They Ate the Waitress Read online

  “Why would you do that?” she asked. “Was the nightclub story just a scam? Were you just trying to get me in bed with you?”

  “What do you know about pool tables falling from the sky?”

  Gabrielle just stared uncomprehendingly. “You’re crazy, Nick,” she said finally. “Or Rick. Dick. Whatever your name is.” She opened her car door and threw her purse in the backseat. “When you figure out who you want to be, let me know. Until then, leave me alone. And don’t try breaking into my house again. I’ve hired a security guard.”

  Chapter Ten

  Early the next morning, Nick was in the shower, considering his options. “Aaron Spinner is a lunatic and a murderer, but he didn’t kill Renée. – Damn it. What’s the point of catching a matricidal maniac if you’re not going to get paid? – And Gabrielle is two seconds away from calling a security team to arrest me. I’d better stay away from her… for now. Well, looks like I’m headed back to Clayton’s. I think it’s time for a nice, polite interrogation.”

  He parked across the street from Clayton’s house and waited. After a couple of hours, Clayton’s garage door opened and his dark blue SUV pulled out into the street. Nick followed, keeping at a safe distance.

  Clayton pulled into the lot of Diabolical Donuts. The diner was owned by a devil-worshiping cult that used fast food to promote the seven deadly sins: gluttony, sloth, lust, pride, envy, anger, and greed. They had originally promoted forty-three deadly sins, but that took too much time.

  The donuts were delicious, but extremely expensive. This encouraged gluttony, followed soon after by anger. The tables were equipped with massaging recliners to encourage sloth. Each location was staffed by scantily-clad servers who would flirt with some of the customers but completely ignore the rest. This lead to lust, pride, and envy. However, it was the owners who were greedy, not the customers. Hey, close enough.

  When Clayton disappeared inside, Nick pulled a tire iron from his trunk and waited just out of sight. Clayton soon returned, carrying a large sack and a tray of coffee cups. As he strolled towards his car, Nick calmly blocked his path and knocked the food from his hands. Grabbing Clayton by the shirt collar, he dragged him across the lot, pulling him behind a garbage bin where they couldn’t be seen. Nick threw Clayton to the ground and stood over him menacingly, his weapon at the ready. “I’m Rick Welding, Renée’s cousin. I know you killed her. And now, you’re going to pay.” He raised the tire iron over his head.

  “Wait, stop!” Clayton shielded his face with his arms, bracing for the blow. “I didn’t do anything, I swear! I didn’t even know she was dead!”

  “How could you not know? You dated her for years, but you didn’t even keep in touch?”

  “I tried. After a while, she wouldn’t even take my calls. I was an asshole, I admit it. I didn’t want kids, so I told her to pack up her things and get out of my house. But I didn’t kill her! I had no idea this would happen.”

  “I don’t believe you, you dumb son of a bitch.” Nick waved the tire iron over Clayton’s head. “Prove it to me or I’ll hurt you.”

  “I haven’t seen her for weeks!” he insisted. “Ask her friends, or her parents. She always told them how she didn’t want to see me!”

  “You haven’t been stalking her?”

  “What? No, of course not. I have a new girlfriend. She keeps my mind off of Renée. Besides, if I wanted to follow a woman around, I would just call Rent-A-Stalker. They’re having a sale.”

  “Well, I don’t know. You could be lying, so I’m going to have to break your legs. What’s your least favorite: tibias or fibulas?”

  “Please, no! I need my legs. They make me taller!” He looked close to tears.

  “Fine,” Nick sighed. “I won’t maim you. Give me your bag of donuts and we’ll call it even. – And they’d better have sprinkles!”

  ◊

  After a quick breakfast of stolen pastries, Nick drove home slowly, lost in thought. “Clayton seemed genuinely surprised to hear of Renée’s death. But, I suppose I should take his advice and check up on him.” He pulled his transmitter from his pocket and set it on the dashboard. “Directory.”

  At his command, the blue and gold logo of the Directory Genie service appeared, and an electronic voice said, “Welcome! What is your wish?”

  “Last name Flockhart, somewhere in Washington.” There were only two listings, and one was Renée’s. He contacted the other, a Kurt Flockhart. A bald, wrinkled head appeared in the air.

  “Hello? Who is this?”

  “Mr. Flockhart? This is Rick Welding, with Vancouver Bank and Trust.” He flashed his phony ID badge at the cameras. “I am trying to locate Clayton West, and I thought you might know where he is.”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t. He used to date my daughter. I thought they were going to get married some day, but he broke up with her weeks ago.” He grumbled something crude under his breath. “She hasn’t seen him since. Why are you looking for Clayton? What’d he do?”

  “He verbally abused an ATM. Your daughter has had no contact at all with Clayton West?”

  “None that I know of. And she tells me everything. And I mean everything. That girl just won’t shut up. She takes after her mother that way. She’ll probably pile on the lard the second she gets married, too…”

  “Alright. Thank you for your time.” Cutting the transmission, he thought, “Clayton’s not exactly in the clear, but his guilt seems less likely. Either way, I could sure use a break.”

  On his way home, he stopped at The Foobar and Grill. He picked up a steaming box of fried chicken and returned to the parking lot. “Wait, he forgot to give me my change.” He turned around just in time to see a grand piano fall from the sky. It crashed through the roof, thudding in E-major. The sound seemed to echo forever, like the last note in an overrated 60s rock song.

  The owner, a bespectacled man in a stained apron, rushed outside and, panting, grabbed Nick by the shoulder. “Did you see where that came from?”

  “Nowhere,” he said. “There wasn’t an airplane or helicopter or zeppelin or anything. It just fell from the empty sky.”

  “Damn it. I wonder if my insurance will cover this.”

  “A piano through the roof? I don’t think so. But it might cover a grease fire.”

  “Good thinking.” The owner pulled a box of matches from his apron pocket. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go establish an alibi.”

  ◊

  Nick spent the evening at home relaxing. His apartment was rather small, but he used the space well. He had a couch that folded out into a bed, a chair that folded out into a loveseat, and a fish tank that folded out into a bathtub. The nicest thing in the apartment was the floor. A few years earlier, he had solved a rash of thefts at a home improvement store. As a bonus, they sent workmen to his apartment to install wall-to-wall Living Carpet. The “carpet” was actually fur grown from mutated chinchilla DNA. If he happened to stain it, he could just shave off the damaged area and watch it grow back, good as new. The only downside was the flea shampoo.

  He sat on his couch, watching his wrap-around, holographic television. Actually, he wasn’t so much watching the TV as he was the fish swimming in the air in front of it. The hallucinogen he had taken an hour earlier still hadn’t worn off. The drug floating in his bloodstream was an extract of genetically altered morning glory seeds. Like all drugs, it was completely legal, but you had to purchase special “recreational drug user” medical insurance. As he spent weeks at a time subsisting solely on marijuana, alcohol, and powerful hallucinogens, his medical insurance bills looked like the national defense budget of a small country.

  Once, during a particularly long bender, God appeared to him and told him the meaning of life. Unfortunately, he could only remember what it was when he was high, and those were the times when it really didn’t seem to matter.

  He smiled dimly at a gray fish playing by the wall, swimming in and out of the electrical outlet. What did it remind him of? Something
gray in a wall, but what? Reluctantly, he realized that he had to clear his head. He headed into the kitchen and poured himself some tea, a popular brand called Mountain State. He loved their jingle:

  Mountain State Tea

  is ready and waiting

  to help you stop

  hallucinating!

  Waiting for his tea to cool, he switched on his computer and replayed the video of Clayton West’s home. He watched his hand reach out and pull two of Clayton’s photos from the wall. “The nails in the wall aren’t painted!” he realized with a start, accidentally knocking over his mug. “The photos must be newer than the paintjob. Who would hang dozens of photos without waiting for the paint to dry? Something’s wrong here. I’d better tell Sweeney what I’ve found.”

  As if it had read his mind, Nick’s transmitter buzzed. He pulled it from between his couch cushions and answered. Margery Sweeney appeared in the air. “I was just going to trans you,” he said. “I think I know who the killer was. It looks like–”

  “I know who it was,” she interrupted. “It was my husband.”

  “No, no, it was– wait, do I still get paid?”

  “Yes, Mr. Wergild,” she sighed, as if his financial concerns were petty and beneath her, “you still get your money. I have strong suspicions about my husband but little in the way of proof. I will gladly double whatever my husband paid you if you will investigate him for me. Plus expenses, of course.”

  “Hold on,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. His head was still swimming in fog. “First, tell me why you think your husband is a murderer. Other than the fact that he owns a restaurant for cannibals.”

  “My husband was cheating on me with Renée,” she said bitterly. “She was such a little slut. But I don’t blame her. I knew what a womanizer Todd was before I married him, so I made him sign a prenuptial agreement: If he had an affair, I would get two-thirds of everything, including that precious restaurant of his. For years, everything was fine. But I guess I haven’t trusted him ever since I realized he was defrauding our insurance company. Things got even worse about three months ago, when I started finding things…”

  “What sort of things?”

  “A stray earring, a lipstick, even a pair of panties. At first, I thought he was a transvestite. But that didn’t make any sense. If he were a crossdresser, he would have shaved his back hair. And then Renée disappeared. As soon as I found out she was murdered, I realized what had happened: Todd was sleeping with her, but he killed her to conceal their affair. He didn’t hire you to investigate the murder; he hired you to help him frame Clayton!”

  “But the deliveryman said it was Jessica that was flirting with Sweeney,” Nick thought. “When Renée screamed at Jessica, she must have been trying to scare her away from her man. Renée was already competing with his wife, and she didn’t want another woman in the picture.” He put down his mug and wiped his mouth. “Now, Mrs. Sweeney, you were saying something about doubling my pay?”

  Chapter Eleven

  The following night, Nick prepared to refocus his investigation on Todd Sweeney. Sure, it was rather unethical to investigate someone while he was technically still a client, but being ethical didn’t pay the rent. At least, he assumed it didn’t. He had never really tried. “Since this is technically a new case, I should make a list of new expenses I can add to Margery’s bill. The restaurant is in town, so I can’t charge her for hotel bills or plane tickets or souvenir snow globes… What, then?”

  He lit a cigarette and took a slow drag. Holding in the smoke, he waited for some chemically-sparked inspiration. “I could always use some new equipment. With the money she’ll be getting from Todd, she can afford to buy me some new toys. Unfortunately, the only place in town that sells my kind of toys is Little Brother’s.” That would mean seeing Sophia. Talking to her. And lately, it just didn’t feel right. “Well, it will be worth an awkward conversation to score a few grand in gear. I’ve suffered a lot worse for a lot less.”

  Sophia’s rusty, brown car was parked by the front entrance. It was an older model that still ran on gasoline. It broke down constantly, which was an increasingly expensive problem. It was getting harder and harder to find a mechanic who knew how the old engines worked. The last mechanic had told her he couldn’t fix it because he didn’t have the proper vacuum tubes.

  “Still, I hope she never gets rid of it,” he thought, rubbing the hood. “We always have the best conversations when I drive her home. God, I wish her car would break down just one more time, so we could talk like that again. Being stuck together just makes things easier. Relationships are so much simpler when someone can’t leave.” He had a sudden flash of Sophia tied to a chair. He headed into the store, smiling.

  A customer was returning one of Little Brother’s most expensive items: a personal spy satellite. The satellites were cheaper than the ones used by governments, as they flew at a much lower orbit. Unfortunately, the customer explained, this one had flown too low. He had to call the fire department when it became stuck in a tree.

  As usual, Sophia was in the back, doing her best to stay away from customers. The tiny speakers in her earrings played music only she could hear. Her head was swaying gently. She wanted to dance but forced herself to stay still. The last time she had given in to the urge, she had pirouetted into a wall.

  Nick headed for the camera counter, which was out of her line of sight. He already had a camera but, like any technology, there were always newer and nicer models to replace it. He slammed his money pouch on the counter and told the salesman, “Show me the latest and greatest thing you’ve got.”

  “Certainly, sir. I have here a camera so new that it technically won’t be invented until next Thursday. It can take photos at forty-three yottapixels. That’s forty-three septillion pixels, which is slightly higher resolution than real life. Compared to this camera’s photos, physical reality is grainy and pixelated.”

  Nick knew he was exaggerating but, as Margery was paying, it didn’t seem to matter. He bought the camera, some extra batteries, and a telephoto lens long enough to give a horse an inferiority complex. “I’d better get out of here,” he thought, “before Sophie sees me.”

  As he walked across the parking lot, he heard a strange, whistling sound. An immense, wrought iron buffet table was falling from the sky. It was hard to tell for certain, due to its speed, but it looked like an antique. The buffet table hurtled over his head and crashed on the pavement, crumpling like a soda can.

  Bewildered, he stared up at the sky. As before, there was no sign of its source. No planes, no helicopters, no autogyros. Suddenly, he realized who had been trying to kill him. Only one person could drop furniture from the clouds. “Missed me again, God!”

  ◊

  Nick parked at the bar across the street from Hand to Mouth and waited for Todd to leave for the evening. To help pass the time, he counted his money. Margery had emptied her private investment account to cover his fee, selling forty-three hundred shares of Sphinx Tech, a company that made toupees for hairless cats. She hated to do it but, if Nick could prove Todd was the killer, she would have plenty more cash coming her way.

  Some movement in the lot caught his attention. Peering though his camera’s zoom lens, he watched Gordon walk from the restaurant toward his car. Todd rushed out behind him, yelling something. The distance made his words inaudible. He grabbed Gordon’s belt and violently yanked down his pants, revealing several large plastic bags tied to his legs. More yelling. Embarrassed, Gordon piled the bags in Todd’s hands, pulled up his pants, and trudged slowly to his car. Gordon drove off, and Todd returned to his office.

  Waiting. Smoking. Twiddling of thumbs. Bored, Nick toyed with his navigation system. Pulling up a local map, he found that Donald Canard’s house had recently been flagged “For Sale.” Donald wasn’t asking for much, possibly because his house was next door to the Vancouver Scream Therapy Center.

  A car pulled into the lot and slowly circled the restaurant. Nick took a few photos,
even though it was far too dark to see the driver. A brilliant flash of white. Tongues of fire lapped at the restaurant’s sides. Tires squealing, the car sped away like a gazelle with an inner ear disorder.

  He connected to the local security computer. “There’s been an explosion at Hand to Mouth. Looks like a pipe bomb. I’m sending photos of the suspect’s vehicle, which is now heading south on Westside Highway. Send a security patrol and a fire truck immediately. Victim heavily insured.”

  “Message received.” The computer’s voice was annoyingly polite, like a flight attendant or a museum tour guide or a Canadian. “My records show that Hand to Mouth has a contract with Happy Bunny Insurance. A security patrol car is on its way after the suspect, and a fire truck will be at Hand to Mouth in approximately four and a half minutes.”

  He left the bar and pulled into the restaurant’s tiny parking lot. He sprinted to the windows outside Todd’s office. The inside was entirely obscured by smoke and flames. While he waited for the fire truck, he tried to light a cigarette off the blaze but only managed to burn his fingers.

  Screaming.

  Two windows down, there was a brightly-colored pane of stained glass. Barely visible inside, Todd Sweeney cried out for help. Nick waved for Todd to stand back, and then hurled a trash can through the glass. He pulled off his jacket and tossed it across the window frame, covering the jagged knives of broken glass. Grabbing Todd’s arms, he pulled him out and dragged him away from the burning building.

  “Oh, thank you, Mr. Wergild,” Todd wheezed. He sat in the grass at the edge of the lot, coughing violently. “I must be cursed. First a murder, and then the building catches fire while I am in the restroom, the only room without a window that opens. I must remember to tell Margery that her bloody stained glass artwork nearly killed me. I am sure she will find it most amusing.” But Nick wasn’t listening. He was too busy watching his leather jacket burn.

  A fire truck pulled into the lot, sirens blaring. Its rear doors opened, releasing half a dozen men in silver jumpsuits. The truck’s octopus, a bright yellow, eight-legged robot the size of a horse, came scurrying out after them. The firefighters connected a hose to a nearby hydrant, the octopus dragging the other end to the flames. Once in position, the robot forced its spiked legs into the blacktop, anchoring itself to the ground. It switched on the hose, releasing a blue torrent of water and chemicals.