“Okay, I won't call you sneaky. But I truly do admire the way you get the truth out of people. I tried to talk to Samantha a couple times during the open house, but she wouldn't admit to anything going on with Colt. If it wasn't for this hard evidence,” she waved the pink-stained handkerchief, “I'd probably convince myself that my eyes were lying, and I hadn't seen anything inappropriate in that tiny bedroom.”
“You mentioned something this morning about Samantha going through a rough time. Is it just the house that won't sell, or is she having problems with Mikey?”
She hesitated before answering. “They've got some money problems, but who doesn't?”
I didn't have money problems, but I kept that to myself. I'd been thinking about the bruise on her eye.
“Mikey always was a bully,” I said. “Do they fight over money? Or how to raise the kids?”
“Not too much. Sophie's going to need braces, but they're in agreement. The kid's teeth are super crooked. I didn't want to say anything in front of Samantha, but there's no way her daughter has a chance of getting cast in a TV show. She's a cute kid, but with those teeth, she won't get an acting role in anything, except maybe a before-and-after commercial for braces.”
“Poor thing. It's too bad she didn't inherit her father's teeth. Mikey always had a great smile. That's probably why the teachers let him get away with murder.” The more I thought about Michael Sweet in high school, the more my old memories came back. At that moment, a song that had been popular fifteen years ago started playing on my car's radio. As the chorus played, more old emotions returned in a flood.
In my mind's eye, I could see Mikey Sweet's perfect angelic smile as he stuck his foot out and tripped the unpopular kids in the cafeteria. I could also see his outraged expression when I “accidentally” dumped a tray of fries and gravy all over him. And then again the next week. And the next, due to Mikey Sweet being a slow learner. By the time he finally smartened up, I had started to wonder if Mikey actually enjoyed me dumping food on him.
It had been fifteen years since those cafeteria lessons. Had he learned how to be a better person, or had he simply switched to abusing people someplace I couldn't see him?
“This song reminds me of that spring dance,” Jessica said. She leaned over and turned up the volume on the radio. “Remember how Quinn got all the cheerleaders to wear the same outfit?” She laughed. “I thought I looked exactly like Britney Spears.”
“I thought you were going for Christina Aguilera?”
She giggled. “My hair was so straight, it looked like a red sheet of plastic.”
“At least your hair would go straight,” I replied with a groan. “My curls just sizzled and fried in the flat-iron. I spent a fortune on lotions and oils that didn't do anything. Hey, do you remember putting a raw egg and olive oil in my hair as a conditioner? Did that really happen, or am I mixing up home beauty treatments and Caesar salad recipes?”
“Was there anchovy paste?”
“I sure hope not. The fishy smell would have clashed with that sweet body spray we all used to bathe in.”
“I remember an incident involving your hair, and mayonnaise. I bet I have the photos to prove it.”
“You'd better not. As soon as we get home, I'm going to find all those photos, and the negatives, and make a bonfire.”
She flipped down the passenger-side sun visor and looked at herself in the small mirror. “Thankfully my eyebrows eventually grew back from those little comma shapes that were all the rage.”
“You had perfect eyebrows. You looked like a redheaded Gwen Stefani, especially with the rhinestones glued onto your forehead.”
“Thanks.” She flipped the visor up with a snap. “And you were a true friend, the way you stood by me through my tanning salon phase. I was such a sucker, the way I believed the girl at the counter. She swore my freckles would disappear once I built up enough of a base tan. She probably worked on commission. I hope she's as wrinkled as a raisin now.” She shook her head. “Thank goodness I switched to bronzer.”
“Sorry, but your self-tanning lotion phase wasn't much of an improvement. You were so orange, people kept asking me if you were sick. You looked like a Cheeto.”
She snorted. “Oh, yeah? Remember your chunky blond highlights? You looked like a zebra.”
“My zebra hair went perfectly with the eye shadow with sparkles so sharp they made my eyelids bleed.” I stared at the road ahead. “Guys are so lucky. The worst high school fashion crime they can commit is growing a wispy mustache.”
“Remember when Mikey Sweet came back from spring break in senior year with a goatee? He was so proud.”
“Yup.” I shifted uneasily in the driver's seat. “And when our history teacher teased him about it, Mikey got up and punched the guy in the face. I can't believe he didn't get expelled.”
“He was such a psycho,” Jessica said.
The song on the radio finished, and the DJ started talking about the House of Hallows casting call at the casino. The local rock station would be broadcasting live from the event that day. It was also the Casino's grand re-opening following extensive renovations. We listened for a few minutes, until the annoying jingle for the furniture store came on and I switched it off.
After a few minutes, Jessica asked, “Do you think people ever change their nature?”
“We're all capable of change. Is there some way you want to change?”
“I dunno.”
“Something's bothering you,” I said. “Are you sure you're up to this casino thing? It's going to be crowded and noisy. You always get wiped out by too much stimulation.”
“I want to go,” she said. “I just keep thinking about Samantha. She's so much like me. I wonder if she lets Mikey boss her around.”
“You think he's still the same bully he was in high school?”
“Yeah.”
I stole a glance over at my best friend. “Has he ever hit her?”
She answered quickly, “Of course not.”
“I saw the bruise on her eye. And she said it was from Michael.”
After a pause, she said, “I've never heard about him being abusive, physically. But then again, Samantha knows I tell you everything. If I ever did find out Michael hit her, I'd tell you, and then you'd tell your father, and then Mr. Day would jump into action. Michael would find himself dangling upside down from a suspension bridge over a creek, like what happened to that other guy.”
“Allegedly,” I said, clearing my throat. “You're referring to the rumored incident when my father allegedly dangled an abusive man over a canyon by his boots.”
Jessica snorted. “Sure. Allegedly. They must have gone up there for the after-hours bungee jumping.”
“No comment.” I turned my head away from the road to give Jessica a quick eyebrow waggle. Could I help it if I was proud of my dad? He drove me nuts, and his texting skills hadn't improved at all over the last year, but I loved him fiercely and admired him for the good he'd done in our community.
We arrived at the Canuso Casino, where I let out a low whistle of surprise at the quantity of vehicles on the premises. It was amazing Samantha had gotten any visitors to her open house, since it appeared the whole town of Misty Falls had driven out to the lakefront casino.
Since the main parking lot was completely full, we followed the hand-lettered signs to overflow parking. We eventually squeezed into a spot in the parking lot for the lake's campsites.
As we got out of my car and stretched from the drive, Jessica squinted at me in the autumn sunshine.
“Stormy, is it true you made Samantha cry?”
“I didn't make her cry. I said some things, and she cried, but I didn't make her cry.”
“Hmm.”
“It's been ages since we had one of those incidents,” I said. “Last winter, I simply pointed out some fundamental problems with the business investment opportunities she presented me with. Sometimes the truth hurts. But I never tried to tear her down. If anything, I've do
ne my best to build her up. I've given her a number of pep talks.”
“That explains it.” Jessica made a face, wrinkling her nose. “No offense, but your pep talks could use more pep.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“Just that it's hard for other people to keep up with you and your high level of standards.” She reached into the car and grabbed her floppy, wide-brimmed hat.
“My standards aren't that high,” I retorted. “And I think the fragrant aroma of garbage currently coming off my clothes hamper will attest to that.”
“True. You're not exactly a perfectionist, or a neat freak. And your diet lately leaves a lot to be desired. When I say high standards, I mean something else. It's hard to put into words, but I can see why men like Colt always chase after you. You're like a wild horse.”
“Thanks, I think.”
She donned her floppy hat, glanced up at the clear blue sky, and then sneezed three times from the bright light. She muttered, “Why do I always do that to myself?”
Her question was rhetorical, but I answered anyway. “People are paradoxical,” I said. “We want what we can't have, and we do things we know are bad for us. And then we lie about it.”
She reached into the car again, grabbed the wrapper from my recent gas station hot dog, and playfully flung it over the roof of the vehicle at me. “Tell me about it, Miss I Never Eat Gas Station Hot Dogs.”
I picked up the wrapper, folded it roughly into a paper airplane shape and sailed it back at her. “That's not mine,” I lied. “My dad borrowed my car last week while the Torino was at the garage. It must be his.”
She caught the wrapper, unfolded it, and examined the interior while she rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “There's a smudge of mustard in here, but the real evidence is the lack of evidence. No ketchup or green relish. Being a close friend of the Day family, I happen to know that Mr. Finnegan Day would never eat a hot dog without every kind of condiment.”
She had me. “No comment,” I said.
She pursed her lips in my direction before walking over to the parking lot's bear-resistant garbage bins to dispose of the hot dog wrapper.
I opened the trunk of the car, grabbed two bottles of water, and cracked the lid off one as I looked down the long access road at the distant casino. I'd never seen the place so busy. People must have come from miles around to audition for a few roles.
The DJ on the radio had been talking about the odds of a local kid landing the role of Kinley. Paradoxically, the more he talked about it, the more I actually wanted to win the role for myself. And I was twenty-some years too old for the part.
Funny how we always want what we can't have.
Chapter 6
The casino had finished their costly expansion since my last visit in the summer. It was no longer just a simple casino with an attached boutique hotel. It had been officially renamed the Canuso Lake Casino and Resort, with a sign boasting about its new conference and spa facilities.
Between the upgraded Canuso facilities and the Flying Squirrel Lodge up in the nearby mountains, our little corner of Oregon was becoming quite the tourist attraction.
As we entered the crowd of people milling around in the entry atrium, Jessica took my elbow and murmured, “The whole town must be here.”
“Plus a whole lot of the surrounding area.” I scanned the crowd. “Times like these, I wish I was taller,” I commented.
Jessica saw me scanning and asked, “Are you looking for someone in particular? Maybe Colt Canuso? He probably came right back here after he left Samantha's open house. This is a huge event for the casino, and I'm sure he'll be around to keep an eye on everything.”
“I've seen enough of Colt Canuso for today,” I said with a snort. “The man I'd like to have a few words with is Michael Sweet.”
“No!” She made a face like she'd just eaten a lemon. “You and Mikey don't mix.”
“We're both adults now. We can have a simple chat about current events.”
“You'd better not breathe a word about Colt kissing Samantha. Give me that handkerchief.”
She moved with surprising speed, grabbed the handkerchief from my pocket, and stuffed it into her bra.
“You've lost your mind,” I said. “I just wanted to talk to Mikey and see if I get a guilty vibe from him. I could drop some hints that if I ever see a bruise on his wife, he might find himself dangling over a canyon.”
“Let it go,” she said, still making the lemon-pucker face. “This isn't one of your detective cases. I get that you're bored of weighing people's garbage, but you can't go stirring up trouble for no good reason.”
“Stirring up trouble?” I was genuinely surprised at my best friend's vehemence. She was usually more supportive of my wacky schemes.
“Don't you have some sort of ethics code? We don't even know if Samantha willingly kissed Colt back. He might have stolen that kiss.”
I gave her a dirty look. “I'm not a monster, Jess. I'm not going to tell Michael Sweet his wife has been smooching other guys all over town. I just want to chat with him for a few minutes and get a feel for whether or not he's changed since high school. I've barely seen the guy since I moved back to town. Maybe he's become a totally decent person.”
“And if he hasn't? Then what?” She looked down and adjusted the handkerchief she'd stuffed in her bra. “This isn't one of your cases. It's none of your business.” Softly, she added, “Plus you might make everything worse for Samantha if you start asking questions.”
I stared into her serene blue eyes. In addition to being an excellent baker and cheerful roommate, Jessica did have some sensibilities where I was lacking. Sure, she was the first one to jump into freezing cold water at the annual Polar Bear Dip, but when it came to personal boundaries, she knew when to be cautious.
Jessica made a good point. If Samantha was having problems with Michael, the best thing we could do was be patient and listen to her. Unfortunately, one side effect of becoming a private investigator was that I'd forgotten how to be patient and let things unfold in their own time. Or maybe it wasn't the PI thing. Maybe I'd always been pushing people into motion, poking at problems to move conflicts toward their conclusion. Was this the indescribable character trait people were alluding to when they said I suited the name of Stormy?
“You're right,” I said begrudgingly. “The Sweets' marriage is not my business now. But I swear, if anything happens, I'm going to make it my business.”
She gave me a patient smile. “Your heart's in the right place.”
“It's not my heart that Mikey needs to worry about.” I glanced around the crowded atrium.
The local news crew was interviewing people on an elevated platform. Daphne, the clueless weather girl, was handing a microphone to a dark-haired young woman in a sparkling dress. It was Della Koenig, the town's wealthiest widow and an aspiring pop singer. I quickly turned my back to the platform before Della could catch my eye. She'd hired me for a few small investigative jobs over the last two months, and I was in danger of becoming someone she considered a friend. People's tongues already wagged about me now, just being a private investigator, but if I started hanging out with Della the Diva Widow, all those tongues would be moving at light speed. We'd need to get a tongue specialist set up in Misty Falls to reattach all the tongues that went flying off people's faces.
The scent of baked goods hit my nostrils. Bagels? Panini sandwiches? I sniffed the air.
Jessica must have smelled the delicious aroma at the same time. “Soft pretzels,” she said. “I see a sign over there. Eee! Free samples!”
“Sold,” I said, moving in the direction of the heavenly scent. “Let's go line up for a soft pretzel. If we just happen to bump into either Colt or Michael, I'll try to be normal. I'll even make”—I pretended to gag—“small talk. About the weather and stuff.”
“Good,” she said. “Do you want your hankie back?”
I eyed her chest. “It's yours now. Do you want another hankie for the ot
her side, to even them out?”
She rolled her eyes as she grabbed my elbow to steer me through the crowd and into the line for the free soft pretzels.
We found a gap in the crowd and took our places.
Behind me, an indignant male voice called out, “Hey, lady! No budding in the line.”
Hey lady? I knew that voice. A chill ran up my spine.
He called out again. “Hey, lady, the line starts behind me.”
I knew that voice. Hearing it brought me back to a day of tragedy. It was last November, not long after I'd returned to Misty Falls to help my retired cop father following his hip replacement surgery. On that crisp winter day, I'd met my sweet little cat, Jeffrey Blue, as well as my future tenant and boyfriend, Logan Sanderson. But I'd also discovered the frozen body of my father's neighbor. And I'd had my first encounter with Chip the Mailman.
I turned around slowly. “Hello, Chip,” I said through gritted teeth.
It was Chip, all right—the mail carrier whose regular route included Warbler Street, where I'd grown up and where my father still lived. Chip the Mailman was in his early thirties, like me, but bigger and taller—average height for a man. Despite his job that had him walking around most of the day, he sported a build that could be kindly described as “big-boned.” He had a round face, pale with splotches of red on his cheeks, and fair hair that was straight and fine, like a baby's. In many ways, he resembled an extra-large toddler, albeit one who was constantly sweating.
The air conditioning inside the casino was working well, and the space was almost uncomfortably cool, even with the large crowd. Chip wore shorts and sandals, yet he was sweating, drips of moisture beading on his wide forehead. I'd seen him sweating outside in the middle of winter, which was one reason I'd initially suspected him of killing my father's neighbor and hiding the body in a snowman. Chip and I had encountered each other a few times since last November, but we'd never gotten over our first, suspicious impressions of each other.
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