The Big Kill

by Elise Sax

  “Are you okay, Gladie?” Lucy asked, “Your face turned red.”

  “Fine. I was just thinking.”

  “You have that look, again. The Miss Marple look. Oh, this is going to be so good.”

  There was a mailbox at the entrance to the road, which meant that someone must have lived at the end of it. I turned onto the dirt road.

  “I’m revving up my Taser,” Lucy announced. “If you distract him, I’ll fill him full of volts.”

  The house came into view, as we continued to drive down the road. “Hold on there, Annie Oakley, as far as we know, Adam Mancuso is just an old friend of my father’s.”

  “So, should I turn off the Taser?”

  “No. Keep it charged. If he tries anything, I’ll kick him in the balls, and you light him up.”

  Adam’s house was a sprawling cabin that looked like it had been built piecemeal, added onto when the mood struck. It was made with different kinds of wood, and the cabin stood at different heights. Smoke came out of two chimneys on either side of the house. The road had turned from dirt to gravel as we reached the makeshift driveway. I turned off the car, and Lucy and I stepped out.

  “Don’t make any sudden movements, darlin’,” Lucy said, putting her arms around me. I looked in the direction she was staring, alarmed. Coming toward us was a large, pointy rodent.

  “What is that?” I asked, as we shuffled around the creature on our way to the front door.

  “The largest porcupine I’ve ever seen.”

  “You’ve seen porcupines before?”

  “I’ve seen everything.”

  There wasn’t a doorbell, so I knocked on the door. The porcupine walked toward us, but now he had his pointy things standing up tall, ready to shoot us full of holes. It wasn’t the way I wanted to die. Actually, I didn’t want to die at all, but if I was going to die, I wanted to die by something much faster than being stabbed to death with animal parts.

  The door opened, and a man wearing dirty sweatpants and a Walley’s t-shirt stood staring at me, as if he was confused that there were other humans on the planet, and even more confused that those humans would knock on his door. His feet were bare, and his shoulder-length hair was doing a bed-head thing.

  “I don’t want to be a Jehovah’s Witness,” he said, like he was apologizing.

  “We’re not here to convert you,” Lucy said. “This is Gladie Burger. Jonathan’s daughter.”

  He blinked and then blinked again. “Jonathan?” he asked, looking at me.

  “Do you mind if we come in? There’s a porcupine after us.” Lucy pushed past him, and we walked into the house.

  It was dark inside, but even without a lot of light, it was obvious that Adam wasn’t overly concerned with tidiness. Or cleanliness.

  Adam was a slob.

  But Adam was rich. Everything in his house was luxury, custom made. The entrance gave way to a great room with the kitchen part to my left. The fancy, filthy kitchen seemed to call to me, and I found myself inspecting the appliances on the counter top. “Is this the Rockefeller Remote Control Six-Setting Popcorn Maker?” I asked Adam.

  “Seven-settings. It’s the newest version.”

  “I could go for some popcorn,” I said. “Oh my God, tell me I’m not seeing the JP Morgan Automatic Panini Maker with Built in Cheese Dispenser.” It was like I was Dorothy, and I had fallen into an Oz filled with wonderful appliances.

  “It makes a ham and cheese panini in fifteen seconds,” he said. “Panini means grilled cheese. Is that why you’re here?”

  “Yes,” I said, but Lucy shot me a mean Confederate look, like she was mad about my northern aggression and was going to impale me with her bayonet. “I mean, no. I came to talk to you about my father.”

  Adam ran his hand over his hair and blinked a lot. “Oh, wow. I haven’t talked about Jonathan in years. He’s dead. I mean, yeah, you know that.”

  Adam wasn’t coming off as the grand, arch villain genius who planned my father’s murder. But I had known other clueless, idiot killers, so I refused to be taken in.

  “I’m going through his old friends, talking to everyone,” I said.

  “Good idea. We were very close. You want a cream soda?” he asked.

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  He took a couple out of his refrigerator. I drank from the can because his glasses were dirty. “It’s French,” Adam said, pointing at the cream soda can.

  “Really? It’s still good, though.”

  Adam nodded. “Your dad was the best friend a guy could have. I would never be who I am without him.” He took a large butcher paper-wrapped package out of the refrigerator. A gigantic aquarium with one kind of fish swimming in it filled an entire wall. Adam climbed a ladder and dumped the package’s contents into the water. It made a bloody cloud, and the fish swarmed around it. It was gone within seconds.

  Lucy mouthed “Taser” to me and tapped her purse.

  “Piranhas,” Adam explained. “Ultra cool, but it costs a fortune to feed them. So, what do you want to know?”

  “The police are looking into my father’s death,” I lied, more than a little disconcerted by the piranhas. “Or should I say…murder.” I waited for a response, but he was still doing the duh thing coupled with a vacant stare. “Because it’s suspicious, you know.”

  “It is? It was?” Adam backed up until he was leaning against the kitchen counter. He tapped a finger against his mouth, as if he was thinking. “You know, the accident was weird. Tragic and weird. I think you’re right. Afterward, it was like Jonathan never existed, and our group all spread to the four winds. I’ve never spoken to any of them, again, even though we were all best friends at the time.” He looked up at the ceiling. “That’s not true. Steve contacted me a couple times over the years to buy insurance. That’s what he does now. He works at Cannes Fidelity above the pharmacy.”

  “I know that place. I know that guy,” I said, pointing at Adam. We had bumped into each other in the pharmacy’s Pop-Tart aisle, and he tried to sell me life insurance because Pop-Tart eaters lived seven years less than non Pop-Tart eaters, according to him. Of course, I figured he was insane, grabbed my S’mores Pop-Tarts, and left.

  “Did you threaten Jonathan?” Lucy demanded, wagging her finger at him, in a burst of savage aggression, like she was Jessica Fletcher. “Did you sabotage his motorcycle, leaving his wife a widow, and his daughter an orphan? Spit it out. Tell us the truth.”

  “No! I loved him. He was my best friend. He helped me build a bathroom onto this house. And he supported my writing when nobody else said I could succeed. We talked about writing every day.”

  “What about the rest of your circle of friends?” I asked, more gently than Lucy. “Would any of them threaten my father?”

  “Everyone loved him.”

  Adam wiped his face with a kitchen towel and took a swig of his cream soda. The conversation was over, and I was no closer to finding the truth out about my father’s death. All I found out was my father knew how to build a bathroom.

  “Anything else? I have to get back to work,” Adam said. There was a loud noise from somewhere in the house, and Lucy stepped toward it. Adam put his arm out to block her. “I can’t let you back there. Too dangerous. Komodo dragon.”

  “I get it, now,” Lucy told him. “You collect dangerous pets.”

  “Danger is in the eye of the beholder,” he said. “Just because someone is a man-eater or viciously aggressive doesn’t mean they don’t deserve to be loved.”

  “I kind of think it does,” Lucy said.

  CHAPTER 8

  I like to think of matchmaking as the most glamorous job in the world, second only to shoe designer. But the whole megillah isn’t a crash whiz bang of excitement one hundred percent of the time. Sometimes, matchmaking is a slow slog full of researching, like a nudnik who can’t get enough. But an ounce of research is worth a pound of do-overs. So, one foot in front of the other. Step by step. Gather your information and then you’ll be the succe
ss I’ll know you’ll be, bubbeleh.

  Lesson 129, Matchmaking advice from your

  Grandma Zelda

  I drove back to the Historic District to see Steve Byrne, the second name on my list. Lucy called Bridget to see if she wanted to go with us, but she was busy eating French soft cheeses and watching horror movies to try and make her baby come into the world.

  “She’s not exactly the poster child for pregnancy,” Lucy said, hanging up. “We should go over there later to give her moral support. Or we could send a muffin basket.”

  “I’m voting for the muffin basket.” I needed a half-day break from Bridget’s pregnancy. I parked in front of the pharmacy. The front door was covered in DICK posters, which were splattered with chewed globs of bubble gum. “This town is savage,” I said.

  Lucy put her arm around me, as we walked through the door next to the pharmacy. “This is brave of you. I would never search out my parents’ friends. Of course, they’re up in the mountains messin’ with sheep, so…”

  We climbed up the stairs. On the second floor, there was one old-fashioned door with glass in the center. “Cannes Fidelity, Steve Byrne Broker” was written on it in thick, black letters. I knocked on the door and turned the doorknob.

  Inside, there was a woman sitting at a desk and reading a magazine. “Lucy Smythe here to see Mr. Byrne,” I told her, using Lucy’s name in case he would get scared off by my father’s last name.

  “He’s eating lunch.”

  “I was looking for a complete insurance package,” I lied. I had no idea what that meant, but I figured it would be music to Steve’s ears. It was. She buzzed him, and he came out, beaming at us.

  “Steve Byrne. Happy to make your life more secure.” He put his hand out, and I shook it. “Come in. Come in. Take a seat.”

  We sat, and Steve dropped to his knees and then onto all fours. “Who’s a good poopykins? Daddy’s baby is a good poopykins. Aren’t you? Aren’t you? Aren’t you a good poopykins?”

  I had never bought insurance in an office before, so I didn’t know if this was standard business practice or not.

  “Daddy loves his baby. Yes, he does,” he continued.

  A little rat-like dog crawled out from under the desk. It was wearing a diamond collar and an outfit that looking disturbingly like my grandmother’s Gucci knockoff dress.

  “There she is. There’s Daddy’s girl. And don’t you look pretty today? Would you like to meet our guests? They’re going to buy the full insurance package? Yes, that’s right. Yes, that’s right. That’s right, my poopykins.”

  “I take back what I said,” Lucy muttered in my direction. “I’d much prefer to visit my parents’ friends in the mountains with the sheep.”

  Steve put a small, jewel-encrusted throne on his desk and picked up his poopykins and sat her on the throne. “Is Daddy’s girl comfortable?” he asked her. He put a bite of his lunch in his mouth and then fed the dog from his mouth. I looked away so I wouldn’t throw up.

  “Say hello to Lady Philomena, an award-winning bitch.”

  Lucy elbowed me in the side. “He’s talking to us, Gladie. Hello, Lady Philomena.”

  “Hello, Lady Philomena,” I said. “Uh, listen, I might have been a little untruthful about the package. I’m Gladie Burger, Jonathan Burger’s daughter.”

  He sat on his desk with a loud thump. “Jonathan Burger’s daughter. Well, look at that. I was wondering when you would come visit me. After your father died, we all went our separate ways, but I figured you’d at least be curious. I was your father’s best friend, you know.” He looked beyond me and gnawed at his lower lip. “Okay, maybe not his best friend. I wasn’t literary enough for him or the rest of them. I was in the group, but obviously I didn’t turn out like they did.”

  I sat up straighter in my chair. Jealousy. Besides sex and money, it was the best motive for murder. Lucy caught my eye. She had noticed it, too.

  “You dad was the king of us,” Steve continued. “Three published books of poetry. Do you know how hard that is to do in this country? If he had lived, he would have gone all the way. Nobel Prize. Tenure at Stanford. The whole enchilada. So, he didn’t have a lot of time for me. Not like he did for the others.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “That must have upset you.”

  “Really upset you. You probably wanted him dead,” Lucy said. Smooth.

  “I didn’t want him dead, but would a pimple on his face have been too much to ask? He was Paul Newman meets Ted Hughes meets Rock Hudson before he was gay. How does a guy compete with that?”

  He leaned over and kissed his dog on the lips. His pants were covered in a light layer of dog hair, and he had a unibrow that moved when he spoke. I felt sorry for him. I understood what it was like to be an underachiever in an overachieving group. It never made me kill anyone, but I also never French kissed a dog. So, Steve Byrne had moved ahead of Adam Mancuso as my number one suspect.

  “What do you want to know about him?” he asked me.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you’re here to get information about your dad, right? Closure? That sort of thing.”

  “The motorcycle,” I started.

  “He loved that thing. Your mom drove a beat-up Honda Civic, and he roared through town on his cool-mobile. He drove like a bat out of hell. Joy used to joke that he was going to die on it and then his poetry would be worth a fortune. And then he did die. We were all shocked, so shocked that we didn’t talk about it. I don’t know if you remember, but your father was full of life, and maybe that was why it was so shocking that he died.”

  “His poetry wasn’t worth a fortune after he died,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, at least he published before he died. Three of us never published and three did. Adam, Roman, and your dad all published. The rest of us weren’t so lucky.”

  He oozed guilt. Or maybe I just didn’t like him. But for the time being, I couldn’t prove anything. “I’m sorry you weren’t published,” I said.

  Steve shrugged and picked up his dog. “Insurance has been good to me. Speaking of insurance, how about we get you taken care of while you’re here? When I get through with you, I can throw you down the stairs, and you wouldn’t have to worry a thing about money for the rest of your life. Your father didn’t have a nickel of insurance. You don’t want to suffer the same fate, do you?”

  I didn’t buy any insurance, and I refused to say goodbye to Lady Philomena. Blech. I wanted to wash myself in Clorox to get the weird off of me.

  “I preferred the pet piranhas to the dog,” Lucy told me, as we walked across the street to Tea Time. “I’ve always liked dogs, but that thing in there wasn’t a dog.”

  “The man sure was. A lowdown, dirty dog.”

  After coffee at Tea Time, I drove Lucy home because Harry was asking for her. When I dropped her off, my cellphone rang, and I answered.

  “Is this Gladys Burger?” a woman asked me.

  “Gladie Burger. Yes.”

  “Jonathan Burger’s daughter?”

  My heart rate sped up, and my mouth got dry. “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “Joy Strand. I used to be Joy Lennon. I heard that you’re making the rounds of our old gang of friends. Roman and I would love to talk with you. I haven’t seen you since you were a little girl. There’s no chance that you could be free for lunch?”

  “I’m free, and I’m actually in your neighborhood.”

  Lucy lived in a mansion, but Roman and Joy Strand lived in an estate that I had always pictured when I thought of a literary titan. Not that I ever thought of a literary titan, but I did know who JK Rowling was. Ditto Stephen King. Lucy let me clean myself up in her house before I went to lunch, and while Harry dealt cards to his old cronies, she gave me an earful about Roman.

  “He wrote one book, and that was enough,” Lucy said. “I never read it, but I think I own a couple copies. That book’s been around for decades, and it must have sold millions and millions of copies. It’s like Fifty Shades b
ut for people who want to seem intelligent. You know what I mean?”

  I nodded. I hadn’t read it, either, but I had heard of Roman Strand before, just like everyone else in the world had.

  “I’m telling you, Gladie, an invitation into their house is a big deal. I can’t get in, and believe you me, I’ve tried.”

  At Roman and Joy’s house, I rang the doorbell, and there was a loud ding dong noise. I was half-expecting a butler to answer, but a heavily Botoxed woman did, instead, who I assumed was Joy. I was right.

  She gave me a big, welcoming hug, and I got choked up from the attention from one of my father’s friends. “Let me look at you,” she said, holding me at arm’s length. “Just like your father, except for your coloring. I should have contacted you before, but it was a strange time. Oh! I haven’t let you come in, have I?”

  She waved me inside with a giggle and closed the door. The walls were paneled in a dark wood, and there was artwork everywhere. Happily, there wasn’t an animal anywhere, and I hoped that I had finally found some normal people in my father’s group. We walked into the dining room, and a tall man, smoking a pipe, was waiting for us.

  “Gladys,” he said and opened his arms for me. I walked toward him, and he hugged me. “I’ve never been happier than I am to see Jonathan’s daughter in my home.”

  He smelled like expensive cologne and something else I couldn’t pinpoint. Pot roast. That was it. He smelled like pot roast.

  “I hope you like pot roast,” Joy said. “That’s what we’re having for lunch.”

  I loved pot roast.

  We sat down and started to eat. It was delicious. “We heard that you met with Adam and Steve,” Joy said. “I hope you weren’t too put off by their eccentricities.”

  “We haven’t spoken with them in years, Joy,” Roman said. “They might be totally different now.”

  “Are they?” Joy asked me. “Are they still eccentric?”