by Elise Sax
“Fine. Satanists ate his eyes,” Remington said. “And cats are Satanists,” he added under his breath.
Remington called for backup and taped off the storage closet. Amy corralled the cats, and Frances ran back, this time with her cellphone camera poised in her hands to take lots of pictures of Donald’s eye sockets. Unfortunately for her, Remington wouldn’t let her back in the room in case she contaminated the scene.
He had another police officer take the three of us back to the police station in order to question us. Once we were in the small building, they separated us into three rooms. Mine looked like an office. There was a desk with a computer on it and piled high with file folders. A large desk chair was behind it, and posters of fighters and spaceships were on the walls.
After a few minutes, Remington walked in. He plopped down on the chair and put his long legs up on the desk. He stretched his arms up and crossed them behind his head.
“Dead for a couple hours. Cause of death was stabbing to his chest with something narrow, like an ice pick. Now, your turn,” he said.
“I don’t know anything. Somehow Donald stabbed himself, because he’s the killer,” I said, crossing my arms in front of me. If I were standing up, I would have stomped my foot. If I were lying down, I would have kicked and slapped the floor. I was having a hard time believing that Donald wasn’t the killer. “I was so sure,” I whined.
Remington flipped open a notebook in his lap and clicked a pen. “What were you doing at the scene?” he asked.
“I was following Amy’s cats.”
“When did you last have contact with the victim?”
“Yesterday. I served him at the shop.”
“What was your relationship with the victim?” Remington asked and looked up from his notebook.
“He was a semi-regular at the shop, and I knew that he killed his wife.”
Remington sighed. “How about your friends, Amy and Frances?”
“What about them?”
“Amy’s cats just happened to be at the murder scene, eating the victim’s corpse? Frances just happened by?”
He had a point. It was fishy. What were Amy and Frances doing there? Why were Amy’s cats there? “They were supposed to be spying on Area 38,” I explained. “They think the government killed Felicia, and that Felicia was a Chinese spy.”
Remington blinked a few times. “I thought you were going to stay away from Area 38. I thought you were going to stay away from killers and dead people.”
“I am. I mean, I was. I mean, it wasn’t my fault. And Amy and Frances were spying on Area 38, not me. I was spying on Donald.”
Silence filled the room. Remington tossed his notebook onto the desk, and he put his hands in his lap. “Excuse me? You were spying on the victim?”
“The killer. The killer!”
“Were you spying on him when he died?” he asked, arching an eyebrow.
“What are you implying?”
“That you killed him,” Remington said, matter-of-factly.
“I didn’t kill him. I found him only a minute before you found me finding him. For all I know, you killed the killer, and you’re trying to pin it on me.”
“Maybe you did it with Amy and Frances,” Remington continued. That’s the easy money. The safe bet. All three of you are definitely suspects.”
“Do you really suspect me? Do you really suspect all three of us? What are you thinking?”
Remington smiled at me and leaned back in his chair. “I think Rocky’s still alive, and he just killed his second victim.”
“Rocky?” I asked, honestly shocked. “Rocky’s dead. He’s swimming with the Mexican fishes.”
“Is he?” Remington asked.
“Is he?” I repeated, thinking about it. There was no proof that Rocky died. “So, are Amy, Frances, and I off the hook, then?” I asked after a moment.
Remington shook his head. “Nope. Especially Amy. How did her cats get out? Maybe they got loose when she got into an altercation with Donald. And Frances? That woman isn’t innocent of anything. I wouldn’t put it past her to be in cahoots with Amy. Maybe she was cleaning herself off when we found the body.”
“Amy and Frances are nice women,” I said, coming to their defense. They had been nice to me, and after our detective plotting in the pantry, I felt like I had acquired two friends.
“Nice women kill all the time. It’s sort of a rule. Princess Leia killed all kinds of folks.”
“I only understand about half of whatever you say.”
Remington kicked his feet off the desk. He walked around the desk to the other side and sat on the edge. Leaning forward, he took my hand and brought it to his lips.
Kissing my hand gently, a zing of electricity went up my arm and down my body, filling my body with a warm, throbbing sensation that made me pant. I wanted more of it. A lot more.
“Do you understand this?” Remington asked. “How about we don’t wait until this case is finished before we go out? This thing is getting more complicated by the day, and I don’t want to wait any longer. How about dinner tomorrow?”
I nodded, because my tongue had swollen, and I wasn’t sure I could speak. Remington was looking at me like he was a cat, and I had the most delicious eyes in the world.
“I’ll pick you up at six, since you’re an early riser,” he said.
I nodded again.
“And maybe after dinner, we can have dessert.” He kissed my hand again, but this time he let his lips rest on it for a long time.
I squirmed in my chair. I suspected that I knew what he meant by “dessert,” but I didn’t have any personal experience with it.
Remington gave my hand a gentle squeeze, and he smiled at me. “Don’t look so frightened, Aggie. We can have a small dessert to start off with.”
“Oh,” I breathed.
It wasn’t until I left the police station that I realized that Remington said he was going to pick me up from my house tomorrow. I hoped he didn’t expect to come inside. That could be disastrous.
I collapsed onto my bed before eight that night and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Auntie Ida and Auntie Tilly had eaten dinner with me in haughty silence. They were both feuding over whether to hang the toilet paper over or under. John was quiet again, probably still recuperating after his temper tantrum.
I had been glad for the quiet. The day had worn me out. My brain struggled with the idea that Donald had not killed his wife. Everything I thought was true was wrong. I was no Dashiell Hammett. I was no Raymond Chandler or Agatha Christie. I wasn’t even much of an Agatha Bright.
I sucked at detective-ing.
If Donald wasn’t guilty, then it was down to Area 38, Amy, or Frances. But none of them felt right to me.
But who was I to trust my instincts? It turned out that I had terrible instincts.
So, I slept.
My head hit the pillow at 7:45, and I was sound asleep by 7:46.
Three hours later, I woke up. Or rather, I was woken up.
“Agatha, you need to wake up now. Agatha.” The voice slowly invaded my sleep. “Agatha, you need to get up. Agatha, the situation is urgent. Agatha.”
I fought against my fatigue and pushed against the veils of blackness in my sleep to finally open an eye. John was standing over me. His hands were clasped together behind his back, as usual. Any anger or resentment had vanished from his face. He was back to the John I had known my entire life.
“You must get up, Agatha,” he urged me quietly.
“What’s happening? Is it Auntie Ida or Auntie Tilly?”
“Neither. They are fine for now, but there’s something terribly wrong. A stranger has invaded the house.”
I sat up, instantly wide awake. “What’re you talking about?”
“There is a man in the house. He broke through a window and entered through the cellar.” John’s voice was calm, but his mouth was set in a tight line.
“That’s impossible. The house would never allow that.”
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br /> “It’s impossible, and yet it’s happened. Do you have a weapon?”
“But it’s impossible,” I insisted. I got up and retrieved a baseball bat from my closet. Everything was turned on its head. What I had believed to be true—knew to be true—was false. Even the house was turning on me.
“I’ll wake Ida and Tilly. I’ll be right back,” John said and disappeared.
I carried the bat and tiptoed out of my bedroom.
“What the hell’s going on?” Auntie Tilly demanded, stepping out of her bedroom. Rollers covered her head, and she was brandishing a curling iron in one hand with the cord trailing behind her on the floor, which she had brought with her from New Mexico, even though we didn’t have electricity.
“Oh my. Oh my. Oh my,” Auntie Ida said, coming into the hallway. She wrung her hands in worry. “This can’t be happening. It’s impossible.”
“That’s what I said,” I said, happy that someone else agreed with me.
“He’s climbing the cellar stairs. He’s almost in the kitchen,” John said, his voice slightly more stressed.
“Let’s go,” I said and held my bat high.
We tiptoed down the stairs, like we were a parade. I was in front, Auntie Tilly was behind me, and Auntie Ida pulled up the rear. John disappeared again and reappeared on the bottom floor. By the time we got to the entranceway, I could hear the intruder climbing the steps to the kitchen.
So, it was true. The impossible was possible. Someone had broken into our home. I was afraid, but I was more angry than fearful. My legs wobbled while I walked to the kitchen with the bat held above my head.
We found the intruder in the kitchen, just as John had warned. His clothes were baggy and torn. He was rail-thin. His skin was weathered, and his face was heavily lined. He was somewhere in his sixties, and he had a large black and blue knot on his forehead that looked painful. The man was tired. Visibly exhausted.
And his hands were handcuffed behind his back.
“Rocky?”
Chapter 12
“Don’t make me drop a house on you.”
–Fiona, “American Horror Story: Coven”
“I didn’t know where else to go,” Rocky said.
“Are you here to sharpen our knives?” Auntie Ida asked him. “The bread knife could do with a going over after Tilly used it to cut the tags off her pantyhose.”
“What else could I do? I couldn’t find any scissors,” Auntie Tilly complained. “What kind of house has this become when there isn’t a pair of scissors to be found?”
“He’s not here to sharpen the knives,” I told my aunts. “Rocky killed Felicia White, and he escaped custody. He’s either here to kill us or to hide.”
“I didn’t kill her. I swear I didn’t,” Rocky moaned. “And I would never kill you. Never.”
“Get out of this house! Be gone! Be gone!” John roared. He got in Rocky’s face and shook his large fist at him. He was terrifying. Furious. Ready to kill Rocky and protect the Bright woman. He towered over Rocky, at least a half of a foot taller. He had fifty pounds of muscle on him, too. Rocky wouldn’t be able to do anything against John, even if John was armed.
But of course, Rocky couldn’t see or hear John. He stood looking right through him to me, pleading with his puppy dog eyes. Only my aunts and I could see him. That was part of the curse.
And after last night’s outburst, I didn’t think John had the energy to knock something off the wall again, let alone protect us from a killer.
“You don’t look like a killer,” Auntie Tilly told Rocky, ignoring John. “You look too hungry and tired to be a killer. Maybe you stole a car or cheated on your taxes. I could see you doing that.”
“Thank you,” Rocky told her. “I’m not a killer. I don’t know how the bloody hook got in my van. I swear it on my wife’s grave.”
“Oh, you’re a widower?” Auntie Ida asked, stepping forward.
John moved aside. “You must make him leave. He’s an accused murderer,” he ordered me. “He’s still wearing handcuffs.”
I gasped. If he was still cuffed, he couldn’t have killed Donald. That meant that Remington was as bad of a detective as I was, and that made me indescribably happy. “Rocky, are those the same handcuffs from yesterday?” I asked.
He nodded, sadly. “It’s been hard to do things with my hands behind my back, let me tell you. Especially private things.”
“You’ve done an admirable job,” Auntie Tilly noted. “Your fly’s up and everything.”
Everyone looked at Rocky’s fly, including Rocky. “It was a pickle to do it, but I managed,” he said.
“It’s amazing you survived,” I said. “Everyone thinks you’re dead.”
“I thought I was dead for a while, too. When I hit the water, I sank like a stone.”
“That’s because you’re skinny,” Auntie Tilly said, stepping forward. “I can fatten you up. Are you hungry? I’ll cook for you.”
“No, I’ll cook for you,” Auntie Ida said, elbowing Auntie Tilly in the side. “Tilly doesn’t know how to use spices. That’s because she’s old and has lost her taste buds. She cooks like she wants to start a fire in our stomachs. She’ll give you a nasty case of diarrhea.”
“That wouldn’t be good, considering the handcuffs,” Rocky said, reasonably.
“Are you women insane?” John roared. He paced the kitchen, throwing his hands up as he spoke. “This man is a danger. He broke into the house. Can you imagine what kind of monster he is to bypass the house?”
“Or he’s not a monster and needs our help, and that’s why the house let him break in,” I told John out of the corner of my mouth.
“Huh?” Rocky asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “Did you hear that Donald White was found murdered today?”
“He was? I didn’t do it. I swear,” Rocky said.
I believed him. He might have figured out how to zip his pants with his hands cuffed behind his back, but I didn’t think he could stab Donald that way.
“Even if you believe him, Agatha, it’s unwise to let him stay, to say the least,” John said.
“Good idea! We’ll let him stay,” Auntie Ida said. Her eyes were twinkling, and she twirled a strand of her long red hair with her finger.
“He can stay in my room. My bed’s plenty big enough for the both of us,” Auntie Tilly suggested.
It was a free for all. A single man was going to be a guest in our house for the first time ever. It was too much for my aunts to handle with any amount of decorum. If they got the faintest whiff of vanilla on him, they would lick him like an ice cream cone.
“We have to call the police,” I said.
“Finally! A little common sense in a sea of lunacy,” John said.
“But I’m innocent!” Rocky pleaded. “I can’t go to jail. I can’t handle enclosed spaces, and I have a fear of showering in front of others.”
“Maybe we can cure you of that,” Auntie Tilly told him with a wink.
Auntie Ida clenched her fists and scowled at Auntie Tilly. “Of course we won’t call the police. We’ll hide you. I’ll cook for you, and Tilly will wash your clothes.”
“I’ll make you new clothes,” Auntie Tilly offered, one-upping Auntie Ida. “I taught Chanel everything she knew. That haughty bitch.”
“Huh?” Rocky said.
“This is ridiculous,” John complained.
“Are you sure you didn’t kill Felicia?” I asked Rocky.
“I promise. Please help me. I have nowhere else to go. I heard that you’re a detective. Would you find the real killer and prove me innocent?” Rocky asked.
Everyone looked at me, and I felt myself blush. “I’m not a detective. I thought Donald killed Felicia, but the killer killed Donald, and I have no idea who did it,” I said truthfully.
“Oh, please, Agatha,” Auntie Ida said. “I bet you could do it easily.”
“Solving a murder is easy,” Auntie Tilly said. “My last roommate did it all the time. No sweat.”<
br />
“You do have the books, Agatha. Perhaps the answer is in one of them,” John said, changing his tune. We locked eyes, and he smiled, slightly. An apology.
“Please, Agatha. I can’t take a shower in front of other men,” Rocky said. “I’m self-conscious.”
“What about not bringing attention to us?” I asked my aunts. “What about not getting involved with townsfolk?”
“But he’s self-conscious, Agatha. So, you’re going to prove him innocent,” Auntie Ida said.
“That’s right,” Auntie Tilly said. “You can’t expect the poor man to soap up in his birthday suit in front of criminals. I’ll get the bolt cutters.”
And that was that. We were officially harboring a fugitive. I would probably be arrested and have to take showers in front of all kinds of people.
Auntie Tilly got the bolt cutters and freed Rocky’s hands. “That’s a lot better,” he said, thanking her.
“You can take a shower upstairs,” Auntie Ida told him. “There’s a lock on the door so nobody’ll see you. While you’re getting clean, I’ll make you fried chicken and pancakes.”
“That sounds good,” Rocky said.
“And I’ll make you a cherry pie for dessert. And macaroni and cheese,” Auntie Tilly added.
The rest of the night was a Rocky whirlwind. My aunts cleaned, dressed, and fed him. Even though he was half-dead with exhaustion, they kept him up at the kitchen table, interrogating him about his marriage and asking him why he was still single. Then, they launched into sales pitches about their viability as romantic partners for him.
Rocky ate second helpings and more or less had no idea what they were talking about. While they fed him, I went downstairs to check the window that Rocky broke to enter the house.
“I will be very glad indeed when you’ll capture the killer, and we can return to normal,” John said, appearing in the cellar with me.
“That would be nice,” I said, even though I believed that the horse had left the barn in the normal department. When Auntie Prudence died and I was put in charge of the soup shop, that seemed to trigger the end of normal and the beginning of murder and mayhem.