CHAPTER NINE
It’s not possible to nurse a drink when the beverage in question is a shot. You can’t sip a shot like you can a vampire-themed mimosa. If you are not doing shots with the group, you are transparently not drinking,
And I like drinking. I just didn’t want to do it at this particular moment. For one, it’s not a great thing to do following a concussion, and for another, I had planned to sneak away after to a Presbyterian church knitters’ group and ask probing questions to old women. This was a difficult thought to articulate, though, because any thought is difficult to articulate after you’ve had a Sugar Sugar. Also, as these people were possibly suspects in whatever tomfoolery was surrounding Cynthia’s death, it seemed unwise to bring up my sleuthing plans, however vague.
And naturally, the moment I started doing something unwise, Nathan Willing, botanist boyfriend, showed up.
Nathan entered the scene as coolly as a man wearing a messenger bag possibly can. Imagine him coming down to the table in slow motion, pastel-blue corduroy, mustard-colored messenger bag swaying back and forth, and grinning and nodding at me as he sat down. Nathan was cool. His clothes, probably not, but he was.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “The fun train got stuck in traffic. Although, from the looks of it”—Nathan looked at the collection of burgeoning drunkards around him—“it seems like you’ve got plenty of fun as it is.”
Nathan was looking at Tyler and Masako in particular, who couldn’t be sitting any closer to each other without having sex.
“The crocodile and vulture are certainly acknowledging each other’s existence.”
“You know, I don’t think I would do very well as a biologist.”
“Tell me about your case,” he said.
“Shh!” I told him, but the rest of the table didn’t take much notice. They hadn’t even paused their drinking and conversation. I guess he only entered in slow motion for me.
“Should you be drinking?” he asked. “It wasn’t that long ago that you had a concussion.”
This, to be fair to Nathan, was a very fair question, and I tried not to resent him for it.
“Certainly not,” I said, taking a shot.
“I see,” said Nathan.
I tried to introduce Nathan to the group, but the conversation drifted away from me, as Tyler, paying no attention to Nathan, seemed to jump in to some sort of extended Beauty and the Beast metaphor that I did not understand. Nathan took matters into his own hands.
“Greetings, everyone! It is I, Nathan Willing!”
“Have a drink,” said Masako. “They’re very alcoholic and extremely ridiculous.”
This is practically Nathan’s favorite combination of things, and he winced his answer. “I can’t. I’m playing host to a potential grad student tonight. I have to protect the good name of Washington University.”
“Its name wasn’t that great to begin with,” I said. “Tennessee Williams hated the place.”
“Tennessee Williams was a lying whore,” said Nathan, as amiably as you can imagine the line, “and, as I understand it, he had very little to do with plant and microbial sciences. Tell me about your case. You know, it really doesn’t look like you’re working at all.”
I should have been irritated at him for bringing up detective stuff again, but it was crystal clear that the rest of the table was not listening to us. Tyler had picked up a candle from the table and was doing some sort of trick with it.
“Yes,” I told him. “I’m working. I’m not always holding magnifying glasses up to windowsills and shouting out ‘Zut alors!’ Sometimes I converse with loose-lipped drunkards.”
Although, Tyler apparently heard this bit and said: “Aye, aye!”
“What detective is going around saying ‘Zut alors’?” asked Nathan, and this was his default state, which were happy tangents.
“Hercule Poirot, maybe?” I said, and then added in a strained voice, “Stop mentioning detective work.”
“He’s never said that,” said Nathan. “You’re thinking of the chef in The Little Mermaid.”
“No,” said Tyler. “Not The Little Mermaid. Beauty and the Beast.”
“René Auberjonois isn’t in Beauty and the Beast,” said Nathan.
Tyler, however, did not debate this point, just continued on with his metaphor that I did not understand.
“In the movie they all just start out as weird objects, but in the play, it happens gradually. Like, each scene you’re more like a teapot. That’s what it’s like while I’m there,” said Tyler.
“The what now?” said Nathan.
“Tyler is explaining that working at DE is transforming him into a teapot,” explained Masako.
“Zut alors!” said Nathan.
“How did you get into it in the first place?” Masako asked.
“I was actually a music guy,” said Tyler. “Which was a great gig.”
At this point, here’s what I was thinking in order of relative importance:
1. It seemed to me that Masako was exceptionally interested in Tyler. It was certainly useful to have her here to ask him probing questions. I didn’t have to do anything except observe. This is next-level detectiving as far as I am concerned. Outsourcing!
2. Probably Tyler meant that DE was turning him into a mantel clock, because the teapot was actually pretty cool.
3. Quintrell had gone quiet, and I was thinking I should bring him back into the conversation. This turned out to be pretty easy because he started talking.
“I didn’t know you were a music guy,” said Quintrell.
This appeared to make Tyler sad.
“I was the lead composer for Gurgle.”
“I don’t know what that is,” said Quintrell. This appeared to make Tyler even sadder.
“And CoffeeQuest Two.”
“Never heard of it,” said Quintrell. “What’s in this drink, again?”
“CoffeeQuest Three?”
“I haven’t even heard of CoffeeQuest One,” said Quintrell.
“I wasn’t on CoffeeQuest One.”
“How did you get from music to management?” asked Masako.
“Oh, right, well. I acquired a reputation for getting things done on time, and eventually I started getting transferred to projects that were behind schedule, which I was really good at turning around, and then at some point, I think DE decided that I was better at turning around failing projects than I was at composition. Which is sort of depressing now that I think about it.”
“At least you’re good at something,” I said.
“Well, it was better money. But then I took this job at DE, and that’s been a nightmare. It’s the worst place I’ve ever worked. People warned me.”
“Do you think the whistle-blower’s letter came from someone here at Cahaba?”
“Beats me,” said Tyler. “It could be. But it could be from anywhere. I mean, it’s bad at Cahaba. But it’s close to as bad at a dozen other places. That’s just what DE does. They buy up little mom-and-pop companies and drive them into the ground and crush everyone’s souls.”
“Step Three: Profit,” I said, which didn’t get a laugh. And then someone ordered another round of shots.
This is what the conversation was like after Sugar Sugar #2:
“I miss Cynthia,” said Tyler.
“You knew her for only a week,” said Quintrell, who was now slumped over a bit, like a stuffed animal. A bear, or a dog with a bow on it.
“It was a good week,” said Tyler. “It was a meaningful week. She had depths. Hidden depths.”
“I miss her too,” said Nathan, who had never met her and was drinking only water, anyway. I’m pretty sure he was putting us on.
“But if you could see them,” said Masako, who was becoming a little Sugar Sugared herself, “how were they hidden?”
“Artfully,” said Tyler.
“Like with tasteful shrubbery. Proverbial shrubbery,” I said. I was deeply Sugar Sugared.
“I don’t think she had hidden depths at all,” said Quintrell. “I think she was WYSIWYG. But a good WYSIWYG.”
WYSIWYG stands for “what you see is what you get,” which is an old web design term. It’s also fun to say when you’re drunk because you pronounce it “Wizzy-Wig.” Actually, it’s even fun to say sober.
“Describe the WYS for me,” I said. “I never met Cynthia.”
“Cynthia was just our dorm mom. She was way older than everybody there,” said Quintrell.
“WAY older,” said Tyler, having taken up the chorus now that Quintrell had abandoned it. “Our dorm grandmom.”
“But in a good way. She didn’t seem to think much of gaming as an industry—”
“She used to work for an oil company—” said Tyler.
“But that was kind of helpful. She was immune to the glamour of it.”
“The relative glamour of it,” said Tyler.
“And she wouldn’t put up with the company’s bullshit. We needed someone like her there. You are a little bit like her, actually,” ventured Quintrell. “Except that you’re not mothering, and you don’t care about anyone.”
I had had enough Sugar Sugars that I took this remark very casually.
“So,” I said, not worrying much about the subtext of my investigation. “Who’s single?” This was a little inartful, but I wanted to know who had a significant other who might have written the whistle-blower’s letter.
“I am single,” said Tyler, looking at Masako. “I am very, very single.”
“I am sort of single,” said Quintrell. “I’m in kind of a fourth-of-a-relationship.”
“Like polyamory?” asked Masako.
“No, I mean the relationship is iffy. I’m dating this electrical engineer, who’s great, but I, like, only see her every two months.”
“What’s her name?” asked Nathan, very sweetly.
“Gloria,” said Quintrell.
“Gloria?! How old is she?” asked Nathan.
“She’s a young Gloria,” explained Quintrell.
“Fifty is a young Gloria,” said Nathan.
“You told Vanetta you were completely single,” I told Quintrell.
“I rounded down,” said Quintrell.
“Well, I’m very single,” said Tyler.
“I got it, cowboy,” said Masako. “You’re single. We’ll come back to that point.”
Tyler was both chastened and very happy-looking, which further underscored how very desperately single he was.
“Why do you see your electrical engineer only every two months?” asked Masako.
Quintrell blinked at her.
“I work ALL THE TIME,” he said. “Haven’t you been listening?”
“Off and on,” said Masako.
“What’s Gloria like? Does she hate corporations and have a yen for vengeance?”
“She’s extremely fit. Possibly too fit. Our last date was a marathon, which I did not finish. I can’t tell if she’s trying to humiliate me, and I’m into it, or if she just doesn’t really care whether I live or die. And I’m also into that.”
“If you like women who treat you badly,” said Nathan, altogether too amiably, “you should love Dahlia.”
Conversation after Sugar Sugar #3:
“Quintrell King? You’re under arrest for murder.”
Okay, that’s purposefully blindsiding you. But, hey, we didn’t see it coming either.
I was blindsided. Detective Tedin should have been extremely conspicuous, although it was getting to be dusk now, and through the veil of Sugar Sugars I was not in a particularly noticing mood. Plus, things were getting emotional. Tyler and Masako were inching—inching, mind you—closer together, and I was doing everything I could to keep them from running off and abandoning us, which I felt was the inevitable coast toward which we were drifting. I had also taken Quintrell’s phone, not for the purposes of investigating, but to find Gloria in his phone contacts list and send her a text.
Because I was drunk, I had texted:
“I have taken Quintrell’s phone. We are at a bar, and he appears to be pining for you.” I was looking for the pine tree emoji, which I thought would help things, but again, I was drunk, and I couldn’t find it, and so I went for the sprout, feeling that these were perfectly interchangeable.
“What are you doing?” asked Quintrell.
“I’m sending sexy plant emojis to Gloria Peachey.”
“Oh MY GOD, no!” said Quintrell.
“It will work out great,” I said. “Let’s get Gloria here. We can meet her.”
“That’s not even the right Gloria. That’s a friend of my mom’s,” said Quintrell.
“Oh.”
“Not even a friend. She’s like my mom’s frenemey.”
“Oh,” I said. “Why is she in your contacts?”
And then Detective Tedin showed up and arrested Quintrell, which happened not at all like you would expect. It wasn’t that dramatic. Mostly Quintrell seemed confused by the development and was principally worried about what Gloria Peachey was going to do next.
“Quintrell King? We need to take you in,” said Detective Tedin. I was trying to pull myself quickly back from drunken Dahlia mode—which is a fun mode—into detective, but there were a lot of gears that needed to shift, and you know what they say about operating heavy machinery under the influence. That said, Tedin didn’t seem entirely confident as he was arresting Quintrell. He certainly didn’t appear to be relishing the moment, the way I did whenever I solved a case. He looked unhappy. He looked off.
The next few minutes were a blur. Quintrell was suddenly gone, I was confused, and Masako and Tyler were utterly adrift. Also, all the people in the industrial-waste-green pinstripes were looking at us like we were the weirdos.
“So,” asked Nathan, who takes the arrest of strangers almost too well, “was that what you wanted to happen?”
“No!” I said. “Of course not!”
“Sorry,” said Nathan. “I should rephrase that. Was that what you expected to happen?”
“Nope,” I told him. “Not even a little.”
Tyler and Masako responded to the situation like normal people, which is to say that they were stunned.
“What’s going on?” asked Tyler. “Like, what just happened?”
“Dahlia will fix this,” said Masako. “She’s an undercover detective.”
“How is she undercover if you’re telling me about it?” asked Tyler, who really took the words right out of my mouth.