I didn't breathe normally until we were driving away from the mansion.
“That was a bit close for comfort,” I said. “You're sure Erica won't tell Tony we were there?”
“She said she wouldn't.”
“Erica seemed nice. Is she about my age, or is she younger?”
He declined to answer that question.
We approached the gates, which opened automatically, as before.
“Talk us through the case,” he said. “What do we know about Dharma Lake?”
“For starters, she believes in karma, which means doing good things for others, so it comes back to you. She probably has strong ideas about right and wrong. From what I heard at the pub, she thought Voula Varga's black magic was wrong. She wanted her to stop doing whatever she was doing.”
“There's the motivation,” he commented. “We need means, motivation, and opportunity.”
“As for means, there's the gun missing from the armory back there. Now, whether it was Dharma, or her husband, or another accomplice who grabbed it from the room, it's easy to connect her and the gun. Then she made her own opportunity when she went to the house that morning. Maybe she showed up at the woman's door to apologize.”
My father's head bobbed. “But when you go somewhere to apologize, you bring flowers or chocolate, not a gun. Maybe flowers and chocolate.”
“You would know,” I teased.
He had a point, though. A weapon was protection, or for threatening someone. If Dharma really believed Voula was practicing black magic, wouldn't a magic necklace be better protection?
After a moment, my father said, “Let's say Dharma showed up with the gun, acting like the sheriff of a Wild West town, trying to run the voodoo lady out of town. Things get heated. They argue, wrestle over the gun, and it goes off. Total accident. She'll serve some time for manslaughter, but she'll still have her good karma, because she thought she was doing the right thing.”
“If the shooting was an accident, that would explain why her getaway driving wasn't exactly sneaky.” I tapped on the steering wheel. “What if she didn't know the gun was loaded? That weapons collection back there was pretty intense. Is Mr. Koenig nutty enough to display loaded guns?”
“I checked a few of the other handguns. There were some nice pieces in there, and I couldn't resist. No ammunition in the ones I looked at, and I didn't see any bullets in the room. If I were him, leaving my cases unlocked to better show off my collection, I'd be damn careful to keep the bullets in a safe that only I had the combination to.”
“How many places in town sell ammunition?”
He stared out the window for a minute, at the passing snowy terrain, then turned to me. “Just one place, and it's next to that sandwich shop that does the grilled panini with three kinds of cheese. I suppose we could swing by Wild Buck's, just to be thorough. I might be persuaded to buy you lunch.”
I nodded. “We do need to eat.”
My father knew the owner of Wild Buck's, the town's hunting and fishing shop. The man was neither wild, nor named Buck; he was Owen Johnson, a small man with a smooth scalp, a squeaky voice, and a warm handshake. When I was younger, I thought Owen Johnson was the cartoon Elmer Fudd, hunting wabbits, come to life.
Upon our arrival, Owen was restocking shelves with fishing lures. My father told him to keep working, and not to let us stop him.
I picked up one of the feathered lures to admire the design. “This could be a cute little earring,” I said.
Owen Johnson smiled a crooked smile. I guessed it wasn't the first time he'd heard a woman say that exact thing.
He opened a cardboard box on the worn linoleum floor and started sorting through the packed items. He said, “Finnegan Day, you don't look dressed for ice fishing, so you must be here to ask me about that woman's suicide.”
“Suicide?”
My father and I exchanged a confused look.
“Seems like an open-and-shut case to me,” Owen said. “I'm no detective, but when a woman comes in and buys a box of bullets, then turns up dead the next day, a guy's gotta figure it was no accident.”
A confusing mix of horror and curiosity came over me.
I knelt down so I could look into Owen's face while he stooped over the box of lures. “Mr. Johnson, are you sure it was Voula Varga who came in and bought bullets? She had long black hair, very curly, and was probably dressed in layers of dark, flowing clothes. Was it definitely her who bought the bullets and not another woman, say, with silver-white hair?”
“I know who it was,” he said. “She was always driving around in that coffin-mobile with her name on the side. Sheesh. Can't miss a character like that. Then she wanted bullets for a twenty-thousand-dollar gun. I was like, hey, lady, why are you ripping off the good folks of Misty Falls with your little palm-reading act if you can afford a twenty-thousand-dollar gun? Sheesh. Some people.”
“She told you she had a gun worth that much?”
“She said she was gettin' it the next day, and was in a mood to celebrate.” He slowed down in his movements, but continued unpacking the fishing lures from the box to the shelf.
“It sounds like she was happy,” I said. “Why do you think it was a suicide?”
“With some folks it's like that, toward the end. They come in all happy. And you think you're gonna see them around at the gun range for target practice, but then they won't take a flyer, and you think, Owen, you should call someone. You think about calling and saying someone might be thinkin' about murderin' themselves. But then you say, Owen, that's not your business. Mind your own business.”
My father put his hand on Owen's shoulder. “You couldn't have known. You did all right.”
Owen unpacked the box with gusto, his whole bald head flushing pink with effort.
We thanked him for his help, and I purchased a half-dozen feathered lures as a token of gratitude for his time and honesty.
We got back into the car—me getting in the passenger door and sliding over to the driver's side rather than falling on my butt again.
We didn't have anywhere else to go, and we'd stopped at the cafe for panini sandwiches before the visit to Wild Buck's, so I started driving my father and his new rug and laptop to his house.
After a few minutes, I said, “Suicide? Is it possible?”
“Suicide by shooting the chest is less common than the head, but does happen. They don't usually shoot through clothing, though, which is just one of several reasons why the police are investigating it as a homicide. Hang on.”
He pulled out his phone and explained he was reviewing notes from what Kyle had leaked to him.
After a few minutes, he said, “Okay, here we go. No suicide note, as you know. Coroner report confirms a single bullet wound to the chest, and the angle tilted down, suggesting a killer who was taller than her, unless she'd been on her knees. Probably not a suicide. If it had been a self-inflicted shot, those usually tilt upward slightly.”
“There's no way we'll know for sure, is there?”
“No. We only know what's typical for a female.”
“True, but Voula Varga wasn't the typical sort of female, was she? The woman drove a hearse.”
“Some people are just nuts.”
With my next thought, my stomach clenched around the panini sandwich from lunch, which suddenly felt like a stone.
“Dad, what if she meant for me to be the one to find her? I'm sorry to sound like I think everything is all about me, but this is two bodies in two months. Bad things come in threes. I'm not sure if I'll be leaving the house in February.”
“Don't you start turning superstitious on me, wearing bracelets to fend off the evil eye, putting upside-down brooms behind the door, and all that nonsense. I've seen a lot of things in my years on the force, and I can guarantee you bad things don't come in threes. Bad things come all the time, one-two-three-four-five-six-infinity.”
His words echoed in my head. Bad things come all the time. Infinity.
We drove
in silence, leaving the town center. As we picked up speed, the wind played with the rug on the roof, making it flop against the metal like a prize marlin.
My father cleared his throat. “Good things come all the time, too. All the time.”
“I know. Thanks for taking me with you today. I really learned a lot. You're good at this stuff. Really good.”
He leaned over to check my speedometer. “You're speeding.”
“Don't change the subject. You're good at investigating. So… what's the plan? You're going to help Kyle with this cold case, and then what?”
“We'll see.”
“But what's next in your plan? Uh, I mean, your process?” A process is better than a plan, because plans go wrong.
With a smirk, he said, “Beer. Every time you say cold case, I think, cold beer. That's all I have planned for tonight.”
We sat in easy silence until we reached his street, then parked over in front of his house. We still had to untie his rug, so I waited for him to shift out of the passenger side so I could get out. My hip was starting to ache from my previous smooth exit.
“How about you?” he asked. “Big plans for tonight?”
“Knitting. I've got a ball of yarn I should do something with.”
“You could make a scarf.”
“Yes, I think that's about my skill level.”
He winked at me. “Don't sell yourself short.”
Chapter 22
January 4th
The next morning, I could barely get out of bed, thanks to a baseball-mitt-sized bruise on my buttock, acquired by falling out of my car window at the Koenig Mansion. Some souvenir.
“Look at the size of that thing,” I said.
Jeffrey didn't seem particularly shocked by the shades of purple and ochre covering a good portion of the fleshy region I normally sat upon.
Groaning, I pulled on thick wool socks and the wild-patterned housecoat, because one's appearance should match how one feels, and I felt hideous.
The house felt empty without Jessica, who'd been my temporary housemate for two of the previous four mornings. I made my coffee and limped around, cursing my father's refusal to accept free delivery, and generally feeling sorry for myself.
My knitting attempt from the night before sat on the coffee table. Four rows. I had created four measly rows, and no two loops were the same size.
I was debating a second attempt at knitting, even getting a little excited about improving my technique, when my phone alerted me to a new text message from my father. He'd sent a single image, just an envelope with a red lipstick kiss over the flap.
I called his number, and when he answered, I said, “You got the email from Erica, with the dinner list?”
“A friendly email, yes.” I could practically hear his eyebrows waggling. He continued, “Here's an interesting thing about Christmas dinner at the Koenig Mansion. Erica said they like to bring in an entertainer to keep things lively. You get three guesses who it was that night, and the first two don't count.”
I limped over to my fridge and looked at the business card stuck there. “I'm guessing it was the vibrant and vivacious Voula Varga, psychic extraordinaire.”
“That's exactly who it was. Interesting, don't you think?”
“Please tell me someone took video of her interacting with Dharma. Maybe we can find out what set off their feud.”
“No video, but here's the interesting part. Dharma was the one who suggested the psychic as a guest. Erica says the two met a few months back at some sort of hokey self-help workshop.”
“They were friends? Wow.” I tried to imagine what Jessica would have to do for me to throw a drink on her, much less threaten her with a gun.
“I have a new theory. It's a good one. Are you sitting down?”
I walked to the table and took a seat, wincing at the tenderness on my bruised side. “Sitting,” I said through clenched teeth.
“Here's my theory: Voula contacted something terrible in the spirit world, and it possessed her and killed her, right after it spent some time in Dharma's body to steal the gun from her uncle.” He chortled at his joke. “Just kidding,” he said, as if I hadn't guessed.
“Dad, if Voula was at the Koenig Mansion, she could have stolen the gun. That makes more sense. She stole the gun and already had it when she bought the bullets. It's possible Owen Johnson misunderstood what she was saying. Then she shot herself, and did something to set up Dharma to take the fall.”
“To what end, though? I'd be more inclined to believe the evil spirit thing. Let's see if Lizzy has any answers.”
“Lizzy? Is that some new contact of yours?”
“Back in the olden days, when your father was young and dinosaurs roamed the planet, people called their horses Lizzy. That's why the first car was called a Tin Lizzy. My laptop's name is Lizzy, because… well, I guess I just like the name. Let's see now…” He tapped away at the keys. Unlike the keyboard for his old fire-hazard computer, I could barely hear this one's keystrokes.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Looking up demon possession.”
“Do I need to stay on the phone for this?”
“If I start speaking in tongues, call an exorcist.” He chuckled. “If you must know, I'm sending an email to my pharmacist contacts. If Voula had a demon possession problem, there's probably a pill for that.”
“Gotcha.” He was still looking into the suicide angle, and trying to find out if she was being treated for any illnesses.
For the next ten minutes, I stayed on the line while he talked through his email exchange with a contact. It sounded like the only prescriptions Voula had at the time of her death were the hormone pills and a new drug for lowering cholesterol. It wasn't exactly riveting, but it was interesting. My father also gushed over the speed and responsiveness of his new laptop.
When he'd finished with the emails, I asked, “What else is on the agenda for today? Do you need your personal driver?”
“Take the day off,” he said distractedly. “I'm getting to know Lizzy.”
“I've been replaced,” I sniffed. “What about Dimples? I mean Officer Dempsey? Did you tell him about what Owen said about Voula buying those bullets herself? Are they any closer to tracking down Dharma?”
“Ask him yourself. I reckon he'll be there in about… eleven minutes.”
I reached up and clutched my bathrobe closed. “What?”
“Listen, I can't give Lizzy the attention she needs and talk on the phone. I'll let you go.”
He ended the call, and I tried to get to my feet, but I had a warm weight on my lap. Jeffrey blinked up at me sleepily. I hadn't even noticed him sneaking onto my lap in the first place, yet had a vague recollection that I'd been petting him for the last few minutes.
“Dimples is coming here,” I said. “Here. Get yourself spruced up, will you?”
He gave me a grumpy look as I pushed him off my lap and rushed off to get showered and changed into real clothes. I hoped that a blast of hot water would help with the stiffness in my side and lower back, but my shower only spat out lukewarm water. My tenant must have used the entire hot water tank, which struck me as odd, because it hadn't happened before. On the plus side, my tepid shower was a fast one. I was dressed and had makeup on by the time someone knocked on my door.
I checked the front window first, spotting a police vehicle parked out front. I opened my door, expecting to find Kyle and Tony, but it was just Kyle.
He was in his uniform, which meant he was probably there on official business. He was smiling, and his blond hair shone gold in the morning sun. My mouth went so dry, I suddenly had to cough.
He held up the two travel mugs I'd sent out with Tony two days earlier. “I thought you might want these back.”
I kept coughing and waved him in wordlessly.
He stepped inside, closed the door, and looked left to right, scanning my home's interior in a curious yet professional manner, as though assessing potential hiding place
s for attackers.
“Refill?” I croaked, pointing to the coffee pot. I coughed a final time to get my voice back to normal. “You can keep the travel mug. I have plenty. Or, if you have time, you could have a cup here, in a real mug.”
“I don't want to catch flack from Tony, but I do have a few minutes, and that brew does smell good. I'll just take off my boots.”
He hung his jacket on a hook, then bent over and unlaced his boots on the mat, so he didn't track in snow. So polite.
I grabbed a clean mug from the cupboard and brought him coffee at the table, where he was already taking a seat. “Does my father make you take off your boots?” I asked.
A smile spread out between his dimples. “I guess he told you we've been working together.”
“He won't tell me much.” I took a seat across from him, gasping inwardly when I landed on my bruise. “Thank you for letting him feel involved with your casework. He's one of those people who has to keep busy constantly, and can't relax like a normal person.”
Kyle looked down at my hands, which were arranging the sugar bowl, creamer, napkins, and extra spoons into a neat row. He raised his eyebrows and then flicked his blue eyes up to meet mine.
“Fine,” I said. “The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. My father and I both need to keep busy. Did he happen to mention to you what his retirement plans are? Like, officially?”
“He's your father. That's not really for me to say.”
“You know something?”
Kyle blinked a few times, but kept his gaze locked on mine. His eyes weren't just blue. They were aquamarine blue. Stormy! Look away from the aquamarine-blue eyes that sparkle like gems. He's a decade younger than you, lady.
I squirmed in my chair, which aggravated my bruise and sent pain up my spine, making me sweat even more.
“Are you feeling okay?” Kyle asked, ignoring my probing questions about my father. “You look pale. I hope you're taking Vitamin D. It's basically mandatory in this corner of the world.”
“I do take it, and calcium and magnesium, for my old lady bones, which are… super old.”
He laughed over his coffee. “Yeah, you're really super old,” he said.
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