All the Whys of Delilah's Demise

by Neve Maslakovic

  “I went to the theater,” Dax explains between breaths. “Had my in-thoughts muted. Ran as fast as I could when I got your message.”

  He follows me into the building. I know my way around, having been here before to slide Agency invites under the door to Franz’s office. Like Dax, I’ve shown up on foot—my bike is still out of commission.

  “Uh…it’ll be pricey,” I remind him. “The session.”

  “I’ll cover it.”

  “Quick, change the ruby you gave me to a jade,” I prod him as we head up a flight of stairs.

  His eyebrows rise at this. “What for?”

  “So we can go in saying we’re mad at each other.”

  “Wouldn’t an onyx be more convincing?”

  “We’re PALs. No one would believe you’d give me an onyx, not with me in the bog. Best to stick to something realistic. And, uh, don’t forget to change it back to a ruby later.”

  “But Scottie, what reason should I give for being mad at—”

  “Hurry up, do it.” I elbow him in the side. “We’re here.”

  The door at the end of the hallway opens and Franz walks two people out. I can’t tell if they’re a couple or PALs or co-workers, but whatever the relationship, they seem to have gotten over their differences. “Thank you, Franz, for making us see that we were being petty,” one of them says, dabbing at red-rimmed eyes with a handkerchief.

  “My pleasure, Carlton. And if you and Sidney have any other problems, come and see me again. But I don’t anticipate that you’ll need to.”

  “You’re a wizard, Franz. I think we’d each like to give you a ruby in thanks…that is, if Carl agrees?”

  “I most certainly do, Sid.”

  “I’d appreciate the rubies, but how about we wait until Gemma Bligh’s curse breaks?” Franz gives an uncomfortable laugh and, after the pair leave, turns to Dax and me. “Why hello. You must be Scott and Daxton. Come in, please.”

  Inside his office, side tables sit in all four corners, sporting decorative vases with dried flowers. A comfy-looking two-seater faces a leather armchair, both well-worn. Franz takes the armchair and waves at us to sit. “I can only spare a half hour, so let’s get to work. Now, what seems to be the problem?”

  Having taken one end of the two-seater and Dax the other, I say, “Just the matter of a gem. Dax’s gem for me.”

  “It’s a jade,” Dax says woodenly.

  “It’s never merely about gem color. Let’s start by having you two sit a little closer, please.”

  I inch toward the middle of the two-seater, but not too much, as I’m supposed to be mad at Dax. He does the same.

  “Let’s start with you, Scott. Why don’t you tell me a bit about this gem from Daxton.”

  “Dax and I… Well, I’ve known him forever. But he gave me the jade and won’t budge from it, even though I’m in the bog.”

  “I see.”

  “Worse yet, I just gave him a ruby.” I manage to say this with what I feel is a convincing whine about the way matters stand.

  “I see,” Franz repeats and forms his fingers into a roof-like shape. “Daxton, I notice you haven’t said anything yet. Obviously everyone has a right to give other people whatever type of gem they like.”

  “Yes, but it’s not… I mean, that’s not why it’s jade, not exactly.”

  “Something else is holding you back.”

  “I… Yes,” Dax trails off awkwardly. I dare not look at him and instead focus my gaze on Franz’s halo, which is chock-full of clients praising his moderating skills. Franz gives me an encouraging smile, as if perusing his halo is exactly the right thing for me to be doing, so I can see how great he is at this. He is thirty-three and single, and has been a Tenner for five years and counting. Below the halo are wispy hair and wispy eyebrows—and the substantial goatee, thick and springy from above his lip down to his chin. Does he glue it on to have something to stroke while pondering clients’ problems, a silly, minor secret, like Bonnie’s? I take a snapshot.

  “It’s this curse matter,” Dax spits out into the silence. “Scottie and I have opposing viewpoints.”

  “Right, yes,” I jump in with what I’m guessing to be my assigned point of view, given the credit I got for the Goodwill Campaign. “You see, I’m convinced—absolutely convinced—that Gemma Bligh did put a curse on New Seattle. We’re doomed—all of us. Doomed. First the number ones fell and who knows what will happen next.”

  Dax rolls his eyes. “Nonsense. Look, if we didn’t have a People List, everyone would be convinced that Gemma’s curse targeted the other category both Delilah and Rick belonged to—actors. We shouldn’t pretend to be who we aren’t, say, even onstage—because Gemma believed in honesty or whatever—and the Be Yourself campaign would be in full swing instead of the goodwill one. We’d probably have already shut down the theater.”

  “The Tenners liked my idea, didn’t they?” I say with as much indignation as I can muster. “About how to break the curse.”

  This makes Franz glance in my direction. “I should have recognized the name. That was, if I may say, an inspired insight, Scott, about kindness and goodwill.” He strokes the goatee for a moment. “I hope we’ve seen the last of it, but truth be told, I’m worried for Bonnie—and,” he repeats the uncomfortable laugh from the hallway, “for myself as well, though I’m quite a few rungs below.”

  “You’re being illogical, both of you.” Another eye roll from Dax. “It took me longer than it should have to get here because the foot traffic pattern has changed. People are avoiding walking under balconies and using steep stairs, all while being sure the curse will strike Bonnie next and only her! By their own reasoning, they should be perfectly safe, but reason has nothing to do with it.”

  Franz gently offers the following: “It could be that everyone’s remembering all the times in their life they could have been kinder.”

  Dax, having fallen silent, seems to realize he needs to add more. “Look, the Code bestows a responsibility on us not to be cavalier with gems. As long as Scottie pushes this curse business, which has the town in a panic, the jade stays.”

  Keeping up my end of things, I swivel on the couch to face him. “Always the Code with you.”

  “The Code of Conduct is the bedrock of our society.”

  “Or the bedrock of your life?”

  “Now just a minute…”

  “I can see we’re going to have to dig deeper,” Franz interrupts our bickering. “Can you tell me why, if you’ve known each other all your lives and are PALs, you’ve only now gotten around to exchanging gems?”

  After Franz walks us out and waves the next couple in, I wipe light sweat off my brow. “Phew, do you think he bought it?”

  “He probably figures we’re good for months of therapy.”

  Dax’s tone is flippant but I’m hoping Franz didn’t pick up on the undercurrents that exist on my side. As we head out of the building, Dax gives his take. “As a mediator, his main tool is diplomacy, not devious plots. Plus he seems genuinely worried about the curse.”

  “I’ve never realized how hard it is to guess what’s in people’s heads… For now, I’ll put him down as unlikely.” We set a course away from Work Five and I ask Dax what he learned at the theater.

  “Tacoma let me in—I caught him on his way out. He’s being transferred back to Hobby Two. I poked around a bit. The stage has been cleaned up, other than nicks and scratches where the chandelier fell. They don’t have a replacement, a stagehand told me, so they’ll have to do without for future Mrs. Montag performances. I asked about access—in a roundabout fashion—and apparently every one of the Tenners was there at one time or another recently. Poulsbo to build a prop, Sue and Samm for a skit, and the others just to visit with Rick. I ran into Delilah’s understudy on my way out.” Dax recounts how he professed himself to be a fan and Vicky beamed and explained she was there to practice her lines so she’d be ready when performances resume after Rick comes back—or, if need be, when Rick’s und
erstudy steps in. Dax adds that he detected a note of desperation, the reason for which became clear when he took a look at her gems. “You should see them, Scottie. They are all variations of Keep your chin up even though Rick’s accident ruined your chance at fame.”

  If anyone thought Gemma Bligh’s curse might target Vicky next, at least there’d be some interest in her; as is, having hit the Top Thousand, she’s sinking fast and it’s doubtful there’s a rebound in her future. She’s never shown any warmth toward me, but I still feel bad about the way it turned out for her. And it won’t make any difference when Dax and I find the killer. Her chance will have gone.

  “Dinner at the Oyster with a side of Jada-watching?” Dax suggests. “Don’t say you’d rather wait until you can afford it. As you said yourself, it’s all for a good—”

  “Yes, let’s go there,” I interrupt. “I suppose we’d better take the time to change into something nicer. And Dax…”

  “I know, don’t forget to swap the jade back to a ruby. Doing it now.”

  Shrewd eyes watch as Dax and I walk in. When I used to deliver invites, a silent nod from Jada was the extent of our interaction, other than the day of the town anniversary when I was late and she complained to the Agency. Dax and I shuffle our feet at the door for a good seven, eight minutes before Jada saunters over. “You two want a table?”

  The Oyster serves the Top Hundred and their guests; with Dax at ninety-eight, we’re only just clearing the bar.

  “Why, yes we do,” I say, irked by the wait and the inhospitable phrasing. “We wanted to eat someplace special. We’re on a date.”

  Dax’s head snaps around at this.

  “You’ve come to the right place for special.” The words are inviting, the tone anything but. Jada leads us to a tiny table by the kitchen, clearly the worst spot in the eatery, and says flatly, “Take a look at the menu. I’ll be back for your order.”

  No oysters are listed on the single-page menu Cece provides in my eye-field but there are half a dozen fancy-sounding entrees. Subtle, smoky aromas waft over from the kitchen and tickle the nose, a change from the cafeteria ones, which lean toward deep-fried and greasy. Fine cooking appears to be a hectic procedure, judging by a crash that rings out. Jada slams through the saloon-style doors and disappears within. Raised voices can be heard. She reemerges a few minutes later, her mouth a thin line, and sets a bread basket down with a thwack. “No butter today, sorry. One of my staff dropped the tray. What’s it going to be?”

  Hoping that Lu wasn’t responsible for the butter mishap, Dax and I order the evening’s special, Aquarium Trout Sautéed with Edge Garden Pears. After Jada moves on to greet an arriving party, I lean forward with my chin on my hands and gaze across the bread basket at Dax. I comment on the pretty tablecloth, with its heavy burgundy fabric and hand-stitched edges, and how nice it is to be enjoying dinner out. Dax pulls back his chair a little. “What are you doing, Scottie?”

  “I’m looking at you all dreamy-eyed, like Lu does at Wayne. Have a roll and try to keep up your part of things.” I take a roll myself and slide the bread basket toward him. “I wanted to give us a cover. This place is too fancy for a pair of PALs just out and about having dinner.”

  “But what about”—Dax lowers his voice—“section Q?”

  “What about it?” I take a dainty bite of a roll, though I want to tear off pieces with my teeth, it’s so soft and warm. “Jada isn’t Bonnie—she’s hardly going to take the time to peruse our halos and see that we’re PALs. No one else in here gives two cents about us either. And if they do, I’ll say it’s all part of my fake research project, finding the elusive it of social success… Still, now that you mention it, I’d better alert Lu not to blow our cover.”

  Lu responds with cheery enthusiasm about my supposed research project—which makes me blush about lying—and reassurance that she wasn’t the one who dropped the butter tray. Having promised to let her know how Dax and I like the food, I discretely twist in my chair to watch Jada, who’s overseeing the work of a waiter swapping a soiled tablecloth for a fresh one. The rubies in her halo are reserved, limited to praise for the Oyster and not saying much about the number five herself. The impression I get watching her make the waiter sweat is that she wants the best in all things—wrinkle-free tablecloths, the finest cuisine, top-tier customers…and the crown?

  After she moves on, I mutter under my breath, “She did it.”

  “You said the same about Chase,” Dax points out irritatingly. “I agree that she’s capable of murdering whoever was responsible for the wasted butter… She can’t always be this way, can she? Maybe we caught her on a bad day.”

  “You’ve heard Lu’s stories, she’s pretty much like this all the time. But boy, these rolls are good.”

  The main course arrives after a quarter of an hour and I stare at the shape on my plate, unmistakably that of a fish—pale, headless, and sliced open.

  Dax takes a bite. “Scottie, it’s tasty. You’ve had fish before.”

  I prod the fish with a fork, as if it might come to life. “In a breaded square, mixed with who knows what, not when it’s kept its shape after cooking.”

  “It’s the way of nature. We’re above fish in the food chain. Besides, you’re always complaining about being tired of cafeteria food.”

  “So I am…” The fish is delicate and tender and, after a couple of tentative bites, I temporarily forget why we’re here and concentrate on enjoying each mouthful to the fullest. About halfway through, I sense Jada’s eyes on us, as if she’s storing up information for later use, but not for the reason Bonnie does it, to bridge the divide between herself and her customers. The meal is a little less heavenly on the tongue from that moment on.

  His plate empty, Dax leans back and taps his stomach. “Wouldn’t mind having that more often, even if it means being glared at by Jada.”

  “You’re in the Top Hundred now,” I remind him, scraping the last bits off my own plate. “You can eat here as often as you want.”

  “I really should pay more attention to my rank. Scottie, you have something on your lip.”

  “Where?” I dab at my mouth with the napkin.

  “Here, let me get it.” Dax reaches across with his own napkin.

  Feeling awkward about being taken out to dinner by Dax, despite the reason, I clear my throat and glance over to where Jada is seating a large group. Chitchat floats over, Jada saying, “Did you hear that Samm and Sue are thinking of quitting comedy?” Exclamations of surprise are followed by eager gossip on what the Jokers might do next, together or separately. I take a snapshot before Jada moves on to the next table, then comment to Dax in a low voice, “She’s making a move against Samm and Sue. Makes sense, if she’s the killer. Why bother with an accident for the Jokers when they can be gotten out of the way using more conventional techniques—gossip and false rumors?”

  “It could be true, for all we know.”

  “We saw them just two days ago and things seemed fine,” I point out.

  Dax brings up an objection. “If she’s behind it, why install Rick as the number one, then stage an accident for him next?”

  This strikes me as a minor difficulty. “Maybe she no longer had need for him.”

  Dessert is fluffy, creamy chocolate—mousse, served in a cup with a tiny spoon. After Dax finishes his and I all but lick my cup and spoon clean, we leave the eatery behind us and embark on a loop around streetlamp-twinkling, romantic Founders Square. Reminding myself to stick to business, I say, “I’ll put Jada down as: Snooty. Excellent food. Of all the Tenners, seems the most dangerous. I didn’t like the way she was looking at us… I admit it might have been a mistake to pretend to be on a date.”

  “She’s a collector of secrets,” Dax reminds me. “She won’t say anything unless we give her a reason to.”

  “I wish Rick would wake up,” I say after we move aside to let a bicycle pass. “I can apologize for thinking he’s a killer, he can null the onyx he gave me, and that’l
l bounce me right out of the bog. Plus I suspect he knows more than he let on. I never got a chance to talk to him after Mrs. Montag. Of course, at the time he was my main suspect.”

  “What do you mean, after Mrs. Montag?”

  “Oh, that… As it happens, he invited me to the backstage party. I was going to ditch you,” I confess, “then double back and talk and…uh…flirt with him if need be. That sounded like a better plan at the time than it does now. He probably just wanted another conquest… Why are you twitching?” He’s pulling at his collar as if he’s hot in his shirt. I add, “Never mind, I can guess—it’s because we’re doing things out of order. We did Bonnie at number one, Chase at two, and Samm and Sue at three and four, then skipped to Poulsbo at seven and Franz at nine and then went back up to Jada at number five… We still have McKinsey and Ben to consider. I’m certain it’s not McKinsey, so that leaves—”

  “Hold up,” he says, letting go of the collar. “We can’t rule McKinsey out just because she used to be your boss.”

  “Even though the only vibe I get from her is Scott, you blew your chance at being an Agency employee? Look, if McKinsey wanted to move up, she’d just get a couple more hobbies.”

  “Scottie, it’s not the hobby thing that makes McKinsey popular. She’s the head of the Social Agency. Everyone is eager to be on her good side.” Dax stops to check an instrument hanging down from one of the trees lining the square and nods at the humidity reading. “Haven’t you ever wondered how McKinsey got her start?”

  “I assumed she lucked into an internship, same as me.” Then I recall what Lucille said about her own rise into the Top Hundred. “You think McKinsey owed her position to Delilah and got fed up with being beholden to her all these years and decided to do something about it?”

  “It’s possible, isn’t it?” he says as we recommence walking.

  “No. It only seems that way because you don’t know McKinsey, however she may have gotten her start at the Agency. McKinsey is…well, fair. And murder isn’t.” Dax looks unconvinced and I offer, “Fine. I’m vacuuming at the Agency tomorrow. With any luck she’ll have a free moment to talk. For now, how about this: McKinsey was a good boss. Dax thinks there’s a chance she’s the killer, but Scottie knows he’s wrong… Which leaves Ben. He was stuck on the shelf for months until Delilah’s death cleared the way. Maybe Rick figured it out and Ben tried to kill him next… You could pay a visit to the tailor shop and get a pricey suit made and make small talk about the curse.”