Death is the One That Got Away

DEATH IS THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY

BY

RANDALL J. FUNK

ALSO BY RANDALL J. FUNK

Death is a Clingy Ex

Death Lives Across the Hall

Death Wears a Big Hat

Death is Sleeping with My Wife

Death Stole My Ride

Death and the Fanboy

Death is a Real Killer

Death, You Jabroni

Death Stalks the Retirement Party

Death Will Be Brief: Joe Davis Mystery Tales, Volume One

Copyright © 2024 by Randall J. Funk

All rights reserved

Published in the United States by Ghost Light Press, LLC

www.randalljfunk.com

ISBN: 978-1-7351016-9-9

Cover design by Ann McMan

First edition

Special Thanks to:

Samantha Papke, for her help in preparing the manuscript and for inadvertently giving me the title of this book.

Ann McMan, for her usual awesome work on the cover.

Kris Snow, for listening when I first created Lisa Cleary.

Everyone who has bought the previous Joe Davis books and helped me along on this adventure.

For Michelle, who helped me believe again.

CHAPTER ONE

DECEMBER, JUNIOR YEAR

I don’t remember the first time I actually saw Lisa Cleary. She doesn’t burst into my memory all at once. Instead, she emerges, slowly, from the mist. And once I see her clearly, the image remains indelible.

The first time she spoke to me, we were in the offices of The Bay Breeze, the Porter’s Bay High School newspaper. (Hey, I didn’t name it.) I had been given an assignment to write an article about a recently deceased teacher I never much cared for. I was at a table in the middle of the office, cursing my luck, as annoyed high school juniors will do, when I heard a voice nearby.

You don’t like the work?

I knew her name was Lisa Cleary and that her family moved to Porter’s Bay the previous summer. I wasn’t sure where the family had moved from, but the sight of a small town on the north shore of Minnesota couldn’t have been inspiring. I knew, vaguely, that Lisa threw herself into a ton of activities: yearbook, speech, drama, the school newspaper, etc. The cumulative effect was she was already as popular as I was (not that the bar was set high there). Her bright blue eyes looked at me through a pair of wire frame glasses. Her dark wavy hair was corralled into something resembling a ponytail, with stray hairs dropping over her eyes. She wore a plaid shirt over a white, long sleeve tee, ripped and faded blue jeans, and a pair of white sneakers. Her voice was direct and businesslike. The whole effect was like a punch in my chest. Or maybe I just remember it that way.

I don’t mind the work, I said, I’m just not sure what to write.

We chatted about the teacher, Mr. Jacobson, then Lisa said, You realize you might be missing the biggest part of the story?

She went on to tell me the suspicious circumstances surrounding Mr. Jacobson’s death: he hadn’t been dressed for work (despite being found in a classroom), he had no history of heart trouble (despite having supposedly died of a heart attack), a coffee cup he always kept on his desk had gone missing (even then, I knew you don’t separate someone from their favorite coffee mug). When I asked how she knew all this, Lisa looked at her thumbnail and said, Just did some research. Then she gathered up her stuff and said, I know, I’m a freak.

My voice stopped her before she could walk away. I’m just impressed you did all that.

A corner of Lisa’s mouth went up, slightly. You are?

Maybe that’s when she knew she could trust me. Maybe that’s what she needed: a co-conspirator. Whatever it was, Lisa brought me into her suspicion: Mr. Jacobson had been murdered. That was the story I was missing, the story I should write. I wasn’t sure if I should believe her. I certainly couldn’t write that story alone. Maybe she knew that all along. Whatever the case, I agreed to work with her.

And Lisa was right. Mr. Jacobson had been murdered. Finding that out wasn’t easy. We questioned suspicious teachers, almost got caught breaking into Mr. Jacobson’s house, were almost shot by a gun-toting redneck, and had to blackmail a disreputable classmate in order to set a trap for the murderer. Along the way, I was amazed by Lisa’s tenacity and intelligence. She was a born reporter. I was pulled along in her wake. Eventually, we set a trap for the person we suspected was the murderer. As we sat in a darkened classroom in the high school, she slipped me a look and said, It’s been fun.

It had to be acknowledged that Lisa had a funny sense of fun. But I agreed with her. It had been fun.

The murderer walked into our trap. (Although, it turned out to be a little more complicated than that.) A chase and a tense standoff ensued. We got some help from my best friends, Sam and Andy, and managed to corral the murderer. The only thing left was to call the police, which we did from the Bay Breeze offices. After placing the call, Lisa looked at me, her eyes wild and her glasses askew.

We did it, she said.

We did.

We pulled it off. I mean, we actually got the story.

We did.

Lisa threw her arms around me, and we both laughed. A few minutes earlier, we had been wondering if we were even going to be alive, and now here we were, ready to write this incredible story. It was crazy and absurd and wonderful all at the same time.

Then we realized we’d been hugging for nearly a minute.

Lisa broke away, her face slightly red. I stared at the floor. After a few seconds, Lisa regained her air of command and laid out a plan for talking to the police and writing the story that night. She suggested we go to the Hub Diner and grab some coffee to help fuel us. I dragged my feet a little.

I, uh, I don’t even like coffee, I said.

Lisa smiled. I’ll have to cure you of that. Then she led the way out the door.

My name is Joe Davis. That’s how that story starts. This is how this one starts.

Music be the food of love, my friend Lars says, his long fingers wrapped around a pint of coal black ale. Paul McCartney said that.

Shakespeare said that, I tell him.

Lars’s head snaps back, his quasi-pompadour flapping in the breeze. Are you sure?

As a fan of both The Beatles and Shakespeare, I say, you can take my word on this.

His horse face tightens. He turns to Mike and Carol, as if to say look at Mr. Big Shot here. They can only roll their eyes and bury themselves in their own beverages.

The four of us are seated at a high-top table in the corner of our favorite watering hole, The Tav. It’s been my go-to location since I first moved into the neighborhood seven years ago. It’s on Selby Avenue, just down the street from the St. Paul Cathedral and a stone’s throw from downtown St. Paul (if anyone hung out after hours in St. Paul to actually throw a stone). The Tav is a combination pub and sports bar, featuring a lot of quaint decorations, high-top tables and big screen TVs. It draws clientele from both the blue collar and artistic denizens of the Cathedral Hill neighborhood. Tonight, the place is busy. It’s Saturday night and a Golden Gophers football game draws the attention of the patrons, particularly Freddie, the bouncer whose cheers register on the Richter Scale. My table, however, remains indifferent to the game.

Carol turns her piercing blue eyes on Lars. I understand needing to save a buck on the movie, she says, but you really can’t score this thing yourself.

Lars props a pipe cleaner arm on the table. And why not?

For starters, Carol says, "and please don’t take this the wrong way: you have no musical talent. None."

I sit back. Prosecution rests, your honor.

Lars swings toward our friend Mike and waves a flipper-like hand at Carol and me. Are you hearing this?

Mike tries to hide his big bulldog head behind a pint of India Pale Ale (a fool’s errand). I’m trying not to.

Lars’s arm drops to the table. He no doubt feels ganged up on, even if Mike and Carol are largely indifferent to our little argument. He drums his fingers on the table, unable to find a consistent rhythm.

I don’t think I have to explain this to you, Joe, Lars says, thus indicating he is about to explain this to me. Music is the key to any film. It sets the tone. It guides the audience’s emotions. Even the lack of it is a statement.

"I’m starting to like that lack of it idea," I say.

Lars slaps the table and returns to his adult beverage. I should probably explain what’s going on. About six months ago, Lars managed to talk two wealthy (if more than slightly clueless) siblings into backing a film venture. He recruited me to write the script, and against my better judgment, I accepted on the condition I could be a producer and have a say in what was going on. Lars was agreeable to these terms. It was probably the last thing we’ve agreed on.

Look, brother, I appreciate your concerns, Lars says, But we have to find places to save money. Ever since Ollie was brought on board, the budget keeps growing.

Carol brushes back the dark hair flowing past her shoulders. Who’s Ollie?

The director, Lars says, practically spitting out the words.

Lars’s bitterness is understandable, if misplaced. He harbored ambitions of actually directing the movie. So, you can understand his dismay when Frankie and Fabio (the trust fund babies who are bankrolling us) brought Ollie to our last meeting and announced he was the film’s director. Lars taps the table in front of me.

I’d be on the lookout, brother, he says. I don’t think Ollie is going to like the script.

What makes you say that? I ask.

I talked to him on the phone. He didn’t seem sold on our plot idea.

That gets my hackles up. I may be new to screenwriting, but I make my living as a writer. I’m a thrice-weekly columnist for The Daily Bugle, an independent newspaper that became an independent website when the hippies in charge realized they could save money by eliminating printing costs. My column, Cup o’ Joe, covers all manner of things—entertainment, social mores, politics, sports, philosophy, what have you—all with the same depth and conviction one finds in an episode of Tiny Toons. But it (barely) pays my bills and affords me a weenie bit of local celebrity. Why, in the face of that, would Ollie be so bold as to criticize my work?

It’s a combination vampire and heist movie, I say. Which part doesn’t Ollie like, the vampires or the heist?

He doesn’t sound thrilled with either, Lars says. He thinks the heist plot is implausible and the vampire story lacks eroticism.

Lacks eroticism? I say, my face getting warm. It’s as erotic as shit.

Lars holds up his hands. I’m just the messenger.

Carol twists her mouth to one side. Maybe I can read it. Give you some suggestions.

It’s not a bad idea. Carol makes her living as an ad writer, one of the better ones you’ll find. But I’m too preoccupied with Ollie’s objections to my script to give her my full attention.

"Does Ollie have any suggestions?" I ask.

Not yet, but they’re coming, Lars says. Apparently, he’s made a number of short films. All of them are high concept and visually spectacular. And cost an arm and a leg. Already he’s asking for more spectacular action scenes and a larger crew. That’s why I’m putting myself forward as the composer of the score.

Mike looks up from his Grand Brewing Oktoberfest. You don’t play any instruments.

Lars wags a long finger. You stand corrected, mien Freund. I currently have a sideline business designing scores for the cinema.

That brings the conversation to a halt. Lars treats this information, as he tends to do, as if it’s something we all should know. He believes he’s more of a public figure than he actually is. As far as I know, the extent of his notoriety is being the superintendent of my building.

What the hell are you talking about? I ask.

Lars takes on a superior air. Our friend The Wheeze got me involved. He has a sideline business running a website that dabbles in the entertainment industry.

The Wheeze is a longtime buddy of ours. He runs a comic book store that’s still frequented by Mike and Lars. I haven’t collected comics in years, so usually, I only see The Wheeze at his annual birthday party (which can be held anywhere between January and December, since no one—possibly including The Wheeze—knows the actual date of his birth). Beyond that, I know very little about him. It comes as a surprise, although it really shouldn’t, that he has a sideline business.

What kind of entertainment? I ask.

They are self-funded independent adult features for the discerning cinephile, Lars says.

Carol skates the verbiage faster than the rest. The Wheeze is pedaling porno films?

Lars flinches, as if stung. "Carol, please. Porno is such an outdated term. These are erotic films made by spirited amateurs from a variety of ages, backgrounds, and sexual kinks."

Uh-huh, I say. And where can we find these cinematic classics?

Bangshangalang.com, Lars says.

The reaction around the table varies. Carol puts a hand over her face. I take a larger-than-average sip of my Oktoberfest. Mike’s brown eyes light up.

"Then you are a musician," Mike says.

Lars waggles his eyebrows (which always look as if they’re about to leave his face and go into business for themselves). Not a lot of musical skill needed, brother. As long as you have a bass guitar and a Casio keyboard, you’re in business.

Ah. That solves Nancy Drew and the Mystery of the Bass Guitar Coming through My Floorboards. I’ll have to thank The Wheeze the next time I see him (perhaps by urinating on the floor of his store).

That’s all well and good, I say, but I don’t think those skills are going to translate to the movie we’re making.

Lars’s face falls. "You mean the movie Ollie is making. As long as he’s got Frankie’s and Fabio’s ears, he’ll be running the show."

Well, that casts a bit of a pall over the evening (not that we weren’t palled up already). We finish our drinks and call it a night. Carol huddles into her trench coat and flutters her fingers at us as she walks to her car. It’s only about five blocks back to my building, so I walk. Lars, never ambitious when it comes to exercise, chooses to drive. He offers me a ride home, but I decline. Mike lingers, hoping to chat with me.

You going anywhere now? I ask, half considering asking Mike to back to my place for one more beer.

Going to hook up with Gillian, he says.

That will certainly take priority over my offer. Gillian is Mike’s latest girlfriend. I haven’t met her, but so far the reviews are positive. She seems like a nice person. Why Gillian wants to date a man-child with no money and fewer prospects is, perhaps, more of a mystery.

Things still going well there? I ask.

Absolutely, Mike says, a little too quickly. Just great.

You sure about that?

He runs a hand through the brush of brown hair atop his Cro-Magnon forehead. It’s just… I don’t know. I told you Gillian has a twin sister, right?

I do recall.

I’ve only met Moira—that’s the twin—a couple of times. But Gillian constantly talks about this twin bond they have, how she trusts Moira more than anybody else. We were hanging out with Moira the other night, and she wasn’t all that friendly.

Maybe she’s shy.

I don’t think that’s it, Mike says, chewing a corner of his goatee. She was okay the first time I met her. This time, she was kind of standoffish. I don’t think she likes me.

So? You’re dating Gillian, not Moira.

But if Moira doesn’t like me, she’s going to say something to Gillian. Then the whole relationship will be fucked.

Did you say something that might have set her off? I ask.

No. I was as friendly as fuck. I think Moira just gets a bad vibe from me.

And the fact she is totally justified in getting a bad vibe from you…?

Mike gives me the stink eye. I’m being hard on him, but I’m not wrong. Mike and I have been best friends since we met at student orientation at Adams College. He was a military brat, having grown up under the collective thumb of two controlling parents. When he got to college and discovered he was no longer under adult supervision, he went on the kind of rampage that would have resulted in Attila kicking him out of the Huns for being too toxic. He hasn’t changed much since.

I don’t want to screw up anything with Gillian, Mike says. She’s awesome. Sweet, funny, sensitive, uninhibited in the sack. And it’s gonna get ruined unless I figure out a way to cozy up to her twin sister. You got any suggestions?

I’d have to meet the ladies in question first.

Mike’s eyes light up. "You might be on to something there. Maybe we can arrange a little get-together. Sort of like a quasi-double date. Did I use quasi right?"

Your diploma will be in the mail.

What do you think?

Let me think about it.

Mike frowns. That means you’re not going to do it, and you’re just buying time.

Damn. My mom always used Let me think about it and it took me nearly thirty years to figure out that always meant No. Mike’s known me for half that time and has already figured out the bullshit. Mental note: cultivate new, more ignorant friends.

I will genuinely think about, I say. That’s all I can do for now.

Mike isn’t satisfied, but he accepts it as an answer. We say our goodbyes, and I start walking home, huddling into my peacoat to fight the chilly breeze.

My parents regard the Twin Cities as one giant den of iniquity; this largely rooted in the provincialism of spending their entire lives in a small town in northern Minnesota. My neighborhood may be near downtown St. Paul, but with its tree-lined streets, old houses, and brown brick apartment buildings, it’s positively cozy. The trees form a canopy of red, yellow, and orange visible above the streetlights. Leaves carpet the sidewalks and blow listlessly in the street. Minnesota autumn in full bloom.

I think about Mike’s offer of a double date, even if it’s a sham double date. Maybe I should take him up on it. It’s not as if the last year or so has been the greatest time in my dating life. There have been a few excursions here and there: a disastrous encounter with a woman I knew in college (don’t ask), a one-night stand with a contract killer (really don’t ask), and recently, a weekend with a woman named Charley, who was largely using me to get back at her wastrel boyfriend. (I realized that was the case and was fine with it.) Still, nothing steady. What’s more concerning: I haven’t been all that interested. I’m thirty-five and might be descending into boring, celibate middle age. There’s a pleasant thought.

I exit Oakland Avenue and jaywalk across Summit Avenue, a thoroughfare lined with spectacular homes, once dubbed by F. Scott Fitzgerald a museum of architectural failures. (And yet, here in Minnesota, we celebrate his bitter, drunken ass. Speaking of provincialism…) My apartment is on the third floor of a converted row house near the intersection of Summit and Dale. I can either go in through the front or stroll around the back and climb the erector set of stairs and decks that lead to my backdoor. The front is the shortest route. When I step into the foyer, someone is standing there. That’s not an unusual sight. People frequently lurk about, either waiting for a tenant to join them or waiting for a tenant to come out so they can slip inside. (This is a security building in name only.) Who is waiting, though, is the unusual part.

I come to a halt. Rick?

He tosses up a hand by way of greeting. Good to see you again, Joe.

Rick Michaels was a friend of mine in high school. Not a close friend, but a good dude to hang out with. Rick was an unusual case. He was a three-sport athlete who didn’t much care to hang out with the jocks. He seemed more interested in the company of geeks like me who were into theatre, speech, and writing. He came back into my life again, briefly, last spring when he dated Carol for a few weeks. They made a handsome couple, but the relationship foundered when I accidentally relayed some sexual TMI about Carol. (Information I got from Mike, since Carol, to her everlasting regret, once dated him.) I won’t say Rick is the last person I expected to find loitering in my foyer, but he’s certainly in the running.

I tuck my hands into my jacket pockets, What’s going on?

Just wanted to visit, he says. I tried buzzing, but you weren’t home. Thought I’d wait.

Rick looks a lot like he did back in the day: brown hair, blue eyes, square jaw. He’s put on a pound or two, but he wears it well. He still moves with an athlete’s easy grace. Frankly, though, he’s looked better than he does at this moment. The hair is a little shaggy, he could use a shave, and his clothes look as if they’ve been slept in. His eyes keep cutting past me, toward the street. I guess my parents aren’t the only ones who get nervous in this neighborhood.

I unlock the front door. Come on up. We can grab a beer.

Sounds good, Rick says, relief in his voice.

We head up to the third floor. My apartment is a simple affair. The living room features my desk in one corner and three arch windows at the front. A breakfast bar serves as the dividing line between the living room and my sliver of a kitchen. A hallway at the back leads to the deck, passing the single bedroom and bathroom en route. I set my keys in an ashtray on the table next to the door. (The ashtray is used only for that purpose since I don’t smoke.) My cats, Lenny and Squiggy, make their way out of the bedroom to greet us. They sniff Rick suspiciously. Since he isn’t food and isn’t likely to provide food, they turn their attention back to me. I toss some kibble in their bowls and grab a couple of Oktoberfests from the fridge. When I get back to the living room, Rick still hasn’t removed his black coat. He takes the beer and thanks me with a nod.

Nice place, he says. You lived here long?

About seven years, I say. Geez, that’s starting to sound like a long time.

I’ve got a place downtown. Gives me easy access to the Senator’s office.

That’s right. When last I saw Rick, he was working for Senator Bill Longson, a guy whose political views lean just to the right of Genghis Khan. Longson is currently running for re-election, likely as a precursor to a presidential run. His brand of angry populism has drawn enough support from the rural areas and the suburbs that he is sadly leading in the polls. God help us all.

How’s that going? I ask, mumbling into my beer.

Good, Rick says, without much conviction. Pay is good.

I grab a seat at my desk. What is it you do for the Senator?

A little of this and that. Mostly I’m a glorified errand boy.

But it’s working out?

Kind of. Things don’t always work out like we hope.

How do you mean?

Nothing.

Rick keeps looking past me and out the arch windows. I glance over my shoulder, wondering if something is going on in the street. No sign of trouble (or even a person out there, to be honest). I turn back to my guest.

What brings you by, Rick? I ask.

He tears himself away from the window. Do you know how to get ahold of Lisa?

That hits me like a sucker-punch. I know Rick didn’t intend it that way, but it’s the effect, nonetheless. I’m tempted to ask Lisa Cleary? But there is no other Lisa he’d ask me about. It takes a second for the fog to clear.

If you look up one of her articles on the Metro Communications site, it probably has her contact info, I say.

No, sorry. I need to get ahold of her personally. It’s…a business thing. I don’t want anyone else knowing about it.

Okay, I say, but I’m not sure how to do that.

You guys don’t talk?

We chat on Facebook every now and again. I think the last time we did that was almost two years ago.

You don’t ever see her?

No. Last time was…about sixteen years ago. Geez, that is starting to sound like a long time ago.

Rick frowns. Then I guess you don’t have her number.

I start to answer in the negative, then stop. I spin the chair around to face the desk. Like the