Again with feeling, p.5
Again with Feeling, page 5
part #6 of The Last Picks Series
“Five years after Richard disappeared,” I said.
“After he died,” Bobby said. He frowned. “That’s strange.”
Indira frowned. “I’m not sure it is. After all, Candy told you that the four of them were all close in high school. Vivienne had moved away. Richard was gone. I don’t think it’s all that unusual for two people who were already close and both dealing with different kinds of loss to find comfort in each other.”
Millie shot up in her seat again. “OR THEY KILLED HIM TOGETHER!”
“Usually, we try not to sound so gleeful,” I muttered with another apologetic wave for the people in the next booth. Wispy Mustache Guy had spilled his drink on himself.
“That certainly seems like a possibility,” Fox said, “but why? I mean, if they were having an affair and wanted to be together, Jane could have divorced Richard and married Neil. It was the 1980s, not the 1880s.”
“An argument,” I said. “Candy told us Richard and Jane were fighting constantly. They had a fight the night Richard disappeared. Jane left the house that night, according to Candy, but maybe when she came back, the fight picked up again and got out of hand.”
Keme said, “Or he did it.”
“That’s a good point,” Indira said. “It’s equally likely that Richard argued with Neil about the affair. Like you said, Dash, things might have escalated. He certainly seems to have stepped into Richard’s life—the jewelry, the house, the wife.”
“Except there doesn’t seem to be any evidence of a physical altercation,” Bobby said. “Remember? The medical examiner didn’t find anything.”
Waving the words away, Fox said, “She poisoned him. A little antifreeze in his coffee every morning.”
“Aren’t we forgetting someone?” Bobby waited, and when no one spoke, he said, “We’ve already got a suspect we know is guilty of multiple homicides. I’m not saying that automatically makes her guilty, but she’s got to be a consideration.”
I shrugged. “I know, but I can’t figure out why Vivienne would ask me to investigate if she’s the one who killed Richard. I mean, why not leave it alone? Or let the police investigate and try to build a case? It’s not like it’s going to matter one way or another, with the sentences she’s already facing.”
“I think it does matter, though,” Indira said. “I’m not saying it means Vivienne’s innocent, but Vivienne cared—cares—deeply about her appearance. I don’t think she was exaggerating when she said she didn’t want to be known as a kin slayer.”
“Plus, she might want revenge,” Millie said. “Oh, Dash, maybe she wants revenge on you too, and THIS IS PART OF THE PLAN!”
“Uh, thanks, Millie. I hadn’t considered that terrifying possibility yet.”
Keme pushed his hair behind his ears and said, “What about the dad?”
Bobby and I looked at each other.
“That lady, the sister, she told you the dad got sick,” Keme said. “Maybe he needed the money.”
“I think that was later,” I said slowly. “Candy was talking about Vivienne by that point, about how she’d never share her money. But you might be on to something. He definitely didn’t like that we were looking at the slough. And he was eavesdropping on the conversation.”
Bobby made a face. “I should have thought of that. It wasn’t until Candy brought him up in the conversation that he interrupted, and then he couldn’t get us out of there fast enough.”
“You know who I think did it?” Millie said. She waited, and I could tell she was working up to something, but even so, I wasn’t prepared for the sheer magnitude of: “CANDY!”
In the next booth, a glass shattered. (Kidding.)
“They’re sisters, right?” Millie said. “And it sounds like Candy is SUPER jealous of Vivienne, like, her success and everything. AND—” She even held up a finger. “—she was eager to insert herself in the investigation so she could tell you bad stuff about everyone else, which is what some killers do because they want attention. I saw that on TV when Fox made me watch that show with all the widows who were killing each other.”
“I have no idea what that was,” Fox said, “but I want to watch it again.”
I opened my mouth, but before I could speak, Millie said, “AND Candy had opportunity, in terms of the murder. She lived right next door to Richard, and she was home the night he disappeared. And Dash, you always say that if we can establish opportunity, then we consider the person a suspect and look for motive.”
“I do?” I asked.
“There was definitely something off about her,” Bobby said.
“The kimono,” I said.
“She has a lot of resentment—”
“The nail polish.”
“—and she was quick to blame Vivienne—”
“Oh, and she fell instantly in love with Bobby. So, zero gaydar.”
“—but her explanation for why she believes it was Vivienne is pretty weak.” Bobby turned in his seat. “Do you want to go over that last part again?”
I grinned and shook my head.
“She fell in love with you?” Millie actually clasped her hands. “That’s so sweet!”
“Bobby doesn’t show up on gaydar,” Fox said. “He’s not even a blip. Oh, except when I saw him snogging that little powderpuff on the boardwalk the other day. Was that Kiefer?”
“No,” Bobby said, and I thought a little color came into his cheeks, “and—”
“It’s the way he walks,” Keme said.
“Oh my God,” Millie said. “It IS the way he walks. AND HIS HAIR.”
“His hair—” I tried.
At the same time, Bobby said, “My hair—”
“And his jeans,” Fox said. “Marvelous hind end, but sometimes it’s like a pair of bowling balls swimming around in a denim sack.”
“What is happening?” Bobby said, mostly to himself.
“Just let it wash over you,” I said. “They wear themselves out eventually.” In a louder voice—to our alleged friends—I said, “Bobby shows up just fine on gaydar, thank you very much. And for your information, it’s fine for some gay guys, like us, to present as more traditionally masculine.”
Silence.
A single, nervously high giggle escaped Millie before she clamped a hand over her mouth.
Keme pulled up his hood and appeared to die quietly of secondhand embarrassment.
Fox fixed their gaze in the middle distance.
But worst of all was Indira, who stretched across the table to PAT MY HAND.
And Bobby looked like he was dedicating all his considerable skill to keeping his face expressionless.
“Are you guys kidding me?” I asked.
“Don’t answer that,” Bobby said in what sounded like his official deputy voice. Then his face changed, and he pulled out his phone. He read whatever was on the screen and said something that they definitely don’t teach you in preschool, and then he nudged me to let him out of the booth.
“What’s up?” I asked as I slid out.
“I forgot,” he said. “I’m late.”
“Forgot what?”
“IS IT ANOTHER DATE?” Millie asked.
The music changed. It was Taylor Swift, which I felt was a stretch for Country Night, but I was too focused on Bobby’s sudden departure to notice which song.
“I’ll see you guys later,” Bobby said. He gave the back of my head a quick scruff, almost pulling me into a hug, and then, with a wave for everyone else, he darted toward the door.
As I settled back into the booth, Fox said, “He’s certainly in a hurry.”
“Millie’s right,” I said. “Probably another hot date with another new guy. And we’ll have to pretend to remember his name. And then, in another week, it’ll be someone else.”
Indira and Fox exchanged looks. Millie and Keme exchanged looks.
“What?” I asked.
Indira patted my hand again and said to Fox, “Could you give me a ride home?”
“Of course,” Fox said. “Keme?”
The boy glanced at Millie, but she shook her head. “I’ve got to get home and pack up a couple of pieces I sold on Etsy.”
Keme cocked his head.
“No, I don’t need any help,” Millie answered. “But thank you.”
Keme looked like he was scrambling to come up with another, equally valid reason they should spend more time together.
With a little breath of a laugh, Fox caught his arm and said, “Come on.”
The four of them left after settling up, and I paid my tab—and Bobby’s, which was totally fair since if you counted all the donuts he brought me, I owed him a lot of money. I thought about ordering another drink—a gimlet, maybe. The thought surprised me, since it was one of those old-fashioned drinks that I associated with Chandler and Hammett and the like. At one point in my life, those had been my drinks of choice, but since moving to Hastings Rock, I’d found myself…branching out.
Only now, for some reason, a gimlet was on my mind. A noir drink for a noir night, I thought, which sounded too melodramatic even for me—but also, true. Because to my own surprise, my mood had soured. I couldn’t put my finger on why, but it had. I thought about the look on Bobby’s face when he read the message on his phone. The way he’d bumped his hip against mine to get me moving out of the booth. Those strong fingers running through my hair—the gesture playful, but also familiar. Maybe I did know why, I thought. Maybe that’s why I wanted a gimlet.
Instead, though, I did the responsible thing: I got in the Jeep and started home. The night was chilly and damp, and although the sky was clear, I already knew the fog belt would be thick, and driving home meant heading straight into a world that became directionless, claustrophobic, a thousand shifting currents of gray that sparked to life in the headlights, with only the occasional silhouette of Sitka spruce and lodgepole pine to anchor the world. Normally, I loved the coast and the cool weather and the fog. It activated that innermost, geekiest part of me that loved haunted mansions and crumbling castles and, yes, werewolves and vampires. And maybe the moors? But maybe that was just because I had a crush on Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights.
I was so caught up in my thoughts that I didn’t notice Bobby’s Pilot until I was driving past it. The SUV was parked in the gravel lot of an apartment complex—in the dark, it was hard to tell the color of the shiplap siding, but it was blue or gray or blue-gray or something that might have been called “pewter tankard” on a paint swatch. The complex was only a few buildings, all of them unremarkable. I’d driven past them countless times on my way to and from Hastings Rock, and I’d never given them a second look. Until now. When Bobby’s car was parked there.
He's on a date, I thought. And my body’s reaction was a flush that sent pins and needles to my chest, my neck, my face. I didn’t even have to think about what kind of date it was. Or why Bobby had been in such a hurry. Or why he’d already be at the other guy’s apartment. I mean, not that I was a prude. I’d hooked up with strangers before. Okay, I’d thought about hooking up with strangers before. Okay, I would have hooked up with strangers, except the one time I tried, I got so nervous that I had to pull over and puke on the side of the road, and I ended up messaging the guy (because of course I did, because I couldn’t just ghost him) and telling him I couldn’t, um, do adult stuff with him because I’d just watched Jurassic Park III and I was upset about how bad it had been.
But it was totally fine for Bobby to hook up with somebody. Anybody. Whoever he wanted. However many he wanted. Whenever he wanted. Even if the, um, booty call came when he was hanging out with friends. And trying to solve a murder. And I mean, it was totally fine for Bobby to do whatever he wanted, but was he even being safe? Not, like, that way. But if these were total strangers, shouldn’t he be telling someone where he was going? What if they were axe murderers? What if they wanted to turn Bobby into a sock puppet? And if this guy wasn’t a total stranger, then couldn’t Bobby say something like, Hey, tonight I’m hanging out with Dash and the gang because I haven’t been spending enough time with them and they’re my best friends?
If you asked me, I’d say that’s a sign of a toxic relationship, when your new boyfriend won’t let you spend any time with your old friends.
Oh my God.
Did Bobby have a boyfriend?
Believe it or not, all of this went through my brain in about half a second. Which was perfect timing because a moment later, Bobby, another man, and a woman stepped out of one of the ground-floor apartments, and I almost drove off the road. I only caught a glimpse of them: the man looked young, blond, and ridiculously cute in a tee and jean shorts. The woman was older, with darker hair—maybe honey blond, I wanted to say, although it was hard to tell as she stepped away from the porch light. They were laughing about something, and as I watched, Bobby put his arm around the blond man’s shoulders. The woman said something, and the blond beamed. The woman said something again, and this time, Bobby shook her hand. She said something that made them all laugh again as she pulled him into a hug.
And then I was past them, and then a moment later, I was past the apartment building, and I couldn’t even see them in my rearview mirror. All I could see was myself, and the dark, and the empty road behind me, red with my taillights.
Chapter 6
The next morning, I stayed in the den (which, to judge by the number of crumpled-up sheets of paper, the abandoned pens, and the half-finished cups of coffee, was now starting to look more like a villain’s lair than a writer’s workspace). I stared at the screen of my laptop. The cursor blinked back at me.
Somehow, for some reason, I had let Hugo talk me into a co-writing project. When I put it like that, I make it sound like he was twisting my arm (which, kind of, he was). But the rational part of me also knew that it was a tremendous opportunity—Hugo was a published author, his star was rising, and he was doing me a favor (scratch that; he was handing me a winning lottery ticket) by letting me write with him.
And it didn’t hurt that Hugo’s arguments had been so persuasive. I mean, Hugo had been right: I’d been grappling with Will Gower, the imaginary detective who lived inside my head, for decades now. And so far, after about a million permutations, the idea hadn’t gone anywhere. Why not try something new? Why not give Will Gower a break? I mean, authors did that all the time—they might start off with an idea that lived and grew with them for years and years, but at some point, practicality set in, and they moved on to an idea that they could, you know, actually sell. (Or, for that matter, actually write.)
And Hugo’s idea was going to sell; I already knew that. The Next Night was an update on the noir genre, which was already well within my wheelhouse. Private investigator Dexter Drake was caught in a loop created by systemic oppression, the realities of being a gay man in 1940s Los Angeles, and, of course, his own bad choices (a trademark of the hard-boiled and noir was the detective who was hampered by his inability to be anything but what he was).
It was…fun. I mean, it wasn’t exactly my thing. But Hugo was basically a genius, and as he had told me—convincingly, many times—this was going to be a great way to stretch myself as a writer.
The only problem was that—speaking of the inability to be anything but what we are—writing Dexter Drake wasn’t all that much easier than writing Will Gower.
Never mind, I texted Hugo, still staring at the blinking cursor on our shared doc. I give up.
His reply came a moment later—a GIF of a cat typing manically on a keyboard.
Nope, I wrote back. I’m done. I’m finished. It’s over. It never even began.
Have you been talking to Fox?
No. But that did remind me of some of Fox’s more memorable fits of despair, so I riffed on some of those. I’m a sham. I’m a huckster. My only success was a fluke, and everyone is going to see me for the fraud I am.
This time, the composition bubbles appeared, disappeared, appeared, disappeared. And then, finally, Hugo’s reply came through: It’s a description paragraph for a sleazy office. You don’t have to write War and Peace.
Which was a helpful reminder, sure. But I decided to stick with my guns. This is what I’m talking about. I can’t even come up with a simple description for a sleazy office.
The next pause was even longer. But when Hugo replied, the composition bubbles appeared only briefly. There was no pausing. No erasing. Just a short, quick message. And then it came through: Write what you see.
I almost replied, Easy for you to say. But I held myself back. In the first place, because I knew—by this point—that I was feeling sorry for myself. But also because he was right. It was a description. That was all. And yes, it was easy for my brain to spin out of control even with something as simple as that—because in the best writing, a description was never just a description. A description was also a window into a character’s mind, into how they perceived the world, their idiolect, their past, everything that shaped the process of perception and interpretation. What you saw in a simple passage of description, in the hands of a good writer, was the character, and the mood, and the theme, even the foreshadowed action—everything, in other words.
Write what you see.
The office was small and cramped and smelled like boiled cabbage. The desk was battered steel, painted the battleship gray Bobby remembered from the Army; every desk he’d ever seen, on every post and base where Uncle Sam had sent him, he’d seen that same desk. The papers covering the desk might be interesting, but what held his attention now was the blood—spattered across the desktop, and at one corner, thick and black in the weak light from the hall. Bobby stepped back, reached into the pocket of his windbreaker, and wrapped his hand around the little gun. Fear made his heart start to pound. On the wall opposite him, a cheesecake girl stared down at the scene from her poster, looking like all she wanted was to take a break and put her feet up.
With an explosion of breath like someone surfacing from a deep dive, I leaned back from the laptop. My brain was already circling around each sentence, jumping over words, scanning the text, probing for weaknesses. Were they called cheesecake girls? Pinup girls? A quick search told me that the term was cheesecake, not cheesecake girls, but I liked the sound of the phrase, so I decided to leave it—if someone wanted to buy the story and told me to change it, then I’d worry about it. I wasn’t crazy about boiled cabbage. That was a good detail, but the blood smell seemed like it would be stronger, so I changed it to rust. And there was too much stage direction at the end; I took out the part about him stepping back. It was enough for him to put his hand in his pocket. Same with the heart-pounding fear (hello, cliché!). I deleted that whole sentence—if someone couldn’t tell he was worried/concerned/afraid from the blood and the gun, I wasn’t doing my job.
