Murder Feels Bad

by Bill Alive

  Personally, I thought Olivia looked way too young to be anyone’s “colleague.” Intern, maybe.

  Theodore looked wistful, and more human than I’d seen him yet. “Why do you ask?” he said. “Did you know her?”

  It was the perfect moment for Mark to tag team in here and press into the more delicate questions. I’m the first to admit that subtlety is not my strong suit, and Theodore was clearly the sort who would relish any excuse to clam up.

  But all Mark said was, “No, we didn’t. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  And that was it. They talked about stupid website stuff for another half hour, and then Theodore left. Still with no firm answer whether Mark even had the job.

  Mark groaned and put his head on the table.

  Then he arched in pain.

  Kalakos had snuck up, and was giving us a friendly grin. “Dessert?”

  “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?” Mark said.

  Kalakos backed away, his fleshy hands raised. “Sorry, Mr. Falcon! No dessert! I’ll remember!” He waddled away in alarm.

  Mark slumped, already looking guilty for his outburst. “I just, can he really not get proper medical care?” he said, sullen.

  “He’s a waiter,” I said. “I don’t think they get amazing insurance.”

  “Maybe I should tip him in pain meds.” He sighed. “No, he’d just wind up selling them.”

  He slid out of the booth, and we headed outside. The cool of the early morning had already burned away. Even now, in late fall, the day was going to be a Virginia scorcher.

  “So when are you going to ask Theodore more about Olivia?” I said, as I settled into Thunder and shoved my shoes into the floor pile of plastic coffee bottles.

  “Like I said, I really need this job.”

  “Mark!”

  “Can’t I wait to antagonize my one client until after we sign a contract? You have any better plans to make money?”

  “I’m writing the ebook as fast as I can!” I said. (Weird … now it’s all written, Murder Feels Awful, and you’ve already read it. That is so weird.)

  Mark grimaced. “I forgot about the ebook.” He said it like it tasted like a rancid umeboshi plum. Not that he’s really into health food.

  “You said I could!” I whined. “As long as I saved some of the money for the mortgage!”

  Valley Visions is super meaningful, but it’s hourly and it doesn’t always quite cover my share of things. Especially if we get busy on a case, and I start missing a bunch of hours. Like I was right now.

  Mark shook his head. “That whole novel thing is going to bite us in the ass.”

  “Relax!” I said. “It has a big disclaimer that it’s totally fiction! I even changed a couple names.”

  “Genius,” he said. “Never mind, what am I worried about? Someone would actually have to read it.”

  “Hey!” I said. “Did you see the cover? It’s going to be awesome! Plus … whoa … this case could be Book Two! Like a series!”

  He rubbed his eyebrows. “Can we not go there?”

  “Don’t you want to solve more cases? Or are you just going to do a bunch of stupid web stuff?”

  “I am done with web stuff,” Mark said quietly.

  “You say that,” I said. “But you won’t even take Vanessa’s money. We’ve got to pay the mortgage somehow. What do you want to do, go on welfare?”

  Mark winced, like the very word hurt.

  “Okay, then,” I said. I pulled out my phone and started to search. “When’s Olivia’s funeral?”

  “What? No.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Last time we tried to go to a funeral—”

  “Don’t!” I said. “That’s a spoiler!”

  Mark swiveled in the driver’s seat to give me a full stare. He looked almost frightened. “What … the hell … are you talking about?”

  I shrugged. “If solving Olivia’s murder is going to be Book Two, someone might read all this before they read Book One. So if you say what happened last time—”

  “Is this a Millennial thing?” Mark said. He was nearly shouting. “Instagram’s not enough, now everything you do has to be an episode?”

  “You’re changing the subject,” I said calmly.

  “We can’t go to the funeral, Theodore said he would be there,” Mark snapped. “If I piss him off and lose this job, we are seriously broke.”

  “And what if you miss the murderer?” I said. “What if there’s another murderer running around Back Mosby? And Gwen’s not even on the hunt?”

  Mark’s brows creased in frustration. But he didn’t answer.

  I pressed my advantage. “We can’t just sit this out, Mark. Imagine if you hadn’t hunted down … um … that other murderer person?”

  Mark groaned. “I cannot believe that’s going to be a thing.”

  “Well?” I said. “Or is Gwen right, and you do have a conflict of interest?”

  Mark’s eyes flashed. Oops. Had I pushed too far?

  “If we go to this funeral,” he growled, “we have no contact with Theodore. Period. I scan for vibes, and you think enough happy thoughts that I can deal with all the grief. That’s it.”

  “Got it,” I said, trying not to jiggle too much with excitement. “Perfect. Lay low. What do we have to lose?”

  Note to self: Never, ever ask that question. Ever.

  Chapter 5

  So I’m starting to hate funerals. Not that I was ever a huge fan.

  It’s bad enough when your ninety-year-old great-aunt from Chicago finally falls to her last stroke. But in the detective business, every single funeral ratchets up the shock and grief way past the FDA recommended daily allowance.

  You already felt terrible about the victim. (Especially when she’s freaking my age.) Now you get to meet a whole new crowd of people devastated by the loss.

  And dread that any one of them might be the killer.

  By the end of the funeral, I felt heavy and slow, like I could sleep for a week. As we Thundered over to the grave site, Mark eyed me and leaned away.

  “You going to be okay?” he said.

  “Sure,” I mumbled.

  “You don’t feel okay.”

  “Right. Sorry. I forgot, I’m supposed to be your Good Vibes Recharge Battery.”

  He frowned, and cleared his throat. “I was thinking, you should keep an eye out. You might see Vanessa.”

  “Really?” I perked up.

  He shrugged. “She did say she knew Olivia.”

  “You’re right!” I said. I flipped down the visor mirror and checked my hair. The day was windy — good thing I’d brought my pocket hair spray.

  Mark groaned. “Okay, okay,” he said. “You do realize that if you two ever got married, she’d be ‘Vanessa Villette.’”

  “Dude! Like that would matter!” But I had to admit, Vanessa Villette did sound like an off-brand cosmetic.

  “If you do see her, don’t lose your head,” he said. “Watch out for Theodore. I really don’t want to antagonize him.”

  “How are we going to avoid him?” I said. “There aren’t that many people.”

  “At the service, he looked pretty preoccupied,” Mark said. “Just keep your distance. I couldn’t vibe much at the funeral, but now I’ll be able to move around and get close to people.”

  “What if he sees you?”

  “He won’t.”

  We parked at a wide, open cemetery that was out in the country and surrounded by rich forest. Although the wind was chilly and the trees had passed their autumn peak, many still shone a brilliant orange or yellow in the bright afternoon sun. As we walked toward the grave, I eagerly scanned the crowd for Vanessa.

  Mark stepped away from me. “Don’t flirt too much,” he grumbled, as he slipped off toward the crowd. “It’s still a funeral.”

  Way to kill the buzz.

  The sun dimmed behind the clouds. Not only could I not find Vanessa, but my gaze kept dragging back to Theodore’s wife, Louise. All thro
ugh the last lumbering prayers by the coffin, I scrutinized her glum face that was caked with too much makeup, and her sagging thighs and belly that were crammed into a bulging black dress. I wasn’t sure why I kept staring, it was like I had this horrified fascination. Theodore wouldn’t even stand near her; he kept a two-foot buffer as he brooded with crossed arms.

  I know it’s terrible, but all I could think was, how could he really have been attracted to Louise over Jivanta?

  How did that even work? Was love so magical that if Louise was THE ONE, you’d actually genuinely honestly think she was more beautiful than everyone else in the world, even her own sister? A sister who was going to be like, right there, for every Thanksgiving and Christmas and major family event, for the rest of your entire life?

  I felt a sudden terror. What if I fell for someone like Louise?

  Of course, that was the point, if you were really in love, you’d be totally happy. Right?

  It didn’t look like it.

  It looked like any magic they’d had must have passed its expiration date years ago. I wondered again if Louise had ever looked more like Jivanta.

  Maybe not. Maybe women like Louise were the ones who actually got married.

  On the other hand, Jivanta was getting married, right? But maybe she’d just look like that in five years too. Maybe marriage made this fatal inevitable gross transmogrification.

  I mean, I grew up with the disconnect of my own parents’ wedding pictures. Mom hadn’t looked too bad herself.

  Crud, any girls reading this must be ready to strangle me.

  Listen, I’m not saying Theodore shouldn’t have cut his carbs and kept up with his jogging too. I’m just saying … sometimes doesn’t it seem like everyone but the top zero-point-one-percent chooses to settle?

  I hate that.

  There has to be a better way.

  Which is just what I was thinking when a low, soothing voice interrupted.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “I couldn’t help noticing how sad you look. Even for a funeral.”

  He was a striking dude. His brilliant red hair glowed in the sun, and though he was only a bit taller than me, his broad shoulders made him seem more imposing. He had that “youngish middle-aged but reasonably fit” kind of energy going on, the kind of guy who might not jog a daily five miles anymore, but would still hassle you to come whitewater rafting with his buddies. His dark, alert eyes gleamed with intelligence behind thin-rimmed smart-people glasses that made him look like an engineer. Those eyes held your attention and didn’t let go.

  “Thanks for noticing,” I said, and I realized I meant it. Usually, if I’m talking with a stranger, I’m the one who had to take the initiative. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had approached me.

  I felt I owed him at least a small explanation. “I actually didn’t really know Olivia,” I said. “I’m just … thinking.”

  “There’s a lot to think about,” he said. His voice lowered and warmed. “What’s troubling you, then? I’m Roger, by the way.”

  “Pete,” I said, and I shook his thick hand.

  Roger smiled, and he gave me an expectant nod. His bald spot flashed in the sun. It was round and perfect, like those Jewish caps or a medieval monk. It made him look like some kind of friar.

  An engineer friar, sure, with a carefully styled goatee, but still. The kind you might trust, even with your deepest secrets. It was like he actually cared. He wanted to know.

  Truth was, I didn’t know where to start. Why did I feel so thrown by Vanessa? Why was I obsessing when we were supposed to be solving a murder?

  At that thought, I saw Helga Lubitsch.

  She stood hunched beside Olivia’s casket, her large body stooped like a hunchback bear. She was slowly stroking the casket with a meaty hand, and even at this distance, the gesture seemed more than grief. Almost … possessive.

  Roger followed my gaze. His friendly face crimped in distaste. “Oh,” he said. “That woman.”

  “You know Helga?” I said. I scented a clue, and this put my creeping depression on hold.

  “Well … I knew Olivia,” he said. “And seeing that woman there…” He frowned.

  “What?”

  He seemed to consider what to say, then sighed. He leaned toward me, and his voice was quiet, sad, and confidential. “I heard that last night, at the wake … that woman tried to cut off a lock of Olivia’s hair.”

  Chapter 6

  “Oh my gosh!” I said. “Are you serious?”

  Roger nodded.

  “That’s pretty creepy,” I said. “I didn’t know they were close.”

  “If there was any interest, it was all on one side.”

  I could sense he wanted to say more. Excited, I leaned toward him … then saw Theodore standing way too close to us, not twenty yards away.

  Theodore was arguing with Louise, probably about their kid, who was squirming in her arms with threatening squeals. He hadn’t seen me yet, but I was one glance away from maybe blowing Mark’s gig. I had to find cover, now.

  But this was an open field. And Roger, for all his interesting qualities, wasn’t quite wide enough to be a human shield.

  The next moment, Roger looked confused.

  “Having trouble with your shoe?” he said.

  “Just these laces,” I said, crouched on one knee and retying a perfectly good bow. After three reties, I shifted to the other knee and shoe with assumed nonchalance. This wasn’t exactly a long-term hiding solution.

  Roger’s bushy eyebrows crinkled in amusement, with a hint of gentle scorn.

  My cheeks flushed. I guess I did look fairly incompetent, taking five minutes to fiddle around with my shoelaces. Somehow I felt especially eager to assure him I was worth his attention … he’d been so warm a few seconds ago…

  He turned and waved past me with a fresh warm smile for someone else. “Samantha!” he called.

  A tall, lean woman glided over and bent into a hug. She wore all black. As she released from the hug, I recognized a slimmer, older edition of Olivia. She might have been her aunt, but something in her grief, restrained but throbbing, made my gut say mother.

  Although her bony face had the faint lines of at least her early forties, she still shared her daughter’s beauty, only more angular and intense. Her black pencil skirt touched the knees of her hose.

  Roger kept a hand gently on her arm. “Oh, Samantha,” he said, his voice heavy and low. “In the midst of life, we are in death.”

  She nodded. A spasm of grief creased her features, but when she spoke, her throaty Southern voice rumbled a calm, gruff assurance, like a waitress who’d seen it all. “I want to thank you, Roger. You were such a good influence on her.”

  Roger shook his head and looked away. “I’ll never forgive myself for this.”

  “No, Roger,” she said. Her voice was stern. “We did all we could. None of us could have expected…”

  Her voice broke and her face crumpled.

  Roger hugged her again, and I wondered how he’d been connected to Olivia. He seemed really spiritual — had Olivia been a seeker type? For the first time, I wished I’d known her. I’m always looking for fellow seekers, and plus, yes, I had to admit that she’d looked pretty hot.

  Then I realized I was wishing I could have dated a murder victim. Or at least had a super-deep conversation. Seriously, Pete? What was wrong with me?

  Just then, her mother Samantha, who at the moment also seemed unnervingly hot, looked down at me, still in my crouch-hide from Theodore.

  She blinked. “Were you friends with Olivia?”

  I scrambled to my feet. Theodore was still arguing in a straight sight line from me, but with Samantha and Roger shielding me together, I was ready to risk standing.

  “Actually, no, I didn’t know her,” I said. “Unfortunately.”

  “I see.” She stared at me, her wide eyes probing, clearly waiting to hear why the hell I was here, then.

  “Um,” I said. “You must be her mom.”<
br />
  She frowned, folded her arms at me, and shifted away from Roger. I had to shift too, to keep her blocking Theodore, and my weird mirroring move didn’t earn me any Samantha points.

  “I am,” she said. “And you are…?”

  “Um,” I said, “I’m one of the guys who found Olivia’s—”

  “—story in the newspaper,” Mark interrupted, materializing beside me. He smoothly shouldered past and shook Samantha’s hand. “We are so, so sorry for your loss.”

  She perked up, like most older women do around Mark. Not that younger women don’t too. At least, some of them.

  As they exchanged pleasant formalities and Samantha introduced Roger, I worried that Mark might not have seen Theodore behind her. I tried to catch his eye, but he was in total Client Mode with Samantha. I finally nudged his arm.

  I SEE him! RELAX.

  I jolted. I hate when Mark mind blasts me.

  “Is your friend all right?” Samantha said, giving me a distasteful glance.

  “No worries,” Mark said. “He startles easily.”

  I managed not to snark back. Out loud.

  Stay out of my head, I thought, as loud as I could.

  Mark flicked me a faint smirk.

  Thing is, when Mark mind blasts you, it’s not even like hearing his voice in your head. It’s more like you get this feeling and then your brain translates it into words, in your own voice. Which is even more creepy.

  In theory, it’s supposed to take Mark a lot of energy to mind blast … so much that the strain could be super hazardous to his health. Like, blowing out a brain artery.

  So he’s supposed to save it for dire emergencies. But apparently, the stronger our connection gets, the easier and safer it is for him to send me the occasional mental text.

  Whoopie.

  Samantha’s gaze caught someone across the field, and she stiffened. She quickly excused herself, and turned to Roger for a parting word. As she did, Mark gave his own quick excuse, then nudged me to follow him.

  After we’d walked a few yards, still keeping our backs to Theodore, I whispered, “Vibe anything?”

  “Just that pretty much everyone feels terrible about a twenty-one-year old suicide,” he said. “I came over to you to recharge, but you’re not feeling so hot yourself. Great.”