Stormy Day Mysteries 5-Book Cozy Murder Mystery Series Bundle

by Angela Pepper

  His new teal rug was too long to fit in my car without bending the roll, which the salesman advised against, so we would have to strap it to the roof of my car. The store offered us free delivery, but Finnegan Day, and his Hobo Pride in doing things himself on the cheap, wouldn't accept free delivery.

  “Hobo Pride is not about being cheap,” he said as he tossed me the coil of yellow rope through the interior of the car. “Being self-sufficient is an admirable trait. That's why people watch those TV shows about the zombies. The shows are mostly trash, blah-blah relationship talking, but sometimes they'll show something useful, like how to make a stew using just a squirrel and whatever you have on hand, in under thirty minutes.” He continued looping the rope through the windows, front and back. “Or maybe I'm thinking of the cooking channel. Hmm. Have you ever had squab?”

  “Squab? That sounds like something Christopher would order at one of his beloved fancy restaurants.”

  “Well, don't eat it,” my father said. “Unless you like pigeon.” He tied a knot in the rope, then pointed across the street behind me. “I need a new computer. A laptop.”

  “Why?” I turned to follow his gaze to Misty Microchips across the street. Was he serious? His old computer looked and sounded like it might catch on fire during startup, but his Hobo Pride meant he'd wait for the implosion before upgrading.

  Could the private investigator application—the one he still hadn't mentioned—have something to do with this sudden interest in a laptop?

  “Do you really want a new computer?” I asked. “Why now?”

  “They're having a sale.”

  He started toward the computer store, looking both ways before crossing at the middle of the street. I ran after him, surprised yet again. First the interest in teal rugs and laptops, and now Finnegan Day was jaywalking.

  Wonders never cease!

  The computer store was clean and bright. Some teenagers came in right after me and headed straight to the game section.

  I hadn't seen the owners, Marvin and Marcy, since New Year's Eve.

  Marcy gave us a friendly greeting, making me feel guilty about not returning the phone call from her—the one that I'd forgotten about until that very moment.

  “So nice to see you,” Marcy said warmly. Her gold-brown eyes had a bright gleam under the store's lights, and her sandy brown hair looked freshly styled, with copper highlights.

  “You look healthy,” I said. “Getting lots of fresh air walking Stanley?”

  She laughed and started telling me how she felt like a whole new person, thanks to some new resolutions.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watched my father head straight for the most expensive laptops and dive right in without waiting for help. Within seconds, Marvin was at my father's side, patiently smiling and ready to ring up a laptop or two.

  I wondered if selling one computer a day made their sales quota, or if they had to sell several just to pay the rent. I knew how razor-thin the margins on computers were. My gift store probably made as much profit on a set of napkin rings as the computer store did on a laptop sale. The real money was in the computer accessories—the little charging cords, foam cases, and sticker doodads that have a triple markup.

  Over by the laptops, my father was gesturing wildly. Was he describing the recent explosion and demise of his old computer? If the tough old bird—as he called her—had expired, that would explain his need for a new one.

  The teens in the games section were making just enough noise that I couldn't hear what my father was saying, but I did hear Marvin exclaim, “Really? That's cool! So cool!”

  Not cool, I thought. If he was telling Marvin about his private investigator business before he told me, he could ride home strapped to the roof of the car, next to his new teal rug.

  Marcy giggled. “He's been so wonderful lately. So attentive and affectionate.”

  “Who?” I asked, confused. I hadn't been paying much attention, but she was gazing with adoration at her husband, who'd I'd only witnessed being attentive to his wine, and affectionate toward, well, his wine. Those two secretly hated each other. She had to be talking about their dog.

  She came out from behind the glass display counter and grabbed my forearm like we were high school girls talking in the hall about our crushes. “He wrote me a poem and read it to me.”

  “That's… wow. A poem.” So, we were talking about Marvin after all, and not the couple's cute but needy Labradoodle.

  The door jingled as the teens who'd been looking at the games walked out, chattering about who would spring for a round of frozen slushy drinks.

  Now it was just the four of us in the computer store, and judging by the way Marvin was hustling past me toward the stock room, my father's business was nearly finished. It irked me that he'd selected an expensive laptop in less time than he'd taken that morning to decide on his pancake topping.

  Marcy was still chattering about romance and date nights. I smiled as I nodded along. There was a pause, and she asked if I was feeling okay.

  “Sorry, I'm a bit spaced out,” I said. “I've got a lot on my mind.”

  “Has her ghost done anything for you?”

  Now Marcy had my attention. “Ghost? What?”

  She still had her hand on my forearm, and squeezed it now. “Everyone's talking about it. Voula's ghost. She's been granting people's wishes from beyond the other side.” Marcy grinned. “You should try making a wish and see what happens. Send her an email, and she might email back.”

  “Someone's been emailing people from Voula Varga's account?” I wondered if the police knew about this, and if it would stop once they had the matchmaking waitress in custody.

  “Not just someone. It's her.” She let go of my arm and stepped away to help Marvin ring up my father's new purchase.

  As I watched her compliment my father on his excellent taste in laptops, then try to sell him the extended warranty—good luck with that, Marcy—I wondered if the woman was on some new medication with interesting side effects. Perhaps she was taking the dog's antidepressant pills.

  Marvin switched places with Marcy behind the counter and came over to talk to me. “I hear you're having a fun shopping day with your father. Tell me the truth. Is he driving you crazy, or is this a good bonding experience?”

  “Apparently, he likes teal.”

  “That explains why he wanted the laptop with the teal case.”

  I looked over at Marcy, who was pitching the extended warranty hard. Neither of them were paying any attention to us.

  “What did he say to you?” I asked as I turned back toward Marvin. “Did he tell you why he wanted the laptop?”

  Marvin waggled his eyebrows. “Wouldn't you like to know?” For a man in his forties, Marvin was acting strangely juvenile, almost stranger than his wife with her ghost stories. I switched to a new theory about the dog medication: Marcy was grinding up so-called “happy-dog pills” and hiding them in Marvin's food.

  “How about you?” Marvin asked. “Are you in need of any upgrades?” He waggled his eyebrows again, and this time he let his brown eyes take a detour down the front of my body. Huskily, he said, “I do house calls, so if you'd like me to stop by your place sometime and do a private assessment of your needs, just call me and we'll make that happen.”

  “Uh, thanks.” And please stop being gross. Please stop right now, Marvin.

  “We can make lots of things happen,” he said.

  “No, thank you.”

  I moved away from Marvin, toward the ring of safety within my father's hearing range. If I'd been ten years younger, I might have continued naively talking to Marvin, excusing his behavior as just harmless joking. But I was thirty-three, and I'd had enough life experience to know that “I was just joking” is what a man says only after you've called him on his lascivious behavior. If Marcy wasn't such a nice woman, I might have done something dramatic, right then and there.

  My father gathered up his new laptop and we walked out of the store. I sh
ook my arms, trying to rid myself of the slime residue from Marvin.

  We paused on the sidewalk while my father pulled out his phone to check for messages or missed calls.

  “Bingo,” he said, then handed me his phone.

  There was a text message from Kyle Dempsey, whose contact info my father had programmed in as Kyle Dimples-Dempsey.

  Kyle Dimples-Dempsey: Good news. Nitrocellulose on the steering wheel of the van. Bad news. Suspect has fled town. Her husband seems as shocked as anyone. He called in a Missing Persons report this morning. My gut says he's telling the truth. He doesn't know where she is or what she's done.

  “That was fast,” I said. “Do you think Dharma's rich uncle is helping her disappear?”

  “We could pay him a visit and ask.”

  I laughed, because I thought he was joking, but his brown eyes didn't waver.

  “How far are you going to take this armchair sleuthing thing?” I asked. “Nobody's paying you to look into this case, are they? Did Kyle ask you to help make him look good?”

  “I should be offended. You're implying that Finnegan Day can be bribed into doing someone else's job for nothing more than a case of fancy-label beer.” He nodded for me to follow him across the street, back to the car.

  He opened the passenger side and slid in, but I didn't, because I couldn't even get my door open. The rope holding his new rug in place was threaded through three windows, forming a triangle shape.

  As I stood there, wondering if he'd done this on purpose as some sort of life lesson, he called out, “For heaven's sakes, just jump in the window,” like I was being ridiculous for wanting to go in through the door like a normal person.

  Muttering a few choice words under my breath, I started climbing in, right leg first. I was halfway in when I heard a familiar voice laughing. I looked over to the sidewalk and saw Logan grinning at me.

  “Stormy Day doesn't believe in doors,” he said.

  “Logan Sanderson states the obvious when he could be helping.”

  He jogged off the sidewalk and around the car to assist me. Before I could shoo him away, he had my arm around his shoulders and his hip bracing mine. I'd only meant to mock him, not get him under my arm, with his cheek practically touching mine and the warm, spicy scent of his skin tickling my nostrils.

  He grabbed my leg behind the knee with one strong hand, and I was in his arms. It was not an unpleasant sensation at all. Too quickly, he aimed my left foot through the window and transferred me smoothly into my seat.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  Logan leaned down to the window and reached in with his right hand. “Logan Sanderson,” he said as he shook my father's hand.

  I said, “Logan, meet my father, Finnegan Day. That's his new rug tied to my roof. He likes teal, apparently. He got a new laptop today, too, with a teal case. He just walked into the computer store and picked one out in less time than it took him to choose a pancake topping at breakfast.”

  Logan raised his eyebrows, his sky-blue eyes twinkling with amusement at my babbling. “Sounds like you two are having a nice father-daughter day.”

  “You're the lawyer and the tenant,” my father said. “Good to finally meet you. Keep paying your rent on time and do as my daughter says, and our meetings can keep on being this pleasant.”

  “Yes, sir,” Logan replied.

  My cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment, and I felt about thirteen again, with my father trying to put the guys in my life off balance.

  Logan wasn't wearing one of his lawyer suits that day, despite it being a weekday. He wore threadbare jeans and a chunky-knit sweater that looked like a hand-me-down—comfortable and clean, but not something you'd wear to impress a potential girlfriend's father. My cheeks burned even more as I realized that I wanted my father to be impressed by Logan.

  “You're dressed casually,” I said. “Day off from your law firm today?”

  He'd glanced around.

  “Working from home,” he said quietly. “Just popped out to grab some lunch.”

  “I'll let you get back to it. Thanks for the help getting in the car.”

  He patted the roof, said goodbye to my father, then turned and left us.

  I started the car and said, “Where to next? A lamp to go with your rug? A new desk for your laptop?”

  “Next stop is the Koenig Mansion, of course.”

  Chapter 19

  As we drove to the Koenig Mansion, my father talked to himself while he tapped out a response to Kyle. He was using words, not the cryptic symbols he preferred sending me. He was neither speedy nor accurate, but he could send words when sufficiently motivated.

  After the exchange of a few messages, he said, “Dimples is hot on the chase of Dharma Lake. He's checking the local car rentals, the bus depot, travel agents, and the motels. He's a smart kid. Do you know how I know that?”

  “Is it because he's come to you as a mentor?”

  “Yes, and he called the hair salons. He found out that we're not looking for a woman with shoulder-length silver-white hair anymore. She's a brunette. Her hair's auburn now, and chin-length.”

  “Ouch.” I sucked in air between my teeth. “It's hard to look innocent when you dye your hair and disappear. I didn't want to believe that sweet woman could be a killer, but actions speak volumes.”

  “That's right. Believe the actions, not the words.”

  We'd passed out of town limits and I slowed the car as I scanned for the turnoff to the Koenig Estate.

  “Speaking of actions,” I said, “Dharma tried to set me up with a guy the first time I met her. She and I weren't any more than acquaintances, but she wanted to help me, for free.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What does that sort of action tell you about her?”

  “That she's nuts,” he said.

  I turned onto the access road for the Koenig Mansion. As we pulled up to the wrought iron gates, they opened for us, so I didn't even need to bring the car to a halt.

  In a dramatically ominous tone, I announced, “They know we're coming.”

  “You think?”

  He was testing me again, so I looked around as we passed through the open gates. I couldn't see any cameras or intercoms, so either they were tiny and hidden, or the gates were on a motion sensor.

  “The gates must open automatically,” I said. “They probably lock down at night, but auto-open during the day for visitors and deliveries.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  I sped up, as the mansion was still far ahead, up a hill. My heart rate also sped up, in anticipation of seeing the gorgeous home.

  The Koenig Mansion was a miniature castle, with its Romanesque arches, recessed entryways, and cylindrical towers with conical caps.

  I'd been to the mansion before, on school field trips. The owner permitted tours once a year, during the town's Cherry Blossom Festival. Ironically, there were no cherry trees on the property, and thus no blossoms, but the mansion was filled with cherry wood, much of it intricately carved.

  When the building came into view, I said, “Amazing. It's just as big as I remember. It seems like so many other things shrink as I get older, but not this.”

  “Good job keeping your eyes open. Plenty of things are right in front of us, hiding in plain sight, because most people are so busy with their thoughts or their phones, they don't take the time to look.”

  He shifted in his seat and readied his cane, looking like he was ready to jump out of the car before I'd even pulled up to the mansion.

  His cane was not the basic model you'd pick up at the drugstore or even a medical supply store. The handle was metal, maybe stainless steel, with intricate carvings. Around the perimeter was a Celtic design of interwoven knots, framing a nasty-looking creature that was either a bat or a flying squirrel.

  A conversation we'd had a month earlier, when he'd been at the hospital following his hip surgery, came back to me. I kept my suspicions to myself as I followed the posted signs directing us to the Vis
itor Parking.

  No other vehicles had been parked in that section, but I could see cars in another area, probably staff parking by the look of the modest economy models.

  We still had the rug tied to the roof, so I couldn't open my door and get out the regular way. I started climbing out of my window, figuring it might be easier to get out that way than to climb in. And it was easier, until the toe of my boot caught on the rope, and I flailed off balance and landed on my butt. Hard. The packed snow was better than concrete, but not by much.

  I stared up at the winter sky, the frozen ground cool under my back.

  My father's face appeared above me.

  Grinning, he asked, “Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?”

  “Very funny.” I groaned my way to my feet. “Hey, can I see your cane for a sec?”

  He handed the fancy cane to me without question, then turned to admire the mansion. I examined the handle, then pushed down on the bat creature with my thumb. As I'd suspected, the center was a button. It depressed, but nothing else happened.

  “Give it a twist,” my father said. He was still facing away from me, admiring the peaked towers of the mansion. “That's the hiking model, for rugged use.”

  I tried twisting it, but nothing happened. Then I pushed the button while giving the handle a twist. The engraved steel handle popped up, revealing a few inches of what was unmistakably, undeniably, and unsurprisingly a sword.

  “This is why you haven't complained about the cane,” I said. “You love the excuse to carry a concealed weapon around. Is this even legal?”

  “Admit that you wish you had one.”

  “It is pretty cool.”

  I glanced around to make sure nobody else was in the parking area. We seemed to be alone, but anyone could have been watching from one of the mansion's many windows. Most of them dark, the rooms unlit, but that just made the enormous house better for hiding in. I drew the sword all the way out of the cane anyway, then gave the air a few swishes.