I saw her eyebrows move for the first time. “You have a cat?”
“No, it’s not my cat. I was running an errand for my father’s girlfriend.”
Her eyebrows fell, along with her face. She seemed disappointed. I looked more closely at her uniform, spotting what appeared to be pet fur visible on her dark blue collar.
“His name is Jeffrey,” I offered.
“Who?”
“The cat,” I said. “He didn’t have a name until today, but it’s Jeffrey Blue.”
She wrote the first two letters of his name on her notepad then stopped. She shifted her body, leaning forward with her elbows on the table, as though we were two friends meeting for coffee in a restaurant with a weirdly institutional decor.
“Stormy,” she said calmly. “May I call you Stormy? There’s no need to be nervous, but if you are feeling upset, I want you to know it’s all right. You’ve had a troubling experience. My name is Peggy Wiggles, and I’ve been with the Misty Falls Police Department only a short time, but I can assure you, I’ve come to appreciate this town. I’m going to do everything I can to make sure the person who hurt your neighbor is apprehended and put away forever. Were you very close to Mr. Michaels?”
“What do you mean by close? He was right next door the whole time I was growing up, but he was kind of a misanthrope and not the lovable kind with the witty put-downs. He was the type who would confiscate your toys if they flew over the fence into his backyard.”
“My ex was that type. I wouldn’t be surprised if someday he winds up in a snowman.”
“Really?” I leaned in, eager to hear more about the man I assumed was named Mr. Wiggles. How could you remain humorless with a name like that?
Officer Peggy Wiggles cleared her throat and straightened up, breaking the illusion we were friends at coffee. “Let’s start from the beginning, shall we? Your address.”
I gave her my address, which led into explaining how my father was the one who lived next door to Murray Michaels. Her expression changed when she learned my father was Finnegan Day, as though that fact was a key piece of information she’d been seeking. She’d been hired after his retirement, so she hadn’t worked with him, but was well aware of his reputation for being a hardworking officer who could have been captain, or even chief, but preferred to keep the exact same job he’d been hired for.
As we talked, I regretted giving her a hard time with my flippant answers at the start of our session. She was only trying to do her job, and couldn’t have known how Tony’s treatment had put me in a defensive, quippy mood. I meant to say something, to apologize, but she led me through her questions with ruthless efficiency.
She drilled out of me the exact time I’d woken up that morning and then all the events of my day, including my meeting with the real estate agent, picking up takeout coffee, working at my store, the visit from Pam and the resulting cat errand, plus the minute-by-minute details of the cat leading me to the snowman, me taking my picture next to it, and finally my attempts to straighten the snowman’s face.
She paused and tapped her pen, flicking her cobalt blue eyes up to meet mine. “You have a photo?”
I pulled out my phone and showed her the picture I’d taken of my face next to the snowman’s. “See how his face is a bit crooked? That’s unusual, don’t you think?”
She agreed the face was crooked and asked me to send a copy to her for the file. She excused herself from the room to get her laptop, leaving me alone long enough to consider going in search of a vending machine. I was rifling through my purse for coins when she returned. I dropped the bag guiltily. A man I’d known for years had been killed, and here I was, thinking about buying a Twix.
She set the laptop between us and brought up the enlarged picture. The goofy grin on my face made me groan and look away. She must have interpreted my horror as being about the case because she gave me a pat on the shoulder and said soothingly, “We’re almost done, and you’re doing a great job.”
“Will the photo help?” I asked. “If there are other snowmen around town with the same face, they could lead you to the killer.”
“I’m not sure a snowman’s face is as useful as a fingerprint or handwriting sample, but we’ll do our best. What’s unusual about this snowman is how good it looks, despite being crooked. Almost as if a professional snowman-builder made it.”
“If such a thing existed, we’d have this case cracked wide open.”
She consulted her notes. “Did you see any other footprints in the snow when you approached the crime scene?”
“I don’t remember seeing any, but then again I was focused on chasing the cat.”
“How much force did you have to apply to break apart the head?”
“A fair amount. The snowman was constructed to be secure. I had to karate chop the neck to loosen it. Pretty hard.”
“One chop?”
“Multiple chops.”
“Right hand?”
“Yes. I’m right-handed.”
“Amateur karate chop or professional?”
“I’ve taken some self-defense classes over the years, but I’m no black belt.”
“Did the snowman have any scent? Any odor?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Did it have one of those corn cob pipes? Or a pipe of any kind?” We consulted the photo on the laptop screen, and she answered her own question. “No pipe.”
She continued the interview, asking about my last encounter with the decedent, Murray Michaels. I had little to offer besides rumors. He’d shown up at my father’s party to complain about the noise, coming in from the porch but not leaving the entryway. He’d not been a topic of conversation at the party before, but after the disruption, the gossip came out as though uncorked from a bottle by his visit. People mentioned how Michaels had become a nuisance to the local retail business owners and how they wouldn’t be surprised if he showed up on one of those programs about hoarders, as well as how there was a slim possibility he was involved with a young waitress.
Officer Wiggles noted every detail of the gossip, the idle chatter that had been upgraded to possible evidence in a murder investigation. Once that was done, she looped back to the beginning, asking the same questions but worded differently. I had to admire her technique, which had two benefits: jogging the memory of a witness and providing the opportunity for a guilty party to slip up and contradict herself.
When she asked if I had any questions for her, I did. “Any word yet on the time of death, or the official cause?”
She pressed her lips together. “It’s still early. The coroner has barely gotten him loaded in the van, let alone thawed out. Besides, I couldn’t tell you even if I knew.”
I nodded. “He had marks around his neck. Dark lines, possibly ligature marks. I didn’t see any blood in the snow, so I’m guessing it was strangulation.”
Her metal chair squeaked as she sat back, giving me an appraising look. “How long were you examining the body before the mailman showed up?”
“A few seconds, at the most.” I glanced over at the photo on the computer screen and shuddered as I realized something. “Make sure the pathologist is told about the scarf. If Michaels was strangled, that red scarf could be the murder weapon.”
She nodded slowly. “I was thinking the same thing.”
“Were there any defensive wounds on the body? Tony already told me that on a prior visit to the home, he didn’t see evidence of any struggle.”
She raised one eyebrow. “Tony told you that, did he?”
With that question, the tone of the interview shifted, and the fifty-year-old rookie seemed to be observing me in a new light, not quite as someone on her side of the thin blue line but not as far away as a regular civilian, either.
Testing my theory, I asked, “Do you suppose he was strangled in his sleep?”
“If he’d been married or had a girlfriend, I’d be interviewing her right now and not you.”
That wasn’t much of an answer,
but I pressed my luck, rising curiosity making me bold. “Do you have any other suspects? The mail carrier seemed anxious.”
She smirked. “Funny. He said the same thing about you. He suggested you as a prime suspect.”
“Great.” I rolled my eyes. “That’s just what my reputation in this town needs.”
Her smile left her face as rapidly as it had appeared. “What sort of a reputation do you have, exactly?”
“Nothing to do with snowmen or murders, I assure you.” I glanced at the door, willing it to open, and for Tony to tell us to pack up because the crime had been solved already. The door didn’t open.
Officer Wiggles went over my details again, until I felt like a sponge that had been squeezed dry.
Based on her tone, I was almost certain she hated me until she set her pen aside and asked who cut my hair.
“Rose,” I answered. “And she’s great.”
“I knew it,” she said. “Rose gave us almost the same exact haircut.”
“You wear it better than me.”
Officer Wiggles chuckled, her voice warming the entire room. “Nonsense. Yours is much cuter, and fewer grays.” She pushed her chair back but didn’t rise. “Thanks so much for all your help, Stormy.”
“Let me know if I can do anything else.”
She eyed the closed door, leaning in to say softly, “If you think of anything at all, please let me know. Any time. For example, if you think of something, and you’re worried that it might not be useful and you don’t want to bother us, I want you to call me anyway.”
“I’ll let you know if I come up with anything.”
She handed me her card and fixed me with her unwavering cobalt eyes. “Anything at all,” she said, her voice almost pleading, as though her whole career was riding on closing this case. I took the card, which was damp, most likely from her palms. If she’d been nervous, she’d hidden it well.
As we walked through the station, I searched for Tony, but he wasn’t in sight.
We passed the reception desk, where she thanked me again. I reached out to shake her hand, even though she’d been stepping away. She wiped her palm on her hip surreptitiously before the handshake, but it was still damp enough to confirm that underneath her tough exterior, she was nervous.
“You’ve been a big help,” she said.
“I wish I could do more,” I said, and I meant it.
As I stepped outside, into the fresh winter air, the sunshine reached through the clouds to brighten the snow-covered world. My mind was already way ahead of me, racing through possibilities and avenues to investigate. I didn’t plan to do anything that would interfere with the official investigation, or jeopardize my safety, but I’d helped my father with cases before, and I had a few tricks up my sleeve.
Tony had driven me to the station, so my car was several blocks away, at the vet’s clinic. With the afternoon sun low yet bright, the snow clouds were clearing and it was turning into a balmy day, perfect for some window-shopping along Broad Avenue, where local business owners who hadn’t yet heard the news about Mr. Michaels might have some insight into how the man had become such a nuisance lately.
Chapter 8
In spite of the town’s postcard-perfect appearance, a killer was loose in Misty Falls.
The body was likely headed to the state coroner’s facilities the next town over for the pathologist to determine the cause of death. Pinning down the time from the physical evidence would be impossible, due to the freezing that had halted the body’s decomposition. We’d been experiencing typical weather for late November, with the temperature hovering around or below freezing for the past few weeks. Tony had visited the residence of Mr. Michaels five days earlier to find no one, whereas I’d seen the man two weeks ago and very much alive. That left a nine-day window that would likely get narrowed once the police checked his phone, bank cards, or even something as simple as the date of the oldest flyer in his untouched mail. Unless they nabbed someone in the next day or two, they would release to the local press the basic details along with a plea for witnesses with information to come forward.
We didn’t get many homicides in town. Unlike the law enforcement agencies in larger cities, ours didn’t have dedicated homicide detectives. The case would be worked by uniformed officers who were cross-trained to handle almost any type of crime. A capital murder was shocking, yet the fact that a death was involved in a case didn’t make the procedure of investigation significantly different from that of a theft or arson. The officers on the case, who I assumed would be Milano and his new rookie, would canvas the neighborhood and friends and family of the victim, and then follow up on leads. If everything went well, they’d have it solved by the time my father returned home.
At the thought of my father, I reached for my phone in a hurry, stopping when I checked the time. He would be out of surgery but not yet awake. Besides, he’d promised he would call as soon as he was alert. I’d tried to accompany him for the operation, but he’d insisted I stay behind to make sure my new gift shop was ready for the busy Christmas shopping season. Now, walking down Broad Avenue, I regretted obeying him. If I’d been in the city that morning, I wouldn’t have made the grisly discovery. The body might have remained there, next door, undiscovered until the spring thaw.
Who would do such an awful thing? Who had a motive to wipe out Mr. Michaels? With no wife or girlfriend and no children going after his will or insurance money, that cut out the obvious leads. The killer could be anyone. The entire town of Misty Falls was populated with suspects.
Walking past Masquerade, I lurched to a stop in front of the costume rental store’s window display.
The elaborate diorama was a festive winter scene, constructed on a base of white fabric acting as snow. A female mannequin, wearing a red dress suitable for prom or an equally fancy affair, held a big, white, grinning head in her hands. The headless white body awaited the final touch. The snow-being was evidently a man and not a woman, because he wore a top hat. I fought my gag reflex and reminded myself that for most people, the scene before me was a happy one, the beheading aspect merely a coincidence. The shop owner would certainly change the window display once the news of Mr. Michaels’ chilly tomb spread throughout town.
But was the winter diorama really just a coincidence? The display snowman, made of carved white foam, wore a black top hat like the one I’d posed in earlier that day. I used my phone to check the hat in my picture, noting the high, flat top, narrow brim, and the slightly concave curve to the crown. The hat in the window matched the one from the crime scene perfectly. I reached into my pocket and touched the two business cards I’d been given at the police station. Officer Peggy Wiggles had told me to call her with anything, but surely she didn’t want to hear about this, the not-so-amazing discovery of a hat at a store that rented costumes and hats.
Without taking my eyes off the top hat in the window, I let my thoughts open themselves, unpacking childhood memories. Snapshots whirled, snippets of interactions with the man who’d lived next door, the man who’d seemed old long before he’d gotten old. I could see him clearly in my mind, confiscating everything from dolls to sticks of chalk. I saw Murray Michaels, his deep frown lines radiating across his entire face, like the rays of a dark sun. He was waving a Frisbee and telling me I should have thrown it more carefully. For someone so obsessed with manners, he’d been incredibly rude. That wasn’t shocking, given human nature. Some people become so obsessed with keeping score on the transgressions of others that they forget to observe themselves.
The cranky neighbor wasn’t the type to have a snowman on his lawn, let alone such a dapper-looking one. He had never, as far back as I could remember, put up winter lights or any other seasonal decorations. He didn’t even give away candy on Halloween. One year, he set a stack of old paperback Westerns on his front step along with a sign telling kids to help themselves. Nobody did.
If he’d purchased the top hat himself, something else must have happened to him this Novembe
r, before he met his end. Had the message from the many Scrooge-themed movies airing that time of year finally gotten through to him, making his wizened heart grow three sizes? Had he decided to change his ways and discover his fun side, starting with building a snowman? Maybe.
Or, if Mr. Michaels didn’t buy a fancy top hat for a holiday display, the killer did. Either way, there weren’t many places in town to buy a top hat, so it must have come from the costume and formalwear store before me.
I stood debating my next move, unseen forces pulling me in opposing directions. Indecision wasn’t a familiar state for me, but there I was, stuck to the snowy sidewalk as though my legs had been frozen in place. If I kept walking toward the vet clinic and my car, I could be home with my feet up and a hot cup of cocoa in my hands by the time my father called to check in. I’d tell him I’d wisely left the sleuthing to the police, and he’d say something ridiculous to make me laugh. On the other hand, I could just pop into the costume shop for a minute and save the police some time.
A woman and her two daughters crossed the street and started walking toward me. The girls were teenagers, old enough to be independent, yet they both held their mother’s hands. The three of them laughed and chatted happily. They wouldn’t be smiling tonight, after hearing the day’s news. The mother would turn off the radio or the TV and usher the sisters off to bed, assuring them that all would be safe, all would be taken care of by the brave men and women who kept their town safe. But the girls would lie awake in their beds, worrying, watching shadows cross the ceiling, imagining knitted scarves tightening around their throats.
The three walked past me and toward the inset door for Masquerade, merrily discussing costumes.
Something flicked on within me. The flame was small, like the pilot light of a furnace. But when I imagined the killer making one of the members of this innocent family into the next victim, my internal fire flickered up to a medium heat.
My boots didn’t move yet, but my body leaned in one direction and then the other. I could do nothing, or I could do something. With people’s lives and happiness at stake, how could I do anything less than everything I could?
Stormy Day Mysteries 5-Book Cozy Murder Mystery Series Bundle Page 5