Death of a Double Dipper

by Angela Pepper

  “You're right,” I said. “He regrets punching Michael immediately.”

  Kyle said, “A brief flicker of regret doesn't prove he's innocent.”

  “But don't you see? That's not the face of a man who stabs a guy repeatedly,” I said. “Colt lost control on Saturday, yes. He threw a single punch, but that was it. One punch was all the anger he had in him.”

  “Until he stabbed the guy.”

  “Michael Sweet was stabbed between twenty-three and twenty-five times. Plus some slashes. How long would that take?”

  Kyle blinked at me. “Is that a serious question?”

  I picked up the remote control and pretended to stab him, counting out the stabs. At twenty, I switched hands because my arm was getting tired. When I was done, I said, “That's a lot of stabs. When I'm making baked potatoes in the microwave, I stab them with a fork first, and it's a fair amount of work if you have to do more than one potato.”

  “Baked potatoes,” my father said, rocking his chair forward and getting up. He headed toward the kitchen, muttering about preparing baked potatoes to pair with our meatballs.

  Alone with Kyle, I said simply, “You guys can't charge Colt with the murder. He didn't do it.”

  “That's not my decision.” He took a long pull off his bottle of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “If you're so sure about your friend's innocence, you shouldn't have called in the report about the blood stains on his shirt.”

  We both looked at the screen again. The video being projected from Kyle's phone had frozen on a single frame. It was seconds after the punch, when Michael had rolled forward, his chin over Colt's shoulder.

  I jumped up and ran to the TV. I pointed to the spot on the big screen, pressing through the soft buzz of static electricity floating on the surface. “What's that on Michael's chin? Is his lip bleeding?”

  Kyle adjusted the image, zooming in on the frozen frame. The image became pixellated, but it was clear to us that Michael Sweet's lip had been split during the altercation, and blood was present.

  “That's how Michael's blood got on Colt's shirt,” I said. “It happened days before the homicide.”

  Kyle took another long pull on his beer. His dimples had disappeared. “Wasn't it his other shoulder?”

  I pulled up a mental image of Colt Canuso leaning over to pet his dogs that day in Central Park. I could see the stain, but not which shoulder it was on.

  However, trying to remember what I saw gave me an idea. My employee had taken a photo of Colt early on Monday morning.

  On my way to the couch to get my phone from my purse, I bumped the coffee table with my leg. I didn't even feel the pain in my shin, though I nearly knocked Kyle's beer on the floor. He cursed and caught the bottle midair.

  While I pulled up Brianna's contact information, I quickly explained to Kyle what I was doing.

  We both waited in quiet excitement for Brianna to reply. Would she send me the evidence to exonerate my friend? I hoped she would.

  Chapter 36

  While we waited for Brianna to message me back, Kyle and I went over the basic facts of the case.

  Since it was Sunday, tomorrow would make the homicide two weeks old. Each day the case went unsolved, the chances of an arrest diminished. We reviewed what we knew, hoping to see new connections. Kyle had gotten a few more details out of Samantha to fill in the picture.

  Michael Sweet had woken up Monday morning at the usual time. His ribs were still bruised from his altercation with Colt Canuso two days prior, but it was only enough bruising to make him grumble and not enough for him to take a painkiller.

  Samantha got dressed and ready for her day. It was a regular Monday, so she would be meeting with buyer and seller clients, and checking on paperwork at the office downtown, which was owned by the real estate franchise. Before leaving the house, they bickered briefly over Michael taking the day off to play golf. It would cost them for the course fees as well as daycare for the baby, but Michael assured Samantha they were about to come into a windfall, and money wouldn't be an issue for long.

  They left their house at the same time, with Samantha heading to the office to meet their part-time assistant, Harper. Michael picked up Sophie's friend Quinby from the McCabes' house and then drove the best friends to their school. Next, he dropped the baby off at daycare, bragged about spending the day on the green, and then disappeared. He didn't have a tee time at the course, so whatever he did that day, it had been planned.

  “Was he in communication with Trigger Canuso?”

  Kyle took a while to answer. “He didn't have plans to meet her that day. At least not any that were through his phone or social media accounts.”

  “But there was something going on with her.”

  Kyle winced, as though fighting an internal battle over divulging the information to me.

  “Oh, hell,” he said. “It's all public anyway. Michael spent a lot of time on Sunday posting comments on some of Trigger Canuso's internet accounts. Telling her how cute she was, and what a fine young woman she'd grown up into.”

  “He was trolling her,” I said. “Trying to provoke a reaction.”

  “That's what I thought. She's got that crooked face thing, where one side of her head is smaller than the other. Poor girl.”

  “It's called hemifacial microsomia, and it's probably what made her tough.”

  “Getting beaten by her stepfather daily was what made her tough.”

  I was temporarily speechless. “What?”

  “The only reason Colt stuck around after high school was to protect his little sister. He's a good man, Stormy. He and his uncles opened the casino to help their entire community, not for their personal gain. If he goes to prison, I don't know what's going to happen. They took on a lot of debt for the expansion, and if Colt's not around to manage the enterprise, well...” He looked down at the label he was peeling from his beer bottle. “Things could go downhill out there at the lake.”

  “We need to figure out what happened that day,” I said.

  “Maybe the best-case scenario is this one goes unsolved.”

  I hissed, “Don't you dare let my father hear you saying that.”

  He yanked the label off the beer bottle, ripping it messily.

  We sat in silence for a minute. My father called out from the kitchen that dinner would be ready in seven minutes. I could hear the microwave whirring.

  No response yet on my phone. I sent Brianna another message.

  Kyle picked up one of the old magazines from the side table and leafed through it.

  Something occurred to me, so I asked Kyle, “Did you guys find any dirty magazines at the crime scene?”

  “Not that I recall. Why?”

  I told him about how the Sweets' part-time assistant had covered for Michael with some clients, after they found some materials he'd left behind.

  Kyle seemed puzzled by this, setting the Reader's Digest aside and rubbing his smooth chin for a long time.

  Finally, he said, “Why would someone buy a magazine when they have the internet? I mean, it's all there, and it's free, and you can—”

  “Gross.” I held up a hand, begging him to stop sharing. “Dimples, I don't want to know.”

  “Michael Sweet was your age, though, so I guess he'd do it the old-school way.” He shifted his chin-rubbing hand down to his Adam's apple and scratched it thoughtfully. He had some razor burn and raised red bumps that looked itchy. I remembered what I'd said to my father about hickies, and pondered how soft Kyle's skin looked.

  Then I found myself looking at his lips and wondering how soft they were.

  I cleared my throat and forced my thoughts away. Picture his bare baby butt, I told myself. It didn't work, and I pictured his adult butt instead.

  I grabbed a throw pillow from behind me and hugged it to my stomach. I grabbed my bottle of beer and chugged the remainder.

  Kyle was watching me.

  I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and let out
a good burp. That'll reset the tone, I thought.

  “That was well brought up,” he said. “Too bad you weren't.”

  I looked down at my phone. “Come on, Brianna. What kind of millennial are you, letting your phone go unchecked for seven minutes?”

  Kyle snorted. “Not all millennials are the same.”

  “You're all the same when it comes to your phones,” I teased. “All of you wacky, tech-obsessed youngsters.”

  Just then, Brianna came through. She even apologized for taking so long. She'd sent the photo she'd taken of Colt Canuso on Monday morning, just hours before the homicide.

  My fingers trembled as I opened the attachment and zoomed.

  My heart immediately sunk. The room spun around me, closing in.

  Colt was wearing a shirt that was indistinguishable from the one on the video.

  I handed the phone to Kyle and cursed. I cursed loud enough to get my father's attention in the kitchen.

  He came out, and we explained to him what I'd hoped to get, only to be disappointed.

  “Same shirt,” Finnegan Day said. “He's probably got a half-dozen in the identical style, to go with his suits.” He took the phone from Kyle and stared at it. “I've always admired the bolo tie, but I couldn't pull one off.” He glanced up at Kyle. “Were there any ligature marks? If I wanted to kill someone and I had a bolo tie on me, I'd use what I had on hand.”

  “No ligature marks,” Kyle said.

  The microwave beeped repeatedly in the kitchen. “Potatoes are done,” my father said. “Let's eat before it gets cold.”

  After dinner, I was outnumbered by boys when it came to TV channels, so we watched the NFL game.

  We watched football for nearly an hour without speaking. I tried not to think about the Sweet homicide. It wasn't my case, and it wasn't my business.

  Finally, my father muted the television during commercials and turned to me with a sympathetic expression. “Stormy, it was worth a shot,” he said. “I'm just as disappointed as you are that your friend wasn't wearing a different shirt that Monday morning.”

  “I doubt that,” I said grumpily.

  “I've been where you are right now,” he said. “It's not a good place to be. But you can't give up just because one idea didn't work out.”

  “What's to give up? This isn't my case.”

  Kyle patted me on the shoulder. “I won't give up,” he said.

  I pulled my shoulder away and shifted over to the edge of the couch.

  After a few minutes, I asked Kyle, “What have you got on Trigger and where she was all day Monday? I know she wasn't with her dumb boyfriend.”

  He glanced over at my father. Neither of them said anything.

  “Off the record,” I said.

  Kyle pulled his head back, giving himself a small double chin. “What do you mean, off the record? You're not a reporter.” He narrowed his sky-blue eyes at me. “Is this one of your dirty private eye tricks?”

  I shrugged. “Would you prefer a pinkie swear?” I held up my pinkie finger.

  My father chuckled.

  Kyle said, “Colt Canuso doesn't have a great alibi for the time of the murder. He was supposed to attend a men's group meeting. His two security guard friends were at the meeting, but Colt never showed up. When he met up with them later, he said the dogs had been acting up, so he took them for a walk.”

  “I asked you about Trigger,” I said. “Where was she that day?”

  “She was not with Rick Tanner all day,” Kyle said. “He did change his statement, thanks to your helpful suggestion. He met up with her later at about four o'clock in the afternoon, and she was agitated.” He quickly added, “More agitated than usual.”

  “Why are you sitting around drinking beer and watching football with my dad when you should be out solving this case?”

  “Cops don't work twenty-four seven. We're allowed time off.”

  “You need to figure out where Trigger was all day.”

  Kyle gave me a grumpy look. “Don't tell me how to do my job. I worked a lot of high-profile cases before I moved back here to Oregon.”

  I took out my phone and called someone.

  Kyle demanded, “Who are you calling now?”

  “Harper. She's the part-time assistant for the Sweets. It's okay. I'm friends with her.”

  “That doesn't make it okay.” He gave me a serious look, which was downright adorable thanks to his dimples.

  “Harper,” I said brightly when she answered the call. “Hey, how have you been? You sure bolted out of there on Friday night.”

  Harper was hesitant to answer. “Uh... Your friend Quinn gave me a ride home. She's kind of intense.”

  “Sorry about that,” I said. “Did she demand to know your waist measurement? That's her way of bonding with a new girl.”

  “Actually, she did,” Harper said, bemused.

  “That means you're in,” I said.

  We talked a bit more, and Harper shared her perspective on Quinn's terrifying driving skills in the Land Rover. I laughed and smiled broadly at Kyle, who was looking more confused by the minute.

  I tilted the mouthpiece away from my mouth and whispered to him, “Subtlety is an art.”

  Harper was saying something about a party. “Will you be there? Quinn said we'd be celebrating her daughter getting that big TV role.”

  “Of course I'll be at Quinn's hootenanny. Why not?” I turned to my father and made a gagging face. He barely took his eyes off the television.

  “Thanks for checking in on me,” Harper said. “These last two weeks have been the absolute worst.”

  “I can imagine.”

  Brightly, she said, “At least you and Jessica have been so nice to me. And your dad, too. I think he might have paid me too much for the car.”

  “Nonsense,” I said vehemently. “My father has never paid too much for anything in his life.”

  Finnegan Day's eyes lit up. He grinned at me from his recliner, Hobo Pride evident.

  “My battery's running low,” Harper said. “But I'll see you Friday night, right?”

  “I'll be there with bells on.”

  I ended the call and filled Kyle in on what I'd learned, which was nothing yet. “But I'll be socializing with her Friday night,” I said. “You can't get more subtle than that.”

  “And you think she knows more about Michael's side hobbies than she's been telling us?”

  “She didn't tell you about the magazines, did she?”

  Kyle was speechless. I glanced over to catch my father giving me an approving wink.

  Kyle said, “I'm coming as your date to this hootenanny.”

  This again? I thought we'd gotten past Kyle's puppy crush on me.

  “Good idea,” my father said. “Bring Kyle with you. Work as a team to find out what people know about Trigger. Plus, if Samantha's there, he can protect you from her.”

  “I doubt she'll be at a hootenanny.”

  “Be safe,” he warned. “If you see that woman, make sure you know where the big kitchen knives are at all times.”

  “Dad! Samantha wouldn't hurt a fly.”

  “Never be hasty to rule out the spouse,” he said.

  I looked over at Kyle. “Samantha continues to be of interest,” he said.

  I let the information sink in, and I considered my options. Logan and his sister might be interested in the party, but that didn't mean we couldn't go as a big group. My car would hold five people, albeit things would get cuddly in the backseat.

  “Dimples, can you dance?”

  “I can,” he said with a twinkle in his sky-blue eyes. “That doesn't mean I should.”

  Chapter 37

  When I got home Sunday night, the lights next door at Logan's were off. His vehicle was in the driveway, which meant both Sanderson siblings had hit the hay early.

  I walked in my own door to find Jessica asleep on the couch with Jeffrey curled up beside her. Neither of them stirred. I switched off the TV, which was showing the end o
f the nature documentary marathon that I'd wanted to watch at my father's.

  The kitchen counter was clean, which made the recent addition of a flower bouquet jump out at me. Was it for Jessica or for yours truly? The flowers were all cat-friendly, with no dangerous lilies that could harm my curious Russian Blue cat. And it was a good thing, because by the look of the yellow petals strewn about, he'd taken a sample nibble.

  Next to the vase were a card and a small blue box.

  The interior of the card read: Sorry I haven't been much fun lately. I'll make it up to you soon. I hope you enjoy the gift in the box. Love, Logan.

  For me! I also hoped I would enjoy the gift in the box. I opened it breathlessly. I wasn't much for wearing jewelry on a daily basis, but that didn't mean I wasn't a fan of receiving it. Back when I'd been growing up, my father used to take me to Ruby's Treasure Trove every single birthday so I could pick out something special. I still had every single piece, even though their monetary value was low and the style was more suited to a pre-teen girl.

  The box didn't contain jewelry; it held a small, gray, dark-whiskered mouse.

  I picked up the mouse and was so shocked by the feel of it in my hand that I immediately dropped it on my foot. What on earth? I picked it up gingerly, by the tail. It was eerily realistic for a cat toy, seemingly covered in real fur.

  I looked in the box, at a small paper tag that proclaimed the furry thing to be of premium construction and 100% natural materials. The label went on to explain that the company's products were all recycled, made from unwanted leather and fur coats that had been donated to charities but were unsalable. The label also specified that it was an object d'art, not a toy. So that was how they got around the regulations against making toys out of anything but new materials. You can't just sell consumers any ol' thing made out of random bits and bobs. I knew a lot about these rules, thanks to my experiences ordering for Glorious Gifts.

  Jeffrey, who had silently jumped up on the counter without me noticing, snaked one gray paw over and effortlessly grabbed the mouse from me. He sank his teeth into the fur body with an excited growl and took off with it, bounding down the hallway.