Stormy Day Mysteries 5-Book Cozy Murder Mystery Series Bundle

by Angela Pepper

  “Do women get those shirts for themselves?”

  Denise looked at me like I was being strange, and I suppose I was. “We sell about ten for men to every one we make for women. Personally, I prefer the women's shirts, with all the fitted darts and everything being a smaller scale. We should probably charge more, because of the extra labor, but I don't mind the challenge. I wouldn't want life to get too simple.” She pulled open a drawer and retrieved a well-worn cloth measuring tape. “Well?”

  “Right.” I started taking off my jacket. She nodded for me to follow her around behind the counter and into the back, out of sight from the front window.

  She took my measurements, her touch feather-light on my arms, and her voice lullaby-soft. Denise was certainly a woman of contrasts, with her sharp black hair and her soft body and gestures. If I hadn't seen her yelling at my father, I'd never have believed it.

  Would Denise have had any issues with Voula?

  I could think of one possible problem: if Voula really was a psychic, as the knitting club ladies believed, why hadn't she warned Denise about something her friend Pam was about to do? That's pretty far-fetched, I told myself, but once the theory came to me, it wouldn't shake loose, so I had to ask about her alibi.

  “How are your New Year's resolutions coming along?” I asked.

  “Great,” she said brightly. “Hold this.”

  I held the end of the measuring tape in place at the top of my arm. “You were at the Fox and Hound for the big New Year's Eve party, weren't you? I think I saw you there, with Voula.”

  “Yes.” She measured the length of my right arm, and then repeated the process on my left arm. I was impressed. Most tailors would assume both of a person's arms were the same length.

  Then she measured my right arm a second time.

  “I don't think it grew,” I said.

  She sniffed and wiped a tear from her eye.

  “Denise, are you okay? Would you like me to come back at a better time?”

  “I'm just thinking about poor Voula. She kept asking if either I or Barbara would go to the Polar Bear Dip with her the next morning, but we said no, because we were driving to the city to see Barbara's daughter and her family that day.” She pulled a cloth handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her tears. “We should have invited her to come with us. She'd still be alive if we'd made more of an effort to include her. I tried to be nice, but she was just so…”

  “Weird?”

  “Bitter,” she finished. “Like having all those amazing roles in major movies wasn't enough for her. She had an amazing career.”

  “You don't think she was a bit typecast? She only played those small parts, for gypsy fortune-tellers and witches.”

  Denise blinked her tears away and looked straight at me with her unusual eyes.

  “I was one of those girls who went to Hollywood with dreams of being discovered,” Denise said. “They said I was born a few decades too late. On black and white film, my eyes are the same shade of gray, but in living color, these are just too distracting for an actress in a supporting role. Nowadays, there are contact lenses, and I hear they can fix colors with the computers, but I was born a few decades too early for that.”

  “I'm sorry it didn't work out for you in Hollywood.”

  She tucked away her handkerchief and smiled. “Meeting Voula made me happy. Her bitterness made me glad my prayers weren't answered.”

  She went back to the measurements, and I mulled over what she'd said. Voula must have given up on going to the Polar Bear Dip when she invited me to come to her house on New Year's Day. And assuming Denise was telling the truth, both she and her sister had an alibi for the time of the murder.

  My thoughts returned to the button, and the job I was supposed to be doing. If I went back to the car empty-handed, my father would probably insist on trying by himself, and it could go even worse than his first attempt.

  “Denise, you must keep a database of all the customers you do custom shirts for, right?”

  She let out a light laugh, sounding relieved after her moment of sadness. “Database? Yes, you could call it that. Here, watch me enter your measurements into my database.”

  She grabbed a paper ledger book, flipped it open, and handwrote my name and measurements onto a new line. Denise had only paper records, by the look of it, which explained the lack of computers on the premises.

  “Your computer is so fancy it looks like a book,” I joked.

  “Marvin at the computer store is trying to get me into this century, but I have enough problems with the hand-me-down computer I keep at home for watching movies.”

  The ambient sound inside the store changed, from that of a cave to a tunnel, and a gust of cool air made me reach for my jacket.

  “Please excuse me,” Denise said. “A customer's just coming in to pick up their order.” She went to a nearby shelf, pulled off a stack of garments in a baby-blue color, and walked toward the counter.

  “Do you mind if I use your washroom?” I asked.

  “Not at all. It's to your left.”

  I thanked her, waited until she was busy talking to her customer, then took the ledger book with me into the washroom.

  My pulse was racing as I shut the door behind me and opened the book. I didn't like lying to Denise, but I didn't want to disappoint my father. If she suspected I wanted the list of customers for him to use, nobody would be getting it without a warrant.

  Denise's system for special orders seemed logical enough, but her handwriting was tense and compact, impossible to skim quickly. I used the camera on my phone to snap images of the pages, starting with today's order and my name, then working my way back. The ledger had been started in October, so it only had a few months' worth of transactions, but this information was better than nothing.

  While I hurried to finish taking the photos before the store owner got suspicious, my eye was caught by one name in particular.

  I flushed the toilet and ran the sink water for cover, then left Sew It Goes without incident. I jog-walked down the street quickly, eager to tell my father he was right, and we did have a name.

  Chapter 30

  My father wasn't waiting in the car for me, which made sense, given that I'd locked it and he didn't have the keys. Most people in town didn't lock their cars, but it was a big-city habit I hadn't shaken yet.

  I looked around, trying to put myself in his shoes. If I was Finnegan Day, where would I go?

  Lunch! We hadn't eaten since breakfast. I scanned the nearby businesses, then settled on the bagel place. My stomach told me that was where he'd gone. Or maybe my stomach just wanted to go have a bagel. We do see what we want to see, after all.

  I crossed the street, checked my reflection in Ruby's mirror, gave her a wave in case she was watching from the other side, then proceeded to the bagel place.

  My father was inside, sharing a table with two police officers in uniform, Tony Milano and Kyle Dempsey.

  I turned on my heel and walked right out again. I slipped my hand into my pocket and felt to make sure I had the button. I'd gotten it back on my way out of Sew It Goes, and Denise had thoughtfully transferred the button and fabric swatch into a tiny self-sealing plastic baggie.

  “Guilty conscience?” came a male voice behind me.

  I sped up.

  Sounding closer, he said, “Stormy Day, what's the hurry?”

  I stopped and turned to face my pursuer. It was Kyle, looking almost serious that day.

  “Don't let me interrupt your lunch,” I said.

  “Too late. Would you check my teeth for poppy seeds?”

  He was already grinning in anticipation, so I checked his teeth and gave him the all clear, then started walking away again.

  He followed, falling in step at my side. “Nice day for a walk. Where are we going?”

  I didn't answer, hoping he'd give up. I'd last seen Kyle the day he'd returned my travel mugs, then searched my home for a murder suspect. There was definitely some irony t
o the fact that I'd been annoyed at him for suspecting me, yet now I was actually hiding crime scene evidence, as well as the location of their fugitive.

  Oops. I did have a guilty conscience, which was why I'd run out of the bagel shop.

  I had to act fun and casual, not guilty. I wouldn't want Dimples to frisk me for purloined evidence, after all.

  Or did I?

  No!

  No, I did not want to be frisked. Not right here in the center of town, anyway.

  He asked again where I was headed, making it clear he wasn't leaving my side.

  I slowed my pace and pointed ahead. “Just going up to Central Park.”

  “But that's an off-leash dog park,” he said.

  “Exactly. All the better to kidnap small dogs and hold them for ransom.” I playfully held my hand over my mouth. “Oh, rats. I forgot you're a cop.”

  “I'd better come along and keep an eye on you.”

  “Officer, I don't really capture the dogs for ransom. That was just a joke. I just keep them in my house and dress them in doll clothes for high tea. I never give the doggies back.”

  Kyle narrowed his aquamarine-blue eyes at me. “Stormy Day, you are definitely up to no good.”

  “Tony Baloney calls you Dimples behind your back.”

  “You keep trying to evade me. Whatever you're hiding, it must be juicy.”

  We arrived at the fenced-in park, where an assortment of dogs frolicked in the snow like it was a white sandy beach, and today was everybody's birthday.

  Kyle and I turned to the right, taking the path that led around the perimeter.

  The official name of the park is something boring, like Pine Park or Cedar Grove, but everyone in Misty Falls calls it Central Park, after the much, much, much larger and grander park in New York. At my gift shop, we sell collectibles that celebrate local landmarks, including mugs and refrigerator magnets that read, Get your bark on at Central Bark, Misty Falls, Oregon. The word Park is intentionally spelled Bark, I think.

  We kept walking, and Kyle didn't say why he'd run out of the bagel place after me, and I didn't ask.

  “What about that one?” I asked, pointing to a large dog with black, brown, and white markings.

  “The Bernese Mountain Dog? Not a great candidate for your dognapping spree, on account of the size.”

  I nodded in agreement. “None of my little doll clothes would fit. Plus he'd slurp all the tea in one lick. I'm looking for more of a toy size.”

  “You've put a lot of thought into this. That's the problem with most criminal masterminds these days. Too much criminal, not enough mastermind.”

  “Really? Bored with the job already? Does that mean you apprehended that sweet little old lady and locked her away for good?”

  “No, we haven't found her yet, but we will.” He gave me a dimpled grin. “The streets will be safe once more, I promise.”

  “You should have checked my laundry room when you were ransacking my house. I keep all my fugitives down there.”

  He chuckled. “I bet you do.”

  “Next to my spare rolls of paper towel.”

  We neared a woman with a small, brown-velvet-eared Beagle, plus an even smaller, juvenile Beagle that made me squeal. With the owner's permission, we both knelt down to pet the pooches, who wore matching sweater vests.

  Kyle's voice changed when he talked to the dogs. He kept saying, “Puppy, puppy, puppy,” in the excited way a little kid would.

  The dog's owner eyed Kyle, then me, and back and forth over and over, trying to figure out our relationship. Her visible confusion made me painfully aware of the age difference between me and Kyle. She thought I was a cradle-robber!

  “Puppy, puppy!” Kyle said.

  Then, just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, the dog owner gave me a sly wink, as if to congratulate me. My cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment, and I avoided looking at Kyle's beautiful aquamarine eyes as we continued our walk.

  “How's your father's hip?” he asked.

  “Not slowing him down too much.”

  “How about you?”

  “My old lady hips are just fine, thank you. I took a solid fall the other day, just to test everything.”

  He reached across my back and squeezed my shoulder in a gesture halfway between romantic and buddy-buddy.

  “You've still got a few good years left,” he said. “When are we going to get that drink together?”

  “Um…”

  He jumped ahead and blocked my path. “Stormy, look me in the eyes. Just for a minute. I want to see something.”

  I scanned Central Park for a distraction, but found nothing I could use as an excuse. Finally, I looked up into Kyle's blue eyes. I opened my eyes extra-wide, like you do at the beginning of a staring contest to intimidate your opponent.

  After a moment of silent staring, he said, “Just as I suspected,” then he turned and continued walking.

  I skipped to catch up with him. “What was that about?”

  “I can't look into your eyes without wanting to kiss you.” He gave me a sidelong look. “That's all.”

  “Your interest has been noted.”

  “And?”

  I nodded toward a miniature dachshund. “Steal that dog for me. I must have it.”

  He laughed, and let me change the topic back to my dognapping story, to my relief.

  Kyle was handsome, and so sweet, but whenever I looked at him… puppy, puppy, puppy!

  He was such a young pup.

  Kyle walked me back to the bagel place, where we found my father and Tony standing outside, chatting.

  I noted the expressions on their faces when they saw me and Kyle walking up together. My father seemed amused, a crooked smile on his lips, and Tony just looked annoyed. He donned a pair of mirrored sunglasses, which only drew my attention to his flared nostrils and pressed-thin lips.

  My father handed me a paper bag. “Smoked meat, extra Dijon.” He gave me an eyebrow raise. “Was your errand successful?”

  I answered guiltily, “We just went for a walk in Central Park. Saw some dogs. There was a cute puppy. Tiny. Just a baby, really. Way too young for me.”

  He raised his eyebrows higher. “I meant your other errand.”

  Right. The list of names from Sew It Goes.

  “All done.”

  We said goodbye to the two police officers, then headed back toward the car.

  Once we were alone on the sidewalk, I told him about the conversation I'd had with Denise while she was measuring me up for a custom-tailored blouse.

  We got into the car, where I showed him the photos I'd taken of the customer receipt book.

  “Lots of names in here,” he said.

  “But there's only one who ordered a shirt in the same tan color as mine. John Lake. That's Dharma's husband. We've been assuming he knows nothing about the shooting because he's the one who reported his wife missing a few days ago, but what if he's playing everyone?”

  “He wasn't at the Christmas dinner at the mansion, though. Or was he?” He reached for his phone. “Erica would know.”

  I looked up the address for Dharma's husband while my father called the maid from the Koenig Mansion. He flirted for a few minutes, then asked about Mr. Lake.

  “Interesting,” he said, then went on to ask Erica about her home security measures. This went on for a while.

  He ended the call and turned to me. “Mr. Lake wasn't feeling well that night, but Erica says he always comes down with something right before mansion events. It's been so long since she's seen him, she's forgotten what he looks like.” He put on his seatbelt. “Let's go pay Mr. Lake a visit.”

  “Not so fast. We should check in with our employer and tell him what we've found so far. I don't even know if John Lake knows his wife is staying at my house. We don't want to blow her cover.”

  My father groaned with impatience, but waved his hand for me to go ahead. Rather than drop in unexpected, I called first.

  A woman answered, “Logan
Sanderson's office. How may I help you?”

  “I need to speak with Logan, please. This is Stormy Day.”

  “Mr. Sanderson is not available, Ms. Day. I'll let him know you called. What shall I put on the subject line?”

  “Hot water.”

  “And? Is this regarding a specific case?”

  “Nope,” I lied.

  She repeated back my number and ended the call.

  I explained to my father that Logan had his cell phone forwarded to either his office or an answering service. Then I verbally debated our next move, and whether we should visit the house, or wait to hear from Logan, or turn ourselves and the button in to the police, or any number of possible choices.

  “It's a setup,” my father said excitedly.

  “Were you even listening to me?”

  “John Lake set up his wife for murder, so he could get rid of her. I don't know the man, but let's say he married Dharma thinking he'd get his hands on her uncle's fortune, but recently he's given up on trying to ingratiate himself with the in-laws and he just wants out.”

  “Wouldn't divorce be easier?”

  My father gave me a one-shoulder shrug. “Sometimes you ask a woman to leave, and she won't go. Let's go pay him a visit and take his temperature, so to speak.”

  I checked the address and started the car. “I've got a bad feeling about this.”

  “Eat your smoked meat sandwich.” He picked up the paper bag and shook it at me.

  “I don't eat in the car,” I said as I pulled out onto the street. “Don't look at me like that. It messes up the interior, and it's a dirty habit, plus it's bad for digestion.”

  He opened the bag and rolled half of it back to expose the sloppy smoked meat trying to escape its poppy-seed bagel, then set the thing on the dashboard in front of me.

  “Don't be fussy, Stormy. Detectives eat in their car. Eat, sleep, conduct meetings, you name it. I knew this tough old bird who gave birth to her son in her car, on stakeout. She cut the cord with her pocket knife, tucked the little guy into her shirt, he latched right on, and she went back to surveillance.”

  I rolled my eyes at his tall tale, but the sandwich did smell good. I reluctantly grabbed it and munched away while we drove to the Lake residence.