Trouble is a Friend of Mine

‘Like that serial killer who burned off his fingerprints with acid.’ He had me going now – I couldn’t believe I was getting sucked in. ‘Okay … so this is all interesting and Nancy Drew-ish, but I still don’t see –’

‘Some medical conditions cause blurry fingerprints, but those conditions rarely affect all the fingers,’ he said. ‘Some people get it from their jobs. Guitarists who don’t use picks, people working in laundries that use phosphates, housepainters who don’t wear gloves, or … medical professionals who wash their hands so much, they smooth out the ridges of their fingerprints.’

‘Schell …’ I said. ‘Mom’s gynecologist might be a murderer?’

‘Well, technically, we don’t know for sure that Marina’s dead. Not yet, anyway.’

It sounded big-league. ‘I don’t think we should …’

But Digby wasn’t paying attention to me anymore. He was looking at a table of five boys. They were a weird-looking bunch. The youngest kid’s feet didn’t touch the floor, and the eldest had stubble. None of them looked alike enough to be related. It didn’t make sense that they were together. In their prairie folk plaid shirts and high-waisted flannel pants, they looked like an agricultural glee club.

Digby cocked his chin at them. ‘They live in the mansion across from you.’

‘They do?’

The eldest wore red plaid and the others were in blue plaid. Red Plaid looked about twenty years old and was actually kind of a tall, dark, and handsome dude if you overlooked the creepy high and tight haircut he and the other kids all had. His shirt was a size too small and his sleeves looked like a bubbling bratwurst on the grill.

At that moment, the older boys were bullying the youngest to eat his pancakes faster. The little guy’s face was covered in syrup.

‘You’re telling me you’ve never noticed them walking around in their little outfits?’ he said. ‘Supposedly, they’re a rapture cult, but they don’t recruit in town or even online … which is weird. You really never noticed them before?’

‘We just moved here.’

‘When there’s an end-of-the-world cult living next door to you, make it your business to find out what they’re up to,’ he said. ‘That’s, like, a basic life rule.’

‘Well, I do see girls in prairie dresses constantly cleaning and scrubbing. And the place reeks of chemicals.’

‘Okay, so you did notice. Ever notice that the girls cleaning aren’t always the same ones? They go, they come back … the boys do too. The kids are cycling through that house.’

‘Are they prisoners or something?’

‘Who don’t run away when they’re unsupervised? Nah, it’s something else.’

The older boys ate the little guy’s pancakes to clear his plate faster, but all that did was make him cry. The eldest in red plaid, clearly their leader, slid out of the booth and dragged the little guy out behind him.

‘Oh … I get it,’ Digby said.

Digby took my soda and grabbed a mop from a bucket by a wait station, leaving a sudsy streak behind him as he dragged it outside the diner.

On the other side of the door, Digby slid the mop across the handles so when the boys in plaid tried to leave, the door wouldn’t open. They piled up against the glass and pushed and pulled to rock the mop loose. No joy. It was stuck and so were they. Digby sipped my soda and watched the trapped boys get more and more frustrated. He had that bored expression again and it drove those boys crazy.

The diner’s manager came out to see what the racket was all about. He grabbed two boys by the collar and steered them back to their table. Red Plaid pointed at Digby, mouthed the word you, and punched the glass door before following the manager.

Digby slid out the mop and walked back in behind them.

‘That was nice,’ I said. ‘That poor waitress would’ve had to pay if they’d skipped out on their bill.’

But Digby wasn’t even looking at the angry waitress hawk-eyeing the boys.

‘But I get the feeling you don’t really care about her,’ I said. ‘So why did you do that?’

‘Who knows? Fun?’ Digby saluted Red Plaid.

The manager said something about calling the police and went into the back.

Red Plaid walked to our table. I slipped my butter knife onto my lap.

‘Think you’re smart, huh?’ Red Plaid said.

‘Smarter than you, at least,’ Digby said.

Red Plaid kicked over a chair behind him. ‘Someone oughta teach you to mind your own business.’

He lifted Digby by the shirtfront and would’ve smashed Digby in the mouth, but another, even bigger hand clapped itself around Red Plaid’s fist.

Digby’s savior was a tall, muscle-bound, Disney Prince Eric type I’d usually consider lame, but this guy had it working. He was hero handsome.

‘Hey, Henry. Great timing as usual,’ Digby said.

‘Digby. I heard you were back from Texas.’ Henry pushed Red Plaid away. ‘Pay your bill, never come back. Got me, dude?’

‘Next time … it’ll just be you and me,’ Red Plaid said to Digby. As he left, he slapped a glass of water off our table. It smashed into smithereens.