Death of a Crafty Knitter Page 5

  My finger paused over the contact for Logan Sanderson. Did I need a lawyer? His friendly face and smirking blue eyes came to mind. No, I didn't need a lawyer. Needing wasn't the same as wanting.

  I pressed the option for my father, Finnegan Day. As a retired police officer, he was the best choice.

  When he answered, I said, "Dad, hang on and listen. I'm just on the other line with 9-1-1 dispatch."

  He made a concerned noise, but listened. A woman with a Southern accent had answered my 9-1-1 call. I gave all the pertinent details to the dispatcher, the words tumbling from my mouth.

  "Ma'am, did you say voodoo doll?" she asked. "Are there any human beings involved in this emergency?"

  I groaned and started over. After repeating everything a second time, this time with most of the words in the right order, I finally got the information through.

  "The authorities are on their way," the woman said. "What did you say your name was?"

  I spelled out my name, finished the call, and hung up the heavy receiver with a clunk. I switched my cell phone to my other ear and asked my father if he'd gotten everything.

  "Did you secure the premises?" he asked. "Are you absolutely sure you're alone in the house?"

  "I didn't check all the closets, but I'm pretty sure it's just me and the voodoo lady. I wandered around looking for her for a bit, and then she was… well, in the last room I checked. Dead."

  "Secure the premises now," he said sternly. "I'll hold the line. Better to be prepared, though. You said the gun was in the room? I'd say grab it for protection, but you've got no training in handling a weapon, so there's no sense in you supplying it to your attacker."

  "Maybe I should wait outside."

  "But the attacker could be outside, and you don't have access to your car. You can secure the house, but you can't secure the whole outdoors."

  I couldn't argue with his logic, so I retraced my original steps through the house. I started at the front door and locked it, then moved on to a thorough inspection of possible hiding places. There were no closets on the lower floor. I checked behind the tall grandfather clock in the red living room, then walked up the stairs again. My body felt numb, almost weightless, like the air around me was water.

  I checked the bathroom, and then the bedroom, including the closet and the underside of Voula's bed.

  "That's weird," I said into the phone.

  "Don't say weird. That tells me nothing. What do you see?"

  "Just that there's hardly anything in her closet except for more of the same dresses, and nothing underneath her bed, not even dust bunnies."

  "So, she's a neat freak, and not sentimental. That's not weird, Stormy, it's a personality profile. Keep going and tell me what else you see, and what you smell."

  I stopped in the hallway. Why did he have to mention smell? Now I was painfully aware of the smell coming from the room with the body. It wasn't just smoky incense, but the coppery scent of blood, and it stopped me at the doorway.

  "It stinks," I said, and I described the smell, and then the appearance of the room. The sky was still overcast, but the two large windows made the room feel bright and airy. It would have been a nice place to visit a friend for coffee, except for the dead body on the floor.

  At least the gun was still there, right where it had landed when I'd backed into the table. Barring any strange coincidence, that gun had to be the murder weapon, and it was accounted for. This room didn't have a closet, and I could see under the leggy furniture from the doorway, so I didn't need to enter the room.

  "All clear," I told my father as I hurried down the stairs and back into the relative comfort of the kitchen. "Even if it hadn't been the killer who tried to run me off the road on my way here, I rang the doorbell more than enough times to give them fair warning."

  "Tell me more about this vehicle that ran you off the road. Start with the make and model."

  "Didn't you hear all that during my 9-1-1 call? All I saw was headlights and danger, then snow, and trees whizzing past."

  "What made you think that was connected to the shooting?"

  "If you were here with me, you'd understand. The house is outside of town, and there's just the driveway leading in and out. You probably know the house—it's the one with the face. The windows look like eyes. They used it for that movie a while back."

  "That was a good movie. I was there doing security for the filming, and you can see the corner of my hat in one scene." I heard the beep of his ancient computer booting up. "Did you get a look at the driver of the vehicle? Could you describe them to a sketch artist?"

  "Dad, I don't even know if it was a man or a woman. They had their high beams on, I think. It's such an overcast day, and it was dark there in the trees."

  "You didn't think to get a good look, even after they ran you off the road?" He sounded incredulous.

  Flatly, I said, "Gee, what a great idea. I guess I was sort of busy not hitting trees."

  I heard keys tapping.

  "What are you doing?" I asked.

  "Damn this hip," he said, his voice thick and gravelly.

  With a stony voice, I said, "I'm okay, Dad. Thanks for asking."

  "Of course you are, Stormy. I'd drive over there and investigate the crime scene with you, but I can't drive yet. Damn hip."

  There was more typing, then he groaned, like he was pushing his home office chair back and getting to his feet.

  "Are you okay? How's your pain level?"

  He mumbled about needing to take his medicine.

  "Keep taking those pain pills every four hours," I said. "Take it easy. I'm sure you'll be back up to speed faster if you let yourself heal now."

  He mumbled something else I didn't hear. I smiled, my chest feeling lighter with the switching of my concern over to him. I was still inside a creepy house with a body, but I had other things keeping me tethered to my regular life.

  There was the whacking of his cane on the floor, then the sound of running water. I could see him in my mind, pouring a glass of water in his kitchen, glaring out the window over the sink, wishing he'd recovered enough from his hip surgery to be able to drive his truck. I listened to him gulp the water, which made me realize I was lightheaded and could use something to drink.

  I opened the cupboard next to Voula's sink and grabbed a glass. Again, something struck me as noteworthy.

  "Dad, there are only four glasses in this woman's cupboard. Does that seem odd to you? It's a big cupboard, but it's practically empty. There are two coffee cups in the sink, but I don't see any more."

  "What does that tell you?"

  "Either she was a minimalist, or she wasn't planning to settle here in Misty Falls."

  "Odd but not surprising." His voice twitched up, betraying his interest. "This psychic woman… I've heard a few things about her around town, but I've been too busy with other matters to look into the situation." He let out an irritated sigh. "This is all my fault."

  "No, it's not your fault. You're retired now. And even if you weren't, it's not the job of the local police to prevent crimes. You're not psychics."

  He let out a chortle. "Nobody's a psychic, because there's no such thing. Now, how far are you from the room with the body? Send me some pictures. You said she had some sort of doll in her hands? That's definitely a clue. Either she was trying to tell us something and grabbed it before she expired, or the killer put it there as a message."

  I swallowed hard. "A message?"

  "Try to get a few different angles, wide and close up. We need to know more about this doll."

  "We do?" I poured myself a glass of water from the tap, careful not to disturb the two lipstick-marked coffee cups in the sink, and drank it down. I'd learned from my father that people in shock always need water. Most victims and witnesses don't realize it, but the adrenaline makes you sweat all over, and you lose moisture rapidly.

  He explained, "For example, was it the only doll in the room? And if it wasn't, what's different about this doll? Why wo
uld she reach for it with her last dying breath?"

  "I'm already back downstairs," I said. "The house is secure, like you asked. I'm not going to disturb the crime scene any more than I already have. Besides, wouldn't it be illegal for me to take pictures and send them to you?"

  "We're just concerned citizens, Stormy. We can do anything we want." He chuckled. "Your father, Finnegan Day, is just a regular citizen, like anyone else."

  I frowned as I faced the window overlooking the snowy driveway in front of the house. How long would it take for the police to arrive, so I could leave? And why was my father sounding so excited about being a regular citizen?

  "The killer is probably the boyfriend," my father said. "It's usually the boyfriend. Do you have a name?"

  "Calm down and put your service revolver away," I joked.

  "Oh," he said excitedly. "I should clean my gun."

  "I thought the police had your gun for evidence."

  "Right." He sounded dejected. "Hey, when you're done taking the photos there, can you swing by here and drive me to the gun store?"

  I thought of the gun on the floor upstairs and got a wave of nausea. "Can you call one of your other friends? I've had enough of guns for today."

  "Never mind. It's a holiday. Everything will be closed today."

  "That's right. Happy New Year, by the way. It's sure to be an interesting year, starting off like this. You know, I should be at home with Jeffrey Blue, relaxing. I've got some nice yarn and I was going to try knitting a scarf, but then I had to go and be nice last night and loan Voula my masquerade mask. Then she made me take her card and tricked me into coming out here today. No good deed goes unpunished, right?"

  Ignoring my rant, he said, "How about those crime scene photos?"

  "Let me think about it."

  "What's there to think about?" He sounded mystified and annoyed. "Why'd you phone me if you didn't want me to take on the case?"

  My phone chirped to let me know I had another call. The number showed, but I didn't have a name programmed in.

  "Dad, can we continue this conversation later? Maybe when I'm not standing in a creepy murder house with windows that look like eyes and a dead body upstairs?"

  "Come straight over here when you're done. Don't forget the photos."

  My phone chirped again.

  "I will. Can you do me a favor and call a tow truck for my car? Hopefully it's still in driving condition, but I will need a winch to get it out of the ravine."

  "Did you say witch?"

  "Winch."

  "Doesn't matter. Have a look around for signs of witchcraft. She might be part of a coven. We'll have to canvass for other witches if she is."

  "Sure," I said, even though I didn't know what constituted signs of witchcraft. There was the knitted doll, but that seemed more like voodoo to me. "Gotta go. I've got another call."

  We said goodbye, and I switched to the other line and said hello.

  "Stormy, are you okay?" The male voice was familiar and reassuring. It was Tony Milano, an old friend who'd been more than just a friend in the past, but was now married, with three kids.

  "The premises are secure, and I didn't even throw up," I quickly assured Tony. "But I did get my fingerprints all over a water glass just now. I'm okay, but I can't say the same for the psychic." I kept staring out the kitchen window, expecting to see Tony's police car emerging from the snow-covered trees at any moment.

  "She probably had it coming," he said.

  "Tony!" Even if it was true, that wasn't something I wanted to hear a police officer saying.

  He said, "I don't know what she was up to, but it didn't sound good. We had a few complaints about her, but nothing to warrant an investigation."

  "Complaints?"

  "Hang on." I heard a static sound as Tony covered the receiver of his phone and barked an order at someone. There were sirens as well, and then they switched off abruptly. In the relative silence, I heard the clicking of something—his turn signal.

  "Tony, you should focus on your driving. I'll let you go."

  "I just need to know you're okay."

  "Sure. I'll talk to you when you get here. My car's in the ditch, as you'll see when you drive up. Our prime suspect tried to run me off the road, but I didn't get a look at him or her."

  "You stay put."

  "I swear I'm not going to take off on you this time."

  "Good," he said gruffly. "The fire department just got here with the equipment, so we shouldn't be long now, because I don't think we need it."

  "Equipment? Oh, no. Was anyone hurt?"

  "Not too much. Don't worry about this."

  I wanted to ask him for more details, but the line was dead. The Misty Falls Fire Department were the ones with the hydraulic rescue tools, commonly known as the Jaws of Life. A vehicle accident in town explained why the police hadn't arrived at the murder scene yet.

  That left me alone, with nothing else to do but look around, like a regular concerned citizen.

  "A few pictures can't hurt," I muttered to myself as I switched my phone over to the camera function.

  I had no doubt my father was serious about wanting pictures of the crime scene. He joked around about plenty of things, but not about murder, especially lately.

  Normally, I might not have indulged him, but he'd been depressed. His recent hip surgery had made him realize he wasn't a superhero, and then there'd been the death of his neighbor, which would have been disturbing enough without him feeling partly responsible.

  If photos of a crime scene would cheer him up, then—as weird as it was—I would get him photos of a crime scene.

  I started with the lipstick-smudged cups in the sink, taking a few angles of photos without disturbing the objects. Then I retraced my steps once again, this time collecting photographic evidence.

  The blood-red sitting room made me feel even uneasier, the color quickening my pulse as it reminded me of what lay upstairs. The single bookshelf held only the most generic items—the inoffensive balls of twigs and such, that you would use to stage a home for sale—so none of it gave me clues into the life of the home's resident.

  I walked upstairs, giving the doorway to the room with the body a wide berth by tiptoeing along the far edge of the hallway.

  Inside Voula's bedroom, I took my first breath since I'd started climbing the stairs. I exhaled and said to the room, "If I had secrets, where would I keep them?"

  The bedroom was almost as sparsely decorated as the downstairs, so it wouldn't take long to check it.

  My father had suggested the killer was a boyfriend, so I looked for signs of one. The laundry hamper contained only women's clothes, including some silky slips and more skirts and shawls. I snapped some photos, feeling a little nauseated at myself for photographing a dead woman's dirty clothes.

  Next, I went to the dresser drawers. I pulled the sleeve of my coat over my fingers, but opened the drawers by gripping the edges, not the handles, just in case the police wanted to check for prints. I found the expected assortment of clothes and underwear, along with a number of biography books.

  Why would someone keep their books hidden in a drawer, yet place balls made of twigs on their bookshelves?

  I had a closer look at the spines of the books. Several of the biographies were about famous con artists. She'd been learning the tricks of the trade.

  I took photos of all the books, because even though they didn't tell me much about whoever'd pulled the trigger, they told me plenty about Voula. My father always said that getting to know the victim was the path to solving the crime. If she had been successful in previous frauds, she likely had more than one enemy.

  The books looked new enough, the pages not yellowed with age, but that didn't mean she hadn't been ripping people off in other towns for years.

  Over on her nightstand was a notepad with some scribbled doodles. The notepad itself was one of those freebie promotional things, with a company logo printed on every page in the bottom corner. The busines
s was one I knew: Misty Microchips, the computer business owned by Marvin and Marcy, the couple who'd nearly ruined my previous evening with their bickering.

  I turned the notepad left and right as I tried to decipher the inky swirls. In between the looping and nonsensical shapes, there were numbers. It looked like long division—a six-figure number divided by the number twelve. The resulting number had a dollar sign in front of it.

  "That's a hefty salary," I muttered to the empty room. Because of my business background, I had automatically considered that the number twelve stood for the twelve months in a year, and these were calculations for a CEO's monthly salary. I quickly dismissed this idea, though, because we didn't have any CEOs in Misty Falls, let alone ones that would earn that much. I snapped another photo, then moved on to the drawers of the nightstand.

  The top drawer contained hand lotion, two empty boxes of chocolates, and a packet of birth control pills with the previous day's pill popped out, but not today's. Did Voula have a boyfriend, as my father had suggested? The lingerie in the hamper could have just been her regular nightgown. The night before, she'd been at the party with other women, which was something only single people did on such a special night.

  That didn't mean she didn't have a man in her life. Then again, the existence of her birth control didn't mean she did, either. I knew some women took monthly hormones for other reasons.

  I took a photo of the drawer contents without disturbing anything, then pulled open the lower drawer. This one contained a rolled-up extension cord and a charger that looked like the one I had for my own laptop. I took a photo, then checked the room for her computer. I wouldn't be able to do anything if it was password-protected, like most people's laptops, but it would be helpful to the police if I pointed it out for them.

  I searched the entire bedroom, but didn't find the laptop. It hadn't been downstairs, which left only the room with the body.

  I reluctantly entered the room slowly. The pool of blood seemed like it had spread out from the body, but it could have been my imagination. I noted the current border with a disconnected sense of curiosity, the way an experienced investigator might view the scene. I took several pictures inside the room, including shots of the knitted doll near her hand, and the gun, which looked old and somewhat fancy, with inlaid mother-of-pearl. I avoided looking directly at the body as I backed out of the room and pulled the door closed.