I looked up at my father. “Anything good?”
“That fake film company's website is definitely gone, and they must have used tags to prevent the search engines from caching a copy of the pages, because there's nothing on the internet.”
“You know about cached files?”
He sat up straight in his chair. “It's pretty simple, really, just a file called robots.txt that you upload to the root directory with a noindex, nofollow code.” He closed the laptop lid. “Don't be too impressed by your father's hacker skills. The domain name is registered privately, and I don't know how to get past that.”
“We could check with Marcy at Misty Microchips. And she might know something about the website, too. Marcy knew Voula Varga. Not well, I think, because they didn't talk to each other at the pub, but Marcy set up a custom email auto-responder for Voula's business.”
My father's right eye twitched. “They didn't talk at the pub, yet they knew each other?”
“You think Marcy's somehow involved in the investment scheme? Hmm. She does complain about money issues.”
“That meek little woman didn't strike me as the scheming type, but sometimes people surprise you.”
“We can pay a visit to Misty Microchips today.” I grinned. “My laptop's seen better days.”
He leaned back and rubbed his hand lovingly over Lizzy, his teal laptop. “You're jealous. You can't handle me having a newer computer than you.”
“Let's go see Marcy, and let's go by Barbara's husband's place. Hank Kettner. He's got an insurance place by the grocery store. We can ask him some bogus questions about insurance for investigators, then try to get a reaction on how he felt about our victim. Before we found Dharma's van at the junkyard, he was actually on my list as a suspect. Voula found some assets that Hank has, so he might have been angry enough to kill her.”
“Hiding assets? Sounds like the scheming type.”
Scheming? Sure. Hank Kettner could have been Voula Varga's partner in an investment scheme, but then something went sour, and she revealed his secret assets to his ex-wife for the low price of a few hours of fortune-telling mumbo jumbo. He shot her for revenge, or maybe because he had even more secrets. She could have been blackmailing him.
I explained my new theory while we finished clearing up the breakfast dishes. I called my employee to let her know the inventory job was delayed yet again, then we made sure Jeffrey was set with all his kitty supplies—the litter box was still in the back mudroom, where it had been when he'd lived there—and walked out to the car.
The day was bright, thanks to the gleaming white snow. The mountains rose around us in their majestic embrace. It was a beautiful day to chase down leads on our first day as the official paid research consultants to a lawyer.
Or a beautiful day to get ourselves arrested for harassing people.
Either way, it was a beautiful day.
Our first stop was Misty Microchips. We arrived just as Marvin was rolling up the exterior metal screen that covered the window and door overnight. Property crime wasn't a huge threat in town, but the security screens were still necessary for a few shops with the most high-value, easily resold goods.
Marvin had the couple's dog with him. Stanley was on a leash, and gave me a tail wag, but kept back a cautious distance. He was wearing a rainbow-striped dog collar, affixed to a rainbow-striped leash. Both items looked handmade, possibly crocheted.
I called to Stanley, “Here, boy! Don't be scared. We've met before, lots of times, when you came into my store. I gave you a dog biscuit. Remember?”
He gave me a bigger tail wag, so I extended my hand in a balled fist and let him have a sniff before I gave him some shoulder pats.
Stanley's fur was pleasantly soft and curly, the result of being the offspring of a Labrador Retriever and a Standard Poodle. This type of dog, called by the adorable name of Labradoodle, wasn't an official breed, but they were becoming more popular, or so it seemed to me. Stanley leaned in to my pets and offered me his chin for scratching. His fur matched the sandy brown hair of his parents.
“Stanley likes you,” Marvin said. I looked up to find him making intense eye contact with me. “He thinks you're a pretty lady.”
“Thanks.” I tried to keep my disgust at Marvin's flirtations off my face. “Is Marcy coming in today?”
“She's gone to pick up some coffee. The ol' ball and chain loves her lattes. That's four dollars, two or three times a day, but I guess things could be worse.”
“That's right,” I agreed. “It could be two or three bottles of wine a day.”
He winced, looking guilty for an instant, then turned to my father. “How's the new laptop working out, Mr. Day? I hope everything's running smoothly, and you're stopping in to show me how that cane sword of yours works. Is there a button?”
My father smiled. “I'll show you, but not out here on the sidewalk. Sorta defeats the point of concealing a sword if you're flashing it all over the place.”
“Let's go inside, then.” Marvin tugged Stanley's rainbow-patterned leash, but the dog gave me a pitiful look and didn't move.
Marvin said, “What's the matter, boy? Not enough walking? Why don't you ask beautiful Stormy if she'll take you on a date?” Marvin offered the leash to me. “You could go meet up with Marcy. Hurry and she might even buy you a latte.”
I exchanged a look with my father. He gave me the smallest nod, so I agreed to take the Labradoodle for a walk, so my father could go inside to chat about swords and laptops.
“Stanley doesn't like other dogs,” Marvin said. “He's not aggressive or anything, but he's easily scared if he doesn't know them.”
I took the dog's leash, and a minute later, I was strolling down the sidewalk with Stanley the Socially Awkward Labradoodle.
We'd gone all of a block when we encountered a man walking his dog, also a Labradoodle. The dogs greeted each other with wagging tails and then friendly sniffs. So much for Marvin's dire warnings, I thought. But then again, Stanley probably knew this dog from regular walks in the area.
We turned the corner, and were alone again. I reached down and ran my fingers through his delightfully fluffy fur while we walked.
“Stanley, you sexy beast,” I said. “I'm totally cheating on my Jeffrey with you. He'd be so jealous. That would serve him right for cheating on me last night, on someone else's lap. Yes, it was cheating! I know my father was sort of his original owner, but it's complicated.”
Stanley turned his fluffy head to give me a knowing grin. When he returned his attention to the sidewalk ahead of us, his body language changed, his body getting stiffer and slower with tension.
There was a dark-haired woman with a smaller dog, a Corgi, walking toward us. I stopped and tugged the leash, thinking we could cross to the other side and avoid the strange dog, but Stanley tugged me forward, toward the Corgi. He wasn't scared, he was excited. Not being a dog owner, I hadn't read the signals right.
Stanley and the brown and white Corgi gave each other a good sniff, tails wagging. The dog's owner, a willowy girl with raven-black hair, gave me a suspicious look.
With a voice lacking any sweetness, she asked, “Hey, aren't you that creepy guy's wife?”
“Do you mean Marvin? No. I'm just walking this dog for a friend.”
“Whatever. He's gross.” She pulled her dog's leash and hauled it away down the street without further explanation.
“She's not wrong,” I said to Stanley, who just smiled, pink tongue flopping out.
We continued on our way, stopping to mark a few pristine patches of white snow, then arrived at the coffee shop. Marcy was sitting at a round table outside, smoking a cigarette.
She saw Stanley first. “That dog looks just like…” She looked up and saw my face. “Stormy and Stanley. You two make a cute couple.”
Stanley greeted his owner with snowy paws, then tried to climb onto her lap.
“Oof! You're not a lapdog,” she said.
I could see there was a lineup
inside the cafe, so I took a seat across from Marcy. The metal chair was so cold, it made my sore muscles feel even stiffer, but at least I wasn't as bad as the day before.
“What's going on here?” Marcy asked. “Is this a regular thing, you taking my Stanley-boo-boo on expeditions?” She ruffled the dog's ears. “Stanley, are you cheating on me?”
“I'm the cheater.”
She grabbed another cigarette and lit it from the stubby one in her mouth. “Is that so?” she said on the smoky exhale.
“Cheating on my cat, Jeffrey. He's a Russian Blue, not quite a year old. Super energetic.”
“My husband is allergic to cats,” she said on another smoky exhale. “Did you know that?”
“He hadn't mentioned it.”
She offered me the package of cigarettes, out of politeness, and I declined.
“Since when do you smoke?” I asked.
“New Year's resolution,” she said. “With all those people quitting, some of us had to start back up to restore the balance.”
I laughed at her joke, even though it didn't seem very funny. Marcy had looked healthy and happy just a few days earlier, and now she looked like she'd been washed in a puddle and crammed into a gym bag.
She asked me what I was up to that fine morning, with her dog, and I explained how we were in the market for another laptop, since my father was so happy with his.
“Is that all?” Marcy extinguished her cigarette in a makeshift ashtray, the lid of her takeout coffee. The chemical smell of singed plastic hit my nostrils.
“And I wanted to access your computer expertise for a few minutes, if you don't mind.”
“Don't worry, I'm going to shut down that email responder. I've been meaning to get to it. At first it was funny, but now I don't feel right contributing to the mass hysteria.” She twirled one finger next to her ear. “This town gets a bit cuckoo over things.”
“Shutting it down is probably for the best. But, actually, I was wondering a couple of things. First of all, did you ever do graphic design? Like for websites?”
“No, programming only. I don't have the eye for design. Marvin says even my crafts are hideous. He doesn't like this beautiful leash I made for Stanley.” She held up a length of the rainbow rope. “Crochet,” she said. “I prefer it over knitting. I'm working on a blanket right now. Marvin hates it. Of course.”
“I'm sure it's beautiful,” I lied.
“What's the other thing you wanted to know?”
“Oh, just if there was a way to find out who registered a domain name. I tried the basic whois searches, but it's a private registration.”
She leaned in over the round cafe table and whispered, “There's no such thing as private on the internet. What's the domain name?”
I pulled a notepad from my purse, along with a pen, and jotted down the website address for the disappearing film studio. I could have told her the name, since it wasn't that long, but I had a plan, courtesy of my father's lesson that morning.
“This is just some silly thing involving my ex-fiancé,” I said. “He told me about this hot investment thing, but I think he's playing a prank on me.”
I handed her the piece of paper. I kept my hands moving in my purse, pretending to be paying attention to that, but my eyes were on Marcy's face as she looked at the paper.
She tilted up her chin and frowned, but no more than any person would when reading a shakily handwritten note.
“You want the company that registered this?” she asked.
“The company, or the person. If it's a guy named Christopher, I won't be surprised.”
“Give me a day or two.” She tucked the paper into her coat pocket in a gesture so casual that I assumed she'd already forgotten about it. “What's Jessica been up to?”
“Not much. She's got a cold.”
“From the Polar Bear Dip.” Marcy shook her head. “Silly girl. She just had to get her ten-year pin.”
I laughed, and we talked about Jessica for a bit. The line had disappeared inside the shop, so I got a small coffee to drink with Marcy while she had one more cigarette.
It's illegal to smoke on the sidewalk in Misty Falls, thanks to the Oregon Indoor Clean Air Act. Contrary to the Indoor part of the name, the act extends to outdoor public spaces. A few people walking by gave Marcy a pointed look, but nobody said anything, because most of the locals adhered to the philosophy of Live and Let Live.
Well, except for the ones who shot people.
Chapter 28
Back at Misty Microchips, I did buy a new laptop, the same model as my father's. Since his was in a teal case, I got mine in red to match the case for my phone. Marvin and Marcy gave me a small discount for paying with my bank card instead of my credit card.
As we walked out of the store, my father patted me on the back. “I'm proud of you for not using credit.”
“I wanted the discount.”
“Yes, but a lot of people your age wouldn't have the choice, because they don't save up for big purchases.”
I used one hand to wave away the undeserved compliment. “I'm just lucky to have had a few jobs that paid well, plus it's easy to save when you're a workaholic.”
“Whatever you say.” He chuckled at my modesty.
We got into the car, and I started the engine. It came to life with an expensive purr. My father was right about me being responsible with money. The car had been a splurge, but at least I'd bought it outright, no lease, after one test drive. That was my party side, though. My conservative side would probably have me driving the same vehicle until well into the future, when everyone else had flying cars and jetpacks.
As I looked past my father to check the lane before pulling out, he caught my eye and gave me a hopeful look. “Crime scene next?”
“I don't know, Dad. We start with a few unlawful entries, and before you know it, we're pulling stockings over our faces and holding up the Misty Falls Credit Union.” I put on the turn signal and drove in the direction of our next lead, knitting club member Barbara's ex-husband.
On the drive, I told him about Marcy's non-reaction to the website. He agreed with my assessment that she hadn't been involved, and we both crossed our fingers that she would find something useful with the domain name.
Finnegan Day held his finger to his lips and pressed his ear against the crack in the door. “Someone's worked up about something,” he whispered.
We were at Kettner Insurance, the workplace of the eponymous owner Mr. Hank Kettner. I'd never been there before, because I purchased my home, business, and car insurance from a business in a convenient location that didn't look nearly as luxurious as this place.
I pressed my ear to the crack at the other side of the door and ran my fingers over the wood surface. It was a beautiful, dark wood, and not hollow core, or we would have been able to hear what the people inside were arguing about. All I could pick up on was the tone: angry.
My father wasn't doing much better, by the look on his face.
Still trying to listen, I asked in a whisper, “Is a lot of detective work just like this? My heart is racing. This is so much fun, and we're not even doing anything.”
Suddenly, the door began to vibrate. We both stepped back, eyes wide. The vibration was accompanied by a whirring, mechanical sound. The door swung open. A fifty-something, attractive man in an expensive suit came through in a wheelchair.
We stood back to let him by, and then walked into the insurance office. The Kettner Insurance reception area was spare and elegant, with fragrant fresh flowers. A red-faced woman stood behind the reception counter, looking like she was either going to cry or smash the flower vase on the gleaming marble floor.
My father beat me to asking her if she was okay.
As her answer, she brought her palms together in front of herself and said, “I express my anger in appropriate ways.” She took a breath and let it out. “Starting now. How may I help you?”
“We don't have an appointment, but who would I need to kiss up to
for a few minutes with Mr. Kettner?” My father leaned on the counter in a casual pose. “I bet you're in charge of things around here,” he cooed.
“The schedule's pretty tight,” she said.
“Speaking of pretty, what color would you call your eyes? Would you say they're a teal sort of blue?”
She tittered and started tapping away on a keyboard. “Let me check the schedule again.”
While they talked, I perused the framed photos on the wall. The images gave me a sinking feeling. I checked the inscription under one of them, then tapped my father on the shoulder to get his attention.
He and the receptionist were talking about office politics, and how important it was for support staff to be respected. I managed to pull him away, and excused us for a minute.
“You should be taking notes, not stopping me,” he said.
“That was Mr. Kettner we saw leaving, in the wheelchair. He couldn't have shot Voula, because it happened on the second floor, and the only access was stairs.”
“He could be faking. A wheelchair is a great alibi. You could kill a dozen people, as long as it's always up a flight of stairs.”
I rolled my eyes. “Some of those photos are a decade old, and he's in the wheelchair in all of them.”
“And isn't it rather convenient that dated photos of our suspect in a wheelchair have been left out here for us to see?” He grinned. “I think we need to dig deep on this possible lead. I'll take the receptionist out for lunch, somewhere that serves martinis.”
I shook my head, but I was smiling.
“Dad, I have a better idea. Let's drive to the victim's house and look around. Maybe we'll see something outside.”
“Or maybe we'll find a window that's been left unlocked.”
He turned and thanked the receptionist, then apologized that something had come up and we didn't need an appointment after all.
As we drove up to the victim's house, my father said, “You're right. That house does have a face, and not a nice one.”
“At least it's been released. I don't see any crime scene tape.”
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