!”

  Mark sighed, and opened one eye. In a low voice, he said, “Remember at the wedding, how someone wasn’t surprised that Olivia was dead?”

  “Whoa!” My mind exploded with possibilities. “It’s Theodore? He killed her?”

  I confess, I was totally fine with Theodore as the pick. For one thing, wouldn’t the prison w
arden make him shave his head?

  “Shh!” Mark snapped. “No, not like he killed her. More like … like he knew something. Like it was somehow partly his fault.”

  “Still,” I said, “aren’t you going to ask him?”

  Mark frowned. “I really need this job.”

  “What job?” Theodore said.

  We both jolted. How had he slipped back here so quietly? The guy was a ninja.

  Mark smiled and lightly steered the conversation back to the Neverending Website, but I interrupted.

  “I’m Pete, by the way,” I said, with my best one-of-the-dudes grin. Theodore flat-smiled and I shook his limp hand, but alas, no vibe for me. Super casual, I added, “Didn’t we see you at Jivanta’s wedding?”

  I could feel Mark’s glare.

  Theodore’s eyes went bright with a wary light, as if he were only just now arriving in his body. He wasn’t thrilled with the view. “Probably,” he said slowly. “She’s my sister-in-law. Or will be.”

  Jivanta? His sister-in-law? I gaped. This guy could not be the groom’s brother.

  Then I tried the other connection — could that heavy mom-wife with Theodore have been Jivanta’s sister? No way.

  But … yes. Something in the eyes, the smile … no wonder she’d seemed familiar.

  This made me sad. Had she ever been as hot as Jivanta? Was that what lay in Jivanta’s future?

  “Louise is her older sister,” Theodore said quietly.

  I startled again. He was eyeing me, hard. It was like he’d read my mind. Was my face that transparent? Crap.

  “Cool,” I said, scrambling for chitchat. “So you’re older too? You don’t even look thirty-five.”

  Theodore stiffened. “I’m about to turn thirty.”

  “Right!” I said, with desperate camaraderie. “Totally wouldn’t have guessed, I thought you were like, twenty-nine. I mean, twenty-eight. Being alive, that’s the main thing. Speaking of which, are you going to Olivia’s funeral?”

  Beside me, Mark rubbed his eyebrows. This is how he facepalms.

  Theodore looked troubled. Those wary eyes filled with sadness. “Of course,” he said.

  “Really?” I blurted, before Mark could stop me.

  “Olivia was a colleague,” he said, his voice growing remote. “We worked together on several projects. She’ll be sorely missed.”