Death of a Double Dipper

by Angela Pepper

  I'd all but forgotten about sending the picture to Colt until I was climbing into bed. My phone buzzed with an alert.

  It was Colt, and he'd apparently taken my message as an invitation.

  Colt: Sure! I'd love to buy you that root beer, Stormy. Thanks for asking! What are your plans for lunch tomorrow?

  I wrote back: I'll be at my store, if you want to meet me there.

  Colt: It's a date.

  Me: It's lunch between two friends, not a date.

  Colt: Tell it to my hopeful heart.

  I set the phone on my nightstand, turned off the light, and snuggled up to Jeffrey, who was hogging my pillow as usual.

  Chapter 23

  “One root beer, two straws.” Colt smiled down at the drink between us.

  He'd picked me up from Glorious Gifts ten minutes earlier, and we'd beat the lunch rush to the cafe. The restaurant was a small place I didn't usually go to, but Colt seemed familiar with the staff.

  The drink was, indeed, a single root beer with two straws.

  “You finally get your teenage wish,” I said with a smile. “And it only took you, what, twenty years to break me down?”

  “It hasn't been that long,” he scoffed. “Then again, hold your horses a minute while I do the math. I would have been about fourteen, and now I'm thirty-four, so...” He trailed off into chuckling. “Damn, Stormy. Twenty years. We're both getting old.”

  “Speak for yourself. I'm skipping all birthdays from now on.”

  “Good idea.” He shifted in his seat, unbuttoning the jacket of his western-style suit. “You can skip birthdays by refusing to answer their call. Like how the process server can't serve you papers if you don't answer the door.”

  I held my finger in the air like a lecturer. “Actually, that's a common misconception.”

  He raised his eyebrows, his dark eyes dancing. “Tell me more, Ms. Private Eye.”

  “If an investigator wants to serve you papers, she will find a way. My personal favorite is to knock on the door, and then, when they don't answer, I go to their vehicle, assuming it's parked in front of the house or at least within view. As I walk away, I know they're watching me from the window, because, well, who wouldn't? Then I hand-write a note on bright pink paper and leave it under their windshield wiper.”

  “Does that count as being served? I don't get it. Do you put the court papers underneath the note?”

  “Nope.” I grinned, proud of myself. “I get in my car and drive away, but only as far as around the corner. Then I park again, get out, and come back quietly.” I paused, relishing how interested Colt was in my story. “You know that saying, curiosity killed the cat?”

  He smiled, catching on. “I do run a casino, Stormy Day. I'm familiar with many aspects of human nature, including curiosity.”

  “Nobody can resist a handwritten note on pink paper. The guy—or gal—goes up to their car and pulls off the handwritten pink note. While they're reading my love note, I tap them on the shoulder. Bingo. Papers served.”

  “What do you write on the note?”

  “It doesn't matter.” I grinned. “But usually I write something clever like, Look out. She's right behind you.”

  “Hah!” Colt leaned back and slapped his knee. “What if they lie about who they are, and throw the papers in the street?”

  “I've already taken their picture from a distance. Plus I've made my own visual identification. My word and judgment do count for something. I certainly don't need to swab for DNA or even get them to respond in the affirmative to their name.” I gave him a knowing look. “Unlike what you see on TV.”

  “So, they don't have to give you their name?”

  “It's a nice bonus if they do, but it's optional.”

  “You're so devious.” He reached out and drew a heart in the condensation on the side of the root beer glass. “You must love your job. I haven't seen you this energized since your cheerleader days.”

  “How about you? Do you feel fulfilled by your line of work?”

  His shoulders slumped, and he visibly flattened. “I'm responsible for a lot of people and their families.”

  “You didn't answer my question. Is your work fulfilling?”

  “Let's put it this way: I get to shower before I go to work, unlike my father and grandfather, who both used to shower after they came home from a shift at either the mines or the old pulp mill.”

  “Still not much of an answer. And coming home clean isn't everything. Take it from someone who regularly gets herself soaked in lukewarm garbage juice.”

  The restaurant got quiet, and the words lukewarm garbage juice hung in the air.

  We both looked down at the root beer on the table between us.

  “Don't be grossed out. It's not that color,” I said, which wasn't entirely true. Lukewarm garbage juice came in all sorts of colors.

  The waitress, a thin woman with silver-streaked hair, came to check on us.

  Colt looked at me expectantly. “I'm not hungry yet,” I said.

  “You haven't touched your root beer,” the waitress said. “You two must have a lot to catch up on.”

  Colt grinned up at her. “I went to school with this young lady. Twenty years ago. Can you believe it?”

  The woman winked at him. “You must be mistaken. Twenty years is a long time.”

  “Thanks, Melody.” He winked back. “Are those grandkids keeping you busy?”

  “Not too busy for my slots. I'll be seein' you at the casino again soon.” She took a step back and tilted her head to the side. “A lot sooner if you leave me a big tip.”

  Colt chuckled and assured her he would.

  “I'm scandalized,” I said once she was gone. “That nice grandma just shook you down for money.”

  “It's the world we live in,” he said. “So, what do you really want?” Colt kept his gaze on the glass of root beer as he trailed his finger through the condensation. “The scrawny fourteen-year-old sci-fi-reading nerd inside me was hoping you sent me that picture last night as a precursor to a make-out session today, but based on your choice of clothing, I'm guessing seduction wasn't your intention.”

  I looked down at my sweatshirt. It was something I'd yanked out of my drawer on the way out of the house. As far as sweatshirts went, it wasn't the most sloppy. It was dark blue, and relatively new, so the collar was still round. However, it had a fuzzy gray pattern down the front that hadn't come from the store.

  “Jeffrey,” I said, looking down and trying to brush the fur away. “He pulls my dresser drawer open and climbs in to sleep on my sweatshirts. Honestly, I don't know how someone with no thumbs can get himself into so much trouble.” I kept wiping at the gray fur but it was no use. “Jeffrey's my cat,” I added.

  “Figured as much.” Colt watched me with amusement. “You need one of those sticky rollers. I've got one in my truck, if you want me to run out and get it. I probably have a spare I can give you. I buy those things by the caseload.”

  “You have a cat?” My voice rose up to a squeak.

  “Two dogs,” he said. “Sisters. They're mutts, a few breeds mixed together, but mostly Siberian husky.”

  “With blue eyes?” He nodded. “They sound adorable,” I said.

  “Want to come out and meet them? They're in the truck. I told them I'd take them for a walk in Central Park if they came into town with me.”

  I looked at the untouched glass of root beer between us. I'd sent Colt Canuso the photo of the movie theater advertisement the night before, simply because it had made me think of him.

  Then I'd accepted his lunch invitation without thinking it through.

  As much as I'd promised everyone from Jessica to my father as well as Kyle Dempsey that I wasn't going to get myself involved in the Michael Sweet homicide investigation, here I was, hanging out casually with one of the suspects.

  Could I use this casual get-together to help clear Colt's name? All I'd heard against him was that he didn't have much of an alibi for that Monday, and he w
asn't being very cooperative.

  I might be able to get more out of him. He certainly seemed relaxed around me.

  They say that to get someone to participate with an investigation, the best approach is to earn their trust and become a friend. Unless, of course, you're Jack Bauer in an episode of 24, in which case you torture it out of them. But I was never big on torture. Never mind what might be said by one gray cat who was going to get himself permanently banned from my sweater drawer.

  I agreed to a walk in the park, and Colt overpaid Melody for the untouched root beer by a factor of a thousand percent.

  “I'll get it all back thanks to the slot machines,” he told me as we left the restaurant.

  “And you said I was the devious one,” I teased.

  He linked his arm with mine at the elbow. “We make quite the pair,” he teased right back.

  Chapter 24

  The official name of the fenced-in park running through the middle of town is Pacific Pine and Cedar Grove. There was a vote on the name, between pine and cedar, but the results of the vote were inconclusive. It hardly matters, since everyone in Misty Falls calls it Central Park, inspired by the larger and much more famous park in New York.

  At Glorious Gifts, we have mugs and fridge magnets that read, Get your bark on at Central Bark, Misty Falls, Oregon. The word Park is intentionally spelled Bark. Visitors find it squeal-worthy, and we do sell a good number of the mugs. The fridge magnets never took off the way I'd hoped, possibly because the background color was a shade of milky puce not unlike the color of lukewarm garbage juice.

  Central Park was busy that Tuesday afternoon, full of people taking in the last sunny days before winter arrived with our first snowfall, which was due any time, as it usually snowed in early October.

  Colt and I walked around the outer perimeter.

  His dogs were adorable. I instantly fell in love with the two huskies. How could I resist? They had lovely blue eyes and white, heart-shaped markings on their faces. Both were very well-behaved and gentle, listening attentively to Colt's short verbal commands.

  “I'm glad you like my girls so much,” Colt said as we strolled along in the autumn sunshine. “Can I ask you a favor?”

  “You can always ask.”

  “Would you take them if something were to happen to me? Would you be their godmother?”

  “Why? Are you sick?”

  It took him a while to answer. “No,” he said. “I just worry about the future. I don't have a wife anymore, or kids, and my brother's got no energy for anything outside of the casino. There's my sister, but I'm afraid she'd teach them bad habits.”

  I bit down a wisecrack about his sister and bad habits. Now wasn't the time for it.

  “Colt, you're going to be around for a long time.” I leaned down while walking and scratched the girls' ears while they climbed over each other to get a prime scratching spot. “Your papa is talking crazy talk,” I told them.

  “Maybe I am talking crazy,” Colt said. “It's just that after what happened to Michael, a person really can't take anything for granted. Such as being alive at all.” He lifted his chin and gazed off into the distance, east, in the direction of the factories.

  The wind had changed direction, and the scent of potato chips drifted over us in the park. The factories were located on the east side of town, so their smell and smoke usually drifted away from town, but that day was one of the rare exceptions. Smelling the chips made me think of my next-door neighbors. I was about to tell Colt about the Lubbesmeyers when he said something startling.

  He said, “Who knew Samantha had it in her?”

  “What?” I jerked my head to stare at his profile. “Don't tell me you think Samantha killed her husband. You're as bad as the gossipy old ladies at my hairdresser's.”

  “Well, she did it. And she's probably going to get away with it, too. Nobody likes to see a pretty, blond mother of two get put behind bars.”

  “Those are strong allegations,” I said. “A person who overheard you casting blame on someone else right about now might wonder if you were trying to cover your own butt.”

  “Me? I've got an alibi.”

  “Plus you didn't do anything wrong,” I said.

  “Right,” he agreed. “That, too.”

  “What were you doing on Monday last week? I overheard you telling Samantha you were free all day to look at properties. Did you see her at all?” I hesitated before asking, “Or Michael.”

  “After I saw you at your shop, all I did was drive around town.” He reached down to pat the huskies. “And then I took the girls for a walk.”

  “Dogs aren't great witnesses,” I said.

  He chuckled. “I also met up with some of the guys from work. They can vouch for me. We got some steaks and had a good time that night.”

  I walked quietly, thinking about how Colt had been enjoying a steak dinner at the same time I'd been hanging around at the Sweet residence, waiting for Samantha to get home and explain to her daughter that Daddy wasn't going to be tucking her into bed that night. Samantha was going to keep her daughter home from school and gradually break the news to her. My heart was breaking for both of them, pulling me away from the sunny fall day in the park and down to a dark place.

  After a few minutes, I asked Colt, “Were you hanging out with those two security guys who tossed me out of the casino Saturday before last? Those guys aren't very reliable. It's already been established those two will roll over for forty bucks, cash. That's how much I paid them for information.”

  “Ouch.” His stride faltered. “Stormy, if you really think I'm capable of murder, why would you meet with me in private? Why would you get into my vehicle with me?”

  “I just want to make sure your backside is covered,” I said. “Plus we're in the middle of town, surrounded by dozens of witnesses.”

  He stopped walking. I stopped as well and looked into his eyes.

  He said, “Deep down, in your heart of hearts, you know I'm not capable of violence.” He blinked. “I'm a lover, not a fighter.”

  I almost smiled. “You're not the best example of a pacifist. I did see you punch Mikey Sweet in the stomach.”

  “I barely hit him. It was the surprise of it that made him double over. He was up and swinging within seconds, but you didn't see that, because you were in the fountain. What were you doing in there, anyway?”

  “The pool looked so refreshing. Plus I saw a lucky penny.”

  He grinned. “The security footage of your refreshing swim has been very popular with the staff.”

  “Nice.” I glanced around the park. A few people were looking our way, but that was nothing new for me. “Are you going to tell me what you and your goons were doing in town that Monday?”

  He looked away from me. “Just driving around. My brother is looking to pick up some more properties in town, so we were scoping out that new subdivision.”

  “Did you go back for a second tour of the tiny house?”

  He was quiet for a long time.

  Finally, he spoke. “Stormy, you're barking up the wrong tree. After I punched Michael that day, I went to my office, closed the door, and did something I haven't done in a long time. I got down on my knees and I prayed.”

  I felt a chill snake up the back of my neck. I didn't hear people talk much from day to day about praying, except as a joke. Colt was dead serious.

  “What? No snarky comment?” He elbowed me. “Aren't you going to tease me about praying, or hearing voices talking back?”

  I rubbed my arms. The sun had disappeared behind a cloud, and the air had turned crisp and autumnal. Over half of the leaves in the trees surrounding the park's looping walking trails had turned yellow or red. Time was always marching forward.

  “No snark,” I said. “I promise.”

  I waved for Colt to continue telling me about his experience, and he did. After punching Michael Sweet, Colt had felt himself hitting a new low. He looked around at the horrified faces of families, and felt de
ep shame.

  Alone in his office, he hadn't exactly gone straight into prayer mode. First, he'd unlocked his personal liquor cabinet and started a conversation with a bottle of whiskey. After a few hours of that, he fell asleep on the rug in his office. In his dreams, he'd been visited by his dead wife, who'd given him a very motivating pep talk.

  When he woke up a few hours later, he locked the liquor cabinet and flushed the key down a toilet. And then he'd gotten on his knees and prayed. Nobody had spoken to him, not God and not his deceased wife, but he'd received an inner peace that he'd been lacking, and he knew he had to change his life. He didn't know how he was going to change, or how he could purge the anger that had burned inside him for so long, but he was going to try.

  Going for long walks in the woods with his two dogs was how he found his inner strength, so he'd been out practicing his new-found peace that Monday.

  “Good for you,” I said. I felt a warmth in my heart, which made me realize how chilly the wind had gotten. I pulled the sleeves of my cat-fur-covered sweatshirt down to cover my hands as makeshift mittens.

  “You're freezing.” He whipped off his suit jacket and had it around my shoulders before I could argue.

  “Thanks,” I said, and we continued walking.

  The dogs suddenly took off. We were on a leashes-optional section of the walking path, and the dogs ran freely, chasing a squirrel up a tree. The squirrel got up to a branch that was just beyond the reach of the dogs, and began angrily berating the blue-eyed huskies.

  We watched, laughing at the excited dogs and the mouthy squirrel.

  “That is one cheeky squirrel,” I said.

  “She reminds me of you,” Colt teased.

  “No way! I only climb trees on rare occasions, such as when my roommate has accidentally taken psychedelics.”

  “Your life is far more interesting than mine,” Colt said.

  We watched the dogs whimper and circle the tree fruitlessly.

  “That's enough,” Colt finally said to the dogs. “Leave Miss Squirrel alone. She's not doing anything wrong.”