I was halfway down the steps when I stopped. What was I going to the basement for? I didn't have a laundry basket in my hands. Had I been going down for paper towels? I had to start taking some of those vitamins for memory.
It came to me: I'm checking the hot water tank. I went back up the steps and grabbed the flashlight I kept hanging on the wall. The batteries needed charging, but the light was strong enough to get me down the wood steps in one piece.
I got to the bottom and was reaching up for the light switch cord when I noticed a pair of slippers near the edge of the wall. I pointed the flashlight at the slippers, then moved the light up, up a pair of legs in jeans with rolled cuffs, then a dark blue sweater, and finally, a face.
Two eyes stared back at me.
It was a woman.
A woman was standing under my stairs, in my dark basement. She put up one hand to shield her eyes from the light of my flashlight.
Someone screamed. It had to be me, because her mouth didn't move. I screamed again. Then she screamed.
There were only two ways out of the basement, and the narrow window wasn't fast enough. I started for the stairs, but the woman was closer, so she beat me to staircase and bounded up noisily.
Jeffrey, who stood watch in my open doorway, arched his back and hissed like a tiny dragon when she got to the top.
The woman didn't turn back, nor did she enter my apartment. She opened the other door, the one leading to Logan's half of the duplex, and went through. The door slammed shut, and I heard the telltale click of the handle being twisted to lock it.
I'd only caught a glimpse of her, but it had been more than enough for me to identify the woman. Logan did have a houseguest, but it wasn't a girlfriend.
Unless he'd taken up dating much older women, he was harboring a fugitive.
Dharma Lake.
I'd found her.
Someone's karma was about to change.
Chapter 25
As I turned my living room upside down looking for my cell phone, I cursed myself for not having a landline. With a phone plugged into the wall, it could only wander the length of the cord.
Someone knocked on my front door. It was a polite knock, which only made it more terrifying.
"Stormy? It's me, Logan."
I latched the chain before I unlocked the door and opened it a crack.
"Just you?" I asked.
"I'm alone." Both of his hands came through the crack in the door.
I panicked, screamed, and tried to close the door on his hands. He quickly withdrew them, but he thrust his boot in at the bottom.
"Easy now," he said. "I was just showing you I was unarmed. Can we talk?"
I shifted so I could see him through the crack.
"Start talking. Why do you have a killer over there?"
He fixed his winter-sky eyes on mine.
"Dharma's not a killer. People are wrongly accused of things all the time. That's why we have lawyers."
"You're her defense attorney? Is that why she's at your place? Are you planning to hide her forever?"
"May I come in?"
"I guess she can't stay at her house, because the cops are looking for her. And she can't exactly hide out in a hotel, not in a town this size, where everybody knows everybody."
"Exactly," he said. "You're pretty smart."
"Flattery will get you nowhere." I kicked the toe of his boot out of the door crack and slammed the door shut.
Yes, pretty smart, indeed. I'd been quietly putting on my own boot while I talked through the hotel issue.
He knocked again.
I yelled at the door, "I've got my phone and I'm calling the police right now. I'm punching in the number."
"No, you've lost your phone. I have to walk past your front window to reach your door, remember? I saw you tossing cushions off your couch. Something tells me you weren't redecorating."
I opened the door a crack. "Can I borrow your phone?"
"I've got something else for you." He slipped a sheet of paper through the opening. It was a check, made out to me.
It wasn't a rent check. The subject line at the bottom had a line written in messily: Investigative Services Retainer.
"Logan, you don't have to pay me for locating the fugitive in our shared laundry room. Honestly, it's a freebie. My pleasure."
I shut the door.
He knocked again. "Stormy, I need to employ you as an investigator. It's so I can talk to you and we can share privileged information. You see, there's this client-attorney thing, and—"
I pulled the chain free and yanked open the door. "I know." I waved my hand, inviting him in. "I think I'm familiar with attorney-client privilege. I've seen every episode of The Good Wife."
He stepped inside. "That's a great show. They take a few liberties, of course, but it's excellent. No spoilers, I haven't seen them all." He kicked off his boots, which hadn't been tied up, and rubbed his bare forearms. He'd run over in a hurry, with no jacket. I almost felt bad for making him wait on the step. Almost.
Logan took a seat at the kitchen table, and I rearranged the magnets on my fridge so I could affix the check where it was visible. It felt like the official thing to do.
He nodded at the check. "Does this mean you accept my offer of employment?"
"I do. I do accept your hand in… handing me a check for employment."
"Good. I have other paperwork for you to sign, but I came over in a hurry." He rubbed his forehead as a smile spread across his face. "That's quite the panic-inducing scream you have."
I grabbed two cans of beer, cracked both open, and set them on the table as I sat down. My bruise didn't even hurt, thanks to the adrenaline.
"What's your plan?" I asked. "A diminished capacity plea? She seemed plenty sharp to me, but a jury might buy it. I hope her hair dye washes out. White would look better on the witness stand."
"She's innocent."
"Did the psychic shoot herself?"
"Maybe she did." He stared into my eyes with intensity, like he was trying to convince me through mind control. I looked away and took a sip of my beer. He did the same.
"How did your client get gunshot residue on her hands?"
"It was on her steering wheel, not her hands. These are very different things."
"You're such a lawyer."
He frowned. "Thanks." He took another sip of his beer. "She doesn't remember anything about what happened that day."
I snorted. "How convenient."
"The old van didn't have airbags, and she hit her head in the accident. Concussion can cause memory loss."
"Very convenient."
"I have a consultant with medical training, and she's looking into it for me. Actually, you might have seen her around. She was in town for a few days after Christmas."
"Hmm," I responded as I took another drink. The beer didn't taste great, but sipping it did keep my mouth from running ahead of my brain. It must have been Logan's "consultant" friend who was over on New Year's Eve. I didn't want him to think I cared who he had visiting over there—as long as they weren't wanted by the police.
He sighed. "You probably think I'm crazy for taking on this case."
"On the contrary. Her uncle is the richest man in town by a factor of ten, so that makes you anything but crazy."
"Sure, but all the money in the world doesn't give her an alibi for the shooting, or remove the evidence from her steering wheel, or change the fact she was involved in fraudulent activities with the victim."
"You mean stealing the gun from her uncle?"
"You heard about the Koenig Mansion theft?" He shook his head. "I pay good money for information that's apparently common knowledge."
"Why did she steal the gun? Was it her?"
"Her memory's foggy on that, but at least she remembers the big altercation on New Year's Eve. Do you know the truth about that?"
"Just what I saw."
Logan looked pleased to have information I didn't. "The fight was pure dinner thea
ter. All an act."
"You mean when Dharma chewed out Voula in front of the entire crowded pub and threw a drink on her, right after accusing her of being a witch and practicing dark magic and… oh. I get it."
"Part of the long con, I suspect. Who knows how far she might have taken it."
I ruffled my hand through my hair, pushing the short, wavy strands skyward while I put everything together. Dharma had a good reputation in town, so by accusing someone else of genuine witchcraft, it was as good as an endorsement.
"She lied to the whole town," I said.
"My client had mixed feelings about the fortune-telling, but she felt the ends justified the means. If buying magic rocks from a so-called psychic was the thing that helped people stick to their exercise plan, or save their marriages, Dharma figured the karma would balance out."
He tipped back the beer can, drained it, then set it down gently. "That's the worst beer I've ever had."
Of course it was. It was the beer I kept on hand just to serve my father when he stopped by.
"The worst?" I gave Logan a perplexed look. "You're in Misty Falls now, Mr. Sanderson. This is the town's official beer."
He examined the can. "But it's not even brewed in the state."
I shrugged and played innocent. My father would have been very proud.
Logan glanced over at the interior wall. "I must be crazy," he said. "If I can't figure out who else was at the house that day, she might go to prison."
"Any wild theories you want to run past me? You're paid up for the day. Did she have a boyfriend?"
"Voula mentioned a guy she called Bernie. I just wish I knew his full name."
"Bernard Goldstein." I grabbed the printout of the film executive's website bio. I explained what I'd learned from Ruby, and how it seemed the ladies in the knitting club were the potential investors.
"This is great." Logan's shoulders softened as he relaxed in his chair. "I'll call in an anonymous tip and get the local boys in blue to do the investigative work for me."
"But that's what you're paying me to do."
He laughed and glanced over at the check on the fridge, then back to me. "You're my landlady, not a real investigator. I'm only paying you for your discretion."
He kept laughing, which made my stomach feel like it was making a fist. He wasn't being rude, because to him I was just his landlady, a woman who needed help climbing in her car window because she'd stupidly tied a rug to the roof. Who would hire a bimbo like that to do serious work?
"Wait here a minute," I said. I'd remembered my cell phone was in the bathroom, right where I'd left it before my bath. I ran to grab it, came back, and started going through the crime scene photos again, showing him.
"Logan, I hope there was a third person, I really do, but these are from New Year's Day. You'll notice there are two cups in the sink, with lipstick prints, and no other glasses or mugs."
He flipped forward and back through the other shots I'd taken.
"That's a creepy doll," he said. "We should look for someone who matches that doll."
"You'd think, but there was a basket of dolls in the room, and they were all the same. She would customize them with the clothes of whoever they represented. The doll is a dead end, because it's wearing her clothes. If you look closely, you'll see there's a chunk of fabric cut from the hem of the victim's dress, and that was on the doll."
He shuddered. "I don't want to look at these photos, but can I get a copy?"
"Sure. You've more than paid for them." I took back the phone and tapped in the email address he gave me, then sent the images. "Anything else I can do for you as your paid consultant?"
He gave me a crooked grin. "How about a plausible explanation for what happened that day? You've been inside the house, and I haven't. Did you get any feelings? Any hunches?"
"My best theory?" Something had just occurred to me while reviewing the photos. "Well, the gun wasn't just any old gun. It was made by some factory that only produced a limited number before it burned down. It was the gun equivalent of a Fabergé egg owned by the Russian royal family. What if the gun was Dharma's investment in the film deal?"
"That's one way to come up with cash. Oh! The third person could have been an antiques dealer who decided to keep the gun and kill the witnesses."
"But he left the gun, and a witness."
"Right."
"Is her memory really that bad? I'd like to talk to her."
"She's too fragile." He shook his head. "She doesn't remember taking the gun from her uncle's house, but it's not unusual for a client to hide things from her lawyer." He pushed his chair back and stood. "I'll show her a few photos and see if that jogs her memory."
He started slipping on his boots.
"Thanks for being so understanding," he said. "You really are the best landlady I've ever had, and I never meant to draw you into this, but you said you were doing inventory, so I figured we had a few hours for her to wash some clothes. I thought some normal activity might relax her, but she's practically catatonic now."
"I'm so sorry I scared her. Please, tell her I'm sorry."
"I will. I'm not sure she can even hear me when I'm talking, though. It's not good."
"Hopefully she feels better soon."
He thanked me again, then left.
I watched as he walked by my front window.
Once he was out of sight, I closed the curtains, even though it was still light outside.
Logan said his client was practically catatonic. And that she had selective memory lapses.
This was the same woman who'd convinced an entire pub that she hated a woman who was actually her friend. Dinner theater, indeed.
Despite wanting to believe in her innocence, it was entirely possible I was living under the same roof as a killer.
Providing laundry facilities for a wanted fugitive.
Sharing a hot water tank with a murderer.
Chapter 26
I called my father about half an hour after Logan left. I couldn't tell him about who was next door, or he'd call the police… which was what a good citizen should do.
I was the bad one, who took a check to stay quiet.
"How's the physiotherapy?" I asked.
"The stretches? Horrible. If I ever say they're great, that's how you'll know I'm not doing them. Why are you really phoning?"
"Do you want to have dinner with me?"
"Sure, come over right now. I'll take care of everything. Could you swing by the store on your way and pick up some steaks, russet potatoes, and sour cream?"
I enjoyed his version of taking care of everything.
"And coffee," he said. "Plus bread, eggs, and bacon. Are you writing this down?"
"Yes." I was writing his grocery list on my notepad, after the page I'd been using to doodle names for our investigation business.
When he finished the list, I tossed the notepad and some toiletries into an overnight bag, then got Jeffrey's kitty carrier ready. I found him on my bed, watching the door, and looking edgy. He'd been off balance since the screaming in the basement.
He gave a few protest meows, but was a champion all through the car ride to the grocery store, waiting for me to shop, then driving to my father's.
The sun was setting when Jeffrey and I arrived at my father's. As I unloaded the car, I couldn't shake the neck-tickling sensation of being watched.
I whipped around and caught the neighbor across the street peering at me around curtains. I gave her a friendly wave. She pretended to be tending her collection of tea roses on the windowsill.
My father opened the door just as I was lugging everything up the porch steps.
He frowned at the cat carrier. "No returns."
"We're staying overnight. Surprise! It'll be fun. We can make popcorn and watch movies in our pajamas."
He demanded more of an explanation, but I didn't feel right talking about it on the porch, with the eyes and ears of the neighborhood trained on us. I pushed my way in, asking if h
e had the grill ready.
He didn't ask again why we were staying overnight until we'd finished cooking and eating dinner. The dishwasher was running, and he stood at the sink washing the salad bowl while I attended with the drying towel.
"The Boomerang Generation," he said. "That's what you are. You move away from home, then you come back like a boomerang. I heard all about it on the radio."
"I'm not moving in," I said. "This is just for a few days, because I don't feel safe at my house."
He rinsed the glass salad bowl, then handed it to me, steaming hot.
"Stands to reason you're scared," he said. "Before I retired, it was part of my job to assure people we didn't have a serial killer on the loose, but just because I say reassuring things, that doesn't mean you shouldn't be careful. I'm sure glad to be retired now, so I can be honest."
I put the bowl in the cupboard, then turned to make steady contact with his gold-flecked, dark brown eyes. "You keep saying you're retired now, but I saw the papers, Dad. I saw your application to get the license. When were you going to tell me you're becoming a private investigator?"
His dark eyes twinkled. "Never, because I'm not. The application's for you. That's why I left it where you could see it."
My hands went limp, and I dropped the dishtowel. He used his fancy cane for balance as he leaned forward to pick it up.
The application was for me?
For the previous four days, I'd been happily imagining an exciting new career as a private investigator—but that had been as my father's partner. Doing it alone? That was a whole different thing.
"Tea," he said, so we made tea.
Thirty minutes later, we were sitting in the living room. He'd turned on the TV and was enjoying the view from his newly repositioned recliner. Jeffrey was making himself at home on the couch.
The show we'd caught the tail end of finished up, and he muted the volume on the set.
"What do you think?" he asked. "You could always apply for the police academy, and go that route, but I don't think police work is for you. You've always been so independent, and you need the intellectual challenge of investigative work. Stormy, are you listening to me? This is what you've been looking for. This is why you came back to Misty Falls."
Death of a Crafty Knitter Page 18