That Murder Feeling — About the Book & Chapter One

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Chapter One

The phone call that would lead to a new entry in my sketchbook, in the M section, came on a Tuesday. The date on the one-a-day calendar on my desk read March 5, 1985—eleven days ago—and I was dealing with a case of identity theft. It was late afternoon and my clients, Wade and Ellie Gackle, sat side by side on the saggy burgundy couch in my office, slightly apart. Someone had been withdrawing money from the Gackles’ bank account and using their credit card, so they’d walked in looking to hire a private investigator. Common enough—except for what churned in the vicinity of Wade Gackle’s boots. I moved my briefcase aside and leaned forward in the armchair to get a better look. Fog engulfed his ankles and the cuffs of his jeans, as if Wade had wandered into a music video. Dense, silver fog.

Here’s the thing about the fog: only I could see it—and it’s a sure sign of deception. People lie, soul gardens don’t. Wade had something to hide.

“The bank told us,” Ellie said worriedly, “that there’s nothing they can do. Whoever’s impersonating Wade is very good at covering their tracks and it’s up to us to—”

“Crooks,” Wade interrupted. “Rodrick—can we call you Rod?—that’s what they are, Rod, crooks, every last one of them at the bank. No one checks anything, and because the bank’s not on our side, the police are about as useful as ice fishing in July.”

“I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

“Catch them, that’s what, El.”

Ellie sat with a Log of Worry weighing down her shoulders, one she’d walked in with. She worked on a catering crew at Fireside Resort, the place that had put Two Lakes, Minnesota on the map and provided most of the town’s jobs, and Wade was a landscaper. Ever so determinedly, the fog rose up his leg. Let’s see what you’re hiding, Wade. “Do either of you have any bad habits?” I asked.

“I used to smoke right after high school, but not anymore. And we have wine with dinner on Friday nights, but only half a bottle. Also—” Ellie glanced at her husband, “when we first met, Wade used to bet on sports. But he hasn’t done that in a long time.”

“Yeah?” I turned to him. “What kind of sports, Wade?”

Resting an elbow on the back of the couch, he casually hooked an ankle over his knee under the roiling fog, which had enveloped him up to his waist. “Football. Hockey. Bit of baseball.”

“When was the last time you talked to a bookie?”

“Don’t remember. Couple of years.”

Hoping Ellie wouldn’t feel bad about missing the signs—more often than not, people tended to trust their spouses and Ellie was that kind, trusting—I pressed on, trying to see if Wade would trip over his own story. “Have either of you noticed anything unusual—missing mail, packages, strange calls?”

“Not really,” Ellie hurried to answer, “but to be honest, I’ve been distracted. Mom wants to come for a visit—for a whole month!—she lives in Madison—and won’t let it go. She’s been harping on the subject of grandchildren. I told her Wade and I aren’t ready but she seems to think she can change our minds.” The log put on pounds and her shoulders drooped. “And things are no better at work. Our old boss, Adam Lindstrom—he just died. You must have heard about it, in that big storm a couple of weeks back.”

I had heard. The news had been splashed across the front page of The Bee, the owner of Fireside Resort freezing to death in the February blizzard. Ellie had come in right after her shift and the orange shirt she wore bore the familiar logo, a campfire paired with a canoe paddle. She went on. “Everything’s changed. The new boss, it’s all been people walking on eggshells, worried about their paycheck. Dropped trays and short tempers. I’m debating whether to quit my job.”

“You can’t quit, El, we need the money. So Rod, do you think you can find him, the guy? We don’t want to pay a lot, though. Don’t spend weeks on this and then hit us with a big bill and claim you tried your best, all right?”

I heard the phone ring on the other side of the wall and Shane pick up—I’d sprung for two lines, one for my desk and the other, listed in the phonebook, for the reception area. No point in wasting any more of everyone’s time. I shot the taller of my clients a direct look. “Wade, my man.”

“Yes?”

“Tell the truth.”

“I—what?”

“Time to come clean, Wade.”

It took another ten minutes, but he eventually did. The person behind the missing money and the suspect credit card charges was Wade himself. As the extent of her husband’s lying slowly dawned on Ellie, Wade took off.

Ellie rose to her feet, thanked me, and asked what she owed for the consultation. The Log of Worry was gone, replaced by—nothing. She wasn’t sure yet how to feel about what had transpired. Though the agency bank account ran light at the moment and could have used an infusion, I told her no payment was needed.

Shane, the only other employee of Soul Garden Investigations, showed Ellie out, then leaned against the doorframe between my office and the reception area. “What happened, boss?”

“The usual. A couple where one side trusted, the other hid.”

“Like in my romcom?”

“But with no guaranteed happy ending.”

“I broke through the writer’s block, by the way.” Shane adjusted the pencil behind his ear. He’d been working on the screenplay as long as I’d known him. A few months after I’d opened the agency, a young, scrawny person knocked on the door looking for a job. His parents had cast him out for what they called “his lifestyle” and he’d already tried other establishments along Main Street. “I don’t have a résumé,” he told me, “but I’m loyal and I’ll try my best.” I was not that much older and reasoned that having an assistant would give the appearance of a thriving business. What I found instead was a friend. This was eight years ago.

“Figured out how to do the meet cute,” Shane said now, arms crossed over his suit, a lagoon-blue one with a dark T-shirt underneath. “Hank’s on his bicycle in Central Park—all romcoms must take place in Manhattan, of course. He’s eating a hotdog, mustard drips, he takes his hands off the handlebars, swerves, knocks down Mindy—who’s all dressed up and on her way to an engagement party—and we’re off… Boss, new client phoned.”

“Good, we need a case.”

“Her name’s Clementine something—didn’t catch the last name, sorry, boss.” Green hedges sprouted around Shane. The Maze of Daydreaming was in full bloom today, its leafy walls meandering around the reception area behind my assistant. He added helpfully, “She says she knows you—oh, and she’s a baker.”

“Don’t recall ever meeting a bakery owner—or bakery employee—named Clementine.” I glanced at the wall clock. Nearing seven. “Why is she looking to hire a PI?”

“Wouldn’t say over the phone. She made an appointment for tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock—I wrote it down.”

Shane returned to his desk, the maze drifting along with him, and I reached into the left pocket of my cardigan. Grooves familiar under my fingers guided me to the stone I wanted. Emotion receptacles is what I call them, the seven stones. Each is about the size of a pencil-case eraser, but heavier and translucent with parallel black lines, like prison bars, instead of the rubber pink. Inside the one perched on my palm, behind the bars, sat a tiny tree.

The clock hands ticked the hour. It’s time. I double-tapped the stone and the miniature oak uncoiled and surged out. The liberated tree planted itself in front of me, roots tangled around my feet, the crown hemming in my view. The Oak Tree of Pain. I reached out a hand to touch the rough bark. Taller today, the tree. I’d find out why soon enough—it always took a few moments for my body to reacquaint itself with a feeling.

Shane poked his head back in. “One more thing—you have to go see her, the new client.”

Two Lakes is a small town. Not the first time a client preferred to avoid the very public display of walking through the doors of Soul Garden Investigations. “What’s the— Ow.”

“Something the matter, boss?”

“I seem to have a sore tooth.” My hand had flown to my cheek.

“Tree large today?” Shane knew my secret. I’m not sure when it was exactly that my assistant picked up on the fact that I’d acquired a strange ability one July Fourth not quite five years ago. In typical Shane fashion, he’d taken the development in stride. He had advice to give on the tooth. “Boss, my roommate’s cousin is a dentist over in Ostford. Best not to leave it too long. I did once and the next thing you know, wham, root canal.”

I no longer ground my teeth at night, but sometimes brushed too hard without noticing, then ended up with sore gums. The problem would likely clear up on its own. “What’s the address, Shane?”

“Of my roommate’s cousin’s dental practice?”

The tooth chose that instant to deliver a decidedly not-simple-gum-irritation stab. The oak broadened, the branches all but blocking my view of my assistant. “Where this Clementine lives,” I said, trying not to move my jaw too much.

“At the moment, a jail cell,” Shane said. “In Chief Gustafson’s police station.” “Well, let’s hope whoever this Clementine is, I won’t find any fog by her feet.”

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NEVE MASLAKOVIC is the author of six novels, starting with Regarding Ducks and Universes (“Weaving together physics, philosophy, and wry humor, Maslakovic’s inventive debut is a delight.” — Booklist). Her speculative fiction leans towards cozy, with plenty of mystery twists and humor.