Kyle grinned, putting his boyish dimples on display. “We all have our blind spots,” he said.
“Some of us more than others,” Logan said.
Kyle kept up his grin. “As much as I’d like to socialize, I am going to have to escort you off the premises. Let’s step outside, where you folks can get into that truck and drive off at a reasonable speed so I don’t have to issue you a ticket.”
I pointed to the sink. “We’ll go, but get out your little notepad and write this down. Have the CSI techs pull prints and DNA from these tumblers and the bottle. Oh, and Logan saw someone, possibly a gardener, leaving the pool area when we arrived on the scene. He called out to the person, but they ran away like they had something to hide. They came out of the hedge.” I snapped my fingers. “You guys need to do a sweep of the hedge. The person might have been taking a shortcut, or they might have been hiding something. At the very least, they might be a witness.”
Kyle’s dimples grew even larger. “Last I checked, Miss Day, you weren’t the captain.” He waved for us to proceed toward the door.
“Dimples, I’m not joking around,” I said. “You don’t have to tell anyone it was my idea. Act like you thought of it all yourself.”
Kyle nodded. “Prints and DNA on some suspicious tumblers, and then beat the bushes for clues. Got it.”
Logan said, “Officer Dempsey, with all due respect, may I speak with you in private for a moment?”
“If it’s outside, sure,” Kyle said.
We followed him to the door and exited the hangar. During the few minutes we’d been inside, the mist had turned into actual rain.
I didn’t know what Logan wanted to talk to Kyle about privately, but I trusted his judgment. I got into the truck and waited.
As the two men talked, Kyle’s expression became more somber. Logan pointed to the sky a few times. Kyle used his police radio to communicate with someone else and then shook Logan’s hand. He jumped into his police cruiser and drove away, back toward the mansion.
Logan returned, slid into the driver’s side, and started the engine.
I said, “Do you think he understands what’s going on here? I hope you mentioned the thirty million dollars.”
“That boy’s just a smidge smarter than he looks.”
“But not smart enough to take me seriously,” I said. “You, however, had him eating out of the palm of your hand, like a horse to sugar cubes.”
Logan put the vehicle in gear and started driving. “I have a few tricks.” We drove toward the mansion, as it was the only way to exit the property.
“What did you tell Dimples?”
“The exact same thing you did, but in a man’s voice.” He pulled on his seat belt at the request of the female voice coming from the vehicle’s navigation system.
“That’s not much of a trick,” I said.
“Don’t hold it against me,” he said. “You know I take you very seriously. Young Officer Dempsey probably wasn’t able to think straight, since he’s so in love with you.”
I laughed. “Oh, please.”
“At least I made you laugh,” Logan said. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”
We reached the front of the mansion, where an ambulance was pulling away just as several more police vehicles arrived.
“This is bad,” Logan said. “And things are only going to get worse.”
I got the terrible feeling he wasn’t just being pessimistic.
Chapter 6
If you’re ever in Misty Falls around lunchtime, and you’ve got a hankering for pasta, stop by the Olive Grove. This quaint Italian restaurant pre-dates the large Olive Garden chain, so any similarities are coincidental. In fact, if you mention to your waiter or waitress that the Olive Grove is much nicer than the similarly named chain, you may be the recipient of a complimentary take-home box of freshly-baked almond biscotti. The biscotti are famously crunchy and absolutely must be dipped in coffee.
“How about the Olive Grove?” I suggested to Logan.
He was driving, a good ten miles below the speed limit, and silently lost in his thoughts. He hadn’t said a word since we’d exited the iron gates of the Koenig Estate.
“Why?” he asked.
“Food. Coffee. And if you need a third reason, almond biscotti.”
“Okay,” he said, putting on the turn signal as we approached Broad Avenue.
I didn’t voice my concerns, but I could tell my boyfriend was off balance. Technically, almond biscotti fit within the general category of food, which was the first reason I’d cited, so it wasn’t a legitimate third reason. It wasn’t at all like detail-oriented, always-ready-for-battle Logan Sanderson to let my error go without a challenge.
We parked in the restaurant’s parking lot and went in. The air smelled of lemon and herbs. The lunch rush hadn’t started yet, so we would have our choice of seats in the near-empty restaurant.
A blonde with dark lipstick greeted us. She held up her hands and joked, “Don’t hit me, Stormy. I’m unarmed!”
I shook my head and smiled. “How are you, Harper?”
She rolled her eyes. “Eager for the school year to start so I can get Hayley off to school. She’s driving me nuts.”
I asked, “What grade?”
“Eleventh grade. She’s sixteen now, and she wants to drive my Torino.” Harper steered us to a corner booth and set the menus on the table while we slid into the seats. “They grow up so fast.” She cleared away the extra place settings. “Coffee? Vanilla latte for you, Stormy?”
I agreed, and Logan said he’d have the same, even though he often switched to tea by mid-day.
“How about breakfast?” I asked. “Are we too late?”
She answered, “We can rustle up some eggs if that’s what you’re craving.” She glanced over at Logan and then gave me a knowing look. “Sleeping in late with your boyfriend can really fire up the appetite.”
“That’s not... we were... oh, never mind.” I waved her away.
After Harper left, Logan said to me, “How does that girl have a sixteen-year-old daughter?”
“Hayley is her little sister,” I explained, and then I reminded him of how I’d met the girls. He knew about the whole incident, including how I’d assaulted poor Harper with an economy-sized jug of laundry detergent, but hadn’t connected her face with the story. That was also very unlike him.
Harper brought our two cups of coffee. We both ordered the day’s brunch special, a one-egg omelet and a half waffle—the perfect mix of savory and sweet.
We sat in silence until Logan said, “Sorry I’m not better company.”
“Do you want to talk about what’s bothering you?” I glanced around to make sure no one was within hearing range. “Or is this location not private enough?”
He frowned at his coffee. “Like I said earlier, the less you know, the better. Paranoia is a bit like yawning or the common cold. It’s contagious.”
“Are you saying Dieter Koenig was paranoid? Did he think someone was planning to kill him? His son Drake certainly had an interesting reaction to his father’s death. He’s lucky he was on that jet, or he’d be getting grilled by Tony and the gang right about now.”
Logan winced. “Lucky, indeed. Drake and Brandon Koenig are his only children. Their grief is probably mitigated by the belief they’ll be inheriting fifteen million dollars each.” He pressed his lips together and made a sound that suggested there was more to the story but he wasn’t telling.
I gave him a sidelong look. “The belief they’ll be inheriting that dough? Is there some reason they won’t get everything? What is it? Are there other children they don’t know about splitting the family jewels? Business deals gone wrong and more debt than cash?”
I had a thousand more questions but stopped talking when Harper arrived with our breakfast. We started eating, and I waited patiently for Logan to divulge more details.
Finally, he said, “How well does your father know the maid, Erica Garcia?”
I lea
ned in and focused on my omelet. “How well? You’ll have to ask my father yourself.” I took two bites and chewed. “Why?”
“She’d be a good resource for finding out the general mood of things at the mansion. I have some questions, but I don’t want to tip anyone off that I’m snooping around.”
“Because it could be dangerous?” I asked.
“Maybe. But I’ve also got to think about my long-term business plans in this town. I’ve made enemies in the past, and I’m not eager to make those mistakes again.”
I worked my way through the remainder of my small omelet. Logan could be very open about some things, such as his emotions, but he didn’t discuss his past. I respected his request for privacy, and hadn’t done so much as an internet search on his name. My father wasn’t nearly as respectful of Logan’s wishes, but then again, he was my father. He’d assured me there were no red flags, so I’d left the matter alone for the time being.
“I could talk to Erica,” I said. “As a friend, unofficially.”
“You’d get paid,” Logan said.
“I’m not worried about that.” I studied his face, which gave away little. “But I am worried about you. This whole thing has really rattled you.”
He scoffed as he poured maple syrup over his waffle. “Rattled? No way. Let’s not forget, I ran that mile to the hangar in under four minutes, and on an empty stomach.”
“There’s no way you ran a four-minute mile,” I said.
“And I did it in dress shoes,” he said with a smile.
I pried the maple syrup container from his hand before he used it all up. “Whether it was four minutes or not, you were very heroic to run after that guy, whoever he was.”
The smile dropped off his face. “But I let him get away.”
“You’re assuming something sinister happened. It might have been a simple accident. It would appear that Dieter slipped and hit his head, probably on the diving board, and either that killed him or he drowned.” I shivered and rubbed my arms. “Poor guy. I hope he didn’t suffer.”
“He really was a great man,” Logan said. “I was just getting to know him, and I genuinely liked him. He had big ideas for the town, and he wasn’t ready to shuffle off into retirement.”
“Like what? More factories?”
“He wanted to boost tourism. He wanted to buy more land and invest in infrastructure, in things that might take twenty years to start seeing a profit.”
I took a slow sip of my latte. “Have you ever seen one of those bumper stickers on a motorhome? The ones that say We’re spending the kids’ inheritance?”
He let out a dark laugh. “I see your point. His sons might not have approved of his plans.” He shook his head. “I just wish I could have caught the guy in the hat. He was so fast.”
“We’ll get him again,” I said. “You’re a great lawyer, and I know you’ll stop at nothing for your clients. If someone killed Dieter Koenig, they’re in big trouble.”
“Big trouble,” he agreed.
“Now, are you going to tell me who he was dating, or do I need to drag it out of you?”
He looked down at his plate and frowned.
“Do I know her?” I asked.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“And? Mr. Sanderson, I will resort to drastic measures if you don’t tell me. I’ll eat your waffle.”
He looked around, took a deep breath, and said, “Della.”
“Very funny. Who was he really dating?”
“I’m not joking,” he said.
“Della.” My stomach clenched.
Chapter 7
"The singer?” asked my father. “That Della? The woman who ran the karaoke night at the Fox and Hound?”
“Among other things,” I said. “May I have another dinner roll?”
He handed me the basket across the table.
It was Sunday night, and I was at his house for a quiet dinner with just the two of us.
After my late breakfast at the Olive Grove, Logan dropped me off at the house and left for his office, warning me not to wait up. I puttered around in the garden for a few hours, wreaking havoc on some weeds, before heading over to my father’s for dinner.
“I hear she’s a good singer,” he said.
“Dad, haven’t you seen Della sing a bunch of times when you go to karaoke nights with your friends?”
“I’ve seen her,” he said, grinning. “But with the way she dresses, it’s hard to tell what she sounds like, unless you look away, and why would you do that?”
I palmed my forehead. “You wouldn’t be such a fan if she’d thrown you down in the mud and wrestled her way on top of you.”
With perfect timing, he said, “Maybe I’d like her even more.”
I pretended to throw a dinner roll at his head.
He helped himself to a second serving of the roast, as well as more of the tomato salad.
“Have yourself plenty of salad,” he said. “Tomatoes are supposed to be good for reducing inflammation.”
“Are you saying my face looks puffy? It feels puffy.”
“You look fine for your age. Not a day over forty.”
I shook my head. I’d be turning thirty-four in October, and he’d been giving me a hard time about catching up to him.
I took some salad, including extra tomatoes.
“Tell me more about this favor Logan wants,” he said.
I added a splash of dressing to the salad and finished catching him up on the events of the day, including Logan’s request.
My father, Finnegan Day, made many friends during his years working as a police officer in the town of Misty Falls. Even the people he’d arrested or issued tickets to showed him begrudging respect on account of his professional, fair treatment.
Women in particular appreciated his even fairer treatment. With a few charming words and a quirk of his eyebrow, Finnegan Day could turn the most reluctant witness into an eager criminal informant, especially if she was his type—and my father’s type was any woman who found him charming.
He’d helped the Koenig family’s maid, Erica Garcia, during a domestic dispute years ago. I didn’t need to hear the details to understand the impact. I could tell by the reverence in Erica’s voice that my father had been a hero in her time of need.
I explained how Logan wanted to put out some unofficial feelers to get a sense of the mood at the Koenig Estate.
My father called Erica’s home and got her on the phone.
“How are you holding up, my dear?” he asked.
He nodded for a moment then said, “That’s all to be expected, after discovering your employer doing the full float in the pool. I hear you were a real hero and you dove right in there after him. You should be commended for your bravery.”
More nodding.
“Don’t blame yourself,” he told her. “You couldn’t have known there was suntan lotion on the diving board.”
My ears perked up. Suntan lotion would support the theory of an accident, unless it had been put on the diving board on purpose.
“I suppose we’ll never know for certain,” he said.
I frowned. He was just offering comfort, but I refused to believe we’d never know what happened to Dieter that morning.
I cleaned up the dinner dishes while my father spoke to Erica. They talked for nearly thirty minutes. The conversation moved upstairs to his den, where I couldn’t overhear his side.
When the call was finished, my father came downstairs and reported that Erica was shaken up but taking the events with her usual sweetness and grace.
“She’s got the day off work tomorrow,” he told me. “We shall be stopping by her house at eleven in the morning for a social call.”
“In person? I thought you were going to get the information over the phone. Don’t tell me we’re going over there just so you can flirt with her in person.”
He pretended to be offended. “Me? Flirt? You’re confusing flirtation with being nice.”
“Why haven�
�t you dated Erica, anyway? She likes you a lot.”
“Since when do you offer your old man dating advice? You’ve gotten cheeky since you turned fifty.”
It was my turn to act offended.
“We’ll have fun tomorrow,” he said. “You can drive us in the Batmobile.”
He cracked open a can of his favorite cheap beer, and we settled in to watch some of our favorite true-crime shows. Around ten, I returned home to my cat and roommate.
Jessica had heard the news through various sources, so I caught her up on everything I could divulge before retiring for the night.
My dreams were relentless and confusing. Each one featured Drake Koenig. He played my friend and my foe, charming and evil, my enemy and my lover. I awoke in a guilty sweat around two o’clock and took a sleeping pill to keep him at bay.
The next morning, yawning from the lingering effects of the bad dreams and sleeping pill, I drove to my father’s house.
I turned onto Warbler Drive at 10:44 a.m., a minute early. He was already waiting, standing on the sidewalk in front of his house. He wore a suit, dark sunglasses, and a summer-weight fedora. The sun glinted off his cane’s handle—the handle that also served as the hilt for the sword hidden within. He’d recovered robustly from a total hip replacement on one side nine months earlier and didn’t need the cane, but as he put it, “Once you’ve had a cane sword, you can’t live without a cane sword.”
I turned off the stereo as he slid into the passenger side.
“Dad, what’s with the hat?” I asked. “You look like you’re auditioning for the Blues Brothers.”
He set the fedora on his lap and shot me a grin. With an exaggerated thickness to his usual Irish brogue, he replied, “The world’s a stage, and we’re all unrehearsed, but at the very least, we can make our entrance with some style.”
He gave me the address for the Garcia residence.
As we drove there, he expounded on his philosophy of style versus fashion.
“Stormy, the thing is, fashions come and go, but style is eternal, because it’s an expression of your true self.”
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