Stormy Day Mysteries 5-Book Cozy Murder Mystery Series Bundle

by Angela Pepper

  “How much do you charge for five minutes? I'll hire you now, and you can cough up whatever it is you're not telling me.”

  That again. She was a good cop, and she wasn't wrong. I did know something I hadn't shared. Namely that the most obvious suspect was Colt Canuso.

  “I would never obstruct justice,” I said. “If I knew who killed Michael Sweet, I'd tell you.”

  “You have a theory, don't you?”

  True, I had some suspicions, but the killer hadn't exactly left a calling card. “Officer Wiggles, I was in the house maybe twenty minutes before you showed up. I looked over the body, and I peeked into the washing machine downstairs. That's it.”

  “That's it?” Her cobalt-blue eyes remained steady. “If you know more, spit it out now so I don't have to haul your hiney down to the station.”

  “Don't waste your time with me. I don't know anything.” I tried to relax my throat so my voice wasn't squeaky. I also tried not to think about Colt Canuso, and where he might have been between the time when I'd seen him at Glorious Gifts and the time Michael Sweet got himself stabbed between twenty-three and twenty-five times.

  Wiggles narrowed her eyes and clenched her angular jaw. “No, I suppose twenty minutes wasn't enough time to do much investigating. But it's a good thing we got here as quickly as we did, before you could start your autopsy on the victim.”

  I had to laugh. “A visual inspection of a body is not the same as an autopsy.”

  With a casual tone, she asked, “How long had the victim been dead when you arrived on the scene?”

  I cleared my throat. “How would I know?”

  “Stormy.”

  She had me. “Based on temperature, I'd say about two hours.”

  “Do I want to know how you took his temperature?”

  “Probably not.” I fidgeted with the strap of my purse.

  She eyed my purse. “You keep a meat thermometer in that bag of yours?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “But the homeowners, like most people, keep a thermometer in their bathroom vanity.”

  “Please tell me you didn't stick the thermometer into one of the stab wounds.”

  I blinked innocently.

  She shook her head.

  I asked, “Was it fast? Did he die quickly?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I didn't see very much blood on the walls of that tiny bathroom. Some spray from the blade, but it seemed he went down without much of a fight.”

  “The killer got lucky and nicked some major arteries. There would have been a hell of a lot more blood on the scene if he hadn't been stabbed in the tub.”

  “He was killed in the tub? Not transferred there?”

  She looked away from me and started rubbing her temples. She muttered, “Why am I telling all this stuff to you? Milano's going to bite me on the hiney.”

  “Peggy,” I said softly. “Am I still allowed to call you Peggy?”

  She kept rubbing her temples. “I don't know. Are you going to tell me who stabbed Michael Sweet?”

  “I want to cooperate with the investigation, I really do. But I don't want to be responsible for ruining the lives of innocent people who may or may not be involved.”

  “One name,” she said. “Give me one person to look into.”

  “Start with Samantha. Rule her out first and see if she has any ideas.”

  Wiggles leaned to the side with a squeak and pulled her phone from her pocket. “Want to see something cute?”

  “Is it cute enough to wash away the image of Michael Sweet dead in a bathtub?”

  “Temporarily, yes. This is what Peekaboo has gotten into.”

  She set a slideshow of cat pictures running and handed me the phone.

  Peekaboo was a well-fed orange tabby with hypnotic orange eyes. He'd been a scrawny rescue kitten when Officer Peggy Wiggles had adopted him, before she moved to Oregon and joined the Misty Falls Police Department. The little guy had been skittish, almost feral, and spent the first few weeks hiding in tiny spaces and burrowing into piles of laundry.

  Peekaboo was no longer the tiny orange bit of fluff that Peggy had to be careful not to dump into the washing machine. But his cat brain hadn't gotten the memo that he now weighed close to twenty pounds and didn't fit into small shoeboxes.

  I giggled at the images of chubby Peekaboo trying to fit himself into a series of smaller containers. The final three photos were Peekaboo sitting on a kitchen table wearing a square Chinese-food takeout container as a helmet.

  “That cat is a superstar,” I said. “I'd suggest a play date between him and Jeffrey, but with all that cuteness in one place at the same time, it might cause a rift in the space-time continuum.”

  “Plus they'd just hiss at each other.”

  “True,” I said. “Jeffrey is not very fond of other creatures encroaching on his kingdom, unless they have two hands for petting.”

  “Pictures?”

  “I thought you'd never ask.” I pulled out my phone and showed her pictures of Jeffrey Blue's recent antics. “He's stopped drinking out of the toilet,” I said. “We put a big bowl of water on the edge of the tub, and he prefers that, as long as it's fresh. Really fresh. You have to fill his bowl with cold water while he's watching you, so he knows it's fresh. And it has to be right up to the brim.”

  “Peekaboo has a fountain. It's actually nice to have a running water feature inside the house.” She turned her head and looked up at the house.

  Officer Kyle Dempsey, also known as Dimples, was adjusting the yellow crime-scene tape strung across the front porch. He saw us looking and gave us a wave. The expression on his face was so serious that none of his infamous dimples were showing.

  “So?” Officer Peggy Wiggles turned to face me again. “Are you going to give me a name or two?”

  “Have a look at the visitor log from Saturday's open house,” I said. “Samantha found a strange man in the kitchen, holding a big knife. He claimed to be cutting a tiny cupcake in half, but it sounded fishy to me.”

  She grinned. “There. Was that so difficult?”

  I smiled back at her. Actually, it had been difficult. Since the moment I'd seen Michael Sweet's lifeless body, I'd been thinking about my friend Colt, and how bad the situation looked for him. A lot of people had witnessed him punching Michael Sweet on Saturday and threatening him. It was a small miracle that Officer Wiggles hadn't yet learned of that altercation.

  Or did she already know? Had she invited me to sit in the car with her as a means of softly breaking me?

  Had I accidentally incriminated my friend? By not mentioning him as a name for her to look into, had I all but driven the investigation straight at him?

  “You've really been a big help,” Wiggles said, still grinning.

  “Oh, I wouldn't say that,” I said. “You aren't looking for a cupcake killer, and that's all I've given you.”

  “Actually, it's more about what you haven't given me,” she said. “I know all about what happened at the casino on the weekend.”

  A thousand swear words went off in my head at the same time. She did have Colt as a suspect.

  I gave her a weak smile. “Everyone loves frolicking in a water fountain.”

  “One more thing,” she said. “An alarm reminder came up on Mrs. Sweet's phone. Somebody needs to pick her daughter up from school and the baby from daycare.”

  I stammered, “A-a-and you think that somebody should be me?”

  “Just until other arrangements have been made.”

  I felt a heavy thud in my guts, like I'd been punched. “Poor Sadie.”

  “Her name is Sophie.”

  “Poor Sophie. Someone needs to tell that girl her father's dead.”

  “Can you keep her calm and entertained until her mother can tell her?”

  “I'm not great with kids.”

  “You're great with people. Kids are just people,” she said, and she gave me the address of Sophie's school.

  Chapter 14

 
; I had only met Samantha and Michael's daughter, Sophie, a handful of times. I'd accidentally called her Sadie or Sofia or even Sammy Junior on a few occasions. The last one had been intentional, but she'd acted mortally wounded. I wondered, would she even recognize me, let alone get into my car?

  This was exactly the kind of Stranger Danger scenario that we, as a society, educate our children about. I'd never expected to be on this side of a potential learning lesson. Normally, if a stranger, or even a vaguely familiar acquaintance, gets sent to pick a kid up after school, saying there's been an emergency involving the child's parent, there's supposed to be a password. But I didn't know Samantha and Michael's password, assuming they had one.

  If little Sophie Sweet had good sense, she'd turn right around as soon as I approached, and go straight to the principal's office to report me for attempted child abduction. Then the police would be called in, except they wouldn't be available, due to the small matter of the town's latest homicide.

  What I wanted to avoid was another phone call to the Misty Falls Police Department, not to mention further traumatizing the poor child who didn't yet know she'd lost her father.

  I approached the girl's school and followed the signs directing parents to the pickup area.

  I parked my car and quickly checked myself for blood. I'd been cautious around the body, but Samantha had already gotten Michael's blood smeared all over herself before I'd shown up, and she had grasped my hand and arm a few times.

  It turned out I did have blood on me, on the edge of my shirt sleeve. I swallowed down my revulsion and quickly rolled up both my sleeves. Is this just normal for me now? Seeing corpses and casually checking myself for transfer stains?

  Other than the wave of queasiness I'd felt upon seeing the blood on my sleeve, I'd been feeling okay, considering. I hadn't even been sick at the crime scene. It certainly helped that I'd skipped lunch and didn't have any stomach contents to throw up. But I did wonder, was this part of the change other people saw in me?

  I pushed open my car door and stepped out into the afternoon sunshine. It was the first week of October now. We'd been having such a mild autumn, it felt as though summer had been extended indefinitely. A cool breeze made the trees next to the school rustle peacefully.

  What a perfect day to abduct a small child, I thought darkly.

  I scanned the playground for Sophie and spotted a familiar face by the swings. It wasn't until I reached the swing set that I realized the little girl wasn't Sophie. She was Quinby, the daughter of Chip and Quinn. On the plus side, at least she knew who I was and could vouch for me to her best friend.

  “Hi, Q,” I said, waving. “Sophie's mother sent me to pick her up.”

  “You're late,” Quinby said, her expression serious. “Sophie decided to walk home.” She jumped off the swing and twirled around the support post.

  “Oh?” I turned and looked around for signs of Sophie.

  With a tattletale tone, Quinby said, “It's not the first time her mom has forgotten her, you know.”

  “Is that so? How often does Mrs. Sweet forget?”

  Quinby rolled her eyes. “All the time. My mom says she's not the sharpest knife in the pack. Or is it the roundest marble?” Quinby wrinkled her small brow. “I can't remember, but what I'm trying to tell you is my mom says she's stupid.”

  The pint-sized future head cheerleader twirled once more around the support post then returned to the swing. She parked her butt on the U-shaped seat, walked it back, and kicked off swinging. The squeak-squeak of the chain supports made me long for carefree younger days.

  “It's not very nice to call someone stupid,” I said.

  “What if it's true?” She grinned, showing her perfect teeth. Darn it if she didn't look angelic, despite insulting my adult friend.

  “You know, it's not your fault you're this way. That sounds exactly like something your mother would say. She used to call me lazy.”

  Quinby pumped her legs, swinging higher and higher. “You're not lazy. My mom says you're busy.” The chains on the swing squeaked as though in protest as she soared high above my head. “Busy, busy, busy. You're a real busybody.”

  “She's not wrong,” I said, turning to leave. “Tell your mother I said hello.”

  Quinby abruptly launched herself out of the swing and landed beside me. “Tell her yourself.” She grabbed my hand and tugged me back toward the parking lot. “She's standing over there staring at us like a weirdo. Maybe she has to use the bathroom. She has the ABS. Angry Bum Syndrome.”

  Quinn McCabe was up ahead, standing next to a Range Rover. When she saw us looking her way, she waved and quickly turned around to open the vehicle's rear door.

  “Q, I think you mean IBS. Irritable Bowel Syndrome.”

  “No, Stormy, it's called ABS. It means you get to yell at people if they don't let you use the staff washroom. Angry Bum Syndrome.”

  “You learn something new every day,” I said as we reached the parking lot and her mother. “Hello again, Quinn. Funny how we haven't seen each other in a decade, and now we've bumped into each other twice in one day.”

  She buttoned her oversized sweater over her little black dress. She crossed her arms over her stomach and looked at me while lifting her upper lip in a chipmunk gesture that reminded me of her mail carrier husband, Chip.

  Her eyes had a glazed-over appearance. “Twice in one day?” Her head tilted forward slowly and then jerked up again. “Oh! We were supposed to have lunch. Stormy, I'm so sorry. I got so busy, and I forgot to come see you.” She patted her daughter's blond head. “I got busy with important meetings for Q's career. We have to get head shots and a website. I'll make it up to you, I swear. I'll buy you lunch at the best place in town.”

  “Don't worry about it,” I said. “It's been a crazy day, and it was for the best I didn't eat lunch, as it turns out.”

  “Oh?” She raised one eyebrow and grinned. “Have you got any hot gossip for me?”

  “Not today, Quinn.”

  Her daughter looked up at her. “Mom, I told Stormy about ABS. She didn't know what it meant.”

  All the color went out of Quinn's face. She pulled the front of her cardigan tight across her front and hissed at her daughter, “Sweetheart, we don't discuss these things outside the family.”

  Quinby made two small fists and stomped her foot. “There are so many secrets, I can't keep track of all of them!”

  “Kids,” Quinn said to me with a twisted smile. “When are you going to start popping some out?” She squinted at my midsection. “In about six months?”

  “Ha ha.” Luckily, my cycle had been regular so she didn't scare me. I backed away, toward my car. “I'm really sorry but I have to run. I'm picking up Sadie on behalf of Samantha. I mean Sofia. Er, Sophie. Do you have any idea what street she would have started walking down?”

  Quinn looked over her shoulder, eastward. “I have a good idea where she'll be. You can go home, Stormy. I'll pick her up myself. Is Samantha at the house?”

  “Long story, but I'll be getting Sophie.”

  She uncrossed her arms and bunched up the front of her sweater. It was a men's sweater, dark gray, and quite bulky for such a warm afternoon.

  “What's going on?” She opened the back door of the vehicle and ushered her daughter into the seat. She closed the door and whispered, “Does it have something to do with those two security goons from the casino? I saw them skulking around downtown. The big one and the bigger one.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  She shrugged. “I don't mean to be prejudiced, but some of those people Colt has working for him are super sketchy. A lot of them have criminal records and can't get work anywhere else.”

  “Good to know,” I said. “Which street would Sophie have taken? I really should go. Even in Misty Falls, a little girl shouldn't be on her own at a time like this.”

  “That street.” Quinn turned and pointed. “Then left on Laurel and right on Gumdrop.”

  I thanked he
r and jogged toward my car. I kept my face calm, but on the inside I had a new thing to panic about.

  Quinn was a snob, but she'd still given me some valuable information. Two of Colt's security guards had been seen in town today.

  My small list of suspects had doubled. There was Colt, the stranger who'd been cutting a cupcake, and now the two security guards. Samantha wasn't on my list, no matter what the statistics said about homicide by spouse.

  Chapter 15

  I found Sophie a third of the way to her house. She had her pink backpack strapped on and was dawdling along in no particular hurry. When she slowly turned to look in my direction, I was reminded of my sister, Sunny, at that age. She'd always been the slowpoke, stopping to smell every flower or to “rescue” snails by helping them cross the sidewalk.

  Had my sister and I ever been as small as eight-year-old Sophie, with her dainty pink shoes and her child-sized backpack? It didn't seem possible.

  I pulled the car over, jumped out, and jogged up to the sidewalk with a friendly smile. Sophie barely noticed me. I knelt before her on the sidewalk and delivered the speech I'd been preparing on the drive, about how her mother really had sent me, but I didn't know the family password, yet I wasn't a stranger because I'd been to their house before and she'd shown me her butterfly collection and so forth.

  She cut me off. “You're Stormy Day,” she said. “Everyone knows who you are.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Duh.” She flashed me a charmingly crooked, gap-toothed smile. Jessica was right about Sophie Sweet having some steep dentist bills in her future.

  She looked at my car. “Your car's dirty. Can I write my name on the dust?”

  “No. You'll scratch the paint.”

  “No, I won't.” She ran at my vehicle with her finger outstretched. Again, I was reminded of my sister. Sunny used to draw snails and flowers on dusty cars, which was how I learned about the tiny scratches such activities left.