Truth, Lies, and Second Dates

by MaryJanice Davidson, Camille Anthony, Melissa Schroeder

  “Thank you. Now as I was saying…”

  “You were begging me never to call you Tommy, and then your sister’s father-in-law rolled up and called you Tommy. That’s who Abe is, right?”

  “Correct.”

  They were almost at the entrance and she was having to really move to keep up with Tom’s long strides. “Actually, just before that—agh, slow down!—I was asking why you were telling me about your theories. I get the ‘unique witness perspective’ thing, but this isn’t TV. Random pilots don’t team up with random MEs to catch random killers. Although if that was a show, I’d definitely watch it. The pilot episode at least. Heh.”

  Tom smiled a little—and thank goodness, because he’d been clearly stressed by the park encounter. “As would I.” Then the smile faded from his face and he stopped walking, doubtless to emphasize whatever he was about to say, so yikes.

  “I’m telling you this because if I’m right, the killer is fixed on you and will try to rectify his or her mistake while you’re still in town.”

  “He won’t just let bygones be bygones, huh?” Ugh. Not funny. You don’t have to crack a joke every time like some deranged court jester.

  “Perhaps not. And if I’m right, the killer will now fixate on you. It’s likely someone you know, even if only peripherally.”

  “Well, son of a buggering switch,” she managed, because sometimes actual profanity was woefully inadequate.

  Seventeen

  THE LIST

  Avoid killer

  Return union rep’s call

  Sushi?

  “You found what in my urine?”

  “Marijuana, cocaine, meth, PCP, benzos, oxy, ecstasy, and PCP.”

  For a second, Ava thought she was going to topple off the hotel bed. The room actually tilted a bit as she took in the rep’s words. “You … you said PCP twice.”

  “Yeah, well … there was a lot of it.”

  “Are you fucking kidding?”

  “Oh, and you’ve also got a vitamin C deficiency.”

  Wait, so I might actually be getting scurvy? That’s amazing!

  This is not what you should be focusing on. “Jan, what the hell am I supposed to do?”

  “Drink more orange juice?”

  “I don’t actually give a shit about the vitamin C thing, Jan!”

  “Sorry.” The union rep let out a polite cough. “Just trying to lighten the mood.”

  “The mood should not be lightened, Jan. At all. What is going on?”

  “Well, you know how it goes. I got a call from the MRO* and your drop wasn’t clean.”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” Ava muttered.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Jan admitted. “I’m pretty sure there are full-on meth addicts who don’t have as many drugs in their system as you do right now.”

  “Jesus Christ! Jan, I’m aware that most people who flunk a drug test instantly insist the lab must have made a mistake, but I’m telling you, the lab must have made a mistake!”

  “Pretty big one.”

  “I know how it sounds. But I swear I’m telling the truth. If I was rocking on weed and coke and meth and PCP and ecstasy and PCP and … uh…”

  “Benzos and oxy.”

  “Right! If I was high to my eyeballs on all that, don’t you think someone would have noticed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Look, I don’t care what we have to—wait, you’re agreeing?”

  “Yes.” Jan lowered her voice. “Ava, I’m willing to bet my reputation that it’s a mistake. I mean … c’mon. That’s just a ridiculous amount of drugs. I know you had a problem way way back in the day, but you’ve never flunked one of these in all the time you’ve been working here. Hell, I remember when you self-reported eating a non-pot brownie. You said it was so good it might be laced with something. That’s how careful you are.”

  “That was a good brownie,” Ava admitted. Moist, but with chewy outer edges and yummy and dense. Two kinds of chocolate … mmm. Which wasn’t relevant. But Jan’s tact was. Especially since “you had a problem back in the day” could also be described as “when you were barely old enough to vote, you were so hooked on Ambien you needed eight a night to sleep.”

  “Obviously, we’re going to run another test ASAP. But … you know the rules.”

  “Yeah.” Company policy—any dicey test results = grounded for seventy-two hours. Minimum.

  “You’re still at MSP, yes?”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “Right. Well, stay put for a bit. There are two DOT-compliant NIDA labs in the area—Hastings and Cottage Grove. You know the area, right?”

  “I grew up here.” Hastings was a charming river town about twenty minutes away from Saint Paul. If she had to be in Minnesota, she could tolerate Hastings for the access to Emily’s Bakery if nothing else.

  Cottage Grove was where she and Danielle had lived. And where one of them had died. Cottage Grove.

  “I’ll get you an appointment wherever’s quickest for another test,” Jan was saying, “and we’ll go from there.”

  “Okay, Jan. Thanks so much. Sorry for all the screaming. I know you didn’t want to be the bearer of bad tidings.”

  “Actually, I get off on it. And it would have been weird if you hadn’t screamed. That is a shit ton of drugs.”

  “Your delicate way with words is always an inspiration.”

  Ava hung up, still freaked but relieved Jan believed her and was being accommodating. Her cynical side pointed out that Northeastern Southwest had no interest in letting the world find out Captain Bellyflopper was possibly a raging meth/weed/coke/PCP/benzo/oxy/ecstasy/PCP addict. But whatever the reason, she was grateful.

  And now that she was temporarily grounded, she could help Tom. Which should not have cranked her heart rate, but there you go. Or maybe it was the fake meth making her pulse spike. Either way, she had more calls to make.

  * * *

  “Good God, are you all right?”

  A complex question that demanded an even more complex answer. But she doubted G.B. had that kind of time. “I’m fine if the bar is set at ‘Were you murdered?’ but much less fine if the bar is set at ‘Did something weird and terrible happen last night?’”

  “I saw it on the news.” Doubtless while eating fistfuls of kettle corn, going by the chewing in Ava’s ear. G.B. and kettle corn had a long and complex history. “Some loser actually vandalized the funeral home?”

  “Yes. And the ME thinks it might have triggered Danielle’s killer. Or been done by her—wait, it made the news in Vegas?”

  “Yeah, tenth anniversary of Danielle’s death and all that. I don’t think it would have gone national if not for the whole trashing-the-place thing. And why are you talking to medical examiners?”

  “It’s a long story. Well, it isn’t, but I don’t want to go into it right now because I just got some bad news from Jan.” She shared the gory details and heard G.B. nearly choke on his popcorn.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “That’s exactly what I said.”

  “That sucks! That is epically sucky to the nth degree!”

  “Well put.”

  “So you’re grounded. Right? Seventy-two hours?” Munch. “Which is a goddamned shame because you’re one of our best—never mind.” Crunch. “Look, deadhead home and we’ll hang out.” Munch-munch. “Don’t be alone.”

  “Too late.” She was touched by his offer, and she knew he’d overnight a canister of kettle corn to her if she asked, but he couldn’t help her with anything nonpopcorn- or nonflying-related just now.

  The person who could, though? Was right here in the Twin Cities. So for now she wasn’t budging. Well, she was budging, but she wouldn’t cross state lines. Yet. “But I appreciate it.”

  “Yeah, that’s your code for ‘I’m putting the emotional wall right back up and will retreat rather than engage.’”

  “Huh. Pretty succinct of me.”

  “C’mon, you’ve gotta be dying
to get out of there. Oh, shit, poor choice of words…” More stress munching. “Listen, it’s not like you want to stay in the Twin Cities, right? You’ve probably spent the last couple days feeling like you had the DTs. So come here instead.”

  “I’m not sure Vegas is much better,” she teased. “Besides, they didn’t clip my wings for long; I could be back in the air by Tuesday.”

  “Jan setting up a new drop for you? Good.”

  “Yeah, and she doesn’t believe the test, which was a huge relief.”

  “I fucking love our union, man.”

  They all did. (Well. Maybe not management.) As much as the Northeastern Southwest jingle grated on her, working for them was swell. Five weeks’ vacation, unlimited brownies at HQ, dental (thank goodness—see: brownie policy), scads of family leave, and every lounge was stuffed with (more) brownies, milk, and cold cereal. (The negotiations over Raisin Bran, Frosted Flakes, granola, and Cocoa Puffs had taken weeks and had nearly resulted in a walkout.)

  “Listen, Ava, you just say the word and I’ll be there with my pee. I’m clean as a whistle! My only vice is hard cider.”

  “That’s not your only vice. And you’re sweet, G.B., but I don’t think fraud is the way to go here.”

  “Oh, you always say that.” Now he was munching and pouting, which was off-putting and hilarious.

  “And I always will.” Her phone twitched, and when Ava pulled it away from her ear, she saw “Yummy” pop up on her caller ID. “Gotta go.”

  “Okay, but remember: FedEx will ship my urine to you anywhere in the—”

  She cut him off, and not a second too soon. “Hi, Blake. Did you finally find my bra?”

  “That bra is gone into the ether, and you well know it.”

  “I like how you talk like it’s 1535.”

  “I’m not, actually. Listen, I had a few minutes and saw the news. I know you didn’t like to discuss it, but that was your friend’s memorial that was vandalized, yes?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That is rather unbelievable.” He sighed. “I know we aren’t … anything. Anymore. I just wanted to reach out and let you know I was thinking of you.”

  “Thanks, but I’m fine.” Well, not quite. Blake’s kindness right on the heels of G.B.’s was making her eyes water. Stupid allergies! Change the subject, quick! “Hey, Blake? You sound tired.” In point of fact, Blake sounded like hell on toast: exhausted and faint, like he was calling from Mars. His baritone rumble was barely sexy, which she hadn’t thought possible. Please don’t be my fault. Please be something totally unrelated to me breaking up with him a few days ago. Not that we were ever officially going out. “Are you okay?”

  “My mother and brother are trying to kill me,” he reported calmly.

  “Huh.” Okay, so, a good news / bad news scenario. Whatever was wrong, it was nothing to do with her. But his family might be trying to kill him, which was less great. “How’s that going?”

  “Like the Wars of the Roses: unspeakable property damage, vicious infighting, betrayal, and a horrifying body count. A figurative body count, but still.”

  “That sucks.”

  “It does indeed suck. And I’ve been charged with saving Sweetheart, North Dakota, from destitution and ruin. And the dry cleaner misplaced my best slacks.”

  “Sorry to hear it.” Soooooo in the few days since she’d heard from him, Blake had fled to the plains of North Dakota and gone clinically insane.* This shouldn’t comfort me, but it does, a little. Nice of him to check in, too. “Gotta say, you’re helping me put a few problems in perspective.”

  “Delighted to serve.”

  “So … good luck with all of that.” Inadequate, but it wasn’t like Blake actually wanted her help. This was a controlled Blakevent.TM He wanted to talk and then jump back into whatever he was neck-deep in. “And thanks for reaching out.”

  “Of course. And good luck dealing with your, ah, situation.”

  Situation, she thought as she hung up. Yeah, that was one word for it. Disaster also fit. As did nightmare.

  And on that thought, she dozed off. No surprise; she’d gotten little sleep the night before. But she should have held off on her nap until she was thinking of something pleasant, like a perfectly ripe golden kiwi. Instead, she was thinking of nightmares, and got one.

  A bad one.

  Eighteen

  Haven’t you ever wanted to disappear?

  “You’re going to be murdered tomorrow. I think we should talk about that.”

  Yawn. Nothing very interesting ever happens around here. Which is the point. It’s why everyone was so surprised. Bad things happen, sure, but not interesting bad things.

  “Again: you’re going to be murdered tomorrow. Believe me, it’ll be plenty interesting. Cops and news vans up the wazoo. Your mom’s gonna alternately hate and love the cameras.”

  And for what? For nothing. Because WRONG.

  “You don’t sound like yourself.”

  Right! And why would I? I’m WRONG.

  “Okay. I still feel like you’re not internalizing this—”

  Yawn.

  “—so I’m gonna go over it again: you’re about to be the murder victim of a grisly murder because you’ll be murdered.”

  Redundant.

  “Well, yeah, for sarcastic effect.”

  Grisly murder is redundant.

  “No, murder isn’t always grisly.”

  Sure it is.

  “What’s grisly about, I dunno, slipping someone forty Ambien in their milkshake? They’ll just doze off and peacefully die and, oh my God, I can’t believe we’re actually arguing about this. Your grisly murder will be ultragrisly, get it? Grisly in spades. It’s gonna look like the killer redecorated in your bodily fluids.”

  WRONG.

  “Your poor mother will lose her goddamned mind.”

  Sure, but will anyone notice?

  “Ouch.”

  Too many variables. That’s going to be the problem. Not the murder.

  “Also, you’ll be dead, and my folks will die, and I’ll get hooked on prescription sleeping pills and fly away and—wait, what? Variables?”

  Too many variables, which is why it’s going to be WRONG.

  “Danielle—”

  You’re the only one who calls me that. Everyone else sticks with Dani. Even though they know I hate it. Maybe because they know I hate it. I was always part of a crowd, but it didn’t save me. It did save you, though. So that’s something.

  “What are you talking about? What are you trying to say? Dammit, I hate cryptic bullshit!”

  Wrong.

  “I don’t—”

  Wrong.

  “Danielle—”

  Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong-wrong-wrong-wrong-

  Nineteen

  “Jesus!”

  She was sitting up and the strange room smelled wrong and the comforter felt wrong and the light looked wrong and it was too chilly and the blanket was too thin and where the fucking fuck was she?

  Shivering, Ava took in the subtle-to-the-point-of-bland décor, the anonymously pleasing print on the wall, her carry-on propped in the far corner, the channel list and room service menu and four of her nineteen lip balms on the bedside table.

  Right. The Hyatt. Nestled in the hell on earth that was Bloomington, Minnesota. It wasn’t ten years ago, it was now. Danielle had been dead ten years; the memorial was yesterday. The ME was a broad-shouldered odd duck who had wonderful dark eyes, a genius niece, a yellow lab, and a maybe-friend named Abe, and Danielle had known something was going to happen.

  She knew. And you blew it off as teen angst.

  Ava swung her legs around until her feet were on the floor but didn’t trust herself to stand just yet. Danielle’s face on that last day haunted her, simultaneously knowing and bored.

  But not afraid.

  Resigned.

  She dug her fingers into the furrows of her forehead and bent at the waist. You’re
reading into it, she thought, staring at the dark blue carpet. The conversation didn’t go like that. You came over to hang out and scarf pizza and figure out the schedule and when the pizza was gone, you were, too.

  No … that wasn’t exactly … wait, was it?

  You’re trying to feel useful because, back then, you weren’t useful to anyone. So your subconscious served up version 2.0 of that last talk to trick you into thinking you know something that you don’t.

  That’s all.

  (That wasn’t all.)

  No, that wasn’t all. Danielle had been waiting for something, had given off an air of palpable doom.

  Oh, come on. What teenager isn’t convinced at one time or another that dire forces are aligned against them?

  Right. Except … her friend had been dreading something that last day. And because neither she nor Danielle knew it was the last day together, they’d done what they always did: talked about everything and nothing. The killer might be somewhere in the midst of all their babble. Or if not him, then his motive.

  Ava realized she was on her feet but had no memory of standing. She had to tell someone. No. No need to be coy: she had to tell Tom Baker. If nothing else, she owed him a follow-up.

  Why? Because you had a dream about a conversation that never took place? And because he’s got shoulders for days and a narrow waist and a wonderful rumbly deep voice and kisses the way gourmets cook, you voice-kink floozy?

  Well, yes.

  So call and leave a message. If he thinks it’s worth a follow-up, he’ll reach out.

  Not good enough. She’d promised to help and, dammit, may well have information that could be helpful, dammit, and she needed to find Tom and bring him up to speed, dammit! (Also, she had seventy-two hours to kill, no pun intended.)

  Not because he was interesting, although he was. But because once he knew what she

  (dreamed)

  did, they might be able to get something done. This time she wouldn’t wonder if she could have done more because she had done more.