“How did you get into it in the first place?” Masako asked.
“I was actually a music guy,” said Tyler. “Which was a great gig.”
At this point, here’s what I was thinking in order of relative importance:
1. It seemed to me that Masako was exceptionally interested in Tyler. It was certainly useful to have her here to ask him probing questions. I didn’t have to do anything except observe. This is next-level detectiving as far as I am concerned. Outsourcing!
2. Probably Tyler meant that DE was turning him into a mantel clock, because the teapot was actually pretty cool.
3. Quintrell had gone quiet, and I was thinking I should bring him back into the conversation. This turned out to be pretty easy because he started talking.
“I didn’t know you were a music guy,” said Quintrell.
This appeared to make Tyler sad.
“I was the lead composer for Gurgle.”
“I don’t know what that is,” said Quintrell. This appeared to make Tyler even sadder.
“And CoffeeQuest Two.”
“Never heard of it,” said Quintrell. “What’s in this drink, again?”
“CoffeeQuest Three?”
“I haven’t even heard of CoffeeQuest One,” said Quintrell.
“I wasn’t on CoffeeQuest One.”
“How did you get from music to management?” asked Masako.
“Oh, right, well. I acquired a reputation for getting things done on time, and eventually I started getting transferred to projects that were behind schedule, which I was really good at turning around, and then at some point, I think DE decided that I was better at turning around failing projects than I was at composition. Which is sort of depressing now that I think about it.”
“At least you’re good at something,” I said.
“Well, it was better money. But then I took this job at DE, and that’s been a nightmare. It’s the worst place I’ve ever worked. People warned me.”
“Do you think the whistle-blower’s letter came from someone here at Cahaba?”
“Beats me,” said Tyler. “It could be. But it could be from anywhere. I mean, it’s bad at Cahaba. But it’s close to as bad at a dozen other places. That’s just what DE does. They buy up little mom-and-pop companies and drive them into the ground and crush everyone’s souls.”
“Step Three: Profit,” I said, which didn’t get a laugh. And then someone ordered another round of shots.
This is what the conversation was like after Sugar Sugar #2:
“I miss Cynthia,” said Tyler.
“You knew her for only a week,” said Quintrell, who was now slumped over a bit, like a stuffed animal. A bear, or a dog with a bow on it.
“It was a good week,” said Tyler. “It was a meaningful week. She had depths. Hidden depths.”
“I miss her too,” said Nathan, who had never met her and was drinking only water, anyway. I’m pretty sure he was putting us on.
“But if you could see them,” said Masako, who was becoming a little Sugar Sugared herself, “how were they hidden?”
“Artfully,” said Tyler.
“Like with tasteful shrubbery. Proverbial shrubbery,” I said. I was deeply Sugar Sugared.
“I don’t think she had hidden depths at all,” said Quintrell. “I think she was WYSIWYG. But a good WYSIWYG.”
WYSIWYG stands for “what you see is what you get,” which is an old web design term. It’s also fun to say when you’re drunk because you pronounce it “Wizzy-Wig.” Actually, it’s even fun to say sober.
“Describe the WYS for me,” I said. “I never met Cynthia.”
“Cynthia was just our dorm mom. She was way older than everybody there,” said Quintrell.
“WAY older,” said Tyler, having taken up the chorus now that Quintrell had abandoned it. “Our dorm grandmom.”
“But in a good way. She didn’t seem to think much of gaming as an industry—”
“She used to work for an oil company—” said Tyler.
“But that was kind of helpful. She was immune to the glamour of it.”
“The relative glamour of it,” said Tyler.
“And she wouldn’t put up with the company’s bullshit. We needed someone like her there. You are a little bit like her, actually,” ventured Quintrell. “Except that you’re not mothering, and you don’t care about anyone.”
I had had enough Sugar Sugars that I took this remark very casually.
“So,” I said, not worrying much about the subtext of my investigation. “Who’s single?” This was a little inartful, but I wanted to know who had a significant other who might have written the whistle-blower’s letter.
“I am single,” said Tyler, looking at Masako. “I am very, very single.”
“I am sort of single,” said Quintrell. “I’m in kind of a fourth-of-a-relationship.”
“Like polyamory?” asked Masako.
“No, I mean the relationship is iffy. I’m dating this electrical engineer, who’s great, but I, like, only see her every two months.”
“What’s her name?” asked Nathan, very sweetly.
“Gloria,” said Quintrell.
“Gloria?! How old is she?” asked Nathan.
“She’s a young Gloria,” explained Quintrell.
“Fifty is a young Gloria,” said Nathan.
“You told Vanetta you were completely single,” I told Quintrell.
“I rounded down,” said Quintrell.
“Well, I’m very single,” said Tyler.
“I got it, cowboy,” said Masako. “You’re single. We’ll come back to that point.”
Tyler was both chastened and very happy-looking, which further underscored how very desperately single he was.
“Why do you see your electrical engineer only every two months?” asked Masako.
Quintrell blinked at her.
“I work ALL THE TIME,” he said. “Haven’t you been listening?”
“Off and on,” said Masako.
“What’s Gloria like? Does she hate corporations and have a yen for vengeance?”
“She’s extremely fit. Possibly too fit. Our last date was a marathon, which I did not finish. I can’t tell if she’s trying to humiliate me, and I’m into it, or if she just doesn’t really care whether I live or die. And I’m also into that.”
“If you like women who treat you badly,” said Nathan, altogether too amiably, “you should love Dahlia.”
Conversation after Sugar Sugar #3:
“Quintrell King? You’re under arrest for murder.”
Okay, that’s purposefully blindsiding you. But, hey, we didn’t see it coming either.
I was blindsided. Detective Tedin should have been extremely conspicuous, although it was getting to be dusk now, and through the veil of Sugar Sugars I was not in a particularly noticing mood. Plus, things were getting emotional. Tyler and Masako were inching—inching, mind you—closer together, and I was doing everything I could to keep them from running off and abandoning us, which I felt was the inevitable coast toward which we were drifting. I had also taken Quintrell’s phone, not for the purposes of investigating, but to find Gloria in his phone contacts list and send her a text.
Because I was drunk, I had texted:
“I have taken Quintrell’s phone. We are at a bar, and he appears to be pining for you.” I was looking for the pine tree emoji, which I thought would help things, but again, I was drunk, and I couldn’t find it, and so I went for the sprout, feeling that these were perfectly interchangeable.
“What are you doing?” asked Quintrell.
“I’m sending sexy plant emojis to Gloria Peachey.”
“Oh MY GOD, no!” said Quintrell.
“It will work out great,” I said. “Let’s get Gloria here. We can meet her.”
“That’s not even the right Gloria. That’s a friend of my mom’s,” said Quintrell.
“Oh.”
“Not even a friend. She’s like my mom’s frenemey.”
<
br /> “Oh,” I said. “Why is she in your contacts?”
And then Detective Tedin showed up and arrested Quintrell, which happened not at all like you would expect. It wasn’t that dramatic. Mostly Quintrell seemed confused by the development and was principally worried about what Gloria Peachey was going to do next.
“Quintrell King? We need to take you in,” said Detective Tedin. I was trying to pull myself quickly back from drunken Dahlia mode—which is a fun mode—into detective, but there were a lot of gears that needed to shift, and you know what they say about operating heavy machinery under the influence. That said, Tedin didn’t seem entirely confident as he was arresting Quintrell. He certainly didn’t appear to be relishing the moment, the way I did whenever I solved a case. He looked unhappy. He looked off.
The next few minutes were a blur. Quintrell was suddenly gone, I was confused, and Masako and Tyler were utterly adrift. Also, all the people in the industrial-waste-green pinstripes were looking at us like we were the weirdos.
“So,” asked Nathan, who takes the arrest of strangers almost too well, “was that what you wanted to happen?”
“No!” I said. “Of course not!”
“Sorry,” said Nathan. “I should rephrase that. Was that what you expected to happen?”
“Nope,” I told him. “Not even a little.”
Tyler and Masako responded to the situation like normal people, which is to say that they were stunned.
“What’s going on?” asked Tyler. “Like, what just happened?”
“Dahlia will fix this,” said Masako. “She’s an undercover detective.”
“How is she undercover if you’re telling me about it?” asked Tyler, who really took the words right out of my mouth.
CHAPTER TEN
Improbably, it was only six thirty at this point. Through the powerful, time-bending power of Sugar Sugars, I felt that I had lived through decades with Quintrell and Nathan and Tyler and Masako, or at least several hours, but not only was the night young, it was still day.
“What do you mean she’s a private detective?” asked Tyler.
“She’s a private detective,” said Masako. “I think she’s at Cahaba to investigate something but she won’t tell me what.” Basically Masako was spilling the beans on absolutely everything I had hoped to keep secret. There would be no beans left after this. I would have an empty can of beans; there wouldn’t even be any beany residue.
Time to make the most of the situation.
“I am not a private detective,” I said. “I’m just taking classes in that direction, on the side. And I’m not there at DE to investigate anything. I’m just temping.”
“Dahlia’s very good, though,” said Nathan. “Show Tyler where you got shot in the arm!”
“Maybe you should investigate,” said Tyler. “Quintrell got arrested.”
“I can’t imagine that’s right,” said Masako. “He seemed very unconcerned about it. He was mostly going on about Gloria.”
“There’s no way he’s murdered anyone,” said Tyler. “It’s completely impossible.”
This was probably true. What possible reason would Quintrell have had for bumping Cynthia off? He had described her as being a pleasant WYSIWYG. That’s just not murder talk.
Earlier, I had planned to attend Cynthia’s old knitting circle incognito and learn what I could about her. That plan was jettisoned when it seemed like it would be more fun to drink. However, now that Quintrell King, Obvious Victim of Fate, had been arrested, it seemed like I should reconstitute it, except that I was:
1. Drunk.
2. In a party of three.
3. Drunk.
I put drunk twice, as it was the principal problem with this plan, and also because I got confused while making this list.
“You guys should go home,” I said. “I’ve got some work to do.”
“I think we should get a cab,” said Tyler. “I’m not really up for driving.”
“I have to leave,” said Nathan. “As plant and microbial sciences goes, so goes my country.”
“What kind of work?” asked Masako.
“Well,” I said. “I suppose you might be inclined to call it detective work. And it’s fine, Nathan. I got this.”
“I don’t know,” said Nathan. “You’ve been attacked in some pretty unusual places. You got concussed in a family restroom.”
“Family restrooms are hotbeds of sin,” I said.
“We’re coming with you,” said Masako.
“What?” said Tyler.
“We’ll help,” said Masako. “We’ll keep guard.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Tyler. “Specifically.”
I relayed my plan to the gang, who each took it differently. Tyler, although impressed that I had sussed out this bit of Cynthia’s schedule, seemed to regard my sleuthing as a profound waste of time. (I guess his hidden depths speech was just drunk talk.) Masako, on the other hand, regarded my little plan as a work of Holmesian genius, and instantly confirmed they would come along. I am not sure which of these reactions surprised or concerned me more.
Nathan admitted: “It does seem like you’d be pretty safe at a knitting group at a church.”
“I think so,” I said.
“Vampires can’t even get in,” said Nathan.
“How long are you going to be playing host to your grad student?” I asked.
“Three days,” groaned Nathan. But then he smiled his own apex predator smile at me. “Although I get time off for good behavior.”
As a rule, I don’t go to church a lot. I don’t have a particularly antagonistic relationship with churches, as my friend Steven does, who thinks he will burst into flames the moment he walks through the door. I just don’t get around to it very much. Church is something my parents do, and even then not very well. We Mosses are not a naturally religious people.
But I like the idea, at least in the abstract. Nothing wrong with church; it’s just that most Sunday mornings I tend to be hungover.
Now, however, as I stumbled into the First Presbyterian Church of St. Charles, Steven’s church/flame scenario seemed not entirely out of the question. Walking into the basement of a church while somewhat drunk, it was hard not to feel a little bit pagan. And not in a charming roguish way. In a sad drunk way.
On the plus side, I was at least walking into the basement, which was carpeted in this horrible orange stuff that really looked like it belonged in a dorm room and not the actual chapel. This was essentially a rumpus room, a natural place to be a little tipsy. The problem was that it was God’s rumpus room. Sorry about that, God. The evening had taken a few hard turns.
Hopefully God would understand this particular transgression, because I really was aiming to do good, and he had god-sight, after all. The bigger issue I faced was with the knitting ladies, who did not have god-sight and were likely inclined toward Old Testament justice.
I had gotten there a hair on the early side, and there were three ladies so far. Their total ages probably summed up to be more than two hundred. The first of them, Linda, had improbably long stringy hair. She was tall and thin and wispy and seemed a bit like a flower child that had been left out in the sun too long. Next to her was Margery, the very picture of venereal brawn. She was stout and had short, wiry black-to-gray hair. In between the two of them was Joanne, who was exceptionally well dressed, with a fancy ruby brooch and gold-rimmed glasses. Joanne was obviously the ringleader of this operation.
“Are you in the right place, dear?” said Joanne.
Joanne had a faint Southern accent—but an aristocratic one. She looked like old money and new clothes, which was not a bad combination.
“I’m here for Presbyterian knitting,” I said. I had bummed a breath mint off the Uber I had taken on the way over here, and I felt that this was pretty helpful for covering the smell of Sugar Sugar on my breath. I mean, nobody would hand me the keys to their car if they got close enough, but I didn’t think I was wafting off an aura of
drunken woman.
“Can I get you some water?” asked Joanne, who was glaring at me. She gave good glare. Professional-level glare.
“Are you, by any chance, a retired teacher?” I asked her.
Margery, of the wire hair, slapped her knee with delight.
“I’m not a retired teacher,” said Joanne. “I was an organizer for the teachers union.”
“Don’t be pedantic,” said Margery. “You taught for many years before that. Now, how could you tell?”
Some quick judgments about Joanne: She was pedantic, and was not about to make any admissions that were going to give me a gold star. She probably didn’t realize this, but she would have fit in great on Reddit.
“It was just a lucky guess,” I said. “Although, I’m a private detective. Lucky guesses are sort of my thing.”
I had planned on arriving here under a cover story of some kind, but suddenly playing a couple of my cards here seemed like a good idea. It gave me a good pretext for asking questions. And an element of danger. And it also explained why I might smell like booze and breath mints.
“I’m impressed,” said Linda, also delighted.
“Where are your knitting needles?” asked Joanne, who was just as clearly not impressed.
“Do you need needles?” I asked, posing perhaps the dumbest question that had ever formed on my lips, which, if you’ve read my previous adventures, was saying something.
“Yes,” said Joanne. “You need needles.”
“I’ve got some extra,” said Margery.
“Did you bring any yarn?” asked Joanne, who had a face that was capable of sending you to the principal’s office without a word.
“I left my yarn at home,” I said.
“Then maybe you should go back and get it,” said Joanne.
I sat down, which was pushy, arguably, but I could use the rest. The gals were seated around a dinged-up wooden folding table, which looked to be part and parcel with the basement, although the chairs were nice.
The Questionable Behavior of Dahlia Moss Page 8