by Elise Sax
Frances seemed sure of herself, and her voice was steady, but the back of her blouse was wet through with sweat. I didn’t blame her. Even a good liar would have blanched under Bunty’s gaze.
“Bullshit,” Bunty said after a moment.
“Excuse me?” Frances asked, startled.
“Bullshit. I call bullshit on everything you said. You’re not here because of that dump of a house.”
“Frances really is selling that house,” Amy said, coming to Frances’s defense.
“I have no doubt. But you’ve been snooping around ever since Felicia was found with her head in a shark,” she said, pointing at me. “Am I correct to believe that this impromptu visit has something to do with that?”
“Uh,” I said.
“That’s what I guessed,” Bunty said, leaning back in her chair. “I saw you talking to those conspiracy theorists who set fire to the lifeguard tower, Agatha. I saw you with the new detective in town. I saw you with these two women. So, now it’s my turn? Go ahead. Shoot. What do you want to ask me?”
I took a deep breath. “Did you hate Felicia?”
“Why would I hate Felicia?” she asked without hesitating a second. “I don’t hate anybody. I don’t even hate the patriarchy, and you know why?” I shook my head. “Because I’m a strong, self-actualized woman. I don’t feel anger. I don’t feel envy. I am fine within myself because I understand my strength as a woman.”
She ran her hand over her hair, and her bicep flexed. She was definitely a strong woman. She worked out every day of her life. I bet she could crack walnuts between her butt cheeks.
“So, you didn’t care that she was having an affair with your husband?” Frances asked, bravely. Frances was strong too. Sure, she probably couldn’t crack walnuts between her butt cheeks, but I’d want her watching my back in a knife fight any time.
“Is that why you’re here?” Bunty asked. “I don’t care that Sid had an affair with Felicia. Sid has had many affairs. So have I. We’re a very proud, openly polyamorous couple.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“It means they have lots of penises and vaginas,” Frances said.
“They share lots of penises and vaginas, you mean. Am I right?’ Amy asked Bunty.
“Sid and I have a very committed relationship, and we share our love with other men and women when we wish. It adds to our marriage beautifully. It doesn’t take away from it.”
It was hard to believe that a marriage could work like that, but I was currently experiencing a similar situation. One vagina. Two penises. Both Remington and John were in my life, and I had no idea what to do about it. I was pretty sure that neither of them would have been happy with a polyamorous relationship, however.
“Sid and Felicia were seeing each other for six months, and it was wonderful,” Bunty continued. “It made him happy, and it gave him a newfound zeal for life. It spurred on our lovemaking. It fueled our excitement. I highly recommend the polyamorous lifestyle. I’m multi-orgasmic, you know.”
“Bull hockey,” Amy said afterward, while Frances drove us back into town. “I was married for ten years, and no way would that polyamorous thing have added to our marriage.”
“She seemed pretty happy about it,” I said.
“I agree,” Frances said. “She didn’t act like any scorned woman I’ve ever known.”
Frances dropped me at the soup shop and drove off to make fudge for her office. Amy said goodbye, too, because she wanted to visit her cat customers who were recovering at their respective homes from the trauma of eating Donald’s eyes.
I watched them recede into the distance, and I took a moment outside to breathe in the sea air and enjoy the moment of solitude. Moments alone were few and far between lately. My life was full of suspects and escaped suspects, a live man and a dead one, aunts, customers, and new friends who were also suspects. That was a lot for someone who spent most of her life working nights in a lighthouse.
Across the street, the bandstand was nearly finished being built. A crowd of knitters were standing near it, huddled in conversation. Every once in a while, one of their heads would pop out of the huddle to throw a dirty look at the Area 38 group, which was close by, preparing to be shot.
The group was standing in a line, holding hands, like a human chain. A man faced them a few yards away, and he pulled out a pistol.
Uh-oh.
This wasn’t going to turn out well, I thought.
But for once, I would be nowhere near the action. I was across the street, and Remington wouldn’t be able to blame me for the disaster. The armed man raised his gun high and shot into the air. The bullet went up and then back down, shooting a hole through a trash can.
Everyone screamed. Three of the Area 38ers ran for their lives right into the ocean. I supposed they were more afraid of getting shot than they were of raw sewage and flesh-eating bacteria.
“Close ranks!” one of the Area 38 group leaders shouted.
“Keep the chain tight! Bullets can’t get us if we keep the chain tight!” another shouted.
Unbelievably, the man with the gun shot in the air again, just as the entire Sea Breeze Police Department arrived. The bullet went up and then down again, this time going through a tire of one of the police cars. Remington went after the armed man, who in turn dropped his gun on the ground and ran for it.
Remington was faster and caught him easily. He handcuffed the shooter, and that’s when he saw me watching the whole thing. I could see his disapproving expression from across the street.
“That’s enough!” Eddie Acid bellowed over a loudspeaker on the bandstand. “Knitters, unite! Get the conspiracy theorists before they screw up punk rock and knitting forever!”
The knitters complied and moved into action. They brandished their knitting needles and went after the remaining Area 38ers. The police ran to block the knitters. I noticed that Remington kept looking my way as he confiscated knitting needles from old ladies, who were intent on showing the Area 38ers who was boss. I was glad not to be involved for a change, and with Remington’s attention on me, I decided I had had enough fresh air and snuck back into the soup shop.
For once, it was completely empty except for Mouse, who was sitting at a table reading a romance novel from one of the stacks.
“We’re experiencing a weird lull,” she said when I entered. “But a nice break.”
“A lot’s happening outside,” I said. “Maybe they’re all out there.”
“More dead people?”
“I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway. Maybe we should close up a little early. Do you smell that?”
Mouse closed her book. “Yes. I’ve been smelling it for over an hour.”
“Something’s burning,” I said, checking on the cauldrons.
“I checked the cauldrons and the ovens. It’s not coming from us.”
I inhaled. “It’s a weird burning smell. It’s not like the lifeguard tower or a burned soup.”
Mouse wrinkled her nose. “Metallic. Is it possible to burn metal?”
It was. “There isn’t a blacksmith around here is there?”
“No, but there’s a small artist studio next door in the back by the alley,” Mouse said.
“What kind of artist?”
“He does a lot of drugs.”
“I’m going to check it out,” I told her and left the soup shop through the back door.
The alley was narrow and full of potholes. At least three homeless men were calling it home, and I sidestepped one man’s small tent to get next door. There was a small metal plaque with Jesus Art and Utility written on the small metal door. I knocked on it.
“Hello? Hello? Is anyone in there? Is something burning in there?” I called and waited for a reply “Hello?” I put my ear to the door, but there wasn’t a sound. I didn’t think anyone was inside.
I tried the door handle, and the door gave way, opening. The smell was stronger with the door open. It was almost caustic, and my lungs rebelled, la
unching me into a coughing fit. I covered my mouth and nose with my sleeve and walked inside.
The studio was small and dark with high ceilings. It was dingy and dirty, and the smell was god-awful. The walls were covered with handcrafted metal tools. Squinting against the darkness, I took a closer look at them. Each tool looked like an antique. There were farming tools that looked like they had come out of the nineteenth century and household tools that looked like they came out of The Little House on the Prairie. And there were fishing tools.
And whaling tools.
I gasped in surprise, and inadvertently sucked in more of the caustic odor, which launched me into another coughing fit. When it finally died down, I took one of the tools off the wall. I had seen its exact twin, of course. It was identical to the antique whaling hook that I found in Rocky’s van. Except for the goopy blood in the blade, it was exactly the same.
The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and goosebumps sprouted on my arms. I turned around in place, searching for an attacker. Odds were that I was in the killer’s den. I clutched the whaling hook to my body to use as protection and backed up until I was against a wall.
I had a decision to make. I could make a run for the exit, or I could search the rest of the studio. As much as I didn’t want my face ripped off, I wanted to finish my detective-ing. I wanted to solve the mystery. Find justice for the murdered.
So, instead of going toward the exit, I walked deeper into the dark studio. After each step forward, I paused, sure that the killer was going to leap out of the shadows and kill me. I giggled and clamped my mouth shut. It was almost fun to be afraid for my life, I realized. It was unfamiliar and thrilling, like a rollercoaster ride or eating very spicy food.
The further back in the studio I went, the messier and more cluttered it was, with discarded materials and trash. I took another couple of steps and tripped over something. The whaling hook flew out of my hand, and I braced myself for the fall, landing on my forearms.
“Ow!” I cried, and again expected a killer to jump out of the shadows and kill me. But nothing happened, and I was now convinced that I was the only one in the studio. I lifted myself up to a seated position on the floor and rubbed my bruised arms. My eyes finally adjusted to the dim light, and I looked down to see what I had tripped over.
“What the hell?” I said out loud, looking at it.
The door to the studio creaked, and heavy footsteps came closer. “Aggie, are you in here?” I heard. It was Remington.
“Over here!” I called. He clicked on his flashlight, and I watched as the light got closer to me. “Be careful. Don’t trip.”
“Mouse said you were over here. Just checking to make sure you weren’t shot or run through with a knitting needle.” Remington stopped by me and shined the light on the floor. “What on earth?” he asked.
“I think that’s Jesus. He’s the artist. Or he was the artist. He made antique whaling hooks, among other things.”
“What the hell is on his head?” Remington asked shining the light on him.
That was a good question. Jesus’s head was encased in a round helmet of molten metal. “Maybe lead?” I said like a question. “What a horrible way to die.”
Remington scratched his chin. “Well, there’s something you don’t see every day.”
Chapter 16
“It’s awfully easy to be in love in jail.”
–Dashiell Hammett
“What did you do?” Remington demanded.
“Nothing. I just found him like this,” I said, gesturing at poor Jesus’s head, which was encased in a giant bubble of molten lead.
“You found him? Again? Do you have a dead body GPS in your pocket or something?”
“Hey, I can’t help it if I find things.” From my spot, sitting cross-legged on the floor, I had to crane my head to talk to Remington. Actually, I had to crane my head to talk to him when I was standing, too. But now it was like he was Zeus on the mountain top, and I was a doomed human waiting to get lightning bolted.
“Stop finding things,” he ordered. “I thought we agreed that you would stop finding things. How am I going to keep you out of the slammer for this one?”
“You think I walked in here and poured molten lead over this unfortunate man’s head? That’s a little far-fetched.”
“So are cats eating eyes and a woman’s head in a shark’s mouth,” he said.
Remington had a point. I got on all fours and inspected Jesus’s body.
“Don’t do that,” Remington ordered me. “Don’t inspect his body.”
“I’m not,” I lied.
“Aggie, don’t try to lie. I mean, don’t try to lie ever. Know your talents.”
“Fine. I’m inspecting the body. Shine the light down here.”
“Okay, but don’t touch anything,” he said.
“I’m not an amateur, you know,” I said.
Jesus’s body looked unharmed except for his head. His fingers were blackened, though. “Do you think that’s lead, too?” I asked Remington, pointing to Jesus’s fingers.
“Could be.”
“His watch is broken. The watch face has been shattered, and there are glass shards by the body. Oh, no,” I moaned, looking at the watch.
“What? What is it?”
“It says two o’clock. That means that Bunty has an alibi. I was with her at two o’clock.”
Remington shined the light on me. “What do you mean she has an alibi? Why does Bunty need an alibi? Who’s Bunty? Why were you with her?”
“Bunty and Sid are polyamorous. Sid was having an affair with Felicia. I thought that Bunty killed her. She doesn’t eat sugar, so she’s mean, and I thought that she was mean enough to kill Felicia and Donald. But Bunty was with me.”
Remington crouched down. “Aggie Bright, would you do me a favor, please?” he asked. He was calm and sweet and very handsome. My skin tingled, and I wondered if he was going to kiss me over the murdered body of poor Jesus.
“Of course. What do you need?” I asked and licked my lips to get ready for a kiss.
“I need you to…stop talking to suspects!” he roared, loudly. “Any person who would encase a man’s head in molten lead is not a nice person. Do you understand me?” I nodded. “Do you really want to be eaten by cats? Do you really want your face ripped off? What’s wrong with you? Are you pathological?”
“I’m not sure,” I said.
“Stop finding things. Stop snooping. Stop talking to would-be killers. Chasing a glowing man is one thing, but you’re risking your life here.”
In all the excitement, I had forgotten about the glowing man. “Did the lab tests come back from the rock?”
“Not yet. Next week. Do we have a deal?”
“I don’t know how I can make a deal about not finding things,” I answered, reasonably. “I wasn’t with the Area 38ers when they charged the man with the gun, you know. That’s something, right?”
“Yes, although you were watching from across the street. I had my suspicions about your involvement.”
“Hey, speaking of that, was anyone shot?” I asked.
“Yes. After I handcuffed the guy, a patrolman retrieved the weapon and dropped it. The gun went off and shot Eddie Acid.”
“You’re kidding. Is he okay?”
Remington slumped onto the floor and sat cross-legged. “I wish I was kidding. He’s fine. Shot him right in the ass. From what I gather from Eddie, a punk rocker needs his ass, so he threatened to sue me again.”
“Oh, no. Are you going to be all right?”
“Yes. We dropped the charges against the knitters in exchange for Eddie to stop all lawsuits. The other good news is that the conspiracy group has given up on Area 38. They no longer believe they’re bulletproof, and they no longer care if the government is making men glow. They moved on to working on their cosplay costumes for the next Comic-Con.”
“A lot’s been going on,” I noted.
Remington looked down at the dead body. “And we seem t
o have a serial killer in town. I’ll bet money that Rocky is the culprit. Somehow, he escaped his watery tomb, and he’s killing folks. Maybe I should have gotten transferred to Los Angeles. It’s not as violent there as it is here.”
“I don’t think it’s a serial killer, and I don’t think Rocky’s the culprit,” I said honestly. “Molten lead is personal.”
“How do you figure that?” Remington asked.
“Felicia’s face, Donald’s eyes, and now Jesus’s head. The killer knew all three, and it’s personal. Besides, Jesus knew who the killer was. He made the murder weapon for the killer, and the killer needed to bump off the witness.”
Remington arched an eyebrow and cocked his head to the side. “You sound very sure of yourself.”
“I’ve been reading Raymond Chandler. It’s all there in his books.”
Rocky was in a dark funk ever since I returned home and told him that there was another murder, and that he was the number one suspect.
Auntie Ida brought Rocky’s hand to her ample chest. “That’s okay, Rocky. You’re more than welcome to stay with us forever.”
“I’ll make you pancakes,” Auntie Tilly offered. “That’ll perk you right up.”
Rocky didn’t look thrilled at either offer. His chin sank to his chest, and he sighed like he was exhausted.
“You know damned well that Rocky doesn’t like pancakes,” Auntie Ida scolded Auntie Tilly. “You just want to make the pancakes for yourself.”
“You take that back,” Tilly screeched. She pushed Rocky aside and got in Auntie Ida’s face. They were the same height, and their noses almost touched as they faced off.
“I will not take that back,” Auntie Ida yelled. “It’s the truth. I’ve never seen a woman eat so many pancakes in all my life. It’s a wonder that batter doesn’t come out of your pores when you sweat.”
Rocky sat at the kitchen table and put his hands over his eyes.
“Pipe down,” I told my aunts. “You’re scaring the guest.”
They turned to look at Rocky. “How about we cook him a nice roasted chicken? That’ll make him happy,” Auntie Tilly suggested.