Riley Thorn and the Corpse in the Closet by Lucy Score

18

9:27 a.m., Sunday, August 16

With Riley overseeing ramp construction and binge-watching an obnoxious woman talk about plastic surgery and sports bra hauls on YouTube, Nick headed out to turn over a few more rocks in the Larry Rupley investigation.

He’d made a few calls and visits to known associates on the list Shelley had provided. But so far, no one knew where Larry went. And no one really seemed concerned either.

Larry’s neighborhood was more active on a Sunday, he observed. Front doors were open, and neighbors yelled back and forth across the narrow parking area. Three guys were sitting on folding chairs and drinking beers in a parking space. There were dumbbells on the sidewalk in front of Roy’s place. A guy in his forties was juggling a baby, a toddler, and a diaper bag the size of a small sedan. The townhouse opposite Larry’s had a sparkly sign on the door that said “Brunch Makeovers 10 a.m.”

He wasn’t sure what a “brunch makeover” was, but it sounded like something he’d hate.

He’d have to ask Riley later what the hell a brunch makeover was when she wasn’t watching dead lady videos on living your best life.

Nick let himself into Larry’s place and glanced around.

It smelled stale. He picked up the mail on the floor and paged through it on his way into the kitchen. More bills and past due notices. Nothing that conveniently screamed “Thanks for signing up for a timeshare in Orlando.”

He added the mail to the stack in the dining room and glanced down at the cat dishes.

On a whim, he dialed Shelley Rupley.

“Stop flinging your sweat all over your brother,” she answered.

“Shelley?”

There was a cacophony of noise on her end.

“Nick?” she shouted. “Hang on. Let me get you off Bluetooth.”

A few seconds later, she came back. “Sorry about that. You caught me in the minivan with the entire squad of children designed to drive me to the brink. Did you find Larry?” She sounded hopeful. And desperate.

“Not yet. I was wondering if you knew anything about his cat?”

“Ugh. Yes. Mr. Relish… Wait. No. Pickles. He adopted that mangy thing right after he moved out. I’m allergic to cats, so we never had one. Okay. Technically, I’m not allergic. I just didn’t want to add a litter box to my to-do list.”

“You wouldn’t know where Mr. Pickles hides, would you? Or if Larry had anyone feed the cat if he went away?”

“Let me ask the kids.”

The noise level on her end of the call returned to deafening decibels. “Hey! Stop licking your sister. I don’t care if she spilled Frosty down her arm. Where does Dad’s cat hide when you guys are at his place?”

Nick winced as the noise crescendoed.

It went quiet again abruptly.

“The kids say Mr. Pickles likes to hide under Larry’s bed and in the bathtub behind the curtain. They don’t know anything about anyone else looking in on the cat. Larry never goes anywhere. He’s a cheapskate and a homebody.”

“Okay. I appreciate the info. I’ll keep looking.”

“Wait. Is the cat missing too?” she asked.

“It appears so.”

“Then he must have gone somewhere and taken Mr. Pickles with him! Which means my ex-husband faked his own disappearance just so he wouldn’t have to take care of his own kids for a weekend. That son of a bitch.”

“I’ll find him,” Nick promised.

“When you do, I’ll pay you extra if you break his nose for me,” Shelley said.

After he did another run through the apartment, paying special attention to cat hiding places, Nick returned to the kitchen and eyeballed the untouched food dish.

Where was Larry?

Where was Mr. Pickles?

He wasn’t sure about cats, but people didn’t just disappear. He let himself out and locked the door behind him. The brunch sign across the lot caught his eye again, and then he spotted something even more interesting. With a grin, Nick crossed to the other townhouse and jabbed the doorbell.

He was turned around and checking the angle when the door opened behind him.

“Well, hello there.”

The man who answered was immaculately groomed in unwrinkled chinos and a short-sleeved button-down patterned with tiny hammocks and umbrellas. He had a mustache, and his short, silvery hair was expertly mussed.

“Hi. I’m Nick.”

“I’m Alistair, and I know who you are,” the man said with a wink. “You can’t keep secrets in this neighborhood. You’re Nick Santiago, handsome private investigator looking for Larry.”

“Well, I don’t have handsome listed on my business card, but now I’ll consider it. I was wondering if you had a few minutes to answer some questions.”

Alistair crossed his arms over his chest. “That depends. How good are you at julienning vegetables?”

* * *

Four minutes later,Nick found himself in a stylish kitchen clutching an expensive paring knife and staring at a cutting board of mushrooms and green peppers. Alistair expertly ran his knife through a slice of pepper. “You want each piece to be about a quarter of an inch square. Anything bigger will throw off the texture of the omelets. Now, where was I?”

“You were telling me about the neighborhood.”

The man was the kind of witness Nick wished every case had. Nosy and chatty.

“Ah. Yes! We bought this unit about ten years ago. Then when the place next door went up for sale, we snapped it up and spent a year renovating to combine them.”

“It’s nice,” Nick said, looking up from the peppers. “Feels like people live here.”

The place looked like people with taste lived there. The walls in the kitchen were painted something called aubergine, which according to Alistair made the white cabinets and marble counters pop. There was a tall glass vase of lemons and limes on the island. The room opened into a large, sunny dining room with black and white photos of Alistair and friends on the walls.

“Flattery will get you the best omelet you’ve ever had,” Alistair promised as he turned on a burner on a range that would have made Nick’s dad weep. “The townhouses on the other side of the lot are still owned by a real estate company. They’re all rentals and tend to attract newly divorced men.”

“Like Larry,” Nick prompted, running his knife through a green pepper.

“Exactly. Personally, I wasn’t surprised that Larry was divorced or that he disappeared under mysterious circumstances,” Alistair announced.

“Really?”

“Larry was the kind of guy who was divorced for a reason,” Alistair said, pulling a stylish clear bin of eggs out of the refrigerator.

“Aren’t most?”

“There are the typical reasons like ‘he never remembered my birthday’ or ‘he was basically another child,’ and then there are other reasons.”

“Such as?” Nick wondered if he should be taking notes.

“There was something dark beneath that lumpy surface. I picked up on it right away, of course. My husband, Danny, thought I was being dramatic, which to be fair is the default setting. But I knew there was something off with that guy.”

“Off how?” Nick worked his knife through the mushrooms.

“Entitled laziness. The guy couldn’t be bothered to put out his own trash cans. They’d just sit there overflowing until one of us took them to the curb. And there they’d sit for days until one of us dragged them back. He never once shoveled his own walk. And when he moved in and Danny and I took him our usual welcome package, he didn’t even say thank you or return the container from the lemon bars. I told Danny that’s the kind of guy who loses a woman because he’s too lazy to make an effort.”

“Interesting,” Nick mused.

Alistair placed two glass bowls next to him and pointed at the peppers and mushrooms. “He’s the kind of guy who just wanted to do his thing with the least amount of effort possible. I made a few helpful overtures, but he wasn’t interested in self-improvement. He just wanted to eat his takeout and watch TV.”

“Do you remember when you saw him last?” Nick asked, scooping the mushrooms and peppers into the matching bowls, feeling like a contestant on a cooking show.

Alistair gazed at the ceiling and stroked two fingers over his mustache. “It was a weekend. Ah! Yes!” He snapped his fingers. “Saturday a week ago. Danny and I were painting the door and trim, and Larry was headed out for a run. Which, knock me over with a feather that Mr. Lazy Ass took up jogging as a hobby. I think it had something to do with his cholesterol or blood pressure.”

“Did you see him come back from the run?”

Alistair squinted at the dollop of butter melting in the pan. “I don’t think so. My sweaty man radar is pretty finely tuned. I probably would have remembered.”

Nick felt a prickle of excitement. “That doorbell you have. How sensitive is the range?”

The man’s eyes lit up. “Very. Our daughter installed it. She’s a genius with technology. We haven’t figured out how to shorten the sensor’s range. We ended up turning off our notifications since the camera goes off every time someone walks or drives by. Hell, even Mr. Pickles sitting in the front window would set it off.”

Nick felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “When’s the last time you noticed Mr. Pickles in the window?”

“Oh, gosh. It’s been…” Alistair frowned. “Now that you mention it. I haven’t seen that cat all week. Which is odd because Mr. Pickles practically lives in that window.”

“Would you mind if I took a look at your doorbell footage?” Nick asked.

“Do you think we have the last known footage of a missing person?” Alistair sounded thrilled at the possibility.

“It’s possible.”

“Danny! Get down here!” Alistair yelled.

A moment later, footsteps thundered down the stairs. “What’s wrong? Did I get the wrong mushrooms? Do I have enough time to run out for the right ones?”

Danny was still buttoning a shirt when he hit the kitchen. His salt and pepper hair was mussed like he’d just gotten out of bed. He was barefoot and extremely tall.

“Did you seriously just wake up?” Alistair demanded, shoving a cup of coffee into his husband’s hands.

“I must have fallen back to sleep after you got up,” Danny said with a mighty yawn. “What’s wrong with the mushrooms?”

“Nothing is wrong with the mushrooms. They’re perfection. But our guest here has a special request.”

Danny noticed Nick for the first time. Apparently it wasn’t that odd to find a strange man in their kitchen on a Sunday morning. “Oh. Of course. Hi…” He trailed off as if searching for Nick’s name.

Alistair rolled his eyes. “Relax. This is Nick. You don’t know him, so you didn’t forget his name.”

Danny’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Oh, thank God.”

“Forgive my husband. He refuses to actually use any helpful mnemonics I’ve given him for remembering names and faces.”

“That’s what I have you for,” Danny said, pausing his coffee guzzling to drop a kiss on Alistair’s cheek.

“Nick is the private investigator Roy was telling us about.”

“Roy. Roy. Which one is he? The head bobber or the guy with the car stereo?”

“Head bobber,” Nick answered.

“Right. You’re looking for that grumpy guy across the street with the cat.”

“Larry Rupley,” Nick added.

“Yeah. Grumpy guy. Cute cat,” Danny mused.

“Nick wants to have a look at the footage from our doorbell. We might be the last people to have seen Larry before he vanished,” Alistair said, gripping his husband by the biceps. “Isn’t that thrilling?”

“He probably just skipped out on the rent. The landlord was knocking on his door for the last three months looking for rent money,” Danny said with another yawn.

“And no one has seen him since,” Alistair reminded him.

* * *

It took nearly halfan hour and two more cups of coffee for Danny to backtrack through all the doorbell notifications. Long enough for Alistair to get bored and go back to setting up his omelet station.

Their house was a popular one. The doorbell rang at least three times a day with deliveries and friends dropping by. Most of them men asking for wardrobe and relationship advice.

“Alistair does some unofficial community outreach here,” Danny explained, peering over Nick’s shoulder at the screen. “He takes our neighbors and fixes them up so they can get back out there as a better version of themselves. Some win back their exes. Some move on to new relationships. Overall, he’s got a pretty high success rate.”

“Does he get paid for his efforts?” Nick asked.

Danny chuckled as they watched a clip of a UPS driver wander past with what looked like a keg of protein powder. Probably for Roy. “Alistair makes a killing narrating audiobooks for a living. His fixer-upper advice is free.”

“I’m providing a service pro bono,” Alistair said from the stove. “Most men aren’t willing to make any serious changes until they’ve hit rock bottom and lost everything. We’re not the brightest sex on an evolutionary scale.”

“What kind of advice do you give a guy when he’s starting a new relationship?” he asked as Mr. Pickles, a large black and white cat, eyed a squirrel scampering down the sidewalk.

“Oh, you know. The usual. Learning to be interested in another human being. Figuring out how to anticipate his or her needs. How to speak their partners’ love languages.”

“What are love languages?” Nick asked.

“The way people express and accept love.”

“What if you speak different languages?”

“You have that terrified deer in headlights look. You must be in a new relationship,” Danny observed. “Oh, look. This is it!”

Nick looked down at the tablet’s screen and watched Alistair and Danny discussing brush techniques. Behind them, Larry Rupley, dressed in shorts and a tank top, stepped out onto his stoop. Locking the door behind him, he stowed his keys in a pocket in his shorts and then ignored Alistair’s chipper “Hi, neighbor,” as he set off.

The time stamp was 11:27 a.m. Saturday.

Bingo.

Eagerly, Nick moved on to the next video. It and the next four were more of Alistair and Danny painting. After that, there was nothing for a few hours until Danny stepped outside and met up with a small group of men on the sidewalk.

“That’s our walking group,” Danny explained. “Three nights a week, we take turns getting some of our heftier neighbors off the couch and outside for some fresh air.”

The next several videos were from the same day. Cars entering and exiting the lot. The walking group returning from their jaunt. Two food deliveries. Mr. Pickles was in the front window for all of it.

Until finally, Nick hit pay dirt.

Night had fallen. The cat was no longer surveying the neighborhood from the window when a figure dressed in dark clothes climbed the steps to Larry’s place. The figure dug into their pocket and a moment later let themselves into the house.

“Al, we found something,” Danny said in a hushed tone.

Both men peered over Nick’s shoulder as he scrolled to the next notification.

“That’s definitely not Larry,” Alistair observed.

Nick agreed. The figure was a good six inches shorter and significantly less round. “Do you recognize that guy?” he asked them.

They both shrugged. “Are we sure it’s a guy?” Danny asked.

“Look at the way he walks. He’s not very big. But that’s definitely a man,” Alistair said with confidence. “He’s walking like he’s trying to disguise his walk.”

“You teach guys to walk?” Nick asked.

“You’d be amazed at what the right walk does for a man’s confidence,” Danny insisted.

“How do you know if you’re walking wrong?” Nick asked.

“You don’t until we tell you. Don’t worry. We’ll make you strut the catwalk before you leave,” Alistair told him.

The next video cued up, and they watched as the same dark figure stepped out of the house with his arms full.

“What’s he carrying?” Danny asked, leaning further over Nick’s shoulder.

“It’s got cords hanging off it,” Alistair pointed out.

The figure disappeared off-screen and returned minutes later to do the same thing.

“So Larry goes out for a run. Later that night, a different guy shows up, unlocks the door, and helps himself to some electronics,” Danny summarized.

The figure returned again and disappeared into the house. When he reappeared on the stoop, he was carrying a large box by a handle on top.

“Oh my God. Is that—”

“Mr. Pickles. Our man in black just took Larry’s cat,” Nick said.