The Fear Hunter

by Elise Sax

  And then there was Remington. What would John think when Remington came to the house to pick me up for our first date? My first date, ever.

  I decided not to tell John in advance because I wanted to hold off on that conversation for as long as possible.

  “I’m sorry about last night,” John said, as I inspected the broken window. It was just a broken pane, and I knew from experience that it would fix itself by morning. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  I knew what came over him. He had to shoulder a curse for years and years, and he had reached the end of what he could tolerate. He had gone quiet for a year in order to give me space, but when I took space for myself, it was too much for him to bear.

  We were existing in an impossible situation, which was becoming more impossible by the day. I sat down on the floor and hugged my knees to myself.

  “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever known,” John said, looking down at me. “It was inevitable that once you got out into the world that others would see what I do.”

  “No. Don’t say that,” I said, fighting the urge to cry. “It sounds like you’re saying goodbye.”

  “I cannot say goodbye, Agatha. I’ve tried. I’m not strong enough.”

  “You’re the strongest man I’ve ever known,” I said. It was the truth. All men paled in comparison to John. Even Remington. But Remington was alive. Remington could touch me, kiss me.

  “I’m afraid that I’m not strong, either,” I said.

  I left the house at four, after I fell asleep for a few hours on the cellar floor. John had watched over me while I slept. He was still worried that Rocky was dangerous, but Rocky was sound asleep in an extra room upstairs, and he wasn’t likely to wake up for hours. Auntie Ida handed me a basket of muffins when I left the house, while Auntie Tilly was up at the lighthouse.

  When I got to the soup shop, Doris and Irving were waiting for me, as usual. Irving turned on the lights, and Doris followed me around the shop. “Did you hear about Donald?” she asked.

  “Yes, I found him.”

  “That’s what I heard,” Doris said, as I filled the coffeepot. “I heard he didn’t have a nose.”

  “He had a nose, but he didn’t have eyes.”

  “Eyes!” she exclaimed, pointing at me. “Yes, eyes. He had no eyes. That’s what I heard. I also heard that Amy’s cats killed him.”

  “First a shark and now cats,” Irving said, as he lit the last light. “The whole animal kingdom is enacting its revenge on us. I don’t blame them one bit.”

  “Why do cats want revenge?” Doris asked him. “They’ve got it made.”

  Irving wagged his finger at her. “Humiliation, Doris! They’ve been humiliated. All of those lace doilies. The lace doilies humiliated them!”

  “Irving, I’m beginning to think that the time you accidentally drank kerosene did you some damage,” Doris told her husband.

  “What’re you talking about, Doris? I’ve been regular ever since. A little bit of kerosene does wonders for the gastrointestinal tract. We should bottle it and make millions. Rake in the money for those folks with Cohen’s disease.”

  “You mean, Crohn’s disease, Irving.”

  “No, Cohen’s disease. What’s the problem, Doris? Are you anti-Semitic?”

  Doris picked up the basket of muffins and moved them to the other side of the counter. It reminded me of something and made the hair on the back of my neck stand up, but I didn’t know what it was.

  The breakfast regulars came and went. Mouse came in early for a change and baked the bread. “Here he is,” she whispered to me when the flour man arrived.

  “More flour,” he announced, dropping a twenty-pound bag on the floor. “You sure do bake a lot. I like that,” he told Mouse. She blushed in response. Mouse glanced at me guiltily, but her love for the flour man obviously outweighed her fear of being fired for over-ordering flour. Not that I would ever fire her. Mouse was a wonderful baker, and without her, I would have to bake as well as make the soups.

  Mouse and the delivery man flirted for a while, and when he finally left, she came to me with her hands clasped together, like she was in prayer. “I’m so sorry, Agatha, but think of it this way. The soup shop will be just like a French bakery.”

  “Mouse, we have more flour than all of France. You could make a baguette for every American in the country and still have flour left over.”

  Mouse scrunched up her face and slouched down, like she was disappearing before my eyes. “But he’s so cute, Agatha. I want to take him home and pet him like a hamster. But he only sees me as the flour girl.”

  I patted her back. “It’s a work in progress. Don’t quit. He’ll come around. I guess a little more flour won’t hurt.”

  Her face brightened. “I’m making double batches of everything, and I’m delivering a bunch to the knitting competition. Eddie Acid is going to make a banner, thanking us. Free publicity!”

  I smiled, but the idea of more publicity and more customers made my heart sink. We had more than enough customers, as far as I was concerned.

  At 10:30, Amy and Frances came in and sat at a table by the kitchen. For the first time, Amy didn’t have a cat with her.

  “Today’s soups are chicken noodle, lobster bisque, lentil, and minestrone,” I said.

  “I’ll take a bowl of bisque and whatever Mouse made today,” Frances said.

  “I’ll take the chicken noodle, and,” Amy said and lowered her voice. “A serving of espionage.”

  “Not espionage, Amy. Reconnaissance,” Frances corrected. “We’re doing reconnaissance today, Agatha. Are you in?”

  “Yes,” I said without knowing what they meant by reconnaissance. The situation was dire. I was harboring a fugitive, and my two new friends and I were suspects in a murder. A killer was out there somewhere, and he might strike again. “What does reconnaissance mean?”

  “Oh, good,” Frances said, delighted. “We’re going to infiltrate the Area 38 protesters and learn more about Area 38 through them.”

  “We never found Area 38 yesterday, and then the thing happened, and my cats were slandered,” Amy said, sadly.

  “Amy’s prescribed rest for all of her clients, so she won’t be cat walking for about a week,” Frances explained.

  “Poor kitties. They’re traumatized,” Amy said.

  Frances shot me a quick look, and I understood that she was thinking the same thing I was: The only reason that Amy’s cats were traumatized was that they couldn’t eat more of Donald. But I decided to keep that thought to myself, and so did Frances.

  “How did the cats get out? How did they get there?” I asked Amy. The answer could go a long way to keeping her out of jail.

  Amy just shrugged. “No idea. I can’t help but think that it was done by a nefarious villain.”

  Amy and Frances started to eat, and I served the knitters who had come in to practice. When the Area 38 group arrived, Frances signaled to me, and we joined them at the stacks tables.

  “Today’s soups are chicken noodle, lobster bisque, lentil, minestrone,” I told the Area 38ers.

  “Which soup is best for physical activity?” one of the leaders asked.

  “Minestrone. Definitely,” Frances answered for me. She stuck her hand out. “Hi. Frances Finkelstein. Real estate agent and fellow concerned citizen. I’m here with my friends to lend our hands in your effort to bring down this conspiratorial Area 38.”

  “Really?” an Area 38er asked, excited. He was wearing a t-shirt with pictures of two fried eggs and a slice of bacon on it.

  “Yes, go us!” Amy shouted, raising her fist.

  “We’re doing trust exercises this afternoon. Are you in?” one of the leaders asked us.

  “Are we in? We’re in all the way. Isn’t that right, Agatha?” Frances said.

  “What’s a trust exercise?” I asked.

  “It’s going to solidify us as a team for when we break into Area 38 and reveal all of their evil secrets,” the breakfast shirt guy
explained.

  “We’re breaking in?” I asked, thinking about the electric fence and the Homeland Security agents. “What if they have guns?”

  “We’ve got that figured out,” he said.

  The door opened, and a woman walked in, carrying a casserole dish. I recognized her as one of the casserole stalkers. She signaled to me, and I walked up to her. “You can sit anywhere,” I told her.

  “I’m not here for soup. We’ve got a memorial for Donald outside, and I thought you would want to attend, since you were interested in him.”

  “Oh, that’s nice, but…” I started to decline her invitation, but then I changed my mind. The casserole stalkers might have information about Donald. “Sure. I’d love to.”

  “We’re starting now. You should bring something. We’ve already got three lasagnas, two macaroni and cheeses, four tuna casseroles, and a pot roast.”

  “I’ll bring lentil soup,” I offered.

  I got the soup and left Mouse in charge of the shop and Amy and Frances to dig dirt out of the Area 38 group. Outside, Sea Breeze was buzzing with activity. The lifeguard tower’s storage closet was still taped off, and people were taking selfies near it. Workers were hammering and sawing the bandstand, which looked like it was almost complete. Knitters were sitting in beach chairs in front of it, practicing their knitting skills.

  I found the group of casserole stalkers by the bandstand. They were standing in a circle, holding their casseroles, and in the center of them was a life-sized picture of Donald, which had obviously been taken when Donald was unaware. One of the casserole stalkers hit play on a boom box, and music began to play.

  “Donald White was a good man. A widower,” one of them started, her voice rising dramatically over the music. “And a good eater.”

  “I never saw him eat anything,” one of the stalkers interrupted.

  “That’s because you made him lasagna every damned day, Mary. Nobody likes lasagna every damned day. Try and be creative. Men in mourning don’t want lasagna.”

  The casserole stalkers with lasagnas started to complain. “Lasagna is the perfect food. It has all four food groups in it!” one of them yelled. “You take that back right this second.”

  “I will not. Lasagna is boring. Boring. Nobody wants lasagna.”

  There was an audible gasp, and then the insults started to fly. It was a free for all. The pot roast lady claimed superiority, but the tuna casserole ladies chastised her for not making an actual casserole.

  I was getting nowhere fast. Besides for Donald’s distaste for lasagna, I wasn’t getting any useful information. What had Donald been doing in the storage closet? Was he meeting someone? When the first handful of lasagna was thrown, I knew that I wasn’t going to get any closer to solving the mystery if I stayed with the casserole stalkers.

  The stalkers began throwing food in earnest. Large handfuls of casserole flew through the air, sent overhand with force and landing with loud splats on faces and other body parts. I stepped out of range until my back was up against the bandstand.

  “Hey, there, soup girl,” I heard behind me. Eddie Acid jumped down from the bandstand and stood next to me. “Are you ready to punk rock knit?”

  “I’m not much of a knitter,” I admitted.

  “Everyone’s welcome, babe,” he said and ran his ring-covered fingers through his Mohawk. “What’s going on over there?”

  “There’s not a lot of single men in Sea Breeze. It’s a problem,” I said.

  The casserole stalkers had finished with their food fight, and their argument over appropriate foods to catch a widower had expanded to physical violence. Women were rolling around in the grass, grunting and pulling hair.

  It was a step backward for feminism, for sure.

  A police siren blared, and a police car drove up to the park, followed by Remington’s car.

  “Man, this is so punk rock,” Eddie said. “Very Casbah.”

  “How’s the Knitting Championship coming along?” I asked him, as the police officer and Remington tried to corral the casserole stalkers. It was an uphill battle. The women were still rolling around on the ground, and now they were covered in food, which made them slippery. Neither the policeman or Remington could get a handhold on them.

  “Stop in the name of the police!” the police officer yelled and was taken down by the macaroni and cheese woman.

  “I can’t complain,” Eddie answered me. “It’s going to bring in some cold hard cash for charity and bring in some rockin’ press for punk rock. You know that punk rock is still alive, right?”

  “Of course,” I lied.

  “I mean, we punk rockers like our share of shit talk, but enough’s enough. People have to know that punk rock is alive and cool. Way cooler than that hip hop shit. Look at all of these enthusiastic knitters. They understand the value of punk rock.”

  He gestured toward the knitters, who had all stopped knitting and were standing, watching the policeman roll around the grass with a lasagna stalker. Remington was standing over them with his hands crossed in front of him, and he was shaking his head.

  “I think we’re going to have record turnout for the competition,” Eddie continued. “I heard press is coming in all the way from Los Angeles and Yuma.”

  “That’s exciting,” I said, but something in the grass near my foot had caught my attention. “What is that?” I asked, pointing.

  “Don’t know. Don’t care,” Eddie said. “I’m not responsible for litter. I got one job, and that’s all I plan on doing.”

  I leaned down and looked at the litter more closely. “It’s a knitting needle,” I said and picked it up. It was a green knitting needle, but half of it was red. Red and thick with goopy, dried blood.

  “A knitting needle is pretty sharp, right?” I asked Eddie. “Thin like an ice pick?”

  I held up the bloody knitting needle, as I examined it. Remington must have had a sixth sense when it came to me because he turned away from the casserole stalker riot and looked right at me. Then, his eyes were drawn to the bloody knitting needle in my hand, and he frowned.

  “It’s not my fault,” I called to him over the fray. “I just found it!”

  Chapter 13

  “I have not killed anyone. They will not let me.”

  –Dashiell Hammett

  The police station was so full, that they had to keep the front door open to make room for everyone. They didn’t have enough handcuffs for all of the casserole stalkers, so they used zip ties. Once everyone was secured, Remington ordered me into his office again.

  “You found it?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Yes. What’re the odds?”

  “With you, I’d say the odds are pretty good.” We stood almost touching. I had to crane my neck to look up at him. “The chief wants me to arrest you.”

  “So, the knitting needle is the murder weapon?”

  Remington nodded, smiling. “Yes, Aggie, and you seem pretty happy about it.”

  “I can’t believe I found the murder weapon. I’m like a detective genius.”

  “Rocky must have dropped it,” Remington said.

  “Rocky isn’t the killer. He’s afraid of blood.”

  “How do you know?” he asked me, his eyebrow arched high.

  It was all I could do not to tell him that Rocky was hiding in my house as we spoke. “Remember when he cut himself in the shop? He almost passed out.”

  “He could have gotten over his fear in order to kill Felicia and Donald. His bloodlust could be stronger than his fear.”

  “Oh,” I said. Darn it. He could be right. “Are you going to arrest me like the chief wants you to do?”

  “I should, just to keep you out of trouble, but we have a date tonight, and I don’t want to miss it.”

  “Oh,” I said. In the middle of everything, I had forgotten about our date. Dinner and maybe dessert. Holy smokes. My lust and fear were battling it out, and unlike with Rocky, I didn’t know which would win.

  “You look ne
rvous,” Remington said.

  “I’m not nervous at all,” I lied.

  He smiled. “That’s a shame. I like when you’re a little nervous. It tells me that there might be something to be nervous about, and it gets my blood pumping.”

  “Oh. Blood pumping,” I breathed. Remington traced his finger up my arm, and he leaned over so that his lips nearly touched mine. I was sure that he was going to kiss me. My first kiss. I licked my lips and got ready for it. He was so close that I could smell his breath. Yes! Yes! My first kiss! Yes! It was finally going to happen!

  Nope.

  No, it wasn’t.

  The door to the office burst open, and Eddie Acid marched in, interrupting our moment. “I’m going to sue your ass!” he shouted at Remington.

  Remington moved me behind him. “Excuse me, sir? How did you get back here? You’re supposed to be in an interrogation room.”

  “I’m Eddie Acid,” he said and posed. “And if you say that that knitting needle is a murder weapon, I’m going ruin this whole police department. You’ll all be on the street, and this Podunk department will be shuttered. You hear me?”

  Remington stared at him for a second, and I thought he was going to punch Eddie in the face. But he didn’t. Instead, he broke into laughter. He had a deep, rumbling contagious laugh, and I found myself giggling.

  “Hey, man, it’s all good. Don’t stress your heart,” Remington said. “I work for the city. I get paid no matter what. We’re all cool here. Tell me why you care about a knitting needle?”

  “Don’t you get it?” Eddie asked. “You’re saying a knitter killed that suburban loser.”

  “I am?” Remington asked. He turned to me. “Am I, Aggie? Is that what I’m saying?”

  “There are a lot of suspects, Eddie,” I said. “I’m a suspect, too.”

  Eddie pointed at Remington. “Just make sure none of the suspects are a knitter. The Punk Rock Knitters Championship will go off without a hitch. Or else!”

  That was going to be hard. Except for the Area 38ers and me, everyone in town was a knitter. There wasn’t a person in Sea Breeze who didn’t have yarn.