“I’m a smart guy,” Staake adds sharply, sounding a little sad, and gives me one last shove out onto the pavement.
Luckily Cutter Funeral home is open, even though it’s Sunday. With a business like funerals, I guess it’s statistically necessary to be ready for someone to croak at a moment’s notice. Rob Cutter even lives right above the business, just in case.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and it’s Davey calling. I press Ignore. I got three missed calls from him while I was at the station—and honestly, what am I supposed to say now? Oh, hi—sorry about last night. I was freaked out because I’ve got issues related to people I love dying unexpectedly—oh, and tasted Colt’s tongue. I’ve got heartburn just thinking about it.
Dom has called a few times, too, but I can’t handle it right now. I obviously haven’t told him about any of this investigation stuff because I haven’t got any solid proof—and also if he knew everything I’ve been up to, he’d probably worry about my state of mind or think I was delusional. He might even do something drastic. Another support group or antidepressants again, or something.
I’ll tell him everything later, I’ve decided. All of it. Once I gather a little more evidence, there’s no way he won’t believe me.
I ring the doorbell and kick my sneakers against the porch to get the wet leaves off. This time of year the leaves are coming down everywhere. I’ve got to take a broom to Rhonda later otherwise they’ll rot against her roof and leave fossil marks.
My phone buzzes again and I turn it off without even looking at it.
Suddenly, the front curtains move and Rob’s big, pink face appears. He smiles at me and I wave, chewing on the inside of my cheeks. I’ve pretty much figured out what I’m going to say:
You might not have known or be able to believe this Rob, but Mrs. Klitch and I were BFF. Any chance I could take a peek at her corpse, and also, was she murdered?
I practiced it a few times out loud in the car, so hopefully it’ll sound very natural.
“Well, well, well. Kippy Bushman.” The door creaks as Rob opens it. “I’ve been meaning to send you one of our specialty Cutter condolence cards. I didn’t get to talk to you much at the Fried funeral, it was such a madhouse. I’m very sorry for your loss, you know.”
I launch into my preplanned script and he stares at me a second.
“Well sure,” he says finally, and beckons me inside.
Mrs. Klitch is laid out on a metal table in the same high-waisted jeans and sweater I saw her swinging in. The whole room smells like formaldehyde.
“We couldn’t change her,” Rob explains. “Cremation takes place tomorrow morning. Don’t know what else to do, frankly, since nobody’s claimed her and the police didn’t bring an extra set of her clothes. They said not to expect anyone, actually—she’s alone, I guess—but I preserved her, and made her up just in case.” He gestures at the body proudly.
I doubt Mrs. Klitch ever wore as much makeup as Rob has plastered on her. She looks sort of like a clown—an effect made scarier by the fact that he hasn’t shut her eyes, which are cloudy and yellowish, like something from a zombie movie.
“You’re the only person to’ve come by,” he says. “According to Father, we buried her husband about fifteen years ago, no kids between them.” He coughs on purpose. “So, not to be nosy, or anything, but how exactly were you and Mrs. Klitch friends, here?” He bites his lip and whispers, “From what I heard, she wasn’t exactly supernice.”
“She was tutoring me . . . in the ways of the world,” I stammer. I’m not sure where that came from. “Also I talked to her sometimes about her sculptures.”
“I could see that.” Rob nods. “She had a unique personality.”
I scan Mrs. Klitch’s corpse for some kind of clue. “Hey, listen, Rob . . . you didn’t find anything, did you? Like something that might have told you how she died?”
Rob laughs, like he’s trying to be modest. “That’s outside my pay grade. I just prepare them for the last viewing, don’tcha know.” He shrugs. “I suppose there’s her wrists, but that could have happened during when she hanged herself. You know, perhaps she changed her mind, reached up and tried to free herself last minute.” He sticks his tongue out the side of his mouth and rolls his eyes back, clawing frantically at his throat. Once he’s done, he stands there as if waiting for me to applaud. I let out a tiny, nervous laugh.
“Anyway, sorry for your—” Rob scratches his head. His hair looks an even brighter shade of red under the fluorescent lights. “Well it’s just a shame you’ve had so many losses, Kippy Bushman.”
“What do you mean, her wrists?” I lift Mrs. Klitch’s arm, which is pretty heavy and stiff. As I do, her hand falls to the side at a strange angle.
“See?” Rob asks. “Broken.”
“And the police didn’t say anything about it?”
“No way, José.”
Her skin is cold and feels a lot like the pleather on Ralph’s Barcaloungers. I set her arm back down carefully on the table, and rearrange her hand so that it’s straight. There are cuts around her fingers, I notice. Signs of struggle. I mention them to Rob but he just goes, “Huh.”
I ask him if Mrs. Klitch had any personal effects on her when the police brought her in, and he points to a small table across the room, on top of which are some crumpled dollar bills and a set of keys. I tell him I need a minute alone with the body and he pats me on the head like I’m a dog. “Oh, Kippy.”
“You’re getting really pretty, by the way,” he tells me awkwardly before shutting the door. “I bet you probably have a lot of boyfriends now, huh?”
I force a smile. “Billions.” The minute he leaves the room I pocket the keys, which are on a pink rabbit’s foot keychain, and pull my sweater down farther over the top of my jeans.
BANZAI
My heart still feels like it’s bobbing in hot soup whenever I think about Davey. Like, how when I kissed him, there was this stomach drop, only I was filling up with stars and . . . I’m totally not describing it right.
Maybe Davey doesn’t have to know about Colt. I mean, it wasn’t really my fault—not entirely. Colt’s like some kind of sex robot. You can’t stop him.
And also, I don’t know, probably part of him knew I was experienced finally, and that’s why he reached for me. Maybe I’m just, like, more attractive now because I’ve got that make-out glow, or whatever. Or maybe I just wanted to see how it would feel. Create a reference point. See if what happened with Davey was legitimately special.
Ugh. I did a bad thing.
Anyway the fact of the matter is that I’ve got work to do, problems to solve, and a killer to find. I mean, every good crime drama has some dame slowing the whole thing down, right? And yes, I guess technically I’m the dame, biologically speaking. But the point is that Davey gets me all riled up, and how am I supposed to pay attention now that all I want to do is climb on him? I can do the investigation myself for a while, just for today, and tomorrow, maybe—just to get my head on straight.
Before I head to Mrs. Klitch’s—aka, the latest crime scene—I have got to get to my locker. It has some stuff I need, including a box of disposable latex gloves and batteries for my flashlight. (The gloves were to deal with my sophomore-year aversion to communal bathrooms, a thing Ruth teased me about until I finally got over it. The flashlight batteries are obviously in case of a power outage, because preparedness is never uncool.)
The parking lot isn’t totally empty so I guess there’re probably some teachers inside working on lesson plans, or else an impromptu student council meeting. I’ve never been very into clubs, though Ruth and I started our own once for college application purposes. We thought it’d be better if we came up with something edgy, which is how I got to be vice president of the Anarchy Club. (Ruth was president.) In terms of official club procedures, we couldn’t think of anything to do, really, except for smoke pot—and we only did that twice because I didn’t like it very much. After we smoked it, all I wanted to do was go to sleep with food in my mouth.