Death on Planet Pizza

by Madeline Lepore Martin

  "It's none of my business, but..." Brianne turned her brilliant gaze upon Spenser. "May I ask you a question?"

  "Sure."

  "Your monologue with our woody friend - have you been questioning your raison d'etre?"

  "Doesn't everyone?" Spenser's answer came trippingly off her tongue but left a bitter aftertaste.

  "I guess." Brianne's thoughts turned inward.

  "Have you?"

  The director shielded her eyes from the setting sun. Her answer came slowly, almost painfully. "Samuel Johnson once wrote that 'There are innumerable questions to which the inquisitive mind can receive no answer; why do you and I exist? Why was this world created?'" She turned her face away from the sun and studied her hands. "I'm afraid I have one of those inquisitive minds."

  "So, we're doomed to keep asking unanswerable questions? Guinea Pigs condemned to run in circles?"

  "Maybe not so much condemned as resigned." Brianne looked squarely at Spenser. "Death has been a frequent visitor in your life."

  The statement, though accurate enough, shocked Spenser. "What makes you think so?"

  "The way you reacted to Pam's and Chloe's deaths. I've seen that pain before."

  Spenser watched the sun playing peek-a-boo around the arbor slats. "You'd think that after a while you'd get better at handling it. You know?"

  "No one can really handle it. The most we can hope for is to be able to deal with it. Then, hopefully, get on with the rest of our lives." Brianne studied Spenser thoughtfully. "Would you like to talk about it?"

  Spenser's thoughts were suddenly so filled with Asa that her words came tumbling out like water escaping a crumbling dam. "My brother, Asa, would have been 35 next month. He was struck by a train when he was only 11-years-old." Spenser felt the tears upon her cheeks and decided not to brush them away. “I told him I hated him and that he was a jerk. Those were the last words I spoke to him.” Brianne touched Spenser's arm lightly. "He died before I could tell him how much I loved him."

  Spenser willed herself to stop. She clamped her eyes shut, tensed her entire body feeling every muscle, then let the tension ease. She opened her eyes but avoided looking at the doctor. "I'm sorry. I don't know where that came from."

  "Maybe from years of blaming yourself for something that you could not control?" Brianne placed her arm around Spenser's shoulders. "Asa loved you, Spenser. You know that. And he's forgiven you for being so very human. You know that, too."

  "I hope so." Spenser reached into her pocket, drew out a tissue, blew her nose, and forced an awkward smile. "Thank you."

  Brianne picked up a burnt brown leaf, pressing it with her fingers. Spenser watched as the leaf crumbled into finite dust. "You're welcome." Brianne's smile was radiant.

  Spenser listened as the wind tickled the sycamores, trying to banish morbid thoughts. Without success, it would seem. Thoughts of Asa and Randy suddenly brought on thoughts of Pam and Chloe. "Brianne, how did Chloe die?"

  "Chloe?"

  “I was wondering if her death was ... expected.” As opposed to what, Isaacs? “I mean, I didn’t know Chloe was ill.”

  “It was sudden, but not surprising. Heart failure.”

  Pam's heart, Chloe's heart? “But she had muscular dystrophy, right? Not a heart problem.”

  “The disease can put a tremendous strain on vital organs,” said Brianne, her tone soft and sad.

  Should I say something wondered Spenser? Oh, what the hell. In for a penny ... "You know Tucker Watts writes stories?"

  "Oh, yes," Brianne smiled. “I hear they’re quite entertaining.”

  "They really are. He has a way of making ordinary happenings into adventures. They chronicle things that happen to him and his friends. They’re fantastical but, rooted in, if not reality, then at least an honest representation of what he experiences. He doesn't really make things up so much as he embellishes on the things that happen to him throughout his day."

  Spenser stopped to catch her breath and marshal her thoughts. "It seems that his latest story is about Chloe. About her death.”

  “That’s natural,” remarked Brianne.

  Spenser barreled on. “About her death being, well, not to put too fine a point on it, murder.” There, she said it.

  Brianne’s brows furrowed at the ugly word. Spenser saw, what? Worry, anxiety, fear? The doctor closed her eyes for a moment and when she opened them, she was once again in analyst mode. The look of concern on the director’s face had been so fleeting that Spenser wondered if she had actually seen anything at all.

  "Spenser..." Brianne's voice was soft and soothing. "What Tucker is experiencing is very natural. And recreational therapy in the form of story writing is a valid discipline. What Tucker writes becomes catharsis. A healthy and, oftentimes, valuable way to deal with death."

  Spenser thought about this for a moment. It probably was a valid diagnosis. So why wasn’t she entirely convinced? "But why would he intimate that she was murdered?"

  "I'm afraid we can blame the violence on television, movies and video games for that. Tucker may be lashing out at the injustice of his friend's long-suffering illness by allowing her to die more heroically, at least in his eyes." Brianne rose and placed her hand on Spenser's shoulder. "It is simply a coping mechanism. Try not to worry, Spenser. Tucker will be fine once the pain of loss has eased. I’ll ask Kay to check on him"

  Spenser rose. "Thank you. Again.”

  "You're welcome."

  Spenser watched the doctor walk away then followed the curving arbor toward her car. She was grateful for her talk with Brianne, but a niggling sense of something not quite right kept intruding. Fantastic as it sounded in her head, what if Tucker’s story was not entirely fiction? "Right." Spenser shook her head, got in her car and drove home to a warm night's sleep in her warm tin house.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Friday - evening

  Ival Overoye stood at the shed window, a nasty snarl making his already ugly face even uglier. He grinned a gargoyle grin as he watched the ghostly rays of the moon make prisms on the eight-karat diamond he held. He placed the ring back into the tool caddy then picked out a locket from the other objects in his hand. He turned it around and around, opening it and closing it, convinced it was pure silver. He fingered the delicate CN monogram on the locket face, his smile wicked, vile, then returned it and the rest of the goodies to his tool box. It was a good haul. Working at the Sunflower was finally starting to pay off. He'd pocketed a goodly sum by stealing from the dead in this dead-end job and he liked the extra cash.

  He locked the shed and headed smugly to his small cottage, his mind bouncing the values of his booty around, calculating and recalculating his cut, when a sound stopped him in his tracks. He watched as the one they called Gina Mae walked past the shed and down to the pond. He'd warned them he didn't know how many times to stay away from this area. That damn concrete bench was too damn close to his damn tool shed. She was going to be trouble, he just knew it. Two more rejects joined the Mongoloid.

  Overoye snuck behind a blooming dogwood, watching them stumble toward the oak trees, then he followed.

  As they walked, Patty scanned the darkness for boogie-men, especially ones named Ival. "What if Mr Overoye sees us," she whispered.

  "His house is dark and so's the shed," answered Gina Mae.

  "Maybe he's a vampire and can see in the dark," yelped Patty as she saw a shadow silhouetted by moon glow.

  Amy and Gina Mae yelped in reply. Gina Mae scanned the view before them. "It's a tree, you dope," she said, hitting Patty on the arm.

  "Ow," said Patty, rubbing her arm.

  The three friends ducked under the tree bows and disappeared into the copse of trees.

  Overoye grabbed the hammer hanging from his pant leg loop and thwacked it rhythmically into his palm. "Goddamn retards." He spat into the darkness. He followed the contour of the pond, the oleanders shielding him from view. The Mongoloid was reading something, but he couldn’t really make out what.

/>   He caught a word here and there. Something about a pirate and a cave. None of it was making sense. He needed to get closer. Crouching as low as he dared on his wonky knees, he shuffled forward until he was within inches of the meeting place.

  “And there was One-Eye in the cave and he had a sword and he was stabbing Chloe and Gina Mae was screaming.”

  What the fuck?

  “And they cried and buried Chloe with some flowers and then they rode Tucker's black stallion along the ocean and they were holding hands and kissing. The end.”

  What the hell was all of this?

  "Tucker's story was scary, Gina Mae," the one called Amy was saying. “I didn’t like all that stuff about pirates and how he stealed stuff and killed Chloe and such.”

  Alarm bells started clanging in Overoye’s head.

  Gina Mae ignored Amy. "Well, I liked the end. A lot. Tucker killed One-Eye and we found all the treasure." She waved the blue notebook in the air.

  “Tucker’s gonna be mad you took his notebook, ya know,” admonished Amy.

  “I’m gonna give it back.” Gina Mae smiled thinking of how she would slip into Tucker’s room tomorrow when he was in rehearsal and replace his precious storybook. No one would see her. She’d be cool. Just like a spy.

  "I don't want to do this anymore," complained Patty. "Judy saw me following her and told Mrs Quinn-Jackson that I was a pervert." Patty wiped her nose on her sleeve and turned to Amy. "What's a pervert?"

  Gina Mae frowned at Patty. "They aren't supposed to see you, you dope."

  "Judy's never gonna speak to me again and I don't want to do this anymore," Patty whimpered.

  Amy patted Patty's arm and turned to face Gina Mae. "I think we should stop snooping, Gina Mae. I've been following Jennifer, Mari and Laurie and they haven't stolen anything. 'Cept Mari. She took an extra piece of chocolate cake last night when no one was looking."

  Gina Mae set her jaw. "You guys can stop if you want, but I'm not gonna. The Sunflower Detective Agency is going to find out who's been stealing all our stuff."

  “Whatever,” said Amy.

  Overoye couldn't believe it. That's all he needed was some bird-brained idiot messin' in his business. It looked like he was gonna have to add to that list of things that needed doin’. He stepped closer to hear better and dislodged a stone.

  Gina Mae, Patty and Amy froze. "What was that?" stuttered Patty.

  "Maybe we better go back," offered Amy timidly.

  "It's awful late, huh, Gina Mae? Ain't it awful late?" whispered Patty.

  "You guys are big babies," chastised Gina Mae.

  "Are not," defended Patty. "It's just late is all."

  Gina Mae would have continued with the meeting, but seeing as how Amy and Patty were being real dorks, they may as well go back. "Oh all right," she said, reluctantly standing up. “But I ain’t giving up.”

  Ival Overoye crept away from the trees and slithered back toward his cottage. He knew it. He knew that Mongoloid was going to be a problem. He'd 'bout had enough of this shit. First, fuckin’ Saunders saddles him with making a goddamn thee-ayter set for her prize rejects, then she tells him, tells him mind you, to play second fiddle to some glass-ass bitch. Now this.

  Well, he'd just have to do something about that, now wouldn't he. Ival Overoye hefted the hammer in his hand. Besides, he was good at fixing problems. Yeah, he was damn good at fixing problems.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Saturday - morning

  "'Preciate you giving up your Saturday morning." Spenser swerved trying to avoid a pothole and hit one anyway.

  "Ulterior motive," confided Bea, tightening her seat belt as Spenser navigated the bumpy ride to the Sunflower.

  "Trying to get in good with Tucker so he'll share his booty, huh?"

  "What a depraved notion." Bea was indignant. "It is pure altruism. I want to contribute to the Sunflower's efforts. Show my support."

  "And get in good with Tucker so he'll give you some of his Halloween candy." Spenser smiled knowingly.

  "You are such a cynic."

  "I thought you were going to the museum with Bob or Ted or Fred or Alice."

  "Lonny."

  "Lonny?" Spenser was puzzled. "Wasn't Lonny the one who joined the Foreign Legion?"

  "Peace Corps," corrected Bea. "And that was Paul."

  "Lonny's the pearl diver, then."

  "Lonny's more a muff diver." Bea said it mostly to shock Spenser.

  "Bea!" Spenser wondered if Bea said things like that simply to shock her.

  "Well, he is." Bea was totally unrepentant. "John was the diver. Abalone, I believe. Lonny's my boss's son."

  "Abe Peralta's only twenty-three years old! What’d that make his son, three?"

  "Not that boss." Bea repositioned herself more comfortably in the seat. "Abe's in charge of assignments. Valerie James is project manager. Lonny's her son. And believe me she hasn't seen the sunny side of twenty-three in many a moon."

  "All right." Spenser was determined to figure this out if it killed her. "So, weren't you supposed to go to the museum with Lonny?"

  "You know I only go to museums with you. God, don't you ever hear anything I say?"

  "I always hear what you say. I just rarely listen."

  "Cute. Lonny wanted to take me to the marina not the museum."

  Spenser was puzzled. "Bea, you love the ocean."

  "Yes. I do."

  "So naturally you said no to a day of surf and sand." Spenser squinted at her friend.

  Bea's mouth pursed as if she'd just tasted a lemon. "It was a swap party."

  "A what?"

  "A swap party. I’d go with Lonny, we’d...,” Bea tried to think of a way to say it while catering to Spenser’s delicate sensibilities. “We’d enjoy each other’s company. As it were.” Spenser rolled her eyes. “Then we’d switch with his friend George and George’s current girlfriend."

  "You're serious?" Spenser couldn't believe what she'd just heard.

  "Seriously serious. Can you believe the huevos of that horny bugger?"

  "The pig. I'm proud of you for saying no."

  "Hey, I'm not that kind of girl." Bea paused a half beat. "Wait a minute. Yes, I am." She fumbled for her moral compass, then just gave up. Her mischievous eyes lighted on Spenser. "Just not with George. I mean, I do have to draw the line somewhere."

  Spenser suspected her friend's morals had fractionally little to do with her decision. "Dog meat?"

  "Like flies on poi."

  "Eww!"

  The best buds laughed hysterically as Spenser parked the Shadow in the shadows of the Sunflower's largest oak. They walked into the cool reception area and found Adrienne staring at the ceiling trying to moisten her eyes with Visine. Unsuccessfully. The clear liquid was hitting every inch of her face except her eyes.

  "Can I help?" offered Bea, the Girl Scout.

  "Please," answered a frustrated Adrienne.

  Bea opened an eyelid with one hand and expertly administered the drops with the other. It took all of fifteen seconds. "Ah, thank you, Bea. I was running out of fluid."

  "Anytime, A." Bea capped the bottle and handed it to the grateful receptionist.

  "Is Shumway gone?" asked Spenser.

  "Yes," confirmed Adrienne. "Thank you, Jesus."

  "He really is a dork," joined Bea. "I must say."

  Everyone cracked up.

  "I feel sorry for Belle, though," added Adrienne. Spenser and Bea nodded in agreement. "He also recruited poor Celine and a couple of attendants." She wrinkled up her nose. "Can you imagine three days with that man? Yuck."

  "At least he's outta your hair," commiserated Bea.

  "Yep." Adrienne's smile swallowed the room.

  "Everyone in the theatre?" asked Spenser.

  "Everyone who's left."

  Spenser and Bea bid adieu and headed for the theatre, running smack dab into the ever efficient Kanesha Quinn-Jackson in the process. Clipboard in hand and authority oozing out of every pore, Kanesha was in c
onstant motion, even when standing still. Her head bobbed and weaved like a prizefighter in the first round. Her shoulders ebbed and flowed emphasizing her conversation. One look at the former staff sergeant would convince even the most blasé that this dynamo was a hard case, bad ass, taking no shit female, unapproachable and humorless. And they would be wrong as Spenser found out quite by accident.