by Bill Alive
“Well, sorry,” I snapped.
He startled with a sudden wince.
“What’re you getting?” I said, excited. “Guilt?”
“Maybe,” Mark said. He glanced back to Samantha. She had just pulled back from a last quick hug with Roger, and she was striding across the grass…
…toward a tall, lean dude with dark shades, a black wool trench coat, and the cheekbones of a model.
Chapter 7
Even at thirty yards or so, the mystery man radiated confidence, like he was really an executive who only modeled for the annual reports. His blond straight top swept back in a perfect arc, and his sides must had been shaved fresh that morning. He was standing at the foot of the coffin, head bowed, jaw clenched, and masked by his shades.
But when he turned and his gaze locked with Samantha, the lines of his face went soft. He strode toward her, fast, and they closed in a gripping embrace.
“Wait here,” Mark said, and he scuttled off toward the couple.
I stood alone among the gravestones, watching two people who seriously cared about each other. “Geez,” I muttered. “Who is that guy?”
Beside me, Roger said, “Brett. Olivia’s ex-boyfriend.”
I jolted in surprise. Why did people keep sneaking up on me? Was I losing my peripheral vision?
My surprise amused Roger. That bugged me.
“Why do you say ex?” I countered, with an air of casual insider knowledge. “I thought her boyfriend had practically proposed.”
Roger frowned. “I wouldn’t say that.”
All at once, I felt both curious and ridiculous. This guy had actually known Olivia — what was I going to prove here by pretending to know about her? I tried to sound suitably humble. “Oh?”
Roger watched the couple, and he stroked his goatee with a sudden sadness. “Olivia told me on more than one occasion,” he said, “that she wasn’t sure she was the woman of the family to hold Brett’s interest.”
“Really?” I blurted. I stared at Brett and Samantha in disbelief. Samantha looked nice and everything, but Brett was younger, he couldn’t be more than mid-thirties … how could he possibly…
Roger chuckled. “Don’t look so shocked,” he said. “A woman like Samantha has a great deal of sophistication and glamour. Olivia had a certain … innocence. A purity of heart.”
“I thought so,” I said. “I could tell just from her photo.”
Roger smiled. “I can see you’re a good judge of character.”
I flushed with pleasure. You don’t get a lot of recognition in this detective business. Especially as the sidekick. “You too,” I said. “It sounds like you and Olivia were really close.”
He nodded. “She was a beautiful soul, far along the path. My wife and I have a small spiritual group—”
“Really?” I said. “I knew you were a spiritual teacher type! You’ve got that aura.”
Roger beamed, looking surprised and pleased. “And you give the impression of huge spiritual potential.”
A happy warmth radiated in my chest. Even Vivian had never really taken my spiritual side all that seriously.
Roger patted my elbow. “We meet every Wednesday.”
“Awesome,” I said. “And was Olivia still coming? When did you see her last?”
His face clouded.
I realized he hadn’t been wanting to talk about Olivia. He’d been just about to invite me.
Not everyone went around super thrilled to divulge the intimate details of the recently departed. I might be able to push him to squeeze out some morsel of a hint … but if I did, I was pretty sure whatever personal connection we had would vaporize.
And that would hurt.
It was bad enough striking out with women all the time. Something about Roger hinted that there might be a whole other perspective that I hadn’t even dreamed of … and I might not find again.
“Never mind, didn’t mean to pry,” I said. “I just, that sounds so awesome. A whole group that talks about this stuff.”
His face cleared. With a warm smile, he said slowly, “You should join us.”
I grinned.
We exchanged phone numbers. With a last smile and a clap on my shoulder, Roger walked away. Smiling, I looked up from my new friend.
Right into Theodore’s glare. Crap.
He clenched his fists and marched straight toward me.
Chapter 8
I froze. Theodore looked so mad. His face was contorted and reddening with indignation.
Before, I’d worried about Mark losing his gig. Now I was clenching with more immediate concerns, like a scathing public humiliation.
“Oh, hey,” I faltered.
He loomed over me, straightening his usual stoop to squeeze every tactical advantage out of his superior two inches. His nose hairs flared like wires. “What are you doing here?” he snapped. “I thought you didn’t know Olivia.”
“Did we say that?” I said.
“You did,” he said. “You and Falcon. Where is he?”
“Mark?” I said. “Oh, were you hoping to talk to him?”
Theodore stamped with impatience. It was surprisingly intimidating … you really don’t see actual, honest-to-goodness foot stamping that often in real life.
“Listen,” he hissed. “I don’t know what your problem is, but if you’re stalking me—”
“Stalking?” I said.
“A wedding, a business meeting, and now a fricking funeral?” he snapped. “You think I’m stupid?”
“You’re not stupid, Theodore,” Mark said behind him, strong and clear. “And you’re not as guilty as you think.”
Theodore blanched. His pale, sparse-haired cheeks quivered, and he twisted slowly to face Mark.
Mark had materialized again, and was standing close by. He fixed Theodore with a full gaze, and he spoke in a voice so low only we could hear.
“Don’t blame yourself.”
Shock creased Theodore’s face.
Then his face closed and went hard.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Falcon,” he said. “And by the way, we’ll be going with another bid.”
Mark flinched, but he looked more sad for Theodore than himself.
“Thanks for your time,” Theodore said, but his voice caught before he’d quite got it out. He huffed away and stood alone at the casket, barely keeping his composure, far away from Helga and the other mourners.
After a moment or two, Roger gently approached him. Roger touched Theodore’s arm and smiled, clearly introducing himself. They shook hands, and Theodore seemed relieved to chat with a stranger. Roger took his elbow and eased him away from the casket.
Beside me, Mark said, “So. That’s what I get for being nice.”
Beneath the snark, I could hear how worried he was about losing the bid and the money.
“Can’t we do the Vanessa job?” I said.
“Job?” Mark snapped. “Yeah, that’s really going to build our cred with law enforcement. Hey, Gwen, I’m a real detective, look, I’m following around some hot girl who thinks the raw milk lady is an actual witch!”
“I don’t get why you’re so anti about the possibility of magic,” I said. “You’re a freaking empath.”
“Whatever I have is not magic,” Mark growled.
“Right, sorry, trigger word,” I said. “Listen, you know what that Roger guy told me? Last night, Helga tried to cut a lock of Olivia’s hair. Right there at the wake!”
Mark grimaced, but he said, “So she’s emotional.”
“Emotional?” I said. “Look at her! She’s been rubbing that casket for fifteen minutes!”
Even as I said that, Helga’s rubbing hand slid sideways, toward a huge red bouquet on the lid. She snatched a rose and slid it into her voluminous coat. Then she hunched and lumbered away.
My stomach turned. “Okay,” I said. “That’s officially creepy.”
Mark was dialing his phone.
“Who’re you calling?” I said.<
br />
“Vanessa?” he said into the phone. “This is Mark. I’m in.”
PART 2
Chapter 9
I used to love the Back Mosby Farmers’ Market.
For me, the market showcased everything that’s best and most cozy about our little country Virginia town.
Then we had to go and “shadow” Vanessa.
I mean, sure, I started out excited. We were going to spend our Saturday morning not only following around a gorgeous woman, but protecting her, maxing out our respective skills to prevent a possible murder.
Note: I did say “our”. Yes, Mark’s the empath, but I can be super observant, snapping up details Sherlock-style that Mark wouldn’t notice if they bit his bald head.
Except, unlike Holmes, I do get tired.
For instance, the Friday before we rolled out for the market that sunny Saturday morning, I’d pulled a near all-nighter. Finishing, of all things, the manuscript for Murder Feels Awful.
It might have been smarter to, you know, sleep, but I really needed to get that thing published and supplementing our income. Plus, Ceci had offered to give it a proofread if I got it to her that weekend.
Now, the morning after, as we pulled into the Farmers’ Market parking lot on Main Street, I quite hadn’t hit the exhaustion stage yet. That would come later, a cement truck slam into afternoon collapse. For now, I was riding enough adrenaline and caffeine to think I was totally normal. If not better.
In retrospect, I should have known that sleep deprivation always leaves me … cognitively impaired.
“Would you quit fidgeting?” Mark said, as he cut Thunder’s engine and scanned the market through the windshield. Vanessa hadn’t arrived yet, but Helga Lubitsch was already brooding at a far table. “We are hunting a possible murderer.”
“I know! We might save Vanessa’s life!” I said. “This is so cool!”
“Fine,” Mark said, with a grudging smile. “But we won’t get far if everyone knows we’re shadowing her. We need to be subtle.”
“Totally. Got it. Subtlety is my thing.”
Mark snorted.
Thing is, the Back Mosby Farmers’ Market wasn’t exactly a bustling carnival where you could blend in and disappear.
Maybe if it had been the Back Mosby Flea Market, which is this gigantic, overwhelming communal yard sale every weekend. That’s over on the road that actually gets traffic. But the Farmers’ Market is small and boutique, for a select clientele. It’s ten tables or so, with those little white shade tents on skinny poles, and it’s dominated by nice older ladies who sell candles, pottery, organic vegetables, and other luxuries that you can produce (but not afford) on a fixed income.
Since the tourist stream was running low, what with the autumn leaves passing their peak, there might be more vendors than buyers here. But as Mark and I strolled casually toward the courtyard brick, I was confident we could still blend in.
“Pete Villette!” an old woman croaked.
A bony claw yanked my arm.
“Mrs. Snarski?” I said.
The woman had no time for this pleasantry. She squeezed my arm to the bone and tugged me close to her bulging eyes and tuna breath and quivering ancient nose. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you, Pete,” she rasped. “Is this your friend Mark Falcon? The so-called ‘detective’?”
Mark stiffened.
Although there’s some serious competition, Mrs. Snarski may be the nosiest, gossippiest person in all of Back Mosby. She can putter in Valley Visions for over two hours, pretending to decide between glittery fairy puzzles while she waits to pounce on some morsel of information.
She wheeled on Mark with a scrutinizing stare. “I read all about you in the paper. Back Mosby’s new ‘amateur detective,’” she said, letting me go to do the bony air quotes. She was bristling with excitement and contempt. “Are you out here sleuthing?”
Mark gave her a tight smile. “We’re out enjoying the beautiful weather.”
That’s Mark. He has a special name for this technique, when you don’t technically lie. “Mental enervation” or something. Except he didn’t look like he was enjoying the weather. Or anything else, at the moment.
Mrs. Snarski frowned deeply, but she seemed willing to pretend to buy his story. She might even have left us alone…
… if I hadn’t seen Vanessa.
You know how in like every romantic comedy ever, the dude looks up, and out in the distance, the super hot girl is moving in slow-mo perfection? That is not supposed to happen in real life.
But across the courtyard, Vanessa’s every detail seemed choreographed like a freaking model … blonde hair shimmering around stylish sunglasses, trim leather jacket and flattering jeans, even a perfect wicker basket for the morning’s organics. You knew that whatever she bought here would be so gorgeous and photogenic that she could pop it in the basket and pose for the cover of a health magazine.
She must have felt my stare, because she swung my way and warmed a slow smile.
My buzzing brain nearly melted.
Then her lips crinkled in a smile of shared conspiracy, and she turned ostentatiously away.
Unfortunately, that’s when Mrs. Snarski followed my look.
“Are you stalking that young woman?” she demanded.
“What?” I said. “It’s not stalking—”
“It’s her dog,” Mark cut in. “Pete’s always mesmerized by a fine specimen.”
Actually, I hadn’t even noticed the dog. Now that I saw it, I’m wasn’t sure how I’d missed it.
Vanessa’s non-basket hand was gripping the leash of a very, very large dog. One of those dogs that’s always straining to escape and attack the nearest T-Rex.
Mrs. Snarski eyed the creature, then humphed. Mark smiled and ushered me away.
“Why’d you tell her I was into dogs?” I sputtered, in a low whisper. “That’s not mental preservation!”
“Reservation,” Mark growled. “And I said ‘fine specimen.’”
“Hey!” I said. “That’s no way to look at Vanessa!”
“No,” he said. “It isn’t.”
I squirmed. I looked back at Vanessa, melted again, then nodded toward Mrs. Snarski. “I think she’s suspicious.”
“You think?” Mark snapped. “Could we try not to blow our cover before we even get started? If anyone really does want to hurt Vanessa, it’s critical that they don’t know anyone’s watching.”
“How was I supposed to know the Snarski would pounce?” I said. “She knows me from the store! She’d bug a Mafia hit man if she thought he’d heard the latest dirt!”
Mark frowned.
At nearby tables, other old ladies I recognized were darting us nervous, curious looks, then looking away.
“I should have come by myself,” Mark said. “I forgot all these people would know you from the store.”
“Well, excuse me for not being a hermit!”
Mark flinched and drew away, like he always does when I get mad. “Ugh, fine, sorry,” he said. “Try to relax, okay? It’s hard enough trying to get a vibe out here.”
“Sorry,” I said. “You getting anything? Any feelings about Vanessa?”
Mark eyed her across the courtyard and arched an eyebrow.
Her huge dog was snuffling and tugging and snorting about 1.5 inches from a table teetering with pottery. While gripping his leash with one tight hand, Vanessa was gabbing cheerfully with the prim old lady, who was struggling to both keep up the chat and not have a heart attack.
“That vendor’s definitely having some feelings,” Mark said. “You want the expurgated version?”
“Come on, Mark. I mean violent feelings.”
“Like I said…”
With a last cute wave, Vanessa yanked the leash and twitched her Canine Tension Machine to the next vendor, who was selling blown glass. She led the creature from table to table, triggering similar terrors and yet gushing so happily she had to be oblivious. The whole area just seemed too small for the animal. H
e was more on the scale of a football field.
“Mark, look!” I whispered. “She’s heading for Helga!”
At the end of a row of tables, Helga Lubitsch sat glowering over a table stacked with … meats.
“Oh no,” I said.
The meats were wrapped, of course, with various potent cow parts duly labeled. But even if the dog couldn’t have smelled them, a plate of free samples was wafting a temptation that even I could smell.
The dog snapped toward the feast. Helga glared right back, and seriously, I think she growled.
“Helga’s spotted her!” I whispered. “What’s she feeling? Is she hating on Vanessa?”
“Hard to tell,” Mark whispered, scrunching his face in concentration. “Everyone’s pissed at Vanessa.”
Vanessa seemed to sense Helga’s glare. She stood straighter, flicked the woman a glance, then looked our way to make sure we were watching.
Not good.
Helga followed her look. With her ORGANIC STARE. Right back to…
“Pete Villette!” she boomed, bellowing across the entire courtyard.
Everyone looked. I wanted to implode.
I looked desperately for Mark, but he’d vanished. I mean it, I still don’t know where he went. Alone, defenseless, I twisted back to face Helga and the STARE.
Those eyes drew me in like a tractor beam.
Trembling, unwilling, yet irrevocably summoned, I came to the table of the Queen of Meats.
“Hi,” I squeaked. “Nice to meet you.”
Vanessa had casually sauntered over too, as if by chance. Her smile was sparkling with knowing excitement. Her dog kept jolting her in his straining for the plate, so close, whimpering and shuddering with desire.
I held a hand toward Helga. “I’m Pete.”
“I know you. You work for Vivian,” Helga snapped. It was clearly an accusation, sharpened by a heavy accent that sounded German.
“Um,” I said. “Yes.”
Helga’s eyes narrowed, and her hairy lips pressed firm. “Is she not still selling that conventional soap?”
