Death of a Batty Genius (Stormy Day Mystery #3) Page 2
We never did find the entrance to the catacombs, but—conveniently enough—we did end up near enough to the guys’ hotel to make a “pit stop.”
My thirty-three-year-old self would see right through their plot, but I was young and eager then, with all the wide-eyed wonder of a small-town girl with more enthusiasm than money.
So, while Christopher’s cousin did some very French things with my two travel companions on the other side of the washroom door, Christopher and I watched dubbed American movies from the eighties. He even let me sit on the bed—after I’d removed the offending army boots.
When the sun came up, we awoke fully clothed, spooning on top of the covers. I said good morning, he declared that I was more beautiful than all of Paris in the sunshine, and we kissed for the first time.
“No,” Christopher groaned from my lap, tugging me out of the sunny memory and back into the dark truck.
“No,” he moaned again.
“Shh. You’re just having a bad trip.” I smoothed his fine hair, which had gotten damp and curly at the temples. “You took mushrooms again, didn’t you? After you swore you wouldn’t.”
The driver’s side door opened, and Logan slid in with a pocket of cold air. He looked back at Christopher, who still had his head in my lap.
“Keep him just like that,” Logan said. “If he throws up, it’ll be on your lap and not my leather seats.”
“He’s feeling calmer now,” I said crisply. “Thanks for asking.”
Logan handed back my jacket as well as his, both of which I draped over Christopher.
“Where to?” Logan asked. “We should blow this popsicle stand before Captain Milano shows up to handcuff me to a freight train leaving town.” He put the engine in gear. “Did your friend happen to tell you where he’s staying?”
I patted Christopher’s pockets, then dug inside and located his keys, phone, wallet, and a gas station receipt, but no sign of a hotel pass card or motel key.
With a formal air, I announced, “Mr. Fairchild will be staying at our place.”
Logan chuckled.
“Are you laughing at me, Mr. Sanderson?”
“Not at all. It’s just… I like it when you say ‘our place.’ I don’t know why.”
I let out an amused huff. “It’s because that duplex is a fantastic investment property in an up-and-coming neighborhood.”
He glanced back over his shoulder, blue eyes twinkling. “That must be why.” He turned around, stepped on the gas, and pointed us toward home.
During the drive, Christopher relaxed even more, rocked by the gentle motion. Whatever he’d taken, I hoped he’d learned his lesson.
We pulled into the wide driveway, next to my car, then Logan came around to get Christopher. He picked him up easily and cradled him in his arms—which was what we should have done at the restaurant. Seeing this really drove home how big and strong Logan was, especially compared to my former partner.
Logan crunched through the snow, carrying Christopher diagonally across the lawn, past my side of the duplex and on toward his own door.
I asked where he was going, and Logan explained, “I’ve got a spare bedroom, and you don’t. Your friend can sleep it off on my side.”
“He’ll probably irritate you as soon as he wakes up.”
“I’ll consider myself forewarned. Forewarned is forearmed.” He hoisted Christopher to get a better grip. “Would you open the door for me? My keys are in my front pocket.”
“Sure thing, boss.” I reached into the pocket of Logan’s trousers. The funny thing was, I’d not had a second thought about rooting around in Christopher’s jeans, but touching Logan’s hip-front pocket area gave me the giggles.
It was all I could do to keep a straight face while we got inside. We held Christopher between us as though he were a limp marionette so we could walk him down the hall and into the spare room’s pull-out bed.
Logan went looking for a thermometer while I coaxed Christopher to sip a glass of water. His temperature was normal, so after a quick consult with Doctor Internet, we decided to let him sleep off his bad trip under Logan’s supervision.
“He’s going to be obnoxious when he wakes up,” I said.
“Forewarned,” Logan replied.
“He’ll probably demand room service and a monogrammed bath robe.”
“Get out of here before I change my mind.”
I thanked him for everything, then left and ran along the shoveled walkway to my side, where I flung open the door. I was already laughing in anticipation of telling Jessica about my crazy night.
“Jessica?”
The lights were all on, but nobody answered.
I found my gray cat on my bed, but my redheaded roommate and best friend wasn’t in her usual nest of blankets on the couch, nor was she in her bedroom, the bathroom, or even in the basement laundry room. I sat on her bed and called her phone with mine. I followed the ringtone to the empty kitchen. Jessica’s phone, which rarely left her side, sat on the kitchen countertop.
The phone did its vibration dance next to the blender and two empty glasses, dirty with the residue of a thick drink.
Two glasses. A smoothie.
My energy surged as I connected the dots.
I ran to my bedroom, changed out of my dress and into jeans and a sweater, pulled on some sturdy boots and a heavy jacket, then ran out the front door, calling Jessica’s name.
She didn’t answer. At least her car was still parked there. If she was on foot, that was a good thing. I knew where to find her.
I didn’t even stop to tell Logan where I was going. I just headed straight for the ravine that lay past the park.
I clenched my fists, punching the air as I alternated between walking and running. Why hadn’t I thought about Jessica earlier and called to check on her?
Christopher must have gotten the name of the restaurant from someone. He’d mentioned a smoothie, and now it was clear she could have been drugged in the same way.
I should have asked him more about the smoothie, and who else he’d given one to. Being thorough is the domain of the private investigator. But anyone can do research. It takes a good detective to look at a situation, then use logic and reasoning to work forward, backward, onward, and inward.
If my father, who’d been mentoring me on my way to get my private investigator’s license, could see me jogging toward the ravine right now, panting desperately, he’d have advice.
He’d say something like, Stormy, let’s take the Batmobile. I don’t care if the Queen of England and all her corgis have gone missing. I’m not running anywhere. Hip surgery, remember? I’ll let you drive while I eat this pulled pork sandwich and get sauce and coleslaw all over your car interior. Don’t make that face. A real detective eats in her car. And since you drink so much coffee, you should start saving up empty mayonnaise jars. Did I ever tell you about Detective ‘Sun Tea’ McAdams?
I shook my head to clear the voice of my father. He was probably at home with his feet up, watching a true crime show. If I needed his help I would call. But I was at the ravine already, and I could handle the situation.
The light from the nearby street lamps was just bright enough for me to follow some fresh boot tracks. The tracks, which I hoped belonged to Jessica, marched through a thin crust of snow, along the ravine.
In the spring, Misty Creek would run through the ravine, bisecting the town and providing a watery highway for the annual Misty Falls Charity Ducky Race. Now, in late February, the ravine held only snow.
I followed the boot tracks right to where I’d predicted they would go, an old treehouse Jessica had discovered while exploring the neighborhood. For the last week, when she wasn’t at work or curled up on the couch, she’d been at the treehouse.
By the warm glow of light coming from the treehouse, she was there again, or so I hoped.
Chapter 3
The free-spirited imagination of a child is a guiding hand that makes all their inventions beautiful.
I climbed the rickety ladder and popped my head up through the trap door opening, expecting to find Jessica inside, in a state to match Christopher’s.
Instead, I found a pair of startled men.
Grown men.
On the plus side, they were fully clothed, which—if you happen to discover a pair of grown men in a treehouse—is how you’d prefer them to be.
“Sorry, guys,” I said. “I saw the glow of your lantern, and thought I’d find my friend up here.”
In a baritone voice, the man on the left said with a smile, “Now you’ve found two friends.” He looked to be in his early forties, with big round cheeks that gave him a diamond-shaped face, and he wore his black hair in short curls. With his deep, rich voice, he introduced himself. “I’m Dion, and this is Franco. Come on up. We don’t bite.”
“Speak for yourself,” said the other man, Franco. He had a nasal voice that made his joking comment sound like a taunt. Franco was the opposite of his friend, pale, with gaunt cheeks and a narrow face. He had straight dark hair in need of a haircut, falling over one eye and giving him the look of a wild, hungry horse.
Dion waved for me to join them. “Get up here before that old ladder breaks. What brings you to the Batty Genius Clubhouse on this fine February evening?”
The flat surface of the treehouse was more stable than the trembling ladder, so I took a seat with my legs dangling down through the trap door.
Franco looked me over, sniffed, then said to his friend, “She’s not the redhead who’s been hanging out up here. Her hair’s too short.”
“My hair’s not too short. It’s just right.” I glanced around the bare interior, which didn’t take long, as it was barely five feet by five. “I’d ask what two grown men are doing in a treehouse on a dark night, but I have more pressing business. Have either of you seen my friend Jessica? She comes here sometimes. She’s thirty-three, about my height and size. She’s got long red hair, which she does tend to leave everywhere.”
The guys looked at each other, trading expressions like two people who’ve been friends their whole lives.
Franco said to his buddy, “I only got here a few minutes before you, man, and I didn’t see anyone.”
Dion shrugged, then said to me, “We haven’t seen her, sorry.” He got an impish grin. “Then again, I wasn’t looking out for your redhead friend because I was too excited about my secret meeting with my lover, Franco.”
Franco cuffed him on the back of the head. “You idiot. Don’t joke about that. Customers can never tell if you’re serious, plus it’s rude to people who actually are gay.”
“Which we are,” Dion deadpanned.
Franco cuffed him again. “Idiot.”
Dion rubbed the back of his head. “Actually, we’re just up here to take some pictures of the gang’s old treehouse for a reunion.”
“Sure, you are,” I said with a smile as I shifted my weight to exit the treehouse. The old wood groaned under my movements. “Have fun, guys. I’m off.”
Dion called down after me, “Tell your friend she’s welcome to use our treehouse any time, even though she’s a girl with girl cooties.”
I replied, “It’s not your treehouse. This structure is on town property, and you shouldn’t volunteer to take responsibility. It’s probably a hazard.”
“Probably? More like definitely.”
I heard another whack, then Franco giving Dion grief for embarrassing both of them.
I was stepping off the ladder when a business card fluttered down past me.
“We’re not just treehouse squatters,” Dion called down from the trapdoor. “We run a legitimate business, and there’s a voucher for a free drink on the back of that card.”
The card was for the town’s English-style pub, the Fox and Hound. Both men were listed on the card as the owners, and the back side really did have a voucher for a free drink.
I thanked him and tucked the card into my pocket.
A wave of anxiety washed over me. I’d barely been in the treehouse a few minutes, but time was wasting, and I still had to find Jessica.
There were no signs of her in the ravine or the park. I jogged back toward home, calling Jessica’s name.
I rounded a corner and nearly bowled over a woman walking her fluffy Pekingese. She put her gloved hand on my arm and asked, “What breed is your Jessica?”
“She’s a person.”
The tiny woman, who appeared to be in her eighties, smiled, her whole face wrinkling with joy. “Aren’t they all, dear? Miss Molly won’t eat dinner until she’s got her little bib on. People say that Pekingese are willful dogs, but who wants to spend their days with a pushover? Not me. My dear Harold, bless his heart, might have preferred someone with fewer ideas of her own, but I’ll tell you one thing: I kept that man on his toes, right up until the day he departed, and then I got Miss Molly, and life goes on. Where were we? Yes, you were about to tell me the breed of your Jessica. If she’s not a purebred, that’s okay, because there are plenty of mutts and strays who need homes, too.”
“Actually, Jessica is a human person. I’m worried she might be wandering around the neighborhood, lost and confused, from… food poisoning.”
“Food poisoning?” The woman wasn’t buying my story, but she didn’t seem any less concerned. “Miss Molly and I have been on our walk for the last forty-six minutes—I plan to see my hundredth birthday, so I keep up my fitness routine, and tomorrow is aqua aerobics—but I haven’t seen your human person tonight. Should we call the police? I hear they’ve got a young whippersnapper on the force now, a cute one who could be on one of those calendars the ladies have up at the hair salon. The girls always apologize when I come in for my perm, but I tell them that just because my courting days are over, that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy a peek.”
I laughed. “You must be talking about Officer Dimples. I mean Officer Dempsey. I will give the police a call right away. Thanks for the idea, ma’am.”
“Olivia Catfish.” She offered a gloved hand and gave me a surprisingly strong handshake. I leaned down to give her Pekingese, Miss Molly, a pat goodbye, then set off toward the house again. I took Olivia Catfish’s good advice and pulled out my phone to put a call through to the police department’s non-emergency line.
A gruff voice came through the small speaker. “Misty Falls police department. Captain Milano speaking.”
“Tony Baloney,” I replied with fake enthusiasm. “So nice to hear your voice. Shouldn’t there be a receptionist answering this line?”
“Yes, usually. Stormy? Why are you calling the main line and not my direct number?”
“Because you’ve gotten all cranky lately, and every time I talk to you, we’re one step closer to one of us getting smacked.”
“And whose fault is that?” He sighed. “Don’t answer, I don’t need the aggravation. Why are you calling, and how many ambulances should I dispatch?”
“None, unless—”
“What’s going on with you? I just got back from the restaurant where you had dinner and put on a show. Is it true you started a brawl? I talked the owner out of pressing charges.”
“Pressing charges? On me?”
Icily, he said, “No charges, and you’re welcome. Hang on.” His voice was muffled while he spoke to someone else. He came back with, “We can talk about you and your restaurant hijinks tomorrow. I’m busy now.”
“Tony,” I said, but the call had already been terminated.
I was back at the house again. I hurried inside and did a hopeful search for Jessica, but she still wasn’t there.
Jessica was an adult, so the police might not take her disappearance as serious
ly as I did, but I wasn’t giving up on getting help.
I would hit redial on my phone, but first I needed to know more about what I was calling in to report. I examined the evidence on the counter. The empty smoothie glasses smelled pleasant, like malt and cherries. According to the instructions on the empty bag, it held a powdered mix for two servings, equal to a full meal for each person. The dry residue in the bag reminded me of boxed cake mix.
The packaging itself was premium quality, an opaque white zipper-seal bag, full-color print on both sides, with a background of illustrated jungle foliage and a colorful group of four exotic tree frogs. The artwork looked expensive, drawn by someone with talent, yet slightly off balance. I knew from my research into packaging design that objects were more visually pleasing when found in odd numbers, such as three or five. Four tree frogs were an unconventional choice, but I couldn’t let myself get hung up on such a minor detail.
The company logo, BIGGS, was one I recognized. I’d read about Biggs Foods in the local paper, because the owner, Benjamin Biggs, was from Misty Falls. He’d graduated from high school a decade before me, so we hadn’t crossed social paths, but I’d felt a kinship with the man, and had enjoyed the article in the Misty Falls Mirror, the way all residents do when one of our own does something interesting in the world.
“Benjamin Biggs,” I mused. “You were one of the town’s rising stars, and now you’ve gone and poisoned us with your Rainforest Delight.”
Chapter 4
When you want help, you need to ask. If they don’t hear you, ask again. Louder.
The second time I called the Misty Falls Police Department, they hung up on me.
I called a third time.
An irritated female voice came through. “Wiggles.”
“Officer Peggy Wiggles? It’s me, Stormy Day.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
I sucked in air between my teeth. Peggy Wiggles, the department’s new fifty-something rookie, had been warming up to me lately, but right now she sounded as though she wanted to test their new taser equipment on my buttocks.