Mind-Bending Murder

by Leslie Langtry

  It was the transcript of a phone call where I allegedly told someone I was going to kill Tyson Pancratz.

  "This isn't proof."

  "We have the recording. It sounds a bit like your voice. I'm sorry, Merry, but this isn't looking good."

  "It can't be my voice because, before last night, I'd never heard of Tyson Pancratz. Someone is poofing me."

  "You mean spoofing."

  "No, I mean poofing. It's a CIA word meaning someone makes a case against you out of thin air."

  "This is real, Merry." Carnack sighed. "I never do this, but I think you really need a lawyer."

  I slumped in my chair. This really was bad. Not only did I not remember killing someone I'd never met in a place I'd never been before, but I also seemed to have made a phone call I didn't remember making.

  "Okay. I can call Jane Monaghan," I said, thinking about an excellent lawyer who'd helped me out before. "Any news on how he died?"

  Ed sat back in his chair. "You're our main suspect. We don't tell our main suspect how the victim was murdered, in case they trip up and tell us."

  "Yeah." I rolled my eyes. "But that's just standard operating procedure. I mean, come on. It's me."

  There was a moment of silence that I didn't like.

  "If it helps, I did talk to Dr. Body this morning, and she told me what happened. But we don't have the murder weapon."

  For a moment I wanted to blurt out Aha! He was stabbed in the heart! I knew it! But I thought about Kelly and plausible deniability and decided to play it ignorant. "You really aren't going to tell me, are you?"

  "I've helped you out enough as it is." He looked at his watch. "But the good news is that Bryce Vanderzee isn't back in town, and the judge has granted your bail. Rex is on his way to pay it. At least you'll get a bit of freedom before I have to turn this over to the Bladdersly PD."

  I sighed. Heavily. "Hopefully it's enough time to solve this before things get out of hand."

  "I really shouldn't be saying this, but be very careful. And get that lawyer. I mean it."

  Rex bailed me out twenty minutes later, and I was home in less than five. After carryout of my favorite burgers from Oleo's, my favorite spot in town, I called Jane Monaghan.

  "Merry." The petite blonde's voice was warm. "So good to hear from you again! Hopefully under better circumstances."

  "Not really," I sighed. "I need your help, Jane. This time it's for me."

  Jane agreed to stop by the next day. She would be in court all afternoon. As I hung up, I leaned back into the couch. Rex wasn't in the room, probably doing the dishes or out with our Scottish deerhound, Leonard. I'd just closed my eyes when the doorbell rang. After calling for Rex a few times, I decided to answer it myself.

  It was the druidic Cult of NicoDerm. My cult. Well, I was a member involuntarily on my part. Kinda.

  "Guys." I held the door open. "What are you doing here?"

  The four teens slouched on my doorstep, clad in long, expensive black robes—a far cry from the old ratty bathrobes they used to wear.

  "We went to bail you out," Heather said glumly. "But you weren't there."

  The others nodded.

  Awww, that was sweet. "You didn't have to do that. But it's very nice of you."

  "See?" Mike bent down to nudge the diminutive Stewie in the ribs. "I knew Bird Goddess would like that!"

  "Save your money for a comic con," I added. "Or one of those druidy things."

  Stewie turned as red as his hair. "We're rich now! We can afford to do stuff."

  "Yeah," Kayla said. "We sold the rights to Beetle Dork. It's gonna be a movie."

  "You're joking." This was not good news. Beetle Dork was an outrageously fictitious account of a real-life account about me.

  Stewie sniffed. "We own the rights. We can do whatever we want with them."

  The last thing I needed was a movie based on the lie that I was a bumbling spy. But for now, I could only handle one crisis at a time.

  "So we've got a hearse now and everything." Heather pointed to the street.

  A black hearse with Cult of Nicoderm painted on the side was parked crookedly by the curb.

  "Does that say Stewie is a Stewbutt?" I squinted at the writing on the side.

  Stewie turned green. "Heather! You were supposed to take that off!"

  "It's only chalk," Mike said as he walked over and used the sleeve of his robe to rub it off.

  "We painted the Druidmobile in chalkboard paint," Kayla explained.

  "Yeah." Heather cracked her gum. "Some of the other kids have been teasing us. So we let them write whatever they want in chalk."

  "It's smart…" Kayla's voice trailed away as we noticed that the letters weren't coming off.

  Mike stared at it. "I guess it's not chalk. Might be real paint."

  "Again?" Stewie erupted. "I am the dread demigod Odious!" He raised his arms and wiggled his fingers in a way that was supposed to be menacing, but just looked jazzy, then lowered them, deflated. "Guys! We have to make that stop!"

  "It's your sister, dude." Heather rolled her eyes. "She's the worst."

  "Yeah!" Kayla said.

  "Totally mean," Heather added.

  I stared at the petite, pudgy redhead. "Your sister painted your car?"

  "And she spelled everything correctly. Not bad for a kindergartner," Mike said.

  I shook my head to clear it. "It's really nice of you to check up on me. Thanks for stopping by."

  "We'll sacrifice a chicken to you tonight," Stewie said.

  "Well, not a real chicken," Heather added. "'Cuz that would be totally gross."

  Stewie shook with rage. "Stop telling people we don't sacrifice real chickens! It makes us look stupid!"

  That's what made them look stupid? "Please don't sacrifice a chicken in my name."

  "Oh wow!" Kayla's eyes went wide. "She's totally right! We can't sacrifice a bird to the Bird Goddess."

  Heather gasped. "That would be, like, so wrong!"

  "How about a water buffalo?" Mike asked thoughtfully.

  "Where are we going to get a water buffalo?" Stewie whined. "They're from southeast Asia!"

  "I've got a stuffed toy one," Kayla piped up.

  I waved my arms in front of me. "No, guys, seriously. Don't even sacrifice a stuffed animal to the Bird Goddess."

  "Your wish is our command." Stewie bowed deeply.

  There was a loud crack, and the short, heavyset redhead whimpered. "I can't move. I threw out my back again."

  Heather perked up. "Let's get him to the church and chant over him!"

  That got my attention. "Church?"

  "Oh," Kayla said. "We bought a church. It's called The Chapel of Despair!"

  Mike nodded. "It used to be Lutheran. They have a huge fridge in the basement."

  "We've stocked it with Dr. Pepper," Heather said. "For all of our late-night rituals."

  Stewie said from his bent over position, "And it has Wi-Fi! We couldn't get Wi-Fi in the woods."

  "Some are saying that we're not really druids since we don't do stuff in the woods anymore," Kayla mused. "It's hindered our membership drive."

  I looked at the four teens who'd been in it from the start. It was probably for the best that they didn't have new recruits for the cult.

  Stewie held up his index fingers. "They will all be begging to join us when we get Xbox for the church!"

  I didn't have time for this. "Good luck with that. Thanks for coming by. Good luck with Stewie's back."

  They filed out of the house with the hunched over Stewie, who gave me the thumbs-up from his doubled over position. Rex joined me as they started cramming Stewie into the hearse.

  "Is that your group?" he asked.

  "My cult. Duh," I corrected before shutting the door.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Rex got called into work in the afternoon to deal with a problem in the office. Apparently, Officer Kevin Dooley, our version of the village idiot, had brought in a shoplifter who, in the course of being b
ooked, stole three staplers, five ink cartridges, and Dooley's midday snack from the fridge. Kevin was obsessed with food, so it didn't go over well, and now both the officer and the shoplifter were in separate cells.

  Without Rex here to keep an eye on me, I had time to think. And I used that thinking time to get into my silver minivan and check something out.

  As I drove the ten miles to Bladdersly, I realized I didn't really have a plan. Maybe barging into town looking for answers wasn't the best idea, but it was all I had. Riley and Kelly hadn't answered my calls, and I figured this was the only chance I'd have to check out the scene of the crime before Vanderzee got back into town.

  There was a car on my tail—a bright yellow Dodge. We were the only cars on the road, so maybe he wanted to pass. In Iowa, on two-lane highways, people passed you when you went too slow. Of course, this was mostly when stuck behind a lumbering piece of farm equipment or a very old lady in a Cadillac that hadn't left the garage since 1974.

  I stuck my arm out the window and waved him around. There was no way I was going to get a speeding ticket, because that would only make things worse. The yellow car dropped back a few feet. Maybe they just hadn't realized they were tailgating me.

  I pulled into town and tried to remember where the strip mall was. There were many, many strip malls. Bladdersly had aspired to a place above its station in the 1990s by building a lot of strip malls, hoping that would attract business. Unfortunately, no one told them that they needed renters for those places, so they mostly stayed empty.

  Turning off the outlying road onto Main Street, I hoped that bisecting the town would make it easier to find the place where it happened. Most small towns in Iowa had charming little downtown areas. Who's There had a park, a couple restaurants, an ice cream shop, and Randi and Ronni's store, Ferguson Taxidermy—Where Your Pet Lives On Forever! It was in the historic Peterson Victorian built by the founding family.

  Bladdersly appeared to be the exception to the rule. I passed two dilapidated taverns—The Rabid Squirrel and The Dew Drop Inn. There was a gas station that had been boarded up, a comic book shop, two mom-and-pop restaurants that seemed to require a tetanus shot for admittance, and two tattoo parlors. The only decent building was a large old theater, The Opera House, that had a marquee announcing The Triumphant Return of Hello Dolly!

  Harold Spellman's name was underneath as director, producer, and star. Ugh. Harold and I had worked disastrously together in Central America for about ten minutes. He went on to become a terrible actor here. Hopefully I wouldn't run into him anytime soon.

  Pulling over, I tried to think. And that's when I noticed that I was right in front of Pump & Pawn, which seemed to be a combination gym and pawn shop. It was next to The Opera House, and I could see the shed from last night. I drove into the lot and around back.

  In the daylight, the shed looked like nothing. The inside had been decent, but the outside was made up of peeling metal siding that, if the sun hit it in just the right spot, you'd go blind. I was rubbing my eyes when I noticed a flash of yellow in the reflection.

  Without turning around, I glanced at a papered-over glass window to see the yellow Dodge again. It was parked a few yards away. An average-looking young man with shaggy brown hair stepped out and sat on the hood. The kid wore an Aloha shirt, khaki slacks, and boat shoes. He couldn't have been older than twenty.

  I walked toward him. "Can I help you?"

  The kid waved me off. "Nah. I'm good. Thanks though."

  I tried hard not to grind my teeth. "I don't really want to help you."

  He seemed surprised. "Then why did you ask? It seems kind of rude to ask and not mean it."

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath before asking, "Are you following me?"

  He blinked for a second or two before answering. "Kinda?"

  "You don't know?"

  "Oh, I know," he answered amiably.

  "Why are you following me?"

  "Oh, right. I'm a bounty hunter." He fished around in a shirt pocket and handed me a card that read:

  Kurt Allen Hobbs Jr. III Esquire, Bounty Hunter

  No felon too SCARY, no crook too small.

  "Too small? What does that mean?"

  "It means that I can chase down everything from a shoplifter at the Dollar Store to a serial killer on the lam."

  "That's quite a range."

  "Thank you. You'd be surprised how many shoplifters we have at all the Dollar Stores in Bladdersly. I could probably work full time on that alone."

  "Not really…" I started to say.

  "We have thirteen of those stores, and they average two or three shoplifters a day." He gave me a broad, toothy smile. "So thanks for the compliment!"

  "I didn't mean it as a compliment."

  That seemed to knock some of the wind out of his sails. "Oh."

  I pocketed the card, and he jumped off the car, running toward me, hands out. I ducked out of the way and tripped him. Never run at a spy. Never.

  Kurt got up from the ground and dusted himself off.

  "Sorry," I lied. "Force of habit. Why did you run at me like that?"

  He seemed to think it was a strange question. "I need the card back."

  I pulled it out and studied it. "Why?"

  Kurt put his hands on his hips. "It's the only one I have. It's actually a prototype."

  "A prototype of a business card?" I studied it. It was basically white cardstock.

  "Yes, and a very expensive one at that." He stared at the card with a pained expression.

  For some reason, I sympathized. I took a photo of the card with my phone and handed it back.

  "Are you following me because I posted bail? I'm not skipping town. I'm just checking things out."

  "It doesn't hurt to be prepared," he said. "I figured I should follow you, and the minute you skip bail—Whammo!" He slammed his left fist into his right hand. "I've got you. Then I'll be able to afford more cards. You skipping bail and me catching you will launch my career."

  "I'm not going to skip bail. I'm going to find out who framed me."

  He deflated. "You're not?"

  "No. Who's There is my home. I have no intention of leaving it."

  "What if you just skipped bail a little so that I can bring you in? It would be great for my reputation."

  "No."

  "Please? I'm just getting started. I could use the collar." He held his hands up toward the sky as if proclaiming something. "Genius, manly bounty hunter nabs ex-CIA serial killer! Maybe I can get my own reality show!"

  "I'm not a serial killer." But it was tempting to start with Kurt Allen Hobbs Jr. III Esquire.

  He smiled. "Yes, but you could be. Just knock off someone else. I won't look. I promise." He crossed his heart.

  "Are you nuts?"

  "Okay." He rubbed his chin. "How about just murderer?"

  "I haven't murdered anyone and don't plan to. Nor, like I've said several times already, do I plan to skip bail."

  His face fell. "Can I just follow you? I told Kayla I was working a case. She said she'd only go out with me if I had a job. She lives in Who's There like you. It would be a huge deal if I could date a girl from Who's There."

  That was unexpected. "Kayla? Druid Kayla who works at the ice cream parlor?"

  He brightened. "That's her! Isn't she amazing? Anyway, if I can say I was chasing a dangerous perp all day, maybe she'd go out with me. Please can I follow you around?"

  I thought about that. With someone out there willing to frame me, it wouldn't hurt to have a witness seeing that I'm not doing anything wrong. But I'd rather have Rex than this loser. However, Rex was at work, ten miles away. I guess this loser would have to do.

  I held up one finger. "Today only. And stay out of my way."

  "I promise!" He held up the Boy Scout salute. "I swear on the feather cloak of the Bird Goddess…"

  That was all I needed. "Don't do that." I froze. "Wait, did you say feather cloak of the Bird Goddess?"

  Kurt said, "Y
eah. Kayla talks about this Bird Goddess all the time and how she has this incredible cloak made out of feathers. I'm really hoping to meet her someday!"

  I held out my hand. "Nice to meet you. I'm the Bird Goddess."

  A look came over him that I'd like to describe as awe. "Seriously? I can't bring you in! Kayla would never speak to me again!"

  I withdrew my hand. "That's right. And if you don't get in my way, I can put in a good word for you."

  And what's this business about a feather cloak? I didn't have one. Maybe it was a surprise? I liked surprises. I decided to drop it so that Kurt wouldn't remember that he told me that.

  Kurt mulled this over before nodding. "It's a deal."

  That was all I needed—for word to get out to my troop that I'd let a Boy Scout help me. I'd never hear the end of it.

  "Do you know Tyson Pancratz?" I studied him. He was the same age and size, with the same hair color of the victim. "You kind of look like him."

  The kid shook his head. "No. Who's he?"

  My patience was wearing thin. "The guy I allegedly killed."

  His jaw dropped open. "I look like the guy you killed?"

  "Allegedly," I repeated.

  He pulled a notepad and golf pencil from his pocket and started to write. After a second, he squinted at the end of the pencil. "You wouldn't happen to have a pencil sharpener on you, would you?"

  I turned away from him to face the shed. "Sorry. I usually do, but today I left it at home."

  He failed to notice the sarcasm and appeared next to me, staring at the shed. "Why are you at this place?"

  "This," I said, wondering why I was even telling him anything, "is where I allegedly killed Tyson Pancratz."

  "You killed Tyson Pancratz in the Magnolia Girl office?"

  Seriously? My hands involuntarily clenched into fists. The Magnolia Girls. I'd had a rather unfortunate run-in with them at a Civil War reenactment not too long ago. A group of Southern sympathizers, the Magnolia Girls were prissy and mean. It took everything I had to not allow Betty to beat them up.

  "There's no sign that says that." I approached the door.

  "Oh. That's 'cuz they moved a month ago."