WG2E All-For-Indies Anthologies: Viva La Valentine Edition

by Scott, D. D.

  The guard brought out our newest client, slim and trim, still dressed in her pink dress and pink-and-white-striped apron. I wondered when she’d have to trade them for an orange jumpsuit. Her medium-length blonde hair was styled in a flip. She had big blue eyes and an annoyingly bright smile. She positively beamed at us.

  It’s not like I have anything against smiling, I smile a lot myself. But in a place like this, sure to be overrun with germs and cooties, a smile was a long way from my face. And I wasn’t even charged with murder.

  She took the seat across from us and the guard walked away. A wooden half-wall topped by a glass partition separated us. The glass was smeared where visitors and prisoners had tried to make contact by sandwiching the glass between their hands.

  Hugo leaned closer to the speaking grill. “Ms. Pye, I’m Rongg… Hugo Rongg, and this is my associate Victoria… Victoria Station. We’re private eye writers and we were hired to take your case story by a fan of your pies, particularly your key lime pie with black raspberry and dark chocolate topping.”

  The smile on her face didn’t change, like it was pasted on. “Good choice. I add ground macadamia nuts to the graham cracker crust.” She spoke breathlessly, like Marilyn Monroe after climbing four flights of stairs.

  “It’s our signature pie and please call me QT.” She batted her eyes at him.

  “QT it is. Call us Hugo and Victoria. That is, call me Hugo and my partner Victoria.”

  She laughed like it was the funniest thing she ever heard. Then she tittered at him. Tittered, if you can imagine that. What a twit.

  I swallowed hard and tried to keep my voice pleasant. “Listen, sister, could we get to the facts? We saw the shootout in the kitchen.”

  She cut her eyes in my direction and the stars disappeared from them as she focused on me. Her perfect white teeth gleamed and her dimples were deep enough to hold walnuts but her voice was curt when she answered. “My former business associate Ginger Breadman was murdered, except she didn’t go by that name anymore. She became an ardent feminist and changed it to Ginger Breadperson.”

  Hugo’s almost-smile crossed his lips. “That might be grounds for justifiable homicide, QT.”

  Her eyes widened. “But I didn’t kill her. Ginger provided the seed money to start my pie shop in exchange for a quarter ownership in it. I opened my pie factory and delivery service to restaurants and other outlets with my own money. She maintained that she deserved a quarter of those profits too. Our communications degenerated to my lawyer talking to her lawyer.”

  “A lawsuit?” I asked.

  She kept her eyes on Hugo when she answered. “It hadn’t gotten to that point. She had already tripled her investment with her share of the pie shop profits. My lawyer was trying to negotiate a buyout of her share that would have tripled her money again. A franchising deal is in the works, and I wanted to settle the dispute amicably before the national launch.”

  Once QT warmed to the subject, there was no stopping her. She detailed the structure of her operation ad nauseum. All very interesting, but people charged with murder are usually good for it.

  “All very interesting, doll.” Hugo tugged on his lower lip. “But people charged with murder are usually good for it.”

  Ooh, so good. Did I have this private eye writer stuff nailed or what? The twit’s face rosied up as if Hugo calling her doll meant something. Obviously, smiley didn’t know private eye writer lingo, probably had flour on the brain.

  Desperation reached QT’s eyes and her voice, but her stupid smile didn’t change. “Hugo, you have to believe me! I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it! I didn’t do…” Her voice choked off. Tears streamed down her cheeks, coursed around her smile, and dripped onto her pink and white striped apron straps.

  “You don’t have to convince us, angel. You have to convince twelve people in the jury box… unless we can find the real killer.”

  She might not have to convince Hugo, but she’d have to convince me. This phony was capable of anything.

  “I called Ginger to settle this once and for all. When I got to her house, the door was wide open. I went in and called her name several times. She wasn’t in the living room. I figured she was cooking up a storm in the kitchen and didn’t hear me. I tripped on a gun on my way there. That scared me so I picked it up.”

  “Exactly where was the gun, QT?” Hugo asked.

  “On the floor,” she chirped, proud as if she’d just won a national spelling bee.

  Hugo ran his hand over his face.

  “Oh, you mean exactly where. Next to the island that separates the great room from the kitchen. When I stepped into the kitchen, Ginger was lying by the fridge. So I put both hands on the gun and spun around in case the killer was lurking. The door leading into the garage creaked.” She held out her hands like she was gripping a gun.

  “It started swinging open. So I popped a cap but because I was a little nervous, the shot went wide into the door jamb. I over-corrected and shot two into the other jamb. The door opened all the way before I could fire again. I recognized Kenny Bunkport and took my finger off the trigger.”

  A latent tear rolled down her cheek over her still smiling lips. “Kenny’s the doctor who lives next door to Ginger.”

  Hugo pushed his fedora back with the tip of his finger. “He fired into the ceiling. Was that an Uzi with a sound-suppressor?”

  She nodded.

  That got my attention. “What’s Ginger’s neighbor doing with a silenced Uzi?”

  QT looked confused. Probably her normal state. Then her eyes lit up. “I get it. You don’t know about Kenny Bunkport, do you? He’s a doctor and a licensed firearms dealer. Cosmetic and Social Surgery, that’s the name of his business. A plastic surgery clinic upstairs with a gun shop downstairs, including firearms range. And he has a camp in the Everglades where he trains people.”

  “A camp?” I said. “Like a cult or an anarchist group?”

  “Nothing so serious. It’s more like aerobics or Zumba with bullets. It’s a lot of fun. Ginger and I used to share a tent but she frequently went out on night maneuvers and came back just before dawn. I recently figured out she was slipping over to Kenny’s tent. I guess he didn’t think it would look right for Commander Bunkport to be sleeping with one of his officers. That was before Ginger turned on Kenny.”

  “When did that happen?” Hugo said.

  “About the same time Ginger changed her name to Breadperson and got an attorney to press her claim against me. I’d say three months ago, give or take.”

  She turned on the waterworks again. “A lot of people are depending on my heart-shaped pies for Valentine’s Day. Any pie with my name on it is made by me or under my direct supervision. And I’m stuck in here just because the gun I was holding is the murder weapon and Ginger and I were having a little tiff.” Tears cascaded around her smiling lips like a waterfall scene in a cheap chick flick.

  The vapor-head evidently never heard of means, motive, and opportunity.

  “Listen, cupcake,” Hugo said, “if you get out of this joint, call my cell immediately. This deal is screwy and you might be in danger.”

  She batted her eyes so hard that the tears flying off her lashes made the glass partition look like a windshield going through a carwash. “Ohhh, thank you so much Hugo. I’m all alone. I’ll call you as soon as I get home, no matter what time of day or night it is. I know you can protect me.”

  If she kept it up, she’d need protection from me.

  When we walked outside, Hugo said, “I don’t know what we’re into here, peaches. I don’t like not shooting straight with a client but I want to know when she gets out, not to protect her, but to keep an eye on her. With the way she handled that Glock this morning and her training with Kenny Bunkport, she doesn’t need protection.”

  We got into Hugo’s classic Yugo and I held my breath. The car had already been started several times today, but it held up and caught on the third try. I exhaled. I wouldn’t have to risk a broken nail p
ushing the darn thing. Hugo put it in reverse and the rearview mirror fell off. I retrieved the giant roll of duct tape from under the seat and reattached it.

  “It’s time,” Hugo said, “we pay Kenny Bunkport a visit, cupcake.”

  We chugged down US 1 to Boynton Beach about ten miles south of the jail. Kenny’s place was a two-story structure among numerous medical buildings on a side street leading to a major hospital. The sign in front read Cosmetic and Social Surgery, Dr. Kenneth Bunkport, MD, LFD. The windows on the bottom floor were barred.

  Hugo pulled into a parking space next to the only other vehicle in the lot, a Jeep Wrangler in obviously hand-painted camouflage. I slid out and peered into the interior of the Jeep. It might look like a military vehicle but it was super-deluxe with a custom beige leather interior personalized with black stitching on the seatbacks spelling Kenny B.

  Our engine wouldn’t shut off. While Hugo hassled with that, I decided to see if Kenny was in. The steel door sported a florescent yellow sign, with a border of bright flowers, stating Trespassers Will Be Cheerfully Shot. The window next to it had a hand-lettered sign announcing a Valentine’s Day special, Botox Treatment Half Off with Purchase of Any New Glock.

  A tall lean man in full cammo gear including ballcap, shirt, and pants tucked into jump boots backed out of the door and locked three deadbolts with different keys. He pulled a metal accordion gate across the door and locked it. A red LED mounted in the jamb flashed three times then went dark.

  He turned fast and almost slammed into me. “Excuse me, miss. Didn’t see you there.” He appraised me from head to toe and back again, pausing for a moment on my remarkably perky breasts, and continued to speak in staccato bursts. “You don’t need any cosmetic work. You must be here for the gun shop. Have to come back. We’re closed. Since you don’t need Botox. If you buy a Glock. I’ll permanently remove the hair from your hoo-ha. No charge. Matter of fact I’ll do that even if you don’t buy a Glock.” He grinned wolfishly.

  Thank you, Mother Nature, for me not having PMS. I would have had to drain this guy on the spot. He was the same size as the Uzi-wielder but hard to recognize with a stethoscope around his neck and sunglasses jammed under the bill of his low-riding cap. The bridge of his nose was covered by the annoying tag that gets in the way when you’re trying on sunglasses.

  “See you’re admiring my nose protector. Sunglass companies build them in. Can’t understand why everybody doesn’t use them. Can’t be too careful with skin cancer these days. Almost everybody’s getting it. Caused by the government fluoridating the water. Makes the sun react badly with our skin.”

  Hugo finally got the engine to shut off and stepped up beside me. “Kenny Bunkport, the name is Rongg… Hugo Rongg and this is Victoria… Victoria Station. We’re private eye writers working on QT Pye’s case story.”

  “I’ll help that girl any way I can. You ever had her key lime pie? Has black ras– “

  “We know about that, Doctor, or should we call you Commander?” Hugo said scratching his chin with his thumb.

  “If you’re friends of QT’s, you can call me Kenny. Doctor’s for up there,” jerking his thumb toward the second floor. “Commander’s for the camp.”

  Hugo tugged on his fedora. “Okay, Kenny, do you know anybody who had a reason to kill Ginger other than QT and you?”

  “Me? What reason would I have?”

  “The oldest in the world. Passion. She dumped you.”

  “Dump me? She didn’t dump me. She… reacted.” Then his voice sounded far away. “The Social Surgery Council demanded I demote her. Poor performance. I sure as hell didn’t want to. Her performance was the best I ever had. I’ve missed it these last months. But they deemed she was no longer fit to be an officer.”

  “What’s the Social Surgery Council?” Hugo said, “And who’s on it?”

  The sunglasses, nose protector, and hat didn’t hide Kenny’s shocked reaction, like he’d let the cat out of the bag. He tried to strike a casual note. “Oh it’s nothing. Basically the board of directors for my corporation. Nobody important on it.”

  Hugo cut his eyes at me with a look that showed he believed Kenny as much as he believed a politician’s promises. “What happened at Ginger’s house this morning?”

  “Was in my side yard. Putting the trashcan away. Heard a shot. Didn’t see or hear anything else. Ran into my house to get a weapon. Rushed to Ginger’s kitchen door. Closest entry point. Eased the door open. A shot hit the jamb. Figured I had the edge with the Uzi. Stepped aside. Swung the door open. Two more shots. Peeked and saw QT. Stepped in, fired over her head. She stopped shooting.”

  “That was a brave move,” I said.

  He seemed to puff up a little. “Just a reaction. Wanted to save Ginger.”

  I pressed him. “You don’t seem very upset about Ginger’s death.”

  “Don’t show my emotions. Need to get going to the camp. Training today.”

  His staccato speech pattern was annoying, complementing his personality nicely, but Hugo had another question. “Do you think QT killed Ginger?”

  “Looks bad for her. Doesn’t seem like she’d kill Ginger over that disagreement. But women, you never know.” He gave me a condescending smile then looked at his watch. “Need to run.”

  He got in his Jeep and drove off in a cloud of camouflaged dust. Could he be any more annoying? Maybe I’d come back and see him when I had PMS.

  Hugo put his arm around me. “Don’t let him get your goat, kid. I think he knows more than he’s telling and might even be involved in Ginger’s death. I want to give Smokey a quick call.”

  When I just stared at him, he said, “Art Jambon, the detective who took our statements. Smokey’s his nickname, used to be a fireman. Maybe he has info about this Social Surgery outfit.”

  “While you’re talking to him, I need to call Granny. I meant to last night but you and I got involved in other activities and then it was too late.”

  I walked over to a shade tree next to the parking lot and punched Granny’s speed-dial button. Her recorder picked up and a message advertising her fortunetelling service droned on. The third time I said Granny, it’s me, the recorder shut off and I heard her familiar cackle. I gave her all the names involved in the case story so far, including the cops and the Social Surgery outfit, and asked her to run them through the secret Best of Transylvania website.

  She came back on the line a couple minutes later. “Well, dearie, you’ve done it again. You’ve not only run into another mutant group, but it’s the yin to the yang – or vice versa, I can never keep it straight – of another mutant group you’re familiar with.”

  Migraine city was right around the corner. I rubbed my temples. “You mean like with the Werechameleons, the A-wares doing good and the B-wares doing evil.”

  “Similar but with the Werechameleons, the A-weres tracked the B-weres to thwart them. This new group does good all the time even when their counterparts aren’t around but they are deadly enemies of their counterparts.”

  There was a reason Granny wasn’t naming the groups and I was sure I wasn’t going to like it. I dug in my purse until I found two extra-strength Excedrin and dry swallowed them. “Don’t tell me Vampigs are involved in this.”

  “I’m not sure yet, Victoria, but their adversaries are. They’re called Hampires.”

  I dry swallowed two more Excedrin. I recently had a scary problem with Vampigs, a sect of vampires weakened by inbreeding with mere mortals and cursed by a Powerful One, turning them into pigs one week in every lunar cycle. They had to become pig farmers to have a place to blend in during that week.

  “Granny, Vampigs are evil and megalomanic but that’s not unlike pure-bred, uncursed Vampires. I can’t believe there’s a sect of do-gooders. Hampires? The anti-Vampigs?”

  “Another mixture of curses. One clan of Vampigs lived in a small town in Transylvania. A pure-bred Vampire mother took her baby out for a moonlight walk in a stroller. I think the mother may have stopped to
snack on someone. Nevertheless, time got away from her and the sun started to rise as she neared her home. In her haste to get inside, she ran the stroller off the path and the baby tumbled down a hillside.”

  Granny didn’t have any short stories.

  “A Vampig saw it happen and, since Vampigs aren’t affected by sun, wrapped the baby in his cloak and yelled for the mother to fly home. She arrived safely and a few minutes later the Vampig brought her the baby unharmed. In gratitude the mother tried to lift the curse and turn that Vampig clan back into normal Vampires. But the father, who was the Powerful One originally laying the Vampig curse, was outraged that the Vampig had done some good even though he had saved his child’s life.”

  “How could he be outraged at that?”

  “Because he was a fundamentalist Vampire. They mindlessly follow the dogma. Good was strictly verboten. Instead of lifting the Vampig curse, he cast a goody-two-shoes spell on the clan. This had some interesting effects in combination with the Vampig curse. Hampires don’t physically change into pigs but they must work in areas associated with pigs, literally like a slopper on a hog farm or figuratively like a cook in a fast food restaurant. When a Hampire needs blood, it must come from an evil mere mortal.”

  As usual Granny’s story had a nightmarish quality to it, the real nightmare being all this weird stuff was part of my life. “So Hampires are here. How about Vampigs? Didn’t we wipeout the Styvesants?”

  “Probably most of them, dearie, but that was just one clan. There are others. Usually where you find Hampires, you find Vampigs although nothing you told me gave me a hit on Vampigs.”

  “What about the Hampires?”

  “Don’t know anything else. Something caused the hit. But all it did was give me a general Hampire alert and the background info. Then the system went down. We have to get better servers. I’ll call you as soon as we’re back on line.”

  Just like a darn computer.