The Big Kill

by Elise Sax

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Waiting for you. You’re not going to let this refrigerator stuff lie, are you? What would your father say?”

  I had no idea what my father would say. I barely knew him. “I don’t know what to do,” I told her. “I don’t have motives. I don’t know why Adam and Steve were killed.”

  “I thought you said she had the Gift, Zelda,” Ruth demanded.

  “She does have the Gift. Real strong,” Grandma said. “Give her a little time. A little space to breathe.”

  “Okay. But not too much time. Julie is watching Tea Time, so the public’s safety is in jeopardy.”

  “I still don’t know what you’re doing here,” I said.

  Ruth took a baseball bat from the corner of the room and held it high. “I brought my Louisville Slugger. I’m going to be your bodyguard, in case someone tries to cut you up and stuff you in a kitchen appliance.”

  “Ruth, you’re a hundred years old. I can hear your knees three minutes before you walk into a room,” I pointed out.

  “What’s your point?”

  “Fine. You can be my bodyguard.”

  She walked around the bed, holding her bat, like she was ready to pound anybody who got too close to me. “What’s with the boobies?” she asked. “If you don’t wear a bra, your tatas are going to hang to your belly button like two empty socks. You want that? You want two empty socks on your chest?”

  CHAPTER 17

  Click! Your matches want to click, dolly. I don’t know where they heard about this fakakta clicking thing, but you’ll hear it all the time. “We just didn’t click.” or “We clicked!” I don’t know what the hell they’re talking about. Love is not about clicking. Love is much, much more than clicking. Besides, a match can’t be trusted to know if they’re clicking or not. A match thinks a little movement in his pants means clicking. But from me to you, a little movement in his pants means a little movement in his pants. It doesn’t mean clicking. Yes, there’s such a thing as clicking. It’s the moment you know that it’s right, that everything is the way it should be. But love is a bolt of lightning that hits you between your eyes and changes your life, your mind, and your plans. Know the difference.

  Lesson 27, Matchmaking advice from your

  Grandma Zelda

  Ruth shadowed me, not letting me out of her sight, even when I went to my room to put on a bra. “I’m going to start by going through my father’s box in the attic,” I told her. “You can help. Maybe something will jump out at you.”

  “I can do that. I know how to read.”

  We climbed up to the attic, and I was surprised to see Draco, sitting cross-legged on the floor by the window. He was reading an old, yellowed manuscript and eating through a pan of cinnamon buns.

  “I’ll save you, Gladie!” Ruth yelled as she pushed me out of the way, running with her arthritic legs at poor Draco, her Louisville Slugger ready to knock him to Kingdom Come.

  “Stop, Ruth! He’s my researcher! He’s a kid! He’s not the killer!” I yelled. Ruth skidded to a halt, but she kept the bat ready to swing.

  “Are you sure? He looks fishy to me.”

  I swiped the bat from her hands. “He’s a kid.”

  “I’m not a kid,” Draco insisted. “I’m a senior in high school.”

  “Listen, kid. You’re a kid,” Ruth grumbled.

  “What’re you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” I asked him.

  Draco stood. “I’m ditching.”

  “Education’s important, young man,” I heard myself say. I didn’t know what was happening to me. Being around a kid was making me maternal. It was my biggest nightmare.

  “I’ve already been accepted to Stanford, early admission,” he explained. “Anyway, this is much more important. I’m reading the best book I’ve ever read. It’s got to be the best book ever written.”

  He held the manuscript up for us to see, and my breathing stopped. “Did you find that in my father’s box?”

  “Yep.”

  Ruth and I exchanged looks. Could it be that my father had written a book that nobody knew about? A fiction book? The best book ever written?

  Ruth and I rushed Draco and ripped the manuscript from his hands. I flipped to the title page. My father’s name wasn’t on it. But Rachel Knight’s name was.

  “Rachel Knight,” I breathed. I had almost forgotten about her. “She died before she could have published this. What a tragedy.”

  Ruth took the manuscript from me.

  “I’m almost done,” Draco said. “I’ve got to find out what happens. It should be made into a movie. May I have it back?”

  Ruth wasn’t paying attention to him. She had dived into the manuscript, and it had gripped her, too.

  “Is it that good?” I asked.

  Ruth stopped reading and tried to focus on me. “I’ve read this book before.”

  “You have?”

  “Half of the world has read this book.”

  “What are you talking about? Rachel published a book before she died?”

  “No. This was published a year after she died. Gladie, this is Roman Strand’s blockbuster, Pulitzer Prize-winning book.”

  “No fucking way,” I breathed.

  The three of us pored over Rachel’s book. I was one of the few people on the planet who had never read Roman’s book, but I knew enough about it to realize that the story was exactly what I was reading in Rachel’s manuscript.

  “What are you saying?” Draco asked. “Roman Strand is really Rachel Knight? Is he trans or something?”

  “Oh, criminy,” Ruth complained. “You got into Stanford? What’s their selection process these days, drawing straws? No, Roman Strand isn’t really Rachel Knight. Roman Strand’s book is really Rachel Knight’s book!”

  Draco’s eyes grew big. “The dick. He’s rich and famous because he stole some dead girl’s book.”

  “He stole the book,” I repeated. “He stole the book. He stole the book.”

  “You said that, already,” Ruth said.

  “Rachel Knight killed herself, and then Roman stole her book and got it published,” I said.

  Ruth whistled. “That’s a hell of a timeline.”

  “I don’t get it,” Draco said, and Ruth rolled her eyes.

  “Rachel Knight killed herself. That’s the fishy part.”

  “I get it, now,” Draco said. “Roman Strand killed Rachel Knight and stole her book and became rich and famous. It’s like Game of Thrones but with writers and no swords.”

  But there were swords in the form of knives. It made me wonder how Rachel died. “Draco, would you look up something on the computer?”

  Draco worked his magic on my laptop and found out that Rachel Knight died of an overdose of antidepressants and anxiety medication.

  “That could be suicide or not suicide,” Ruth said, reading my mind. “I have goosebumps, but I don’t know why.”

  I knew why. It was clicking together like puzzle pieces, and as far as I was concerned, the biggest puzzle piece was Roman’s book release party. It was all beginning to make sense to me, and it was making me furious.

  “Ruth, Rachel Knight didn’t kill herself. She was murdered. And I know who killed her and why, and I’m pretty sure I know why Adam and Steve were killed and why, too,” I told her.

  “It’s like watching an episode of Jessica Jones,” Draco said.

  “Come on, Ruth. We gotta go,” I said.

  “Are we going to bust some ass?”

  “I want to come, too,” Draco said.

  “You can’t. It could be dangerous,” I explained.

  “Do you have a bat?” Ruth asked him. “You can come if you have a bat.”

  “I’m not very athletic.”

  Ruth seemed to think about that for a moment. “We might need an extra body, unless you’re going to bring the cop, Gladie.”

  “No cop. Okay, Draco. You can come with us, but stay behind me and if it gets dangerou
s, run like hell.”

  “This is so much better than chem class.”

  I drove so that Ruth could ride in the passenger seat, holding her bat in case she needed to knock someone’s block off. Draco was in the back. We had snuck out without Fred noticing because he was taking a snooze in the parlor.

  “We’re not going to knock anyone’s block off,” I told Ruth, even though I knew of one person’s block that I wanted to knock.

  “Always prepared, Gladie. Always prepared,” Ruth said.

  “I never knew that old ladies were so kickass,” Draco said.

  We drove out of the Historic District to Lucy’s neighborhood, but we weren’t visiting Lucy. I parked a block away from Roman’s house. “Nonchalant,” I told Ruth and Draco. “Don’t draw unwelcome attention.”

  Ruth opened her door and got out, resting her bat on her shoulder. “No problem. This ain’t my first rodeo, you know.”

  The three of us walked the rest of the way to Roman’s house. “Be brave,” I told myself and rang the doorbell. Draco picked up a rock while we waited. “What are you doing?”

  “I got swept up in the moment,” he said.

  “No violence,” I insisted. “We’re here to talk, not to beat anyone up.”

  “Should I get rid of it?” he asked.

  “No. You better keep it,” I said and rang the doorbell, again.

  Ruth peeked through a window. “I don’t think there’s anyone home.”

  Could we be that lucky? “Ruth, keep a lookout while I get us in.”

  I took my lockpicker’s kit out of my purse and went to work.

  “Wow, you’re a G, Gladie,” Draco said.

  “I know.”

  The door opened, and we were in, but the alarm system beeped. I went to the alarm console, but of course, I had no idea what the code was. “Quick, think of a good code,” I pleaded.

  “One-one-one-one,” Ruth suggested.

  I tried it, but it didn’t work.

  “Here, let me try,” Draco said, pushing me out of the way. It was impossible. Any amateur thief would tell you that there are ten-thousand combinations in a four-digit code.

  Beep, beep, beep, beep. Draco pushed the buttons, and the alarm turned off.

  “How did you do that?” I asked.

  Draco shrugged. “It was his address. Old people are dumb.”

  “You’re all right for a kid,” Ruth told him, patting his back. “Now stay behind me in case the killer jumps out at us and tries to cut you into flank steak.”

  I searched the house until I found Roman’s office. It was wood-paneled and pristine. There wasn’t a sign anywhere that he was a writer except for the framed awards and photos of Roman with celebrities and politicians plastered all over the walls. The desk, itself, was totally clean except for a computer. Draco plopped down in Roman’s chair and turned the computer on.

  “He likes video games,” Draco said, typing away on the keyboard. “And porn. Lots of porn. He’s a porn king. I’ve never seen so much porn, and I’m seventeen, so I’ve seen a lot of porn. It looks like he watches porn about fourteen hours a day.”

  I gnawed at the inside of my cheek. “Maybe you shouldn’t be looking at his computer. I don’t know a lot about kids, but I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to be looking at porn.”

  Draco laughed. “Good one, Gladie. Funny. Nope, there’s nothing here about Rachel Knight or the other guys.”

  “Let’s search the rest of the house,” I said.

  We made our way to the living room and the bedroom. “There’s something wrong here,” I said, turning around. “Something’s not right.”

  “Did you find the murder weapon?” Ruth asked.

  “Did you find body parts?” Draco asked.

  “I know what it is,” I said. “This is Joy’s house.”

  Ruth furrowed her brow. “Have you had a stroke? You forgot where you are? You’re awfully young for a stroke. It’s all of that crap food you eat with Zelda. It’s probably rotted out half of your insides. Your brain is protesting. It’s saying, ‘Help! Help!’ Would it kill you to eat some All-Bran once in a while? You know, your metabolism isn’t going to last forever. You’re going to wake up sooner or later and have to be cut out of the side of your house. You think the cop is going to be breathing all hot and heavy when you have a front ass to match your back ass?”

  “I know where I am, old woman,” I growled. “And what the hell are front and back asses? No, never mind. Don’t tell me. I don’t need to know. What I’m saying is that this whole mansion belongs to Joy. The only thing she allowed Roman to have is his office, and there’s nothing in there of him, either.”

  “Except for the porn,” Draco said.

  “Yes, except for the porn.”

  “That’s how it is in a lot of couples’ homes,” Ruth said. “The woman decorates. The man just watches TV.”

  Not in Spencer’s home. I mean, our home. He was in charge of the decorating; although, he asked me for my opinion every two minutes. “There’s no big TV,” I said. “No man-style media room.”

  “She’s right,” Draco said. “She de-balled him.”

  “She de-balled him,” I repeated, knowing it was true. Then, it hit me. “I know what happened. I know everything.”

  The sound of the front door opening and closing reached us. Then, I head Roman and Joy arguing. “I did put the alarm on. I swear it.”

  “Liar. Don’t snivel your way out of this. You were supposed to put the alarm on, and you didn’t. Typical. Typical wimp Roman.”

  The sound of their footsteps came closer. We were cornered in their bedroom, and they were going to find us in a matter of seconds.

  “Oh my God, I’m going to be cut up into flank steak,” Draco whispered.

  “Gladie will save us,” Ruth whispered, handing me her bat.

  “Me? What about you? You were going to knock their blocks off.”

  “Get real, Gladie. I’m older than dirt. I’m not going to take out two adults with a baseball bat.”

  “Fine, then. We’re going to die,” I said. “Spencer is going to kill me when he finds out I was killed while breaking and entering when I was supposed to stay home. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “I’m pretty sure you’ll hear the end of it,” Ruth said. “Death has a way of doing that.”

  “I don’t want to die,” Draco said. “Not like this. Not with old people.”

  “Would you stop that?” I hissed. “I don’t appreciate you talking about age all the time.”

  “Karma, Gladie. It’s a bitch,” Ruth said.

  “They’re coming,” Draco said. “Damn it. I left my rock in the office.”

  The three of us hugged each other in a huddle, like a football team before a big play. But we had no play planned. Just dying. That was our only plan.

  CHAPTER 18

  Matchmaking is a lot like a used car dealership. We have the same enthusiasm for beauties that we have for clunkers, because there’s no such thing as a match who doesn’t deserve to love and be loved. She could be a mieskeit with a face that could stop traffic or a zeisgeit with a body who could stop time. Either way, we sell love. Not illegal, red light kind of love. Real, happy ending love. But like the used car salesmen, sometimes we have to do a hard sell and sometimes a soft sell. With a soft sell, we ease a match into her happily ever after. With a hard sell, we do a big push. Pushing isn’t easy, bubbeleh. No nice person wants to be pushy. We want it all to flow naturally. But from time to time, you’re going to have to push and you’re going to have to push HARD. Don’t be afraid. Don’t be shy. Push! Attack! Go get ‘em!

  Lesson 132, Matchmaking advice from your

  Grandma Zelda

  “Hurry! Into the bathroom!” I hissed. We ran into the bathroom with Ruth pushing her way in front of Draco and me. “There’s no lock. What kind of crazy people don’t have a lock on the bathroom door? What if someone walks in when they’re pooping?”

  “Focus, Gladie,�
�� Ruth said. “We’re about to be fileted. Why are you thinking about pooping?”

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to poop my pants,” Draco said. “I think it’s called being scared shitless.”

  “Be quiet,” I mouthed. “Find a weapon.”

  Draco picked up a razor and I went for the curtain rod. If it got bad, I could impale them with it. As quietly as I could, I pushed aside the shower curtain and was thrilled to discover there was a good-sized window.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” I mouthed.

  “What did you say?” Ruth asked.

  “Shh!”

  I opened the window, which was high up on the wall. “Alley oop,” I told Ruth.

  “Very funny. I can’t get up there.”

  “Okay. Draco and I will heave-ho you up and through the window.”

  Ruth pursed her lips. “A broken hip is a death sentence to a woman my age, you know.”

  “Would you rather be cut into bite-sized pieces and stuffed into a refrigerator?” I asked.

  “You have a point,” she said. “Go ahead. Heave-ho me.”

  It wasn’t easy to heave-ho her. She wasn’t the most flexible of people and I wasn’t the strongest. Draco and I linked hands under Ruth’s butt and lifted her. Once she got her hands on the window ledge, we pushed and pushed until she fell through to the other side with a loud oomph.

  “I may be dead,” I heard her moan.

  “I’m outta here,” Draco announced and flew through the window like he had wings.

  “Sonofabitch,” Ruth moaned. “Did you have to land on me?”

  “Why didn’t you move out of the way?” Draco complained.

  “Because I’m older than your great-grandmother, and I just fell out of a window.”

  “I got bush in my eye. My eye!” Draco yelled.

  I gripped the windowsill and tried to pull myself up, but I didn’t have any upper body strength. I had never managed to do a pull up in my entire life. There was no way I was going to get through the window. It was impossible. I would never ever manage to climb through it.