Murder Feels Bad Read online

  Murder Feels Bad

  Bill Alive

  Books by Bill Alive

  The Empath Detective Mystery Series:

  NOVELS

  Murder Feels Awful

  Murder Feels Bad

  Murder Feels Crazy (forthcoming)

  FREE NOVELLA!

  Origin Story: Mark Falcon, Akina, and the Condo Killer

  (This prequel novella is best read after Murder Feels Awful, but it does stand alone.)

  Click here to get this novella for FREE.

  MURDER FEELS BAD

  An Empath Detective Mystery

  Book 2

  by BILL ALIVE

  Villette Press

  Back Mosby, VA

  Murder Feels Bad Copyright 2017 Bill Alive. (v1.2)

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the author. Reviewers may quote brief passages in reviews. Please do.

  Super-official disclaimer in the back.

  For more information, visit:

  http://billalive.com

  But not now. Read the book first.

  For Ceci,

  still the best friend and proofreader ever. :)

  PART 1

  Chapter 1

  Murder and weddings don’t mix. There should be a rule. I guess there is.

  Mark definitely did not expect he’d have to use his powers. Not at a freaking wedding.

  I mean, we couldn’t have expected any of it … the deranged veterinarian, the crazy milk witch, the nightmare of that basement…

  I’m just saying, in hindsight, maybe we shouldn’t have been at that wedding in the first place.

  Especially not me. Not with Ceci as my plus-one.

  Okay, I admit, I hadn’t thought the Ceci thing through. I was thinking, hey, weddings are fun, I can give my best-friend-besides-Mark a good time, which she totally deserves after that crazy first case … and if Jivanta just happens to have a drop-dead gorgeous younger sister…

  Wait a second. Do you even know these people?

  You did read Book One, right? Our first case? Murder Feels Awful?

  Crud. What if you didn’t? This is Book Two, it’s going to be full of spoilers!

  I don’t know how all these fake series are like, “You can read these books in any order.” Really? Like their lives are totally random? Nothing connects? In real life, stuff happens and it leads to other stuff. Like wedding invitations.

  Look, you really should read Murder Feels Awful first. Here’s the link: https://billalive.com/murder-feels-awful.

  Go ahead. Enjoy. I’m not going anywhere.

  Done?

  Great.

  You didn’t do it, did you?

  You’re on the subway or a safari to Antarctica or something, and you’re like, I can go back later, I bet this Book Two won’t really ruin it.

  Yeah? Well, fine. This is a separate case, so I’ll do the best I can here. I just really hate spoilers…

  On that fateful wedding morning, as we drove to the church, the crisp sunny air and the crystal blue sky and the lush autumn reds and golds of the gentle mountains that encircle our rural Virginia town, Back Mosby, all belied the brooding dread that roiled within our racing hearts.

  By which I mean, we were running super late.

  Ceci and I had crammed into Mark’s ancient car, Thunder, along with Mark himself, who (of course) had no plus-one. Although I love Thunder dearly, he has unaddressed health issues, and they hadn’t made us any less late. When we had finally parked and were dashing for the church entrance, I noted that the creepy old church tower came complete with a real bell, and that it wasn’t ringing yet. The bell looked somehow jammed upward, like it was broken or stuck. Something about this bugged me, but I was too busy obsessing that we were late, we were going to rush in and everyone would stare at us and Jivanta’s luscious Indian lips would curl in a contemptuous sneer—

  “Dude, she’s getting married!” Mark snapped. He yanked open the front door to the church lobby. “She’s not even going to see us, much less sneer.”

  I flinched. Mark’s really not supposed to be able to read my thoughts word for word.

  Normally, all he can do is feel other people’s emotions. Which, yes, is crazy amazing. Especially for catching secret killers.

  But lately, Mark and I seem to have this weird connection. And it’s getting worse. I wouldn’t mind so much if I could vibe his thoughts once in awhile.

  Truth is … it’s not always easy being besties with an empath.

  We scuttled into the lobby, barging into the bustle of the wedding party and a horde of other hurrying guests.

  “We made it! We’re on time!” said Ceci, unleashing her cute, lopsided grin. She did a quick, restrained fist pump, unintentionally flexing a bicep and straining the lacy sleeves of a top that had been designed for a woman far less muscular.

  I smiled too, faint with relief … and my Hot Girl Radar zoomed to High Alert. The place was packed with that magical prom atmosphere of women maxing out their glam.

  Of course, if they were anything like Jivanta, they’d be out of my league by multiple time zones. But I only had to find one—

  “What the hell?” Mark growled.

  I thought he was griping about my thoughts again, but for once, he was glaring across the lobby at someone else, at this pudgy groomsman in a rental tux.

  The guy’s thin eyebrows seemed clenched in a permanent, irritable preoccupation, as if he were continuously redoing a long division problem and finding that his share was unfairly small. He was probably younger than Mark’s mid-thirties, but he didn’t look it, and he was already suffering early hair issues. True, Mark’s head is totally shaved, but trust me, that’s a much better approach.

  I shouldn’t have started comparing them. This groomsman might have been younger, but he was slouchy (Mark is ripped) and he sported a scraggly attempt at fashionable facial hair (Mark has this thick red-gold mustache that looks implausibly studly.)

  Beside him, a bulgy woman who was obviously his wife was patiently trying to placate a squirming toddler. I know it’s terrible, but my first thought was, No surprise that Mr. Grumpy Pudge didn’t snag a goddess.

  I mean, the woman seemed nice enough in her way … she even looked familiar. I couldn’t place her, though … and somehow, this gave me an irrational shiver. Like no matter how hard I’d try to avoid it, this mediocre couple was a glimpse of my own future.

  At least their toddler was super cute. She reached toward the man, straining for Daddy with both little hands, and she managed to pat his padded shoulder.

  But his petulant face crimped with anger.

  He jerked away and snapped at her, then checked the jacket to see if she’d left a smudge.

  I made a mental note to avoid ever interacting with the guy.

  Right. That’s totally how it works.

  “Don’t stare,” Mark said, turning away himself. “That’s Theodore. Remember? My next month or so of income is riding on that guy.”

  “Theodore, your client?” I said. “For website stuff? He’s a groomsman?”

  “Potential client,” Mark grumbled.

  Mark and I may have caught a murderer the previous month (or MAYBE NOT — no spoilers!!) but as nobody was lining up to pay for our detective services just yet, Mark was still stuck with freelancing websites to pay the bills. Which he apparently hated.

  I wished he would cheer up. The plan was for him to study for his investigator license, because apparently you need that in Virginia to officially solve murders. (Or at least to get paid.) Once he got the license, he could get paid to do what he loved and ditch the websites for good.

  But for some reason, the studies weren’t exactly happening much
. And his work stress seemed to be getting worse.

  Ceci nudged me. “We’d better hustle, Pete, or we’ll still be late.”

  “True enough,” Mark said, and he led us toward the glass door that opened into the church. But right at the door, he stopped, troubled.

  “You okay?” I said. “Getting a bad vibe?”

  “No, it’s just…” His voice sank low. “Sometimes it’s hard coming here.”

  “To church, you mean?” I said, surprised. “Don’t you come here every week?”

  Mark sighed. “It’s complicated.”

  Too late, I remembered one of the few bits Mark had ever shared about his less-than-ideal childhood. I felt bad, but…

  “Dude,” I said gently. “They’re about to start.”

  Mark still hesitated.

  Then something caught his eye back in the lobby. He frowned, yanked open the door, and rushed Ceci and I through.

  “What is it?” I hissed, scampering after him as he strode up a side aisle for an empty pew.

  Without turning, he said, “Hannigan-Quinn.”

  Ugh.

  Dustin Hannigan-Quinn is the proud, righteous, and comedically impaired Editor-in-Chief of our local rag, the Brown County Gazette. The Gazette teeters in high free stacks at the entrance to every important building in Back Mosby, especially the grocery store, and there must be something in the water out here because everyone keeps reading it.

  Since Jivanta and the groom had been suspects in those Murder Feels Awful murders I can’t talk about, Hannigan-Quinn must have snuck into this wedding uninvited, sniffing around for some tidbit he could stretch into yet another “BACK MOSBY MURDERS!!” followup. That dude was making even murder seem deadly dull.

  In pretty much every article he wrote, he’d manage to roast Mark and I as “amateur sleuths”. But he still kept trying to wrangle another interview out of us. The guy could sense that we hadn’t told him everything … obviously, the last thing any of us wanted was to leak what had really gone down with that killer.

  Especially Mark’s secret power.

  Now Hannigan-Quinn was on the prowl through the lobby, short and bristling and complete with his old-school hat with a card that actually said “PRESS”.

  Apparently, Mark felt that the threat of another Hannigan-Quinn interview outranked any church-related PTSD.

  We grabbed a pew, just as the music fired up and the first awkward couple started the long march.

  I didn’t know any of these people, but Ceci was enthusiastically craning to see the entire wedding party. She’d probably know half of them by the end of the reception.

  I caught her eye and grinned. She grinned back, sparkling and happy.

  Then Jivanta made her entrance.

  I hadn’t seen Jivanta since our “suspect party”, weeks ago. Even in civilian clothes, Jivanta’s eyes and smile can induce a mind-altering state. Now, maxed out in makeup and a bridal gown…

  … I kind of blissed out.

  Except the bliss was steeped with pain, because how could I ever really have a woman like that?

  When my trance faded, Ceci was staring ahead, obviously hurt.

  I slumped. Even though we were totally here as friends, it couldn’t feel great to have your dude gawking at another woman … especially the bride. I realized I’d have to show some finesse here. Not only is Ceci one of my best friends, but I’d been racking up karmic debt to her like crazy. The last thing I wanted was to make her feel bad.

  I leaned toward her to whisper some smooth reassurance.

  Oops. Wrong sight line.

  Because in the next pew over, the hottest blonde I’d seen in months stood alone.

  She didn’t just stand, she had that curvy lean thing going on, relaxing on one black-hosed leg, where a woman has so much pent-up curvaceous goodness in so many ways that she can’t even stand up straight, she has to slow burn in a sinuous stance of sensuality.

  Even as I looked, she turned right toward me, locked my gaze in her own mascara-ringed infinities, and smiled. At me.

  And I thought I’d been blissing over Jivanta.

  Ceci groaned.

  I startled, panicking that I’d been caught again. “What?” I whispered.

  “Female emergency,” Ceci hissed.

  “What is it?” I whispered. “You can tell me.”

  “No, I can’t,” she snapped. “Save my seat.”

  She slipped out and clacked away down the aisle. She always wobbles a little on those unfamiliar high heels.

  With Ceci gone, the pull of the blonde amped up like crazy. I was terrified to look back, terrified not to look back. At the front of the church, the wedding had already begun, but I was in another world entirely.

  Beside me, Mark grunted. “Seriously, Pete? Now?”

  “Dude,” I whispered. “Look at her.”

  Mark flicked her a glance. “So?”

  “So?” I said. “She smiled! At me! Can you check if she likes me?”

  “Are you serious?” he snapped. “Did you not hear anything last night from my Akina disaster?”

  Oh right. The night before, we’d stayed up way too late doing this whole interview thing that turned into a novella. Like, literally, it’s a novella now, you can read it. And it’s free, it’s a mailing-list-only thing — but don’t go get it now if you haven’t read it. I’ll put the link at the end.

  All you need to know here is that in Mark’s distant past, trying to vibe whether women liked him had led to, um … problems. Like, murders.

  “That was different!” I said.

  “Sure it’s different,” he said. “You’re fricking here with Ceci.”

  “As a friend! And I’m not going to ignore Ceci, I could just get this girl’s number—”

  “No! Besides, I’ve got my shields maxed out.”

  You remember shields, right? In theory, an empath can reduce the constant emotional onslaught by visualizing some kind of shield. A castle wall, a glowing force field, whatever. But it takes a lot of concentration, and it’s not super reliable, especially (apparently) at keeping out me.

  “Why would you have your shields up?” I said. “It’s a wedding!”

  “Are you kidding? Weddings are worse than funerals. Every woman’s comparing herself to the bride, every dude’s wishing he could have the bride—”

  “Okay, okay, TMI!” I said. Sometimes Mark’s vibes seem to zero in on the most depressing emotions in the room. Like, right in the next pew, a glowing old lady was literally crying with joy, why couldn’t he pick that up?

  He scoffed. “You really want me to start crying?”

  “Would you quit that?”

  “You mean stop reading your mind so I can read some random girl?”

  “Can’t you just do a quick check? Ten seconds?”

  “No.”

  “If you don’t, I’ll just be wondering the whole time.”

  Mark eyed me. “You’re going to regret this,” he muttered. “At least try to calm down. You’re causing major interference.”

  He closed his eyes.

  I strained to be calm. I tried to focus anywhere but the blonde … anywhere at all…

  The priest at the front was super young. He was cracking awkward jokes about him being a new priest and this being his first wedding, and how he hoped he could say the same for Jivanta and the groom. That one didn’t land so well.

  I was trying so hard not to look at Mark and guess what he was reading.

  Then he gasped.

  And not just any gasp. The kind that made the skin of my neck crawl.

  I looked. He was darting frantic gazes in every direction, like a bloodhound on the hunt.

  “What is it?” I whispered. “Does she secretly hate me?”

  “It’s not her,” he snapped. His eyes narrowed. “Something is very wrong.”

  The priest made another awkward stab at humor, how he was pretty sure he was more nervous than the bride and groom. He’d woken up that morning praying nothing w
ould go wrong—

  CLANG.

  Everyone in the entire church jolted. What the hell was that?

  CLANG. CLANG.

  The bell. The bell in the old tower was booming, blasting through the church like an air raid siren.

  The priest’s smooth face creased with anxiety.

  Mark shoved out of the pew and ran for the back. I stumbled after him, my heart thudding.

  As we rushed into the lobby, a piercing wail shrieked beneath the bell.

  It was a kid, howling.

  And beneath that, a new yell of pain was stabbing us, a woman crying for help.

  We followed the cries and burst through a side door into an old brick hallway that led to the tower. We nearly collided with the fat, familiar mom I’d seen before, who was still clutching her toddler.

  Both their faces were distorted with terror.

  The mom was fleeing, and the toddler was squirming frantic against her, mashing her mom’s shoulder with some old holy card. Even in that moment, I noted that the card had a delicate border of lace. It was getting crushed.

  Then I saw behind them.

  The frayed end of a thick rope lay on the old brick floor like the rattle of a snake. The rope wound back to what was left of a woman.

  I could only look for a split second.

  The body was crushed and obscene, like a broken deer on the side of the road, the red half-eaten carcass stretched across the asphalt. Except this was much worse.

  Revulsion clenched me. I had to look somewhere, anywhere else. I looked up.

  High in the tower, in the dizzy upper darkness, the broken rope dangled. The bell was still ringing from the force of the body’s release.

  Behind us, a digital camera snapped the sound effect of a shutter click.