Scareplane

by Elise Sax

  “Thank you,” I said. “But I still need Spencer’s thumbs.”

  There was nothing better than a friend agreeing with me about Spencer’s mistreatment. It calmed me and made me feel better, immediately.

  “That’s not the worst thing,” I said.

  “You killed someone,” she gasped.

  “Shush! I didn’t kill anyone. I just witnessed a death.”

  “Like always,” Lucy said.

  “No, usually I find them after they’re already dead. This one died in front of me and in front of Spencer, the four cops at his conference, the caterer, and a waiter.”

  Lucy’s smile vanished, and her face dropped. “Damn it. I miss everything. Here I am on this stupid-ass cruise, when I could be there. Idiotic honeymoons. I’m over here with boring room service, and you’re watching people drop dead.”

  “I thought it was better than fillers.”

  “Bull hockey. I’m stuck on a boat most days, traveling to places I can’t pronounce. You get all the fun.”

  “Lucy, it was bad. A man died. It’s a tragedy.”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever. So, who killed him? Have you figured it out, yet?”

  “Nobody killed him. He just dropped dead onto his chicken. He wasn’t in the best shape. He looked like a heart attack waiting to happen.”

  But that wasn’t the whole truth. I left out the part about his last words: “You killed me.” If I told Lucy about that, she would never let me off the phone.

  “Gladie, why are you in interrogation room three?” Lucy asked, putting it all together.

  “I’m a witness, and since Spencer was a witness, too, they’re having Detective Thighmaster Meanie interrogate me.”

  “That bitch! I’m madder than a wet hen. How dare Spencer let that she-wolf interrogate you? I wish I was there, Gladie. I’d save you and whup that girl’s ass.”

  I wished Lucy was there, too, and that she would whup her ass, but Detective Hardass had a gun and mace and would have Tased my friend before she got one southern insult out. Speaking of hardass, the door opened, and she walked in.

  “Gotta go,” I whispered into my phone and turned it off.

  Detective Boner Machine was dressed in a simple black suit and work shoes with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, but she looked like a runway model. I smiled at her, remembering that I was supposed to be killing her with kindness and be above it all.

  She didn’t smile back.

  “This is routine,” she said and sat across from me. She held a pen poised over a yellow legal pad. “Name, address.” I gave her my basic information. “Why were you at the scene?”

  She locked eyes with me, and I could read her mind. She thought I was a whiny, clingy girlfriend who couldn’t mind her own business. I straightened my back.

  “I was here on business. I brought a client to meet someone.”

  “You’re in business? What kind of business?”

  “I’m a matchmaker,” I said with every ounce of pride I could muster. There wasn’t a lot of prestige with the matchmaker moniker, but at least it wasn’t the beer drains cleaner at Hoboken Sports Arena, which I had done for six horrible days.

  “A what? That’s really a job?” she asked in her condescending, beautiful voice.

  I smiled big, as if I thought she was interested in my work and thought it was cool. “Oh, yes. I work with my grandmother. She’s famous in this town. We’ve made a lot of very happy couples. I would be more than happy to help you find a match as a welcome to Cannes gift,” I said sweetly.

  She narrowed her eyes. “I can find my own man. I don’t need a creepy matchmaker to fix me up.”

  I willed myself to keep smiling. At some point, I figured, she was going to succumb to my charms and like me. But for now, she hated my guts, and I didn’t know why. “Of course,” I said. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. So, you have your eye on someone?”

  “Not that it’s your business, but I guess you should know that yes, I have my eye on someone I work with.”

  A quiet descended on the room, like a Mac truck ramming the back of the car you’re driving. Boom. Whiplash. My smile vanished and reappeared on Detective Danger’s face, as if she had stolen it from my face.

  I would have bet money that it wasn’t the only thing that she wanted to steal.

  And who wouldn’t want to steal Spencer? He was gorgeous and smart and funny and chief of police. Sure, he was a frat boy who likes Family Guy reruns and way too much baseball, but that was small potatoes in all things annoying compared to other men out there.

  Spencer was mine, but he was just a man, and Detective Hotness McBitchyface was more than a woman. I doubted she had ever been rejected in her life, and I didn’t hold out much hope that Spencer would be the first man on the planet to tell her no.

  Her intent was clear, and she wanted me to know all about it. At that moment, I searched my memory for my grandmother’s advice. What would Zelda do? I wished I could call her and ask, but I didn’t think I was going to get a telephone break.

  I had to rely on my wits.

  Damn it. I wasn’t great in the wits department.

  I sat up straighter in my seat and made my mouth turn up in a smile, again. “I’m so happy for you, Detective. Love makes life so much sweeter.”

  “Whatever.” She looked down at her notes. “Obviously, Mike had a massive heart attack. The man probably hadn’t seen the inside of a gym in years, and he sucked down chips and dip like a junkie getting his fix. So, it was just a matter of time.”

  Beads of sweat popped out on my forehead. I hadn’t seen the inside of a gym in years, either, and I sucked down chips and dip whenever they were in arm’s distance. Now I was worried that I was going to pass out dead on a chicken breast, just like Mike.

  “You’re probably right,” I said. “But he did say…”

  “I know what he said. Do you think you’re the first one I’m interviewing, Ms. Burger? You think you’re that important? You think I’m dying to pick your brain because you’re so perceptive? Believe me, this is routine. Every question in this with you is routine. I do it because I’m a professional, not because I think you’re all that. You’re not all that. You’re not even half that. Not even five percent that.”

  Holy cow. She really didn’t like me.

  And another holy cow. I really didn’t like her.

  “So, that’s why I have to ask you this: Did you see anything out of the ordinary leading up to the passing?”

  The passing? Well, everyone hated Mike. He had openly insulted every person in the conference, and Spencer couldn’t stand him. There was also the little detail of his last words, which were that someone had killed him, and he knew the person in question.

  “No, I didn’t notice anything,” I told her.

  She tapped her pen against her legal pad. “Good. I’ve heard that you like to stick your nose into law enforcement business. That’s changed as of now, do you understand me? No amateur sleuthing. No buttinski messing with my case.”

  She shot me her meanest, scariest cop face. I knew that face. I slept with that face every night. I wasn’t scared of that face.

  “Oh, of course, Detective,” I said, sweetly. “I’m very busy, matching couples. I’m terribly sorry about Mike. What a tragedy. Please let me know if a memorial is planned and where I can send flowers.” I looked at my naked wrist. “Oh, look at the time. I have an appointment that I must get to. Am I allowed to leave now?’

  “Remember what I told you. Don’t get involved.”

  “Of course not,” I lied.

  “Because I’m in charge. Do you understand? I’m in charge. Me. The chief picked me.”

  I willed my mouth to stay upturned in a broad smile. “Of course,” I sang, like nothing made me happier.

  Detective Ball Buster Beauty let me out of the interrogation room and escorted me out of the station, effectively giving me the boot. Outside, I called Cynthia to make sure she was all right, but it went right to voicema
il. I texted her, but she didn’t respond to that, either.

  I needed coffee.

  I drove to Tea Time. It turned out that I arrived during a rare moment when the tea shop was empty. I ordered a latte from Ruth and sat at a corner table by the bar. “You look like someone shot your puppy, Gladie.”

  She was close.

  “One of the cops at Spencer’s conference died.”

  “Aren’t you used to that, already? Wherever you go, you trip over dead people. Frankly, with you coming in here all the time, I’m shocked as shit I’m still alive.”

  She was right. She should be shocked.

  “You’re wrong, Ruth. I walk all day long and don’t trip over dead people. Normally. Not for weeks.”

  My phone rang. It was Lucy on Skype, again. “Well? Did they clap you in irons? Are you in solitary? Harry says we can fly home if you need me.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Ruth demanded, peeking over my shoulder.

  “Did they get you too, Ruth?” Lucy asked.

  “I’m at Tea Time, getting coffee,” I explained. “They let me go. I’m not a suspect. They said the man dropped dead of a heart attack. He ate chips.”

  “If chips killed him, then, you’re done for,” Ruth told me.

  “Put the phone closer to your face,” Lucy said. She studied my face in close up. “Oh my God. You’ve got it bad. You’re on the case. You’re a dog with a bone. It’s the Miss Marple Syndrome all over again.”

  I moved the phone further away from my face. “I don’t have Miss Marple Syndrome,” I said.

  “You sort of do,” Ruth said. “There was a murder? Who did it? Should I get my baseball bat?”

  Ruth had little respect for matchmakers, no respect for coffee drinkers, but ever since I helped her with a mystery involving her family, she seemed to believe in my abilities as an amateur sleuth.

  “I don’t know who did it. I don’t know if it was done. I mean, I don’t know if he was murdered. But he wasn’t a loved man, and his last words were that he was killed.”

  Ruth and Lucy said, “Ohhhhh” in unison.

  “But he ate a lot of chips,” I added, quickly.

  “I’m going to tell Harry to get us on the first flight out of here.”

  “Don’t stop your honeymoon,” I insisted. “You only just started your round the world cruise. You’re not even one-eighth of the way around.”

  “I’m not missing this. I keep missing all the fun. It’s been forever since I stared down a serial killer.”

  “This isn’t a serial killer. It’s a one-shot deal killer. And I don’t know if there’s a killer. He ate chips!”

  “You can’t fool me, Gladie,” Lucy said. “Harry, call the Concorde. What do you mean there’s no Concorde? What happened to the Concorde? The world’s gone crazy. Who loses a Concorde?”

  She clicked off.

  Ruth sat at my table. “I think your client did it,” she told me. “That cursed man. Larry Doughy. Whatever happened to him has made his thinking off kilter. He’s been going from one crazy-ass debacle to the other. Did you hear about the snakes?”

  “I heard.”

  “There. See? He’s off his nut.”

  “I think he’s still getting checked out by doctors. He was nowhere near the murder. I mean, the death. I don’t know if there was a murder.”

  But come to think of it, I had another match who was right there when it happened. The image of Cynthia knocking into Mike on her way out the door flashed through my mind. She had looked at Mike and had gotten upset. Why? Had he said something to her? Something so horrible that she killed him in some mysterious way?

  Where was Cynthia now? I had to find her before Detective Nosy Hot Pants found her.

  The door opened, and Spencer and his four remaining conference participants walked in. Spencer’s face dropped when he saw me. He said something to Joyce and walked over to me.

  “You stay out of it. Okay, Pinky?” he said without preamble.

  “Good luck with that, copper,” Ruth said. “She’s already got the bug. Look at her.”

  He looked at me.

  “Damn it, Pinky. Stay out of it.”

  I didn’t like that he was saying more or less the same thing as Detective Super Hot. It made me feel like they were their own snooty country club, and I was an outsider who wasn’t allowed to swim in the pool.

  “I don’t want anything to do with it,” I said, raising my voice. “I’m a very busy professional. I have clients. I have a business. What do I care that you can’t keep a guy alive in your police station, right under your nose? What do I care if a man gets murdered while you watched? Huh? Huh?”

  “How did you know he was murdered?” he whispered.

  “Wow. Gladie strikes again,” Ruth said, impressed.

  “Was he murdered?” I asked.

  Spencer ran his fingers through his thick hair. “I didn’t say he was murdered. Stay out it. You hear me, Pinky? I’ve got law enforcement from all over Southern California giving me their two cents and breathing down my neck. This has to be done by the book. All the I’s dotted; all the T’s crossed. Ruth, bring us a bunch of tea and whatever frilly crap you feed people to go along with it.”

  He stomped back to the table where the top cops were sitting.

  “Frilly crap, huh?” Ruth said under her breath. “Don’t worry, Gladie. I’ll spy for you. Nobody notices the tea lady. You wouldn’t believe the stuff I’ve heard in this place.”

  “You’re going to help me?” I asked, surprised.

  She shrugged. “Maybe I’m having a stroke.”

  While Ruth was spying for me, I drove to Cynthia’s house. Lucy and Ruth were right about me and dead people. I found them everywhere, and I had a weird compulsion to figure out who murdered them. It was a disease. The Miss Marple Syndrome. But above and beyond that, Cynthia was my client. My match. I had gotten protective over my matchmaking. I had seen the power of happy endings, and I didn’t want to deprive Cynthia of hers.

  I parked in front of her house, but her car wasn’t there. Normally, she parked in the driveway, because her garage was filled with her collection of antique cleaning tools. My phone rang.

  “The cock crowed at midnight,” Ruth said. “Come on. Laugh. You were supposed to laugh.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I know you’re uneducated and ignorant, but I thought you’d at least have watched TV.”

  “My TV shows don’t talk about cocks that do unnatural acts,” I said.

  “Do you want the rundown or not?”

  “Give it to me.”

  “The top cop was murdered.”

  “Are we recapping? I thought we already knew that.”

  “I’m telling a story, Gladie,” she explained. “A story starts at the beginning.”

  “Fine. The top cop was murdered.”

  “Guess how he was murdered.”

  “Ruth…”

  “Guess.”

  “He was poisoned,” I said. It was the obvious guess. He hadn’t been shot, stabbed, or beaten to death. There was no poison gas and no aliens to laser him to death. No lightning and no electrical shock. It had to be poison.

  “Duh,” Ruth said. “What kind of poison?”

  “I flunked chemistry, Ruth. I don’t know poisons. Was it week old pot stickers from China House Buffet?” I loved that place. My grandmother was such a regular customer that they gave her free spareribs with every meal. Yum.

  “You give up?” she asked.

  “Ruth, you sound giddy. You’re never giddy. Once you threw a guy out of your shop because he had too much positive energy.”

  “That guy made my teeth hurt. Nobody’s that happy. The Dalai Lama’s not that happy. Snow White’s not that happy. Sick son of a bitch with his white teeth. He was lucky I didn’t kick him in his white teeth. It used to be that folks had normal looking teeth. Now, everyone’s got teeth so white they glow in the dark. White strips, my ass. Wher
e’s the priorities with these people? Used to be people cared about real things like social justice and labor rights. Not how white your teeth are.”

  “Okay, fine. Tell me what the poison was,” I said.

  “Daffodils.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me, Gladie. Daffodils.”

  “The flower?” I asked. “The flower that’s planted all over Cannes? The flower that the Daffodil Committee is fighting over?”

  “That’s the one,” Ruth said. “Which means that the whole town is a suspect.”

  I looked at Cynthia’s house. There was a wide swath of daffodils planted on either side of her front door.

  Uh oh.

  “Anything else?” I asked Ruth.

  “Spencer made me pour two fingers of brandy into his tea. The top cops want to get in on the investigation, and he has to cart them around town while they do it. He’s not a happy camper.”

  Spencer didn’t like others honing in on his investigations. Now he had four egomaniac cops butting in. I wondered if that meant that Detective Nasty Waif Waist was off the case or not.

  “Okay,” I said. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. Larry Doughy’s out of the nut farm, and he’s looking for you.”

  After peeking into Cynthia’s windows to search for her, I gave up on waiting for her and drove back to the police station. While Spencer and the others were doing whatever they were doing, I was going to do some breaking and entering and a little stealing and a whole shitload of na na na for Detective Beotch Gorgeous.

  I parked three blocks down the street from the police station. Luckily, I had my grandmother’s dry cleaning in my trunk, which would be a perfect disguise. That’s how I walked into the station dressed in a knockoff polka-dotted Givenchy dress with a wide, lime green belt, a faux fur bolero jacket, and a polyester scarf tied around my head. The sunglasses were mine.

  I walked past the front of the station and peeked through the window, which was cut into the front door. There was no sign of Detective Bichitude Babe. Slowly, I opened the door. Fred was at the front desk.

  “May I help you, ma’am?”

  I didn’t want him to have to lie to his superiors, not least because he was a terrible liar.