Death of a Batty Genius (Stormy Day Mystery #3) Read online

  Death of a

  Batty Genius

  Stormy Day Mystery #3

  Angela Pepper

  JEFFREY BLUE PRESS | WWW.ANGELAPEPPER.COM

  Chapter 1

  How does a dead body continue to walk around without anyone noticing?

  While I frantically asked myself that question, the person holding the gun took aim. The gun was not aimed at me, but at another person’s chest.

  The holder of the gun snarled, “If only I could kill you twice.”

  My whole body tensed with dread. Another person was going to die, unless someone did something. Like a good detective-in-training, I accepted the responsibility to be that someone.

  I jumped to my feet, exclaiming, “You’ve got it all wrong!”

  All the focus turned on me. Unfortunately, the tip of the gun also turned on me.

  My father’s words echoed through my mind: Stormy, never make a plan, because plans go wrong.

  Well, I had a news flash for the sometimes-helpful version of Finnegan Day residing in my head. I didn’t have a plan. Not a detailed one, anyway. But I did have a process.

  I’d been investigating the unusual death ever since the body showed up. At first, nothing added up. But now I had new evidence, and a picture was forming in my head. A very strange picture.

  I asked myself again: How does a dead body continue to walk around without anyone noticing?

  There had to be an explanation.

  What would help me think faster?

  The hand holding the gun aimed at me was shaking with rage.

  Yes, being shot would help me think faster.

  If it didn’t kill me first.

  Three Days Earlier

  A good detective knows the best way to deal with unwanted confrontation is to spot the storm coming and step out of its path.

  That night at the restaurant, I didn’t notice the trouble brewing because my attention was on the handsome man seated across from me. Had I not been preoccupied, I might have heard the other diners talking about the strange events happening around town that evening.

  Instead, my focus was on my date, Logan Sanderson. A client from his law firm had gifted us with a bottle of pricey champagne, and Logan was about to propose a toast.

  I leaned in, my heart racing. By the look in his sky-blue eyes, he’d realized he was madly, deeply, passionately in love with yours truly, Stormy Day.

  Cue the marching band, and release the party streamers! Begin the tasting of the wedding cake samples!

  My relationship with the suave-yet-woodsy Logan Sanderson had been purely professional so far. He was my tenant, renting one side of the duplex I owned, and he was also my sometimes-boss, hiring me for investigative work on behalf of his legal clients.

  We’d become friendly over the last three months, but neither had made a move… until now.

  The bubbling champagne awaited. Our future awaited. Even the rest of my lemon mousse awaited.

  But before Logan could make his toast, one man came along to ruin everything, like a big ol’ cow plop in the middle of a country picnic.

  The man stood near the entryway to Accio Bistro, at the hostess station. He straightened up with recognition when he met my gaze.

  Logan asked, “Stormy, who’s that guy, and why’s he staring at us?”

  I apologized and explained that he was not just some guy, but my former fiancé.

  “That’s Christopher Fairchild?” Logan blinked with disbelief. “That’s the Christopher Fairchild, of Fairchild Capital? But he’s wearing a blazer with jeans and sneakers.”

  “Not just any sneakers. He only wears Vans.” I nervously fluffed the back of my hair, making my short wavy locks puff out like a duck’s butt.

  “Why’s he here?”

  “I can’t even begin to imagine, but let me apologize to you in advance for whatever rude thing he’s going to say when he invites himself to our table. I bet he starts with my haircut.”

  “If he does, he’ll be sorry.” Logan locked his blue eyes on mine. Thick, dark lashes accentuated the brightness of excitement in his eyes, and he was smiling—genuinely smiling.

  “Logan, get a hold of yourself. You’ve got your going-to-court face on. Trust me, you don’t want to tangle with Christopher. You never win, and it’s like wrestling a pig in mud—you get dirty, and the pig likes it.”

  His going-to-court smile only broadened. “What do I need to know about him? Top three facts.”

  I counted off on my fingers. “One, he’s from a wealthy family. Two, he’s very charming when he wants something. And three, he always wants something.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He’s afraid of spiders.”

  “Good to know.”

  Logan pushed his chair back and stood. “You must be Christopher,” he said warmly.

  I kept my back to Christopher, because I didn’t want to face him yet. Last I’d heard, he’d moved from Portland up to Seattle, Washington, which wasn’t exactly on another planet, but it was a good half day’s drive away from quaint little Misty Falls, Oregon.

  I was turning to ask Christopher why he was there when the world went sideways. My chair and I toppled over, pushed by Christopher as he lunged past me violently.

  His fist flew through the air, grazing Logan’s cheek. I landed on the restaurant’s weathered hardwood, where I heard the sound of someone being punched, then the messier sound of someone dropping to the floor.

  I got to my feet within seconds. Christopher lay balled up on the floor groaning. Logan loomed over him, rubbing his knuckles and looking downright dangerous, like a lumberjack in tailored bespoke wool.

  I should have made a joke to lighten the mood—something about the restaurant having enough delicious lemon mousse for everyone, and how there was no need for fisticuffs. The word fisticuffs alone can often defuse tension.

  But a rush of adrenaline put me into mama bear mode. Christopher was barely taller than me. With his slim frame and his white-soled sneakers, he looked like a defenseless kid curled up on the restaurant floor. I hunched over him protectively, while I verbally tore into Logan with some terminology that would make a statue blush.

  When I paused to inhale, Logan said, “Stormy, I’m well aware of the criteria for self-defense, and he threw the first punch.”

  I responded by telling him where to shove his criteria for self-defense. That’s when I heard a gasping sound, from the people all around us, who’d been trying to enjoy their nice dinners a moment earlier.

  Someone said, “That’s her, right? That’s Stormy Day.”

  A woman responded, “Quite the temper, indeed.”

  Ignoring them, I cradled Christopher’s head on my thighs as he groaned. Logan stood behind me, saying something about getting ice, but his voice was muted to me, along with the chattering speculation of the other diners.

  “Stormy-Lou?” Christopher moaned. “Is that really you?”

  “Don’t call me that,” I said. “Why are you here? Why’d you punch my friend Logan?”

  He didn’t answer, just stared into the distance, his hazel eyes unfocused.

  I sniffed the air over his mouth. His uncharacteristic aggression plus his confused state pointed to intoxication, yet he didn’t smell of alcohol. Drugs didn’t fit either, because Christopher didn’t take any, other than large doses of caffeine. He’d tried magic mushrooms one time, on a dare, and hated the experience. So, why was he behaving so strangely, and soaked with sweat?

  “Christopher?”

  He scrunched his eyes shut, as though everything was too much for him.

  I repeated, “Why’d you punch Logan?”
>
  His voice cracking and gravelly, he said, “I had to protect you from him. I know what he is.”

  “What he is? He’s a lawyer. You usually like lawyers, for going over contracts and threatening to sue people.”

  “That’s not all he is.”

  “Are you high?”

  Christopher opened his eyes and tried to focus on me. “That man is Forest Folk. I have special vision now, and I can see his true animal nature. He’s a Sasquatch cannibal. Stormy-Lou, you’ve got to listen to me. You’re his next victim.”

  I had to smirk. My concern shifted to amusement. “Listen, Christopher, not everyone is a fan of Logan and his beard, but I assure you, he’s quite human.”

  “You’re in danger.”

  “Haven’t you heard? These days, I’m always in danger. What drugs did you take? Are you on any new prescription medication?”

  “No drugs. But I had a smoothie, and it tasted funny.”

  “Can you get up? We should go talk about your conspiracy theories somewhere else. Somewhere less like a restaurant and more like that place with the stomach pump.”

  His eyes widened, revealing bloodshot webs around his hazel irises. “Hospital? No. You can’t make me.” He shuddered in horror and squeezed his eyes shut again. His jaw was red along one side, from Logan’s knuckles.

  Logan returned with a cloth napkin full of ice and tapped my shoulder. I looked up to find all the wait-staff from the restaurant, plus a few big fellas from the kitchen, standing in a ring around us.

  “He’ll be okay,” Logan said. “I barely touched him.”

  “I heard the sound of you hitting him. It was a movie punch. Pow.”

  “So, I’m the bad guy?” Logan asked.

  “Of course not. I just…”

  “The word you’re looking for is sorry. As in, Logan, I’m sorry I called you those terrible things.”

  “Sure.” I snatched the ice from him, sending a spray of water at the waiters gathered around us. One of the young guys flinched and cowered as though shot. Another one announced he was calling the police.

  Logan and I exchanged a look. Whatever differences we had over my feisty communication style, we didn’t want to be there when the cops arrived. Both of us were on the bad side of the local captain.

  Working as a team, we started hauling Christopher out of the restaurant—me on the legs and Logan hoisting him by the armpits. This would have worked well on a person who’d passed out. Unfortunately, Christopher was very much conscious, yet very much in an altered state of consciousness. He believed Logan was a member of the legendary local Forest Folk, and was only gripping him under the armpits to better rip off his arms like crab claws and eat them.

  Screaming about not wanting parts of himself dipped in butter, Christopher wriggled free and ran back through the restaurant. He dodged left and right, evading capture by the waiters, slowing only to grab warm bread rolls from people’s tables. When he couldn’t hold any more rolls, he made a break for the exit.

  Logan and I chased after him, out into the dark and snowy parking lot, where he disappeared into the night.

  Great.

  Christopher had created a rift between me and Logan, given the locals a truckload of new dirt on me, and now I’d be spending the rest of Saturday night finding him. Plus my lemon mousse was sitting on the table inside the restaurant, untouched.

  Logan touched my elbow to get my attention. Softly, he said, “I’m sorry I hit your friend.”

  “He had it coming. I’m… really sorry I called you all those things.”

  “I’ve never been near a goat, much less…”

  “Bygones?”

  “Bygones.” He nodded. “Now we need to find your friend. He’s scared of me, so I’ll stand back and keep an eye on the perimeter of the parking lot, especially the side along the main road, and you go check between the rows of cars. I’ll holler if I see anything.”

  “That’s a solid plan. I can tell you’ve done this often.” He looked confused, so I asked, “As a forest-dwelling cannibal, do you always play catch-and-release with your human prey?”

  “Only when they run.” He leaned over me and growled, “Spoiler alert: They always run.”

  I shied away, pretending to be terrified, then began my patrol, looking for my crazed former fiancé. I rubbed my arms as I checked between the rows of vehicles. We’d left the restaurant in a hurry, so I wasn’t wearing my winter coat. The parking lot had a row of trees on one side as a wind break, but it didn’t stop the breeze coming from the other direction.

  “Christopher,” I called through chattering teeth. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

  The silence that followed chilled me even deeper than the night air. I walked faster, searching as fast as I could in my dress and heels.

  As the minutes passed, the gravity of the situation set in, and I began to panic. Christopher had been sopping wet with sweat, and wearing only a lightweight blazer. If we didn’t find him soon, he could be in danger.

  And, on top of everything, I couldn’t shake the sensation I was being watched, from high above.

  Suddenly, something moved at the edge of my vision. At the same instant, my right foot hit a patch of ice, and I started to fall.

  Chapter 2

  In Misty Falls, there’s a colorful expression for falling down. Just saying it takes away some of the sting.

  When I slipped on the ice, I went tail over teakettle, dumping crumpets everywhere.

  Flat on my back, the wind knocked out of me, I could do no more than stare up at the night sky, noting the feathery halo of multiple rings around the moon. Bad weather was coming.

  I rolled my head to the side and found a benefit to my predicament—a bug’s eye view of the parking lot. I easily spotted Christopher’s retro-style Vans sneakers, three cars over.

  I got to my feet and snuck up behind Christopher. He was squatting and nibbling on a purloined bread roll, holding it with two hands, in the manner of a squirrel.

  “Hey, there,” I said softly. “Aren’t you cold?”

  He looked up and began to shiver, as though he hadn’t realized it was chilly until my question.

  I dusted some twigs off his blazer and got him standing just as Logan trotted up, looking worried after seeing my fall.

  Christopher flinched, about to bolt again, so I grabbed his hand and locked my fingers between his.

  Over on the main road, a police cruiser with lights flashing drove by, followed by an ambulance, and another cruiser. To my relief, they kept going, off to another call, and not coming to arrest Christopher for causing a disturbance and petty theft of baked goods.

  Logan, keeping his distance, led us over to his SUV truck. He opened the rear door for us, then jumped in up front to get the engine and heater running. “I’ll be back after I run back in to pay the bill,” he said. “We don’t need to get charged by the police for a dine-and-dash.”

  “Thanks for the fun dinner,” I said.

  After Logan was gone, Christopher relaxed, curling up with his body on the seat and his head on my lap.

  Despite my annoyance at his chaotic interruption of my life, I found myself smoothing his wavy, light brown hair, and rubbing his back.

  In addition to his beloved white-soled Vans sneakers, he wore gray jeans and a blazer over one of his favorite button-down shirts. The shirts weren’t custom-made, but they did come from a boutique company that secured its first round of financing by crowdsourcing on the internet, before partnering with Fairchild Capital. The shirt’s fabric looked like a weave, but stretched like a knit, and was made of a wrinkle-resistant material that wicked away moisture. Christopher was dry already.

  “These shirts really are durable,” I said, unsure if he could hear me. “I can see why you like them. I kept a sample of one of the women’s models, but I can never figure out what looks right with what.”

  He didn’t stir. The interior of the vehicle was silent, except for the sound of the heaters on full bl
ast. Christopher’s eyes were closed, but not clenched, and I sensed he was listening to me.

  I continued, “Lately I’ve been buying entire outfits off store mannequins. How decadent is that?”

  He answered, “You and those ugly cut-off denim shorts. And the army boots. You need to take off your dirty army boots if you want to sit on the bed.”

  “What army boots?” I was wearing heels that matched my dress. But many years ago, I had worn a beloved pair of Doc Martens boots all through Europe, including the night Christopher and I first met.

  “Take off the boots and you can sit on my bed,” he said.

  He was hallucinating, remembering the evening we met. I gently asked him to tell me where we were.

  He snorted. “We’re in the hotel, silly. The Lancaster Hotel.”

  “And what are we doing?”

  “Not much. My cousin’s in the bath with your two friends, and I got ditched with you.” Softer, he added, “But I don’t mind. Underneath all that dark makeup, I think you’re pretty.”

  “Christopher, if we’re really in the Lancaster Hotel in Paris right now, can you tell me my name?”

  “You said it’s Stacy, but I think you’re lying. You’re not really a Stacy.”

  I silently mouthed a wow to myself. Whatever drug he’d taken, it was giving him uncanny powers of recall.

  He adjusted his position and wrapped one arm around my legs possessively. “Sleep here at the hotel tonight. It’s getting late, not safe for you to travel back to whatever bed-bug-infested hostel you’re slumming at. Stay with me, and we’ll order room service in the morning.”

  “Room service,” I mused. Buttery, flaky croissants. Fresh strawberries. Bowl-sized lattes. All served on gleaming silver trays in the luxury suite.

  Backpacking across Europe had taken a turn for the glamorous when I met Christopher and his cousin at a rock concert in Paris. The band playing was from Japan and played American Rockabilly music. I was traveling with two other young women, and the five of us danced all night. We left together, with Christopher’s cousin promising us secret access to the catacombs under the city.