Murder Feels Bad

by Bill Alive

  I’d forgotten that Ceci might go have a chat with Gwen…

  Chapter 14

  Getting spiritual is harder than you think.

  On my lunch break, I hid out in the employee lounge (remember, where Vivian taught Mark how to shield?) and tried to have a go at meditation. I had a great app and everything. But I wound up spending the whole time reading reviews for whether to pay for the premium version.

  At least I knew I’d be meeting Roger’s group. As the days dragged by, I got more and more excited. I had a strong sense that these people would be awesome kindred spirits.

  Then, the night before the meeting, I panicked.

  What the heck had happened to solving Olivia’s murder???

  We hadn’t talked about the case in days. Not since it had all blown up with Vanessa and Ed.

  The new normal was me coming home to Mark slumped on his cruddy couch, tranced out to Unwinnable State or some other infinite series on his gigantic wall TV. If I was super lucky, I might get a “Hey.”

  I didn’t blame him. I’d been demoralized too. And he was working all day on web stuff.

  At least, I hoped he was.

  As you know, our cabin is mostly one not-so-big room, so his big computer desk and the wall shelf of extra monitors is crammed in the corner by the kitchen. But I couldn’t tell from surreptitious glances whether it was getting any use.

  Either way, I knew we weren’t talking about the case. And that night, as I walked in and saw Mark just picking up the remote, all settled in, nestled in the same spot on the couch and surrounded by the same old stacks of books and masks and whatever, and the same old smell of musty carpet and male, I thought, What if we never actually get to be detectives? I’ve got to get to Mark before he starts the next show.

  “Too late,” Mark said.

  “I didn’t say anything!”

  He jabbed the remote at the screen, triggering the blare of opening music. “Look, Pete,” he said, still watching, “I apparently suck as a detective. I didn’t even vibe that Vanessa was married.”

  “Come on, dude. You think the cops don’t make any mistakes ever?”

  “Not that kind of mistake.”

  “Mark, she had to be shielding. And you wouldn’t expect the client to shield.”

  “Right, I wouldn’t. Because I suck.”

  “You’re just freaking new,” I said. “Besides, Vanessa was trouble. Forget her. I have.”

  For the first time, Mark eyed me with wary surprise.

  “Hey, no vibe confirmations!” I snapped. “Just believe me for once!”

  He smirked. Which triggered a pang of nostalgia. Whoa. Had I actually missed the smirkage?

  “Vanessa was a total distraction,” I said. “The real case is Olivia.”

  He slumped again, back to watching the screen. “No one even pretended to hire us about Olivia.”

  “So what? That’s it? You’re just done? Someone strung that girl up from a church bell! And is totally going to get away with it! And maybe kill someone else!”

  He shifted uncomfortably. “That’s not going to happen.”

  “How do you know? You see the future now too?”

  “Watch it, Pete.”

  “You watch it. That’s your thing, I guess, you’d rather watch TV than catch a murderer.”

  Mark tensed. He scowled, and started to shoot back, but I cut him off.

  “Listen, just ten minutes,” I said. “The show can wait, right? I’ll even grab you a beer from the fridge. What kind?”

  He grimaced … then muttered, “There’s just the one kind.”

  “Sweet!” I said, and skittered happily over to the fridge.

  Mark sighed and paused the show. I hustled back, chillaxed on the couch, handed him a beer, and twisted open my ginger kombucha.

  (A ginger kombucha basically tastes like ginger ale, because they make it with mushrooms or something so it has all these good bacteria. Kind of like Vanessa’s raw milk, except it’s legal. Also, it costs like twice as much as a beer, because it’s good for you.)

  “Cheers!” I said. I clinked his bottle. “Official beverages for the official case review.”

  “Do you have to make everything embarrassing?”

  “Sorry!” I sat up straight and tried to look super-official and boring. Unwinnable State was only a click away, and the huge screen loomed. “Okay. So. Olivia’s murder. Top suspects?”

  “Olivia.”

  “What??”

  “She might actually have committed suicide.”

  “No she didn’t!” I said. “You got a vibe that someone wasn’t surprised.”

  “Not someone. Theodore.” He puckered a little just saying the name. “He feels some kind of guilt I can’t vibe it clearly, but there’s no way he killed her. Maybe she told him he was suicidal, and it’s eating him up he didn’t tell anyone in time to save her.”

  “How could Theodore know and not her own mom? They were only work friends. And he’s almost thirty!”

  “Right, ancient,” Mark said. “He’s younger than Brett, remember? Who she had actually dated?”

  “I guess,” I grudged. “But Brett’s, like, a male model. Did you see his hair?”

  Mark sighed.

  “Plus, Olivia had just gotten Brett back,” I said. “I mean, Roger said maybe it wasn’t exactly a proposal, but still. And she’d also gotten that scholarship. It’s like the opposite triggers for someone to kill herself.”

  “Maybe,” Mark said. “We still don’t know much about her.”

  “That’s pretty basic. Besides, the whole thing is just weird. Suicide by bell rope? Who kills themselves in a church? But a church could totally work for a murder. Especially as part of a ritual—”

  “Oh man,” Mark said. He rubbed his forehead like the mere idea gave him a migraine. “Can we please drop it with the Case of the Murderous Milk Witch?”

  “Why are you so closed-minded?” I said. “I thought you were a person of faith.”

  “Having a religion does not mean you’re totally available to believe any random shit,” Mark said. “Kind of the opposite.”

  “But Helga’s freaky,” I said. “I told you about the lock of hair, and we saw her take the carnation.”

  He frowned. “So she wanted a memento.”

  “We can’t cross her off the list.”

  “Fine.”

  “Awesome!” I said, then caught myself getting excited. I tried to look stern. “Who’s next?”

  “I’d say Brett the ex-boyfriend or the mom, Samantha.”

  “Yes! Did you see how they hugged, there’s totally something there!” I said, forgetting to not get excited. “Could be either one! Or both!”

  “Probably not both. This isn’t a royal succession. It’s not like Olivia would have to die if both Brett and Samantha decided to hook up. The difficulty would be if one thought the other could never deal with the guilt of Olivia getting ditched. Talk about your awkward Thanksgiving.”

  “Ugh,” I said. “This is super gross.”

  “Kind of,” Mark said. “Brett’s probably closer to Samantha’s age than he was to Olivia.”

  “But Samantha’s older!” I said. “In her forties!!”

  “And dudes in their forties never date younger women?

  “That’s totally different!”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s not gross!”

  Mark sighed.

  “Besides,” I said. “Brett was already dating Olivia and Olivia was her daughter.”

  “I didn’t say that part wasn’t weird,” Mark said. “And then he goes and proposes. That could have triggered Samantha to take drastic action.”

  “To kill her own daughter?”

  Mark frowned. “I heard at the funeral that Samantha’s husband ditched the two of them before Olivia’s first birthday. He didn’t even show up for the funeral. I get the impression that Samantha had a long, lone motherhood, with a shortage of male companionship. If she thought Brett mi
ght be her last chance…” He let it hang.

  I squirmed. “Okay. Maybe. But remember, Roger said the whole ‘proposal’ thing was exaggerated. In fact … ugh … he sounded like Samantha was exaggerating it.”

  Mark frowned. “We’ll have to straighten that out. It might not be Samantha at all, it could be the other way around, with Brett. If Brett got tired of Olivia and wanted Samantha, he might not have thought that she could easily date her daughter’s ex. He might have faked the proposal to Olivia, to make it look he’d been serious about her right until the end.”

  “But how would killing Olivia help? He’d still have been her ex.”

  “No, everything changes if it looks like Olivia killed herself. If Olivia had just gotten murdered, or even crashed in a car accident, that would have made her into an innocent martyr. Perfect forever. But since she committed suicide, that makes it clear that she was mentally imbalanced, that she could never have lasted in a real relationship. Eventually, everyone would agree that both Brett and Samantha should move on, guilt-free…”

  “This is so gross!” I blurted. “I hate this!”

  “Yeah,” Mark said. “We’re going to have to talk to these people.”

  “Really? You’ll do it?” I said.

  He sighed. “Only if you’re good, Petey.”

  I hate that nickname, but I didn’t even care. We were back on the case! I could barely sleep that night, I was so excited. And the buzz lasted all the next day, too — not just the thrill of the case, but the major anticipation of Roger’s meeting, which was finally that night. I rushed home from work, agonizing over whether a polo shirt was spiritual enough or if I should go for the tie.

  But right as I walked in to our place, Mark hopped up from our little kitchen table.

  “You got the keys?” he said.

  “Uh, yeah. Why?”

  “I got it all set up, we’re interviewing Brett.”

  “Not tonight!”

  “Yeah, dude. Right now.”

  Chapter 15

  “You can’t use the car tonight!” I gasped. “I have my meeting with Roger’s group!”

  “Ah,” Mark said. “I was wondering why you came home the other day with all those country club outfits.”

  I flushed, hoping Mark couldn’t vibe that I’d probably spent too much of my last paycheck on some decent options for clothes tonight. And, um, maybe some of my next paycheck. Stupid credit card. But I could totally pay it off in time, I just needed to snag some extra hours for Vivian. Otherwise my rent might be a little late. Which reminded me, I really needed to ask Mark how the hunt for new web clients was going…

  “Anyway,” Mark said, “the car’s not exactly a joint venture. Unless you want to start chipping in for oil changes.”

  “I know, it’s just—”

  “And here I thought you were a dedicated sleuth,” Mark said. He arched an eyebrow. “You’d really rather watch some old guru than catch a murderer?”

  I ignored this emotional jujitsu. “Couldn’t you do this another night?”

  “Sorry. Brett’s fairly hostile, I think he’s looking for any excuse to cancel.”

  “Great.” I thought hard, my stomach churning. “How long will it take? It’s already past six, and my meeting’s at eight.”

  “Sure, let’s not linger. He might slip up and confess.”

  “Mark!”

  “Fine. See you later.” He headed for the door.

  “No, wait!”

  “Dude, right now you feel like a human stress ball. I can’t deal with that on an interview. If I have to shield from you, I’ll miss all the tasty tidbits. If you want to come along, you’re going to have to calm down.”

  I grit my teeth, then forced myself to take a deep breath. In. Out. In. Ouuuut…

  I checked my phone. Not even six yet. I could do this.

  My sense of calm lasted about until I buckled my seat belt.

  Have you ever deliberately tried not to be stressed? It’s unreal. Not to mention having a freaking empath right beside you in the driver’s seat, picking up every signal that might muck up his chance to catch a murderer.

  Still, I’d almost gotten my breathing rate down to Casual Hyperventilate when we pulled into Brett’s townhouse development. Then my stress shot right back to Red Alert.

  At first, I didn’t even know why. The place just looked like a really nice development.

  True, we were parking at a really big house, larger than the others and set apart with its own yard. I didn’t even know that was a thing in these developments. Plus, in the waning light, multiple security lights blasted you right in the eye. Definitely intimidating.

  I could tell that Mark was intimidated too. I hoped it wasn’t all my fault.

  “Don’t be nervous,” I said.

  “Who the hell said I’m nervous?”

  Then I realized what was spiking my cortisol. “Hey. Isn’t this the same subdivision where Jivanta lives?”

  “That’s right,” Mark said. “Did you have to bring that up? Of all the nights I’d rather not remember—”

  “Don’t say anything! Spoilers!!”

  Mark groaned.

  The long walkway to Brett’s imposing front door felt like half a mile.

  “So what’s up with Jivanta’s wedding?” I said, trying to chat away my dread. “We’re not going to miss the rematch, are we?”

  “I don’t know, Pete. If a dead body torpedoed my wedding, I wouldn’t exactly rush to invite back the amateur detectives.”

  “Oh man!” I said. “You mean like the Law of Attraction? Do you think we could be attracting murderers?”

  Mark scoffed, and donged the doorbell.

  We waited, blinking in the security lights.

  “So,” I said. “Here we are, asking this rich dude if he killed his girlfriend.”

  Mark edged away from me.

  “Sorry!” I said. “I’m fine, I promise.”

  “Right.”

  Pause.

  “Boy,” I said. “He’s really taking awhile to answer the door.”

  The door whooshed open.

  Brett scowled.

  I don’t know about you, but I’m not a huge scowl fan. Especially when it’s an uber-confident executive-slash-model. Plus, he’d been wearing shades before, so this was the first time I’d actually seen the guy’s eyes.

  That’s the thing about detective work. There’s a higher-than-average possibility some murderer will hate your guts.

  Meanwhile, Mark winced. Hard.

  I knew he’d just picked up way more than Brett’s bad mood. He’d gotten something important, maybe even vital.

  I ached to know, but unless Mark felt like mind blasting, I might be stuck waiting to find out through this whole interview. Ugh.

  Brett forced his scowl into a polite smile. Too polite. Like, you’ll be hearing from my lawyers.

  He definitely seemed the type to have them. Even here, after hours in his own home, his “casual wear” was a muted print shirt that clearly cost more than I made in a week. While Theodore could have squeezed into a bespoke tux and still looked frumpy, Brett looked tanned and athletic and basically off a magazine cover.

  Except that up close and without his shades, Brett’s eyes looked older than I’d expected. His body might be young, but his eyes were middle-aged with secrets.

  “Welcome,” he said. His voice was surprisingly thin, even shrill. But he was still totally in control. “What can I get for you gentlemen?”

  He waved us into a gargantuan living room, where a wet bar in the corner showcased more varieties of liquor than most pubs. I thought about asking if he had any craft beers, but somehow it seemed awkward taking a drink from a guy who might have strangled his girlfriend. Mark and I both went for water. Brett seemed slightly offended.

  The high walls peaked to a cathedral ceiling, and the walls mostly featured framed oversized photos of … Brett. Brett shaking hands, Brett skiing, Brett playing golf with other rich white dudes. I did
see a few token folks who had to be family.

  I didn’t see one photo of Olivia.

  Mark and I sank into a vast couch that made it almost impossible to sit up straight. Brett jabbed us huge cold wine goblets, filled with water and crackling with ice, then sat in a master leather armchair and leaned toward us.

  “So. You said on the phone that some serial killer might have gotten to Olivia and still be loose. Who? Are the police looking into this?” He fired off staccato questions like a suspicious boss.

  I thought, He’s dying to know whether he’s a suspect.

  So was I. I was super tempted to break down and actually text Mark right there to ask what he was vibing. But Brett’s sharp eyes would totally catch that.

  “It’s too early to say anything definite,” Mark said. “We’re still eliminating possibilities.”

  “It sure as hell looked like suicide to me,” Brett said.

  He was glaring, boring into us with those old-man eyes. The stress was making my mouth dry, and I lifted the water toward my mouth. Then I froze. Weren’t there a gazillion untraceable poisons?

  Mark gave Brett a soothing Client Mode smile. “Suicide is definitely the most likely explanation.”

  “But?” Brett said.

  Mark hesitated. “Brett, we’ve really just gotten started. We’re still getting to know Olivia. Could you tell us a bit about her? How you met?”

  Brett frowned at me. “Everything okay with your water?”

  “Oh yeah, totally,” I said, but I set it on the coffee table untasted.

  Brett flinched. “Do you mind using the coaster?”

  “Oh gosh, yes, sorry.”

  Brett shifted back toward Mark, staring hard while he sipped a shot of whiskey.

  At last, he said quietly, “Olivia was a good kid.”

  Mark nodded.

  “I saw that from day one,” Brett said. “I run a temp agency, so that’s my job, seeing people’s potential. She had her passion … dance … in fact, she had just gotten a scholarship…” He frowned. “Of course, you’d already know that.”

  “No worries,” Mark said. “How’d you meet?”

  “She was a waitress, at this otherwise crappy place that has really good burgers that I succumb to every six months. The manager’s an asshole, and he was reaming her out right on the floor because some idiot said she’d spilled coffee on him. She told me later that the customer himself was actually fine, he knew it was just an accident. But that damn manager fired her. Right there in public. I wanted to deck him. But I did one better, I went over and told her to come to my office.” He sipped his drink again, slowly, like he wanted to feel the whiskey burn. “She deserved much better than that shithole.”