D. Schmidt - They Ate the Waitress?

Gabrielle lived in one of the most upscale neighborhoods in Vancouver. Residents were wealthy enough to pay for the roads themselves, so there were no billboards anywhere. The roads had odd names like “Elm Street” and “Shady Lane.” In most neighborhoods, the roads were owned by advertising agencies that sold the naming rights to the highest bidder. As a result, most people lived on streets with names like “Chester’s Cheesy Pizza Road” or “Jenkins’ Cold Sore Treatment Lip Balm Avenue.”

Gabrielle lived in a three-story Colonial Revival home surrounded by oak trees and a wrought iron fence. The gate stood open invitingly. “My imaginary Portland apartment is twenty minutes away,” Nick thought. “Gabrielle will probably spend fifteen minutes driving up and down the street, searching for the building. And then she’ll trans me, and I’ll tell her to meet me at the nightclub instead. More driving, more searching, and then a very angry trip back home. Altogether, she should be gone for at least an hour.”

Walking up the long, winding driveway, he noticed an open window on the top floor. He climbed a nearby tree, grunting with the exertion. Standing unsteadily, he leapt from the tree to the roof. Carefully, he leaned over the edge and knocked the screen from the open window. He swung down into the room, landing gently on a polished bamboo floor.

The library. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls, with a wheeled ladder affixed to a track running the circumference of the room. There were biographies of famous singers, guides on writing a hit single, and other, more general books about music.

An alarm sensor blinked at the top of the window frame. “Those sensors don’t work if you leave the windows open! She’s lucky I’m not here to steal anything. …Actually, I should steal something. Just to teach her a lesson, of course…”

He scanned the room under his portable black light. “Nothing here. No blood stains, no weapons.” Hiding in the corner, a small cabinet held a few copies of “classic” novels, the kind of writing only English Literature professors loved. “She could have forced Renée to read A Farewell to Arms …No, that can’t be right. It was murder, not suicide.”

He stepped across the hall where a heavy, soundproof door opened to reveal a large space filled with musical instruments. The centerpiece was a pink grand piano. In one corner, a drum set and xylophone gathered dust. In another corner sat several cardboard boxes filled with memory tabs of Gabrielle’s music. A row of electric guitars were hung on the wall like artwork, with individual spotlights highlighting each one. He didn’t know much about guitars, but he assumed they were collector’s items. A wooden stand at the back of the room was reserved for brass instruments.

Again, a quick scan with the light turned up nothing. “If Gabrielle is the killer, she probably didn’t beat Renée to death with a flugelhorn. I should move on.”

Further down the hallway, Nick came to a small office. There was an antique writing desk, a computer with a pricey holographic monitor, and a row of oddly cheap, aluminum filing cabinets. On top of a small table was a Schlock Products™ combination photocopier/paper shredder. It was a useful device, if you had to make a copy and destroy the original at the same time.

There was a small safe with an alphanumeric keypad under the table. “I know her type. The combination is probably the name of one of her songs.” He tried several titles, finally hitting the jackpot with La Petite Mortuary . Inside the safe were a large bag of coins, some remarkably tacky jewelry, and a thick, black ledger. Most of the ledger seemed to be records of bank deposits. Tens of thousands of dollars deposited in an account every few weeks. “Probably just her record company sending her royalty checks. – I’m running out of time here. Better try something else.”

The next door was a bedroom. In the back of the room stood a king sized, four-poster bed with a white bedspread to match the rug. Sitting on the bed, in a blue silk nightgown, was Gabrielle. In her hand was a pistol the size of an antiaircraft gun.

Nick dove to the floor as the wall behind him exploded in a shower of plaster. Scrambling to his feet, he ran for the library. He leapt out the window, half climbing and half falling down the tree. He didn’t stop running until he was back in his car.

His sides ached. He hadn’t gotten that much exercise in quite a while. The last time he climbed down a tree to escape from a woman’s house was in high school, the night of his junior prom. Unfortunately, his date’s husband had come home early.

“What the hell?” he gasped, fumbling for his keys. “Why wasn’t she on her way to Portland? She said she would be gone! She’ll probably call a security patrol and have them watch the house for the next couple of days. I should leave her alone for awhile. I can’t catch the killer if I get arrested for trespassing. While I’m waiting, I should check on Bender. Hopefully, he’s at work and not watching Sophie.”

Back at home, Nick switched on his computer and connected to the video feed from his hidden camera at the pet store. Luke Bender was shoving a trash robot that didn’t seem to know which direction it was supposed to move. Kicking it violently, he knocked it through a pair of swinging doors into a back room. A ponytailed man in a white apron walked onscreen and said hello.

As the camera was underwater in a fish tank, there wasn’t actually any sound. However, it was an advanced model that could read lips. Any spoken words appeared on the screen like subtitles in a foreign film. Due to an unfortunate software glitch, the camera had a tiny bit of trouble with homonyms.

MAN1: Luke, eye want yew two billed a display inn the cat supplies I’ll. Were halving a sail on kit tea lit her.

MAN2: Aye Kant rite now, hairy. Isle kneed page two help me, butt cheese out getting sum heir.

MAN1: Owe, that’s write. Islet page go on brake. Ewe get start, Ted, and aisle collar down hear late her. …Any weigh, I herd yew and so fee uh whir Bach two gather. Dew yew guise halve sum thing planned fore two knight?

MAN2: Wee mite, I’m naught shore. Weed disgust halving a pear of stakes at hour favor it plays, this lit till dining haul up the rowed.

MAN1: Aren’t they clothed be cause of aunts?

MAN2: Jest fore a phew daze. Well, know thyme too wrest. Eyed bettor git were king, hairy.

MAN1: Awl wright. Sea yew lay tare.

“Sophie’s dating Bender?” Nick thought. “No, she can’t be. But how else would she get his home address? He must be her ex. She dumped him, he got obsessive and stalky, and so she came to me for help. She didn’t tell me because she’s embarrassed about dating such a loser. …Well, all I have to do now is go back to Sophie’s and wait for him to show up. Should be easy to prove he’s stalking her. I just wish she’d been a little more honest with me.”

It had been a very long day, so he took a moment to make a cup of coffee. Baldwin Brew, a popular brand that had radioactive dust mixed in with the grounds to keep it warm. Drinking too much could give you cancer, but you didn’t have to bother with an insulated mug.

As he sped to Sophia’s, the combination of caffeine and stress twisted his stomach into a knot. It felt like a taut-line hitch or possibly a directional figure eight. It was hard to tell; he wasn’t that good with knots. He decided to take some pills to distract himself. A few minutes later, the apartment complex came into view. He turned the corner at full speed, scattering a group of children playing in the parking lot. Several of the kids cornered him when he stepped out of the car.