mood.
“We’ll let the evidence be our weapon by finding proof of who murdered Gwen before our time is up. Enough proof for the police to make an immediate arrest.”
“Convincing the cops should be interesting given Gwen’s documented history of depression, an examiner’s report that showed her blood was ninety proof and no signs of violence. And don’t forget the suicide note in her handwriting. At least we’ve already got a pretty good idea who did it.”
“Yes and no,” I said. “Curtis spoke about sticking to orders, and his buddy mentioned someone called Chub Dubs. Sounds like a nickname of the person who hired them.”
“Okay. Let me see if I got this down. Unravel the secrets in Gwen’s poem. Locate the tablet without letting anyone know we’ve got it. Do whatever Gwen might be telling us to do with it. Figure out how and why Gwen was killed. Link this Curtis dude and his choirboys to Gwen’s murder. Figure out who this Chub Dubs is. And, oh, yeah, get the police to book these assholes before they whack us. All in just one week. Hey, no problem. I’m a multitasker.”
***
Early the next morning Aunt Lana and Irv Monsky woke me up. Luckily it was Saturday and summer, so I had no therapy sessions scheduled. I was curled up on the living room sofa in my purple chenille bathrobe. The TV was still on. QVC. After my joyride in the Hummer, state- of-the-art leaf blowers had more appeal than the standard cable fare of murder, rape and drug deals.
I’d spent a good part of the night mulling over old conversations with Gwen. I had absolutely no recollection of her ever mentioning a special tablet, much less where she might have hidden it. I also searched through Gwen’s personal items in the box Darryl sent us. Nothing offered a clue.
My aunt changed her clothes and gathered a few of her things while her limo driver waited on outside to take her to East Hampton. Guess she’d invited Irv to join her out there to continue their lusty “still doin’ it” marathon. After running in place and performing a set of fifty push-ups, Irv went for an abdominal routine on Benita’s Swiss ball. Feet planted on the floor, his back arched over the large yellow orb, he proceeded to knock out a frenetic succession of one hundred sit-ups. From where I sat I had a pretty good shot at his left hip. All I needed was a tranquilizer dart.
I switched off the TV and peeked out the window. No sign of the black Hummer on the street below. Trying to look and sound normal, I shuffled about in a grog, tilting the blinds, flooding the place with sunlight. I cut up a slice of cantaloupe into bird-sized pieces and put them in Uncle Pete’s cage along with a few softbill pellets.
“Fuckin’ bitch pussy. Fuckin’ bitch pussy.”
“Now, Petey, that is one phrase you are going to unlearn.”
When Lana and Irv left, I made myself scrambled eggs and toast, smearing on gobs of comforting butter. Benita wasn’t here to lecture me. Once I cleared my head with three cups of coffee, I went to my bedroom, taking Uncle Pete with me for company despite his untidy habits.
The red message light on my business phone blinked away. Last night I’d been too chicken to listen to any messages. I couldn’t deal with the possibility of hearing Curtis’s voice again. Especially since this whole thing was real now. I was no longer just following a hunch. Gwen had indeed been murdered. And this was day one of a deadly seven-day race. It felt like reality TV except the stakes couldn’t get much higher.
I pushed the playback button. One message. I held my breath until I heard the familiar voice of a client. Just another going-on-vacation cancellation. In the summer months people were in a hurry to blow this town. Normally I’d bemoan the financial downside, but not now. My latest project demanded attention 24/7.
My cell phone sat on my dresser, where I’d left it last night. It rang twice while Lana and Irv were here, but I’d carefully
“We’ll let the evidence be our weapon by finding proof of who murdered Gwen before our time is up. Enough proof for the police to make an immediate arrest.”
“Convincing the cops should be interesting given Gwen’s documented history of depression, an examiner’s report that showed her blood was ninety proof and no signs of violence. And don’t forget the suicide note in her handwriting. At least we’ve already got a pretty good idea who did it.”
“Yes and no,” I said. “Curtis spoke about sticking to orders, and his buddy mentioned someone called Chub Dubs. Sounds like a nickname of the person who hired them.”
“Okay. Let me see if I got this down. Unravel the secrets in Gwen’s poem. Locate the tablet without letting anyone know we’ve got it. Do whatever Gwen might be telling us to do with it. Figure out how and why Gwen was killed. Link this Curtis dude and his choirboys to Gwen’s murder. Figure out who this Chub Dubs is. And, oh, yeah, get the police to book these assholes before they whack us. All in just one week. Hey, no problem. I’m a multitasker.”
***
Early the next morning Aunt Lana and Irv Monsky woke me up. Luckily it was Saturday and summer, so I had no therapy sessions scheduled. I was curled up on the living room sofa in my purple chenille bathrobe. The TV was still on. QVC. After my joyride in the Hummer, state- of-the-art leaf blowers had more appeal than the standard cable fare of murder, rape and drug deals.
I’d spent a good part of the night mulling over old conversations with Gwen. I had absolutely no recollection of her ever mentioning a special tablet, much less where she might have hidden it. I also searched through Gwen’s personal items in the box Darryl sent us. Nothing offered a clue.
My aunt changed her clothes and gathered a few of her things while her limo driver waited on outside to take her to East Hampton. Guess she’d invited Irv to join her out there to continue their lusty “still doin’ it” marathon. After running in place and performing a set of fifty push-ups, Irv went for an abdominal routine on Benita’s Swiss ball. Feet planted on the floor, his back arched over the large yellow orb, he proceeded to knock out a frenetic succession of one hundred sit-ups. From where I sat I had a pretty good shot at his left hip. All I needed was a tranquilizer dart.
I switched off the TV and peeked out the window. No sign of the black Hummer on the street below. Trying to look and sound normal, I shuffled about in a grog, tilting the blinds, flooding the place with sunlight. I cut up a slice of cantaloupe into bird-sized pieces and put them in Uncle Pete’s cage along with a few softbill pellets.
“Fuckin’ bitch pussy. Fuckin’ bitch pussy.”
“Now, Petey, that is one phrase you are going to unlearn.”
When Lana and Irv left, I made myself scrambled eggs and toast, smearing on gobs of comforting butter. Benita wasn’t here to lecture me. Once I cleared my head with three cups of coffee, I went to my bedroom, taking Uncle Pete with me for company despite his untidy habits.
The red message light on my business phone blinked away. Last night I’d been too chicken to listen to any messages. I couldn’t deal with the possibility of hearing Curtis’s voice again. Especially since this whole thing was real now. I was no longer just following a hunch. Gwen had indeed been murdered. And this was day one of a deadly seven-day race. It felt like reality TV except the stakes couldn’t get much higher.
I pushed the playback button. One message. I held my breath until I heard the familiar voice of a client. Just another going-on-vacation cancellation. In the summer months people were in a hurry to blow this town. Normally I’d bemoan the financial downside, but not now. My latest project demanded attention 24/7.
My cell phone sat on my dresser, where I’d left it last night. It rang twice while Lana and Irv were here, but I’d carefully
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