“Who found him?” Sam asked.
“Skip Brown, the victim’s nephew.”
Sam jerked his head up. “Not the Skip Brown?”
Pierre nodded. “Yes, the Skip Brown.”
“The Skip Brown that used to work for the Flummox triplets?”
Pierre nodded again, gazing down mournfully at the remains of Gus Brown. “The one and only.”
“Dayum,” Sam muttered, scratching his scalp. “Talk about a small world.”
He now saw that Skip was seated in the back of a nearby ambulance, a cup of something hot and steamy in his hand, a space blanket draped across his bony shoulders, looking sorrowful and clearly in a state of great shock.
“Look at this, Sam,” Pierre’s voice came.
“Mh?” He was still thinking about the odds that Skip, who’d been employed by Edie Flummox and her sisters at one time, would be involved in this heinous crime. When he glanced in the direction Pierre was indicating, he saw that this crime had suddenly turned even more astonishing. On the wall, over the dead man, someone had written in what appeared to be blood: ‘Watch Committee—when will you act? If you don’t take these predators off the streets, I will! I’m watching you, watchers… watching your every move.’
He whistled through this teeth. “Take these predators off the streets. Do you think he means Baker Brown over here?”
“It would appear so,” said Pierre, now kneeling down next to the murdered man. “Murdered with a very sharp object,” he said knowingly.
“Yes, according to Patrolman Daniels he was actually gutted with a knife. Not something you see a lot around these parts.”
“What do you make of this challenge to the watch?” asked Pierre, studying the message daubed on the wall in a crude hand.
“Apparently some concerned citizen doesn’t think the watch is doing enough to keep the streets safe. Always accepting the fact that Gus Brown wasn’t as upstanding a citizen as we all thought he was.”
“He was a fine baker,” said Pierre, a hint of sadness in his voice. “A regular genius with the baking pan. His scones, in particular, were to die for.”
“We better have a chat with the triplets,” said Sam after a pause. “See if they’ve been getting other messages from this murderous freak.”
Pierre nodded, then bit his lower lip. “Are you sure I should come, Sam?”
“Of course you should come. Why wouldn’t you come?”
“Well… it’s been a long time since I’ve seen the sisters.”
“So? All the more reason to tag along. They’ll be thrilled to see you alive and well.”
Pierre shook his head. “I don’t know, Sam. It might be awkward.”
Sam heaved a silent groan. Ugh. He now remembered how Pierre had taken a fancy to Ernestine, and when she had proved unresponsive to his lethal charms, had transferred his affections to Estrella.
“For your information, Stien is currently between boyfriends if that’s what’s got you worried,” he said.
A glimmer of hope appeared in the policeman’s gentle eyes. “And what about Strel?”
“Strel is dating some bar owner at the moment. Dunlop Bard? Runs Puppy Power over on Franklin Avenue? You know the place.”
The hope in Pierre’s eyes died away. “Oh,” he said quietly.
Sam frowned. “Hey, I thought you had the hots for Stien?”
“Well, I like Stien a lot,” said Pierre. “But…”
“But you like Strel even better, is that it?”
Pierre nodded. “Oh, I know she’s way out of my league, Sam. Strel is on her way to becoming a star. She’s going to be the next Taylor Swift and her career is going to take her into the stratosphere, far removed from mere mortals like me.” He gave Sam a sad look. “But one can only dream, right?”
Sam clapped a hand on his partner’s shoulder and growled, “Let’s talk to Skip, and then we’ll visit the triplets.” He crooked an eyebrow. “Unless your scar tells you otherwise.”
But it was clear from Pierre’s mournful expression that this was not the time for levity. Whatever his scar was telling him, it obviously wasn’t a message of joy and good cheer.
Chapter Two
I woke up with a start. It took me a few moments to get my bearings, and to realize what had awakened me. As far as I could tell, it wasn’t my alarm clock, which was a relic from the eighties: an alarm clock radio that was tuned to an eighties music radio station and usually eased me from my usual dreamless state to full wakefulness to the tunes of popular eighties superstars such as Modern Talking, Bonnie Tyler or even The Human League.
Now, however, another singing voice had dragged me from my peaceful slumber, and if I wasn’t mistaken it was my sister Strel’s awful caterwauling that had done the trick.
“Ugh,” I grunted, and covered my face with my pillow in a bid to drown out the terrible noise.
To no avail, of course.
Strel’s shrill voice was so powerful it could easily penetrate a brick wall, or possibly even a concrete underground bunker. Scientists at the Department of Defense’s DARPA would probably be most interested in harnessing its power as a weapon of mass destruction. It could also come in handy in the interrogation of unusually shy terrorists, who would snap like twigs under the strain.
With another tired groan, I swung my legs from between the covers and rubbed my eyes. Ever since Strel had gotten it into her head to revitalize her fledgling singing career, she’d been absolutely intolerable. She’d all but given up on her dream of being the next Katy Perry when a new houseguest had arrived at Casa Cassie, as we liked to call our ancestral home. Helmut Totti was a Belgian singer, vacationing in New York, and of all the places in this fair town of ours he could have chosen to grace with his presence, he’d chosen us.
I dragged my hands through my red mane in an attempt to tame it, smoothed down my Simple Minds T-shirt, and pushed myself up off the bed.
Swinging my door wide, I stalked over to Strel’s room, where the racket seemed to originate.
Without bothering to knock, I barged in and yelled, “Strel! Will you please cut it out?!”
Only then did I see that Strel wasn’t alone. She was accompanied by a young man with a slight hint of peach fuzz on his chin—Shaggy Rogers style—and a goofy expression on his face—Scooby-Doo style. The young man was clutching a guitar and was obviously doing the honors of accompanying Strel.
“Oh, hey, honey,” said Strel in her usual chipper way. “Did we wake you?”
“I’m so sorry, Edie,” said the young man who was, of course, none other than Helmut Totti himself. He was smiling apologetically. “We thought it would be a nice treat to wake you guys up with a pleasant little song this morning. You know, put you in a good mood before starting your day.”
“Trying to put Edie in a good mood in the morning is hopeless, Helmut,” said Strel. “She’s Miss Sourpuss and nothing we do will ever change that.”
I planted my hands on my sizable hips. “If you learned how to sing, I might wake up in a good mood for once, and not ready to commit murder.”
“Oh, here we go,” said Strel with an expressive eyeroll. She pushed at her long blond hair, which was draped across her slender shoulders. When I looked closer, I saw that she was actually wearing a flower in her hair, as if channeling Joan Baez or Joni Mitchell, about to conquer Woodstock.
“Why don’t we sing you a nice ballad?” Helmut suggested, and before I could stop him, he struck a chord on his guitar, and the both of them launched into a harrowing and painfully bad rendition of Bridge Over Troubled Water.
I pressed my hands to my ears and removed myself from the room as fast as I could, haunted by twin wails of ‘When you’re weary, feeling small.’
Well, they sure were right about that. I was feeling pretty weary right now.
“Why?” I muttered as I hurried out. “In the name of everything that is holy, why, oh, why?”