“Case closed, Max. And now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got things to do.”
“Big plans, Kingman?” asked Dooley.
Kingman gave us a sad look.“How about packing my bags and looking for a new home?”
We both regarded him with concern.“So bad, is it?” I said.
He nodded wordlessly, and as we stood there commiserating with our friend, suddenly an earthquake rocked the building. It took a while before I realized it was actually heavy metal music, and when I saw that the ceiling was undulating, dust falling down on us, and I heard a man stomping about upstairs, I felt safe in concluding it wasn’t an earthquake but Rudolph Vickery.
“He thinks he’s an artist now,” said Kingman sadly. “A heavy metal artist.”
“Oh, so those are the songs he’s been composing in the basement.”
“If you can call them songs. He basically just screams a lot and plays air guitar.”
A loud voice could now be heard, even as the stomping continued unabated.
“He wants to audition forThe Voice,” Kingman explained, “and he’s been practicing.”
The screeching became louder, and so did the howling guitars. My ears were hurting, and the dust was covering me all over. Not the ideal place to be in, in other words.
“He’s been practicing all week, and trying to destroy our ceiling in the process,” Kingman said, pointing out several cracks that had appeared in the kitchen ceiling.
“He’s going to come crashing through that ceiling if he keeps this up,” I said.
“I hope so,” said Kingman. “And I hope he breaks his neck in the process.” Then he shook his head. “Forget I said that. He’s a good man—a gentle giant. But I am starting to understand why his wife kicked him out. I just wish Wilbur would kick him out, too.”
Just then, Wilbur came storming into the kitchen, and then he was shouting up the stairs:“Will you cut that out already, you idiot! You’re scaring away my customers!”
“Sorry, Will!” Rudolph’s voice came from upstairs, and immediately the music stopped.
Shaking his head, Wilbur turned to us, and said,“Family. You can’t live with them, and you can’t kill them. So what are you gonna do!” And then he was gone again.
And as we proceeded to the front of the store, I found myself hoping we wouldn’t be called to a murder scene one of these days. If we were, it was obvious to me who the victim would be, and who the killer.
Chapter 14
The home that Flint Kutysiak had built was a nice one, no doubt about it. He lived there with his husband, a young man a few years Flint’s junior named Julio Prokop. The couple welcomed us into their home, and it was obvious they were proud of the place. It wasn’t as big as Dave James’s manor, but it was big enough for two people. It was a modern home, sort of square and with lots of windows that allowed plenty of light to stream into the pleasant living room. No hoarding was going on here, I saw, for the place was fairly soberly decorated. Soft classical music wafted from hidden speakers, and when Odelia and Chase took a seat on the sofa, they found themselves looking at a large coffee-table book that contained all of the comics that Dave James had ever made.
Chase reverently opened it, and after a moment was already chuckling amusedly at the adventures of Tollie the Turtle and his friends.
“We had all the artwork scanned and cleaned up for that one,” Flint explained as he looked on with distinct pride. “And everything colorized from scratch. A humongous job.”
“But Dave was so happy, remember, sweetie?” said Julio.
Both men wore matching outfits: fashionably ripped jeans and crisp pink shirts. They could have been twins, with their wavy blond hair, their handsome faces and trim figures.
“Yeah, we mainly created it as a present for his seventieth birthday,” Flint said. “It was supposed to be a surprise, so we could only work on it when he wasn’t at the studio.”
“He often came into the studio to work?” said Chase as he closed the big book.
“He came in every Monday, to show us the work he’d laid out for the coming week, and then again on Friday, to go over the work we’d done. We always work two weeks ahead, so that gives us some breathing space to meet our deadlines.”
“Now that he’s gone, will the work go on?” asked Chase, the fan.
“Oh, absolutely,” said Flint. “Tollie the Turtle will never die, even though Dave is not with us anymore.”
“He wanted Tollie to survive him,” said Julio. “He was so proud of his creation, and wanted Tollie to live forever.”
“I didn’t know that Tollie was actually a real turtle,” said Chase.
“Oh, yes, he was.”
“Did you know that Tollie disappeared?” asked Odelia.
Both Flint and Julio looked shocked at this.
“Disappeared? Tollie?” asked Flint.
“We’re assuming that the same person who killed Dave must have taken Tollie.”
“But who would do such a thing?” asked Flint. “Who would steal a turtle?”
“Tollie isn’t just any turtle, though, is he?” said Chase. “He’s the original Tollie. So maybe the people who took him hope to sell him?”
“But who would buy Tollie? That’s just… horrible!” said Julio, sincerely shocked at this development.
“Do you think the person who killed Dave really wanted to take Tollie?” asked Flint.
“It’s possible,” Chase admitted.
“A turtle like Tollie is probably worth a lot of money,” Julio said musingly. He looked to his husband. “How old is Tollie now?”
“Um… over a hundred, I think?”
“Gee. That’s really old, isn’t it?”
“Okay, so there are a couple of routine questions we need to ask,” said Chase. “The first one is pretty obvious: where were you last night between six and eight?”
“Well, I was home,” said Flint.
“Can anyone confirm that?” asked Chase, looking to Julio, who seemed to have been ruminating on the turtle’s age, and now woke up from his ruminations when his husband gave him a gentle prod.
“Mh? Oh, me,” he said. “I can confirm Flint’s alibi.”
Flint smiled.“This isn’t a Netflix cop show, sweetie.”
“Oh, I know. This is the real deal. But it’s true, Detective Kingsley. Flint was right here last night. Safe and sound with me. And we can prove it, can’t we, sweetie?”
“We can?” asked Flint.
“Don’t you remember? The letter?”
“What letter—oh, you mean the summons?”
Julio now produced a document and slid it across the coffee table to Chase.
“What am I looking at?” asked Chase as he studied the document.
“I was actually served a summons last night,” said Flint.
“A summons?”
“Yeah, I was involved in a hit and run last month—trust me, it’s not as bad as it sounds. I backed out of a parking spot at the mall, and accidentally hit the car parked next to me. I hadn’t even noticed, so I didn’t stick around. But the person whose car it was did, of course, and asked security to check CCTV. And that’s how they found me. And sent me the bill for the paint job.”
“And then of course Flint being Flint,” said Julio, “he forgot to pay the bill, and so now he has to go to court, the silly ass.”
“It’s been a pretty hectic couple of weeks at the studio, sweetie,” said Flint.
“I know, sweetie, I know.”
“So they served you with this summons last night at…” Chase studied the document.
“Six-thirty,” said Flint. “Which is also what it says right there on the document, and if you talk to the process server, he’ll confirm that he served me with the summons.”
“All right,” said Chase, as he held up his phone. “Do you mind if I take a picture of this?”
“Oh, by all means, detective.”
Chase took a picture of the summons, then slid it back across the table.“That seems to establish a clear alibi for you, Mr. Kutysiak.”