Murder Feels Crazy

by Bill Alive

  “I like cats,” I said.

  Actually, that was a lie.

  (Please don’t hate me, cat lovers! Especially cozy mystery readers! I love you!!)

  Okay, maybe not a lie, more of a sudden inspiration that wasn’t quite vetted. I’m not going to take a position on cats here. The point is, I was talking to a woman wearing cat ears.

  “Nice!” she said. “Perfect.”

  And then, to my horror, she reached into a svelte purse and pulled out another set of cat ears, identical to her own. “I’ve got an extra pair. Come here.”

  She reached her hand toward me. Was she going to put them on my head herself? Crown me the Cat Prince?

  “I’m good,” I said.

  “Oh,” she said. “You already have a pair?”

  Kalakos snorted. Wetly.

  Rachel scoffed and backhanded his belly with a light annoyed slap. But she flashed me a look of shared commiseration, like, THIS guy, for real?

  This was amazing. It was like, whatever dumb thing I said, this girl was still going to think I was cool. I’ve never even had that with my mom.

  So, of course, that was precisely when we heard again from Luther the raccoon.

  He was arguing with Gwen on the other side of the restaurant, and his voice rose to a piercing screech. “We had every reason to protest at that clinic!” he yelled. “Roxanne was one of our own!”

  Both Kalakos and the lion stiffened in their suits. And I suddenly realized that although this restaurant was packed with furries, only five or six had been standing out with Luther at that protest. Most of his fellow furries here probably thought he was an ass. (Not the donkey kind.)

  “What is his deal?” I said, with an air of confident camaraderie. “That raccoon suit must be tight in all the wrong places.” I caught Rachel’s eye to flash a look of shared commiseration.

  Oops.

  Rachel was glaring at me, her lips a thin line.

  Kalakos leaned close to me, his root-beery breath hot in my ear. “Careful, bro,” he stage-whispered. “Luther’s her boyfriend.”

  I’d guessed that by now. But I still managed to blurt something we could all regret.

  “You’re with him?” I said. “Where the hell was he? I mean… the other day…”

  I faltered, but it was too late. She’d winced like I’d slapped her in the face.

  Then her face went still and cold.

  The other furries, even Kalakos, stirred and muttered with concern. I could tell they hadn’t known this tidbit about Luther, but they guessed exactly what I meant.

  “He was at a con,” Rachel said, and her voice was dull. “I’d better go shut him up before he gets himself arrested.”

  She pushed out of the booth and walked away.

  Kalakos glared at me. “Were you talking about the hospital? You saw her in the hospital? Alone?”

  “Ask her,” I said, and I finally got the hell out of there.

  Well. Not quite.

  Chapter 10

  I scuttled over to Mark, who was leaning on the worn wooden greeter counter near the entrance and casually interrogating Chip. Even as a Puppy-Man, Chip was physically imposing, but he looked hunched and nervous, eyeing Gwen and Luther as he (literally) pawed the cash register bowl of complimentary dried berries.

  “Help me out here, Chip,” Mark was saying as I skittered up. “Your whole group here’s giving me the cold furry shoulder.”

  Translation, I thought, they’re shielding like hell.

  Or had Mark thought that? Dang it.

  “They’re probably just nervous around the police officer,” Chip said. “I can vouch for this group. We have a lot of fun together, we’re very family-friendly—”

  On the other side of the restaurant, Luther cussed Gwen out.

  Chip frowned and clenched his jaw, eyeing Luther with near exasperation. Not that Luther noticed.

  Who he did notice was Gwen, who stiffened even taller. She was starting to look like a column of the Parthenon, if it were also a live nuclear core.

  “I am sorry for your loss, Mr. Trudy,” Gwen said. “But our topic of discussion here is the furry assault at the hospital—”

  “Of course you would fixate on an isolated outsider!” Luther barked. “Someone shoves a nurse once, and you’re out on the hunt. But your damn privileged doctor’s getting this whole town addicted!”

  Rachel had reached Luther, and she put a hand on his chest. “Luther. Down boy,” she said, and she gently pushed him away from Gwen.

  “Get off me,” he growled, and shook her off.

  Gwen said, “That doctor is prescribing legal medications, and he is following every single relevant regulation. We also reviewed your friend’s medical records, and we can confirm that all her prescriptions with Dr. Paul were within the appropriate guidelines.”

  “Appropriate?” Luther yelled. “She got addicted to heroin. It killed her.” Even at this distance, a speck of spittle glinted as he talk-sprayed Gwen.

  The rest of the furries in the entire restaurant had quit even pretending to talk. Everyone stared.

  “She still called a dealer,” Gwen said quietly. “That was her choice.”

  “Choice?” Luther yelled. “Do you have the slightest clue how that shit eats your brain? By the time she finally called him—”

  “Him?” Gwen said.

  Luther’s face flamed even redder, but he backed off and dropped his voice. “Him. Them. Whoever.”

  Gwen watched him, and for once, she waited.

  “You have a problem, you know that?” Luther said. “You really only have one idea in your head.”

  “I really don’t want heroin dealers in my town.”

  “Oh, we’re dealers now? Me and a few allies are the only people in this whole town who’ve taken a stand against this bastard. Can you please write this down? We are furries. Furries like animals. Furries do NOT like heroin!”

  Silence.

  In that silence, Mark perked up.

  Sweet. A vibe at last.

  He cleared his throat. “Listen, everyone, we’re not accusing anyone here because you’re a furry. We’re just trying to find out who might have put on a furry suit and attacked a nurse for meds.”

  “Just because a person puts on a suit—” Luther began.

  “Exactly,” Mark cut in. “It doesn’t have to be someone in your group here. Maybe…” He casually studied the ceiling. “…a past member?”

  Chip startled, jostling the berry bowl. Like someone had read his mind.

  Gwen caught his look, and she flicked Mark a glance that was almost… impressed.

  Chip seemed to struggle with a painful internal debate. Gwen opened her mouth to expedite the process, but Mark shook his head, ever so slightly. She grudgingly clamped her mouth shut.

  Finally, Chip sighed.

  Luther snapped, “What? What’s with you?”

  “I was just thinking…” Chip said. “Aidan?”

  Something flickered across Rachel’s still face. It was another expression I couldn’t parse, which reminded me that I’d never quite figured out what she’d been thinking when she first saw me in the hospital either.

  Other furries began to mutter, and Luther snapped, “What the hell are you thinking, Chip? Aidan?”

  Chip’s hands flew up, warding Luther off. “He’s not a furry anymore!”

  Luther cocked his head. Evidently he hadn’t considered that angle.

  Rachel said, “Aidan’s not using anymore either.”

  “How do you know?” Luther said. “He must be doing something with all that cash. He never did pay you.”

  “He’s clean,” she said. “He was in freaking rehab.”

  Mildly, Mark asked, “Who is this Aidan?”

  “Aidan Cull,” Chip said. “A former member. He… we didn’t exactly part on optimal terms.”

  “So what?” Rachel said. “Now anyone who ever used anything is a suspect?” She shook her head with disgust. “You all are clueless. That p
anda suit was crap. Whoever shoved your nurse just walked into Wal-Mart and got a twenty-buck knockoff.”

  “Really?” Mark said.

  “I was there, remember?” she said. “A real furry wouldn’t be caught dead in that thing.”

  The whole restaurant exploded with shared outrage.

  Apparently, not one of the shouting furries could believe that the so-called investigators couldn’t tell the difference between a genuine, crafted fursuit and the abomination knockoffs that lurked in the discount rack.

  (For the record, I had noticed that the suit looked kind of crappy. Didn’t I? I think I did.)

  When the initial froth had died down, Mark said, “If it wasn’t a real furry, why would this person wear any kind of animal suit?”

  “It’s kind of super obvious,” Rachel said. “Hide their identity, maybe?”

  “Yes,” Mark said. “And also make you all look bad. Maybe someone with a grudge? Against furries?”

  At that, Rachel’s face closed. Her lips clamped again in a thin line, and her eyes again went cold.

  No one spoke.

  Gwen glanced at Mark, then said, “All right, folks. Thanks very much for your time. We may be back.”

  “Sure,” Chip said. “Anytime.”

  Luther glared and folded his arms.

  Gwen strode over to Mark and me. “Good work,” she said quietly. “Let’s check out this Aidan Cull. We’ve gotten all we’re going to get tonight from these people.”

  “I guess,” Mark said. He squinted at the crowd of furries as they started to talk again.

  “What?” Gwen said. “I’m saying you’re right, they’re probably harmless.”

  “Probably,” Mark said. “Most of them.”

  At the entrance, a frosty, stylish grandmother swept in, trailing a grim kindergarten granddaughter with a puffy white jacket. They must have missed the sign on the door, because neither seemed to be furries, judging from both their civilian garb and the rather remarkable expression with which the grandmother beheld the puppy-suited Chip. Chip, all apologies, tried to usher them back out, but it was too late.

  Because the girl was carrying a chubby, adorable black puppy.

  And the furries FREAKED OUT.

  The whole dreary business of cops and drugs vaporized, totally irrelevant in the presence of such puptastic cuteness.

  Some called and cheered, but others jumped up from the booths and rushed around the animal, prattling like preschoolers. The grandmother cringed, but the girl went bright and giggled, and the puppy yapped and squirmed until she let it run free with its crazy new playmates.

  Watching these people race around the restaurant, laughing together as they chased a puppy into canine ecstasy, I had to admit that maybe I’d been taking the whole furry thing a bit too seriously. Maybe they just liked to play dress-up. Who cared?

  Plus, I’d forgotten how crazy cute puppies are…

  “No,” Mark said. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “Wait, what?” I said. “Seriously, I didn’t say anything! I don’t even think I thought anything!”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “He’s right, Pete,” Gwen said. “You can’t even clean up after yourselves.”

  She smirked and caught Mark’s eye. Mark scowled right back with simulated offense.

  I thought, oh brother, and I turned back for a last look at the fun.

  But I didn’t wind up even noticing that puppy.

  Because Luther and Rachel stood apart, grimly watching us go.

  Chapter 11

  Back in the cop car, Gwen seemed almost cheerful. Not that I, criminally wedged in the backseat, could really see her face, but as she twisted the wheel and pulled into traffic, her shoulders had a jaunty air.

  “Well done, Mr. Falcon,” she said. “We may have an actual lead.”

  “Glad to help,” Mark said. “We should celebrate.”

  Gwen shot him a glance, then groaned a theatrical sigh.

  “Come on, Gwen,” Mark said. “Is it the dancing part? The touch factor? We can stick to jumping around. Or do something else entirely. A candlelight dinner? A long walk on the beach?”

  “Bowling?” I put in.

  Mark rubbed his eyebrows. “Pete, I appreciate the ground support—”

  “Fine,” Gwen said. “Bowling.”

  We stared.

  In the silence, the engine hummed. Grim. And mocking.

  At last, I murmured, “What have I done?”

  “Bowling?” Mark said.

  Gwen kept her gaze on the road. “Take it or leave it.”

  “I had no idea you were such a romantic,” Mark said.

  “You’re just afraid you’ll lose.”

  “I know I’ll lose.”

  Gwen erupted with her wrenching, unpracticed laugh. It truly is startling — for the first split second, my adrenalin always spikes and I’m afraid she’s having an asthma attack.

  “I see how it is,” Mark said. “For you, this is all just a game. A long, boring, excruciating game, with confusing scoring and embarrassing shoes. Not to mention you’ll only have one opponent.”

  “I’ll come,” I said.

  “No!” Mark said, as Gwen said, “Of course.”

  Awkward pause.

  “Sorry,” I said, my voice small. “Maybe I should stop trying to help.”

  “We’re going bowling with Pete?” Mark groaned. “What is this, a field trip?”

  “More like a tournament,” Gwen said. She pulled into a driveway and cut the engine. “Except these days, Mr. Falcon, you have to joust with the princess.”

  “Seriously?” Mark said. “Are you trying to make an awkward double entendre?”

  Gwen groaned and slugged his shoulder. But I didn’t miss the spark in her eye.

  Wait. Were Mark and Gwen actually finally really going to go on a semi-date?

  Yes. Yes they were.

  Wow.

  As I waited a moment for Gwen to get out and release me from the pen, I shivered a little with sudden, nervous joy. Vivian’s latest favorite word flashed through my mind — mudita, the pleasure in another’s happiness. For that long, lovely moment, I basked in the warm mudita glow like a tabby cat by a Christmas hearth. They were going to be awesome.

  Then the door to the cop car clacked open. And I thought, oh yeah, we’re here to see a heroin addict.

  It occurred to me that serious drug users don’t always live in the nicest neighborhoods.

  I peeked out the door at the house.

  Crud.

  Chapter 12

  I’d expected a rundown shack. Instead, we’d parked at a McMansion.

  Not a mansion mansion. Nothing glamorous. Just an ordinary oversized three stories of beige vinyl, with a polite but piercing security light and a three-car garage jutting sideways like a whole extra house. The entire street was the same, a curving row of boring boxes that had sprung up like mushrooms near the center of town during the real estate bubble.

  But boring was supposed to mean safe. This could have been my parents’ house.

  Mark eyed me. “I know, right?” he said. “Poor people getting addicted and ruining their lives is one thing, but people with college degrees and careers? Real people?”

  I flinched. “I didn’t say that,” I mumbled.

  “No one does.”

  Still smarting, I followed him and Gwen to the door, which was tastefully decorated with a wreathish display of wheat and that weird fancy corn with red kernels. Why does no one make that red corn into epic popcorn? It’s a small disappointment, but I admit, it’s been with me since childhood.

  Gwen pushed the bell button, and it sounded with a pleasant gong.

  “This time, maybe let me talk,” Mark said.

  Gwen frowned.

  “And try smiling.”

  Standing behind them, I couldn’t see what she did with her face, but Mark actually gasped.

  “Yikes, no,” he said. “That’s not even close.”

>   “Now you know how I feel,” I said.

  “Gwen is a cop,” Mark said. “On the intimidation scale, she’s a ten and I’m a three.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “you’re just the scowling muscular bald guy with facial hair and a leather jacket, showing up on the porch after dark.”

  Now Mark frowned. “It’s only a mustache. It’s not like I have a full beard.”

  Gwen said, “Do you two always gab this much before they open the door?”

  “Absolutely,” Mark said. “There’s no better way to impress a suspect.”

  “I beg your pardon?” a woman said.

  The elegant woman who’d answered the door seemed almost overdressed for her own house. A discreet necklace and a silky blouse suggested an expensive night on the town, though I had no idea how she hoped to find that caliber of entertainment here in Back Mosby. Her long, blonde hair was carefully pinned, and possibly a bit too bright and perfect, since she was probably in her late forties. She did have a youthful look, though.

  Until you met her eyes. Her eyes held a sadness that the makeup couldn’t hide.

  Judging from her expression, we weren’t exactly boosting her mood.

  Mark only missed a couple beats. “So sorry to trouble you,” he began smoothly.

  The woman’s frown deepened, and she turned to Gwen. “What’s this about, officer? I’m afraid we do have plans this evening, but if it’s absolutely critical—”

  “Ma’am, we’d just like to ask a few quick questions,” Gwen said. “Won’t be long. May we come in? It’ll be a huge help to us.”

  The woman sighed. “Of course.”

  She turned to lead us inside. Behind her back, Gwen gave Mark a smug glance.

  Mark affected not to notice.

  I followed them in… and when I saw the interior, I whispered, “Whoa.”

  Forget what I said about her being overdressed. The interior could have been a magazine showpiece.

  A bold oak staircase dominated the foyer, sweeping upstairs past a glittering chandelier. To the left, the living room was a perfectly coordinated oasis of soft lamps, soothing pastel prints, and deep couches that murmured comfort.