All the Whys of Delilah's Demise

by Neve Maslakovic

  I lean toward him across the table to whisper, “She remembered my stew.”

  “She’s got a reputation for having a great memory, what about it?”

  “No, that’s the secret—a detailed corkboard and lots of practice at keeping eye contact. It’s a trick, a mental sleight-of-hand. No, don’t stare.” Dax has turned in his chair to watch Bonnie greet the next customer. I shrug. “Like Jada said, nothing big, just a way to make customers feel more welcome. Not worth killing to protect.”

  Dax turns back. “But if Bonnie’s whole brand rests on it?”

  “She seems genuinely frightened of the curse,” I point out.

  “You just said she’s good at acting, with the whole fake-greeting thing. For all we know, she’s scared not of being the next victim but of getting caught.”

  I linger over a spoonful. “You know, when Cece was my Watson, she was much less argumentative. Look, the attacks just don’t seem her style—had Bonnie done it, it’d have been a more personal approach. Face-to-face, not shoving from behind and faulty chandeliers. She’d have strangled Delilah and Rick… Something like that, anyway.” I noticed her nails, bitten to the quick, same as before, as she set the drinks down, the hands dry and cracked from hard work. I feel protective of Bonnie despite the white lie of the good memory, maybe because she’s always been friendly toward me. “Besides, I just don’t get the vibe from her that I got from Rick—a vibe of pure hate directed toward Delilah.”

  “But Rick didn’t turn out to be Delilah’s killer.”

  “No, but he easily might have been, if you see what I mean. Wait…what if Rick killed Delilah and then someone else tried to kill him?”

  Dax shakes his head. “I think it’s best to assume there’s only one criminal—like I said, the simple answer is usually the right one. And at the moment it’s Bonnie. True, it wouldn’t have been easy for her to get to the theater chandelier—people know her face—but the same goes for any of the Tenners.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. It would have taken boldness and a bit of luck for one of them to climb to the heavens unnoticed.”

  “The heavens?”

  “The out-of-sight area above the stage.” I finish off the stew, wiping the mug clean with the last of the bread. “There’s a security guard now—too many people were coming by to gawk. When I stopped by yesterday to nose around, he wouldn’t let me in. I can try again when I reach the theater in my vacuuming rotation again, which will be, let’s see…Monday. By which time I’ll be packing, unless Wayne insists on jumping over me.”

  “Tacoma’s working there. I’ll talk to him, see if he noticed anything out of the ordinary.”

  After we leave the tavern behind, I summarize. “For now I’ll put Bonnie down as a maybe.”

  “Where?”

  “Cece and I have a corkboard. The suspect list started out short, with just Rick. Vicky for a brief moment… Then things mushroomed… How about this for Bonnie: Greeting cheater. Dax thinks she’s the killer, but Scottie doesn’t.” I repeat that internally for Cece.

  “I don’t know that I’d go that far,” Dax protests. “More that we can’t rule her out. But since you didn’t get a vibe from Bonnie, we’ll have to see if you get one from the other Tenners.”

  “Yes… Wait, are you making fun of me?”

  Dax’s response is speedy. “On the contrary. I’d argue that what you’re calling a vibe is based on subtle physical signs: a bead of sweat, a frown line, a tremor of the hands.”

  “I got a vibe from Rick through a closed door… Do you believe me, then, that there’s a killer—one of the Tenners?”

  “I believe you, Scottie.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you believe it.”

  “I’ll take it. All right, I’ll be on the lookout for vibes and you keep reminding me that the answer’s got to be simple.”

  Fill-n-Sip Cup

  It’s a day later, same time—just after five. Dax has arrived a few minutes early, giving him time to get acquainted with the coffeehouse Chase is in charge of. Though the Dragon and the Drumstick and the Fill-n-Sip Cup occupy similar footprints, there are definite differences. Bonnie’s tavern is near the market, a quiet neighborhood except on trader day—Tuesday; Chase’s coffeehouse is centrally located, in busy Founders Square. The appeal here is not quality but price. The décor leaves much to be desired—sunlight fights its way in through dusty windows, falling on ragged carpet and tables of stained plastic.

  A table opens up and Dax grabs it. A harried waitress stops by and slaps an empty cup in front of him, charging him with a quick glance at his halo. “Two—I need two,” he calls out after her and she returns with another cup and charges him for that one as well. When Scottie comes in, they take turns filling their cups with watery coffee from a row of identical dispensers. After he sits back down, Scottie glances around furtively. “I don’t see Chase.”

  “He’s here. I saw him go into the back.”

  “When we catch the guilty person, Hugh will have to— Do you know about Hugh? He’s in charge of the List.” Scottie rests her elbows on the table, the coffee cup between them. “If someone’s found to be halo-padding, Hugh waits for the Code-infraction onyx to come in, knowing that it’ll do the job of booting the person way down. But for murder… I sent a thought to Bodi to ask about it. He wasn’t happy that I’m still harping on this but said it happened a few times, mostly before all the stuff we have now was in place: the people map, the Code of Conduct, mediators, help on the way with a silent call via your CC… For murder, he said, Hugh takes the person off the List at once and they go sledding.”

  “With no snowsuit, I hope. Freezing to death seems a suitable—”

  “Shh, here he is.”

  The number two, unlike Bonnie, doesn’t serve drinks. Chase is making the rounds, slapping customers on the back and urging them to “Have more coffee—refills free,” his smile as plastic as the cups and furnishings in his establishment.

  “I’ll keep him talking,” Scottie sends a thought, “and you take a look at his halo.”

  “What for?”

  “McKinsey used to tell me that the best way to learn about a person is to peruse their gems. But keep in mind that they aren’t to be taken at face value either.”

  “That seems contradictory.”

  “People are contradictory.”

  “But how then am I supposed to make any kind of judgment about—”

  A figure blocks the sunlight filtering through the nearest window. “Coffee all right?”

  Scottie flashes a smile. “Hits the spot. Do you have a minute? I don’t know if you remember me. I used to deliver invites for the Social Agency. I’m in the bog and am hoping to pull myself out by…uh…doing some research. Yes. I’m researching what it is that brings some people success and not others.”

  “And so you came here. Who better to ask, right?” Chase’s expression is one of vague half-interest; he doesn’t seem to connect Scottie either to the Incompetent Intern brand or the kindness idea.

  “Right. Well, then, um… To what do you attribute your stellar rank?”

  A shrug. “No secret there. I keep my prices low, which in turn helps my customers keep their bank balances healthy”—a grin—“and so they like me.”

  “You attribute it to low prices rather than personality, charisma, and charm?”

  Chase’s eyebrows register amusement. “Well, you’ll have to tell me. How do I rate on personality, charisma…and what was the third one, charm?”

  Scottie flashes another smile. A kick under the table reminds Dax that he’s supposed to be focused on the ruby-red ring topping Chase’s bald pate. Chase, he learns, is forty-five and has been a Tenner for twelve years. The rubies alternate between praise for the Fill-n-Sip Cup (“Chase keeps the coffee coming and the prices low”) and recognition of its manager for a favor done (“Needed a chocolate cake for a surprise party and Chase came through!”). Chase’s specialty is skirting the Code. T
aking advantage of the curse myth and the timing—and Bonnie would have to be next for Chase to scramble up to Eternal Life—is in a different category. Chase, it strikes Dax, is more of a small time crook.

  “Do you think you’ll overtake Bonnie anytime soon?” Scottie asks, and the response pulls Dax’s attention away from Chase’s halo.

  “Maybe I don’t want to be number one, what with Gemma Bligh’s curse and all.”

  At this, Scottie puts on a show of nonchalance. “Ah, so you believe New Seattle is cursed.”

  “Not really, but don’t tell Bonnie. She’s all wound up.” Chase leans in, one arm on the back of Scottie’s chair and one on the back of Dax’s, an overly friendly gesture. “And since I don’t think the curse is real, I have no problem with taking the top spot! You two could help, you know—give me a couple of rubies and we’ll see if it does the trick.” He winks at them and moves on to the next table, where a quintet is celebrating their PAL anniversary. “How’s the coffee, everyone?”

  “He did it.”

  “What makes you say that, Scottie? He isn’t putting on a show of being scared of the curse, or bothering to cast doubt on the Goodwill Campaign. And he freely admitted to wanting to be number one—would the killer do that?”

  “Still. I took a snapshot of that smug expression of his. Since I guessed Bonnie’s secret pretty quick, I thought we’d be able to do the same here but Chase is so outright shady that I’d believe all sorts of things about him.”

  Dax sloshes the remnants of the thin black liquid around his cup. “Such as that he reuses coffee grounds?”

  “That and murder.”

  He and Scottie spend the next hour taking advantage of the free refills and watching Chase interact with his patrons. What he’s doing—asking for rubies in a joking fashion—isn’t exactly against the Code, but it is borderline and crass. On the way out, Scottie says, “I’ve put this on the corkboard: Terrible coffee. Could very well be the killer.”

  10:15 p.m.

  Dax grumbled about the sleeping schedule he’s supposed to be adhering to but agreed that late evening is the best time to tackle Samm and Sue, who are night owls rarely spotted during the day, not to mention that all the coffee we imbibed at Fill-n-Sip Cup has rendered us very awake despite its watery consistency. The map points us to Founders Square and the platform that stands in its center.

  Dax and I are here to judge whether the Jokers, separately or together, might have murdered one person and tried to kill another, but it’s hard to even consider the possibility in the setting. Given the date—April 1—the crowd is expecting something special and hard cider and frivolity are abundant on stage and off. Tonight’s entertainment is a practical joke played on the pair’s favorite victim. Having apparently shown up expecting a formal debate moderated by Franz, Ben the Birdman is stiffly standing mid-stage while Samm and Sue bombard him with barbs to hoots of laughter from the tipsy crowd. There are no references to Gemma Bligh—not this time. Franz, clearly in on the April Fools’ prank, heartily claps the tailor on the shoulder. We push in close enough to bring up the Jokers’ halos, a row or two back from the stage, but I still have to bob my head to see. The duo’s gems are mostly from adoring fans and come in matching pairs, explaining why their names keep toggling on the List.

  Ben leaves as soon as he can do so without seeming like a spoilsport, and Dax and I don’t stick around for much longer, either. As we leave the noise of the square behind us, Dax half-jokes, “A working hypothesis might be that funny people are less likely to commit murder.”

  “You think Samm and Sue are funny?”

  “You don’t?”

  “I felt bad for Ben. I suppose if the Jokers did decide to stage an accident, it’d involve a banana peel, not wood rot and faulty chandeliers.”

  This makes Dax chuckle. “I just can’t see them caring about moving up a couple of spots, even if it brings them closer to Eternal Life. They seem to be enjoying life to the fullest as is.”

  “Except we’re forgetting one thing,” I say. “The secrets in Jada’s possession. I don’t know about Samm’s, but Sue seemed weirdly chummy with Rick at Delilah’s seeding. I wondered if they’re having an affair behind Samm’s back… Did Sue seem subdued to you?”

  “Because Rick’s in a coma? She was certainly downing hard cider pretty solidly.”

  “Maybe the Jokers’ secret is a joint one, like everything else they do. They’re pretending to be a happy couple but privately despise each other. I’ll put them down as Funny? Opinion on that is divided… Killers, separately or together? Unknown.”

  We’ve climbed a four-level stairway to cross over a maintenance building, an often-used shortcut, after which the paths to our respective housing buildings split up. We stop at the top to take in the view. Lamps in windows are starting to switch off for the night and a slender crescent moon, bisected by a Dome structural beam, hangs low above the mountains. Hearing footfalls, I peer down. On the lamp-lit promenade below us, Lu and Wayne are nearing, arms intertwined.

  Dax peers down as well. “Should we call down a hello?”

  “Shh, no. Let them be.” I tug on his elbow as if I’m worried Gemma Bligh’s curse might strike him next. “Their time is short, if Wayne continues his pursuit of onyxes.”

  We watch Wayne pull Lu into an embrace in the building’s shadows. How complicated emotions are, it strikes me as Dax and I leave the couple to their privacy. I’m somehow managing to feel sorry for Lu and at the same time—this one is harder to admit—envious. Trapped somewhere between the pity and the envy is a sentiment impossible for me to act upon. I picture what would happen if I spun to a stop and kissed Dax full on the mouth: his revulsion at me for breaking the Code, my total embarrassment when he tells me he doesn’t share my feelings…and another PAL-ship ruined beyond repair.

  21

  We’ve found Poulsbo near the west gate. He’s hammering planks into a square base as morning breaks over the town. The handyman starts at our arrival and sets the hammer down to wipe his hands on his overalls; he’s covered in sawdust and dirt. “Do you need something…fixed in your living space?” he says, his left eye twitching. “I could get to it…later.”

  I take a snapshot of the eye twitch.

  Dax puts him at ease. “I’m from the Gardens Center. Heard you did some fixing up of the flower beds on the Housing Four roof—wanted to thank you in person, that’s all.”

  “The flower-bed wall was crumbling a bit… A minor issue. I like…flowers. Have some in my own room.” Poulsbo nods politely at me and asks, “What do you do…in the Gardens Center, Daxton?”

  “Call me Dax.”

  While Poulsbo, his eye-twitch diminishing, exchanges tips with Dax on watering schedules and such, I take a look at his halo to find out more about his character beyond the facial tic. He’s only thirty-eight, a surprise given the stooped shoulders and the strands of gray. The gems reveal how much his labor is valued, but his inability to say no strikes me as a burden. He seems crushed by his popularity, not elevated by it.

  It’s Saturday, my day off, and my plan is to be all business. No more inappropriate thoughts. Not helping is that Dax’s shirt today is on the tight side, nicely displaying his physique.

  Poulsbo tells us about the hut he’s constructing. “After the base’s done… I’ll build walls and a roof… Assemble it all on the other side of the gate… Openings will…allow the sparrows to fly in and out…at will. Blank Jack said…to raise the hut at least a yard off the ground. He’s handling…the east-gate hut.”

  I don’t seriously suspect the mild-mannered man working with hammer and nail of being the killer. For one, according to Jada and Rick, he has no secret Delilah held over his head. Surely I wasn’t the only one who looked up to her. Perhaps—apart from the blackmailing and stuff—there was some goodness in her. I find myself saying, “Delilah… What was your opinion of her?”

  Poulsbo’s eyes well up. “Poor Delilah… She was generous to me, in her own way.”<
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  “And to me.” It’s the truth.

  “When she needed me to help out once in a while… I was happy to do so.”

  My head snaps up from where I’ve been studying a pattern of nails in the wood in an effort to put Poulsbo at ease. “Things that needed fixing in her suite?” I ask.

  I don’t want to say the word balcony. His mild manner aside, Poulsbo could have put his handyman skills into action to help the wood rot along—so the railing went even if Delilah exercised caution in accordance with the Maintenance alert—though I can’t think of a reason why he would do such a thing.

  “Help for her proposals… A vote of support in the Tenner meeting room. Which I did, because…being number one…is not easy. She had to be tough to get there and…to stay there.”

  Dax, with a glance at me, asks, “Poulsbo, what’s your opinion of the curse? Are you onboard with the Goodwill Campaign?”

  “Don’t know about the curse but I believe a little kindness goes…a long way.” Poulsbo reaches for the hammer. “Better get back to work… Need to finish the base before my…regular work for the day starts.”

  We leave Poulsbo to his project. Once Dax and I put some distance between us and the garden, I say, “I feel bad we bothered him. On the other hand, did you see how twitchy and wound up he was? What if he said yes one time too many and that eye tic erupted into a lethal outburst?”

  “And he messed with Delilah’s balcony—and the chandelier—and now regrets it? I can’t see it.”

  “Yeah, it does seem far-fetched. I’ll put him down as Not the killer, Dax and Scottie agree.”

  I stop what I’ve been doing, pacing in front of Work Five, as Dax rounds the corner at a trot. He comes to a stop, breathing hard. His shirt sleeves are rolled up and he’s opened the top two buttons to cool off.

  “You’re late,” I gripe at him. “I sent you a barrage of thoughts saying Franz can squeeze us in at half past four. It’s his only opening three weeks out.”