Death of a Crafty Knitter Page 14

  She came out from behind the glass display counter and grabbed my forearm like we were high school girls talking in the hall about our crushes. "He wrote me a poem and read it to me."

  "That's… wow. A poem." So, we were talking about Marvin after all, and not the couple's cute but needy Labradoodle.

  The door jingled as the teens who'd been looking at the games walked out, chattering about who would spring for a round of frozen slushy drinks.

  Now it was just the four of us in the computer store, and judging by the way Marvin was hustling past me toward the stock room, my father's business was nearly finished. It irked me that he'd selected an expensive laptop in less time than he'd taken that morning to decide on his pancake topping.

  Marcy was still chattering about romance and date nights. I smiled as I nodded along. There was a pause, and she asked if I was feeling okay.

  "Sorry, I'm a bit spaced out," I said. "I've got a lot on my mind."

  "Has her ghost done anything for you?"

  Now Marcy had my attention. "Ghost? What?"

  She still had her hand on my forearm, and squeezed it now. "Everyone's talking about it. Voula's ghost. She's been granting people's wishes from beyond the other side." Marcy grinned. "You should try making a wish and see what happens. Send her an email, and she might email back."

  "Someone's been emailing people from Voula Varga's account?" I wondered if the police knew about this, and if it would stop once they had the matchmaking waitress in custody.

  "Not just someone. It's her." She let go of my arm and stepped away to help Marvin ring up my father's new purchase.

  As I watched her compliment my father on his excellent taste in laptops, then try to sell him the extended warranty—good luck with that, Marcy—I wondered if the woman was on some new medication with interesting side effects. Perhaps she was taking the dog's antidepressant pills.

  Marvin switched places with Marcy behind the counter and came over to talk to me. "I hear you're having a fun shopping day with your father. Tell me the truth. Is he driving you crazy, or is this a good bonding experience?"

  "Apparently, he likes teal."

  "That explains why he wanted the laptop with the teal case."

  I looked over at Marcy, who was pitching the extended warranty hard. Neither of them were paying any attention to us.

  "What did he say to you?" I asked as I turned back toward Marvin. "Did he tell you why he wanted the laptop?"

  Marvin waggled his eyebrows. "Wouldn't you like to know?" For a man in his forties, Marvin was acting strangely juvenile, almost stranger than his wife with her ghost stories. I switched to a new theory about the dog medication: Marcy was grinding up so-called "happy-dog pills" and hiding them in Marvin's food.

  "How about you?" Marvin asked. "Are you in need of any upgrades?" He waggled his eyebrows again, and this time he let his brown eyes take a detour down the front of my body. Huskily, he said, "I do house calls, so if you'd like me to stop by your place sometime and do a private assessment of your needs, just call me and we'll make that happen."

  "Uh, thanks." And please stop being gross. Please stop right now, Marvin.

  "We can make lots of things happen," he said.

  "No, thank you."

  I moved away from Marvin, toward the ring of safety within my father's hearing range. If I'd been ten years younger, I might have continued naively talking to Marvin, excusing his behavior as just harmless joking. But I was thirty-three, and I'd had enough life experience to know that "I was just joking" is what a man says only after you've called him on his lascivious behavior. If Marcy wasn't such a nice woman, I might have done something dramatic, right then and there.

  My father gathered up his new laptop and we walked out of the store. I shook my arms, trying to rid myself of the slime residue from Marvin.

  We paused on the sidewalk while my father pulled out his phone to check for messages or missed calls.

  "Bingo," he said, then handed me his phone.

  There was a text message from Kyle Dempsey, whose contact info my father had programmed in as Kyle Dimples-Dempsey.

  Kyle Dimples-Dempsey: Good news. Nitrocellulose on the steering wheel of the van. Bad news. Suspect has fled town. Her husband seems as shocked as anyone. He called in a Missing Persons report this morning. My gut says he's telling the truth. He doesn't know where she is or what she's done.

  "That was fast," I said. "Do you think Dharma's rich uncle is helping her disappear?"

  "We could pay him a visit and ask."

  I laughed, because I thought he was joking, but his brown eyes didn't waver.

  "How far are you going to take this armchair sleuthing thing?" I asked. "Nobody's paying you to look into this case, are they? Did Kyle ask you to help make him look good?"

  "I should be offended. You're implying that Finnegan Day can be bribed into doing someone else's job for nothing more than a case of fancy-label beer." He nodded for me to follow him across the street, back to the car.

  He opened the passenger side and slid in, but I didn't, because I couldn't even get my door open. The rope holding his new rug in place was threaded through three windows, forming a triangle shape.

  As I stood there, wondering if he'd done this on purpose as some sort of life lesson, he called out, "For heaven's sakes, just jump in the window," like I was being ridiculous for wanting to go in through the door like a normal person.

  Muttering a few choice words under my breath, I started climbing in, right leg first. I was halfway in when I heard a familiar voice laughing. I looked over to the sidewalk and saw Logan grinning at me.

  "Stormy Day doesn't believe in doors," he said.

  "Logan Sanderson states the obvious when he could be helping."

  He jogged off the sidewalk and around the car to assist me. Before I could shoo him away, he had my arm around his shoulders and his hip bracing mine. I'd only meant to mock him, not get him under my arm, with his cheek practically touching mine and the warm, spicy scent of his skin tickling my nostrils.

  He grabbed my leg behind the knee with one strong hand, and I was in his arms. It was not an unpleasant sensation at all. Too quickly, he aimed my left foot through the window and transferred me smoothly into the passenger seat.

  "Thanks," I said.

  Logan leaned down to the window and reached in with his right hand. "Logan Sanderson," he said as he shook my father's hand.

  I said, "Logan, meet my father, Finnegan Day. That's his new rug tied to my roof. He likes teal, apparently. He got a new laptop today, too, with a teal case. He just walked into the computer store and picked one out in less time than it took him to choose a pancake topping at breakfast."

  Logan raised his eyebrows, his sky-blue eyes twinkling with amusement at my babbling. "Sounds like you two are having a nice father-daughter day."

  "You're the lawyer and the tenant," my father said. "Good to finally meet you. Keep paying your rent on time and do as my daughter says, and our meetings can keep on being this pleasant."

  "Yes, sir," Logan replied.

  My cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment, and I felt about thirteen again, with my father trying to put the guys in my life off balance.

  Logan wasn't wearing one of his lawyer suits that day, despite it being a weekday. He wore threadbare jeans and a chunky-knit sweater that looked like a hand-me-down—comfortable and clean, but not something you'd wear to impress a potential girlfriend's father. My cheeks burned even more as I realized that I wanted my father to be impressed by Logan.

  "You're dressed casually," I said. "Day off from your law firm today?"

  He'd glanced around.

  "Working from home," he said quietly. "Just popped out to grab some lunch."

  "I'll let you get back to it. Thanks for the help getting in the car."

  He patted the roof, said goodbye to my father, then turned and left us.

  I started the car and said, "Where to next? A lamp to go with your rug? A new desk for your lapt
op?"

  "Next stop is the Koenig Mansion, of course."

  Chapter 19

  As we drove to the Koenig Mansion, my father talked to himself while he tapped out a response to Kyle. He was using words, not the cryptic symbols he preferred sending me. He was neither speedy nor accurate, but he could send words when sufficiently motivated.

  After the exchange of a few messages, he said, "Dimples is hot on the chase of Dharma Lake. He's checking the local car rentals, the bus depot, travel agents, and the motels. He's a smart kid. Do you know how I know that?"

  "Is it because he's come to you as a mentor?"

  "Yes, and he called the hair salons. He found out that we're not looking for a woman with shoulder-length silver-white hair anymore. She's a brunette. Her hair's auburn now, and chin-length."

  "Ouch." I sucked in air between my teeth. "It's hard to look innocent when you dye your hair and disappear. I didn't want to believe that sweet woman could be a killer, but actions speak volumes."

  "That's right. Believe the actions, not the words."

  We'd passed out of town limits and I slowed the car as I scanned for the turnoff to the Koenig Estate.

  "Speaking of actions," I said, "Dharma tried to set me up with a guy the first time I met her. She and I weren't any more than acquaintances, but she wanted to help me, for free."

  "Hmm."

  "What does that sort of action tell you about her?"

  "That she's nuts," he said.

  I turned onto the access road for the Koenig Mansion. As we pulled up to the wrought iron gates, they opened for us, so I didn't even need to bring the car to a halt.

  In a dramatically ominous tone, I announced, "They know we're coming."

  "You think?"

  He was testing me again, so I looked around as we passed through the open gates. I couldn't see any cameras or intercoms, so either they were tiny and hidden, or the gates were on a motion sensor.

  "The gates must open automatically," I said. "They probably lock down at night, but auto-open during the day for visitors and deliveries."

  "Sounds about right."

  I sped up, as the mansion was still far ahead, up a hill. My heart rate also sped up, in anticipation of seeing the gorgeous home.

  The Koenig Mansion was a miniature castle, with its Romanesque arches, recessed entryways, and cylindrical towers with conical caps.

  I'd been to the mansion before, on school field trips. The owner permitted tours once a year, during the town's Cherry Blossom Festival. Ironically, there were no cherry trees on the property, and thus no blossoms, but the mansion was filled with cherry wood, much of it intricately carved.

  When the building came into view, I said, "Amazing. It's just as big as I remember. It seems like so many other things shrink as I get older, but not this."

  "Good job keeping your eyes open. Plenty of things are right in front of us, hiding in plain sight, because most people are so busy with their thoughts or their phones, they don't take the time to look."

  He shifted in his seat and readied his cane, looking like he was ready to jump out of the car before I'd even pulled up to the mansion.

  His cane was not the basic model you'd pick up at the drugstore or even a medical supply store. The handle was metal, maybe stainless steel, with intricate carvings. Around the perimeter was a Celtic design of interwoven knots, framing a nasty-looking creature that was either a bat or a flying squirrel.

  A conversation we'd had a month earlier, when he'd been at the hospital following his hip surgery, came back to me. I kept my suspicions to myself as I followed the posted signs directing us to the Visitor Parking.

  No other vehicles had been parked in that section, but I could see cars in another area, probably staff parking by the look of the modest economy models.

  We still had the rug tied to the roof, so I couldn't open my door and get out the regular way. I started climbing out of my window, figuring it might be easier to get out that way than to climb in. And it was easier, until the toe of my boot caught on the rope, and I flailed off balance and landed on my butt. Hard. The packed snow was better than concrete, but not by much.

  I stared up at the winter sky, the frozen ground cool under my back.

  My father's face appeared above me.

  Grinning, he asked, "Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?"

  "Very funny." I groaned my way to my feet. "Hey, can I see your cane for a sec?"

  He handed the fancy cane to me without question, then turned to admire the mansion. I examined the handle, then pushed down on the bat creature with my thumb. As I'd suspected, the center was a button. It depressed, but nothing else happened.

  "Give it a twist," my father said. He was still facing away from me, admiring the peaked towers of the mansion. "That's the hiking model, for rugged use."

  I tried twisting it, but nothing happened. Then I pushed the button while giving the handle a twist. The engraved steel handle popped up, revealing a few inches of what was unmistakably, undeniably, and unsurprisingly a sword.

  "This is why you haven't complained about the cane," I said. "You love the excuse to carry a concealed weapon around. Is this even legal?"

  "Admit that you wish you had one."

  "It is pretty cool."

  I glanced around to make sure nobody else was in the parking area. We seemed to be alone, but anyone could have been watching from one of the mansion's many windows. Most of them dark, the rooms unlit, but that just made the enormous house better for hiding in. I drew the sword all the way out of the cane anyway, then gave the air a few swishes.

  My father had turned around and was smiling, his dark brown eyes crinkling with pride as he watched me. He nodded approvingly as I changed my grip on the handle.

  "Take that, bad guy," I said. "Poke, poke."

  "Interesting sound effects."

  "Stab, stab," I said as I stabbed and slashed the air, then, "Schawoom, schawoom."

  "It's not a lightsaber," he said.

  I squeezed both of my small hands onto the handle and struck an exaggerated warrior pose. "Do I look like Conan the Barbarian?"

  "Always, but even more so with the sword."

  "Cool." I sheathed the blade back into the cane, locked the pieces in place, and handed it back to him.

  We started toward the visitor's entrance. I caught a flash of movement in a window on the third floor. For an instant, I saw a face, framed by dark hair, and then it was gone. It had happened so quickly, I couldn't even say for sure it was a woman, but I had a feeling we'd found our fugitive.

  My father asked me, softly, "Did you see her, too? Up there on the third floor?"

  "Yes, but only a glimpse."

  "Same here," he said, sounding excited.

  "What next? We can't go in there and start accusing her of murdering people, or we'll be the next victims. Your cane sword is very cool in a James Bond way, but it's no match for a gun, assuming she has more than one gun, and why wouldn't she? All the better for shooting people who come around asking nosy questions for no good reason."

  "Follow my lead," he said. We were nearly at the front door.

  I glanced over my shoulder at the staff vehicles and tried to find their presence reassuring. Voula Varga had been shot inside a small house, with no neighbors for miles, and no army of on-site staff. Here at the mansion, there were plenty of witnesses, which meant we'd be safe.

  At least, that's what I told myself as my father rang the doorbell.

  Chapter 20

  The person who opened the door had dark hair, and something silver in her hand.

  "Freeze!" I yelled.

  She froze.

  We had ourselves a dark-haired woman, all right, but either Dharma had gotten a radical emergency facelift, or this wasn't her. And I didn't think a facelift could take off thirty years.

  It made more sense that the brunette before us was a maid, given that she wore an honest-to-goodness maid uniform, with the white apron and everything. The gleaming ite
m in her hand was the silver handle of a fancy feather duster.

  "Freeze?" she asked.

  "Freez…ing out here," I said. "Brr. Cold and snowy. Freeze is what we'll do if we stay out here too long. Isn't that right, Dad?"

  My father reached over and ruffled my hair in a playful way. "Such a goofball, this one," he said. "How are you, Erica? I'm sorry to bother you at work."

  She answered with a lightly accented, melodic voice, "I'm okay, Mr. Day, but now you have me worried. Is there something wrong? Is it my son? I'm not supposed to have my phone on while I'm working, so if the school called, I never know until my break. Stupid rules. Mr. Koenig is not here right now, but the head of housekeeping has eyes in the back of her head."

  "Sorry to alarm you," my father said. "We're here to see you, Erica, but it has nothing to do with your son."

  "You are not in your uniform." She waved for us to enter. "Come in, come in. No need to freeze."

  "I'm not here on official police business," he said. He didn't mention that his lack of uniform was due to him having zero official police business these days. Apparently, Erica knew him, but not well enough to know he'd retired.

  Inside, we brushed the snow off our boots on the designated area in the foyer, then followed the maid through the cherry-wood-lined hall, past the regal marble table lined up under a chandelier that was bigger than my car, and on to a sitting room. Following his lead, as he'd advised, I took a seat on a sofa with tufted burgundy upholstery.

  The sitting room was not too grand to be cozy. The wood shelves along the perimeter contained books behind glass doors, and a good number of decorative objects, eclectic and probably valuable. Under a pinpoint of brightness supplied by recessed lighting sat what appeared to be a Fabergé egg.

  Erica left us there, rushing off to fetch some refreshments.

  I leaned over and said to my father, "I forgot how you know half the town. You must have met this maid, Erica, through one of your other cases."