D. Schmidt - They Ate the Waitress?

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:

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?”

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.