D. Schmidt - They Ate the Waitress?

“What’s the problem?”

“Nothing important, my apologies.” He sighed sadly. “That singer Gabrielle is arguing with my staff again. Insufferable woman! I really ought to ban her from the restaurant.”

“No, hold on.” Nick stepped outside, headed for his car. “Listen, Sweeney, I need you to make sure Gabrielle stays at Hand to Mouth for another twenty minutes or so. I have to talk to her in person.”

He sped to the restaurant, parking next to Gabrielle’s car. It was easy to spot, as it was the same pink as her hair. He ducked behind a lamp post and watched the door. At last, Gabrielle came outside. He waited until she was almost to her car door. “I thought I’d find you here,” he said darkly, stepping into view.

“Nick! I… I didn’t expect to run into you.”

“I’ll ask the questions around here! Why did you try to kill me?”

“Kill you?” Gabrielle sputtered, taking a deep breath. “Was that you in my house the other night?”

“You know damn well who it was. You asked to see me, and when I got to your place, you tried to blow my head off! Not the worst date I’ve ever had, but still…”

“I thought it was a prowler!” she insisted, throwing up her hands. “I was dressing, I heard a noise, and I saw someone standing in the doorway, so I pulled my gun from the nightstand and fired. I had no idea it was you, I swear. You practically promised me a job at your club. Why on earth would I want to kill you?”

“I still haven’t figured that one out. Most people don’t want to murder their boss until their first day at work. Whatever your reason, I’m sure it has something to do with how you know my real name. I gave you an alias when we met, remember?”

“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.”

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.