Stormy Day Mysteries 5-Book Cozy Murder Mystery Series Bundle

by Angela Pepper

  She finished drawing a smiling sun on the door.

  I let her admire her work before I grabbed the door handle for the passenger side and opened the door. “Sophie, it's a masterpiece. Now get in the car so I can drive you home. We'll find some art supplies at your house and have a craft night. How would you like that?”

  “You're going to kill me,” she said ominously.

  I laughed self-consciously, unsure if I could believe my ears. “What makes you say that?”

  “The airbags are in the front,” she said. “I have to ride in the backseat until I'm twelve years old, and then I can ride in the front with the grownups.”

  “Oh.” I clicked the button to tilt the seat forward. “I knew that,” I said defensively. “Get in the back and buckle up.” With a professional air, I said, “Your safety is my top priority.” I put my hand under her backpack as she wiggled her way in.

  I closed the door and circled around to the driver's side, glancing around to see if anyone was watching. Way to look guilty, I told myself.

  I got in and started the car. In the stillness, I realized my heart was pounding, and I felt the first signs of dehydration. I made eye contact with Sophie in the rearview mirror. “How are you doing back there?”

  “I'm hungry. Can we get fries at the drive-through?”

  My first instinct was to say no, but then I remembered the sight of Sophie's father, Michael Sweet, lifeless in the tub at a client's house. Sophie would never have to see that, but she'd hear about it, and she'd think about it. Her imagined version could be just as terrible as what I'd seen.

  Now what? I wanted to get out of the car again and hold her in my arms, hug her and tell her that this day would pass. This life-changing moment would always stay with her, but it would get smaller and smaller with each new experience. Even though it wouldn't feel possible, someday she would smile again. She would be okay, even happy.

  But the kid barely knew me, and the last thing she needed right now was for me to start crying. I clenched my jaw and fought my emotions back down again, down into a little box.

  “Fries at the drive-through,” I mused. Right on cue, my stomach growled. The last thing I'd ingested had been a vanilla latte, and that had been hours and hours ago.

  “And chicken nuggets,” Sophie said. “Because I'm a vegetarian.”

  I smiled at her in the rearview mirror. “Sophie, chicken nuggets aren't vegetarian.”

  She made an exasperated sound. “When we go to the drive-through, that's when I don't have to be vegetarian, because the meat's already cooked.”

  “Ah,” I said. “Now I understand. Totally.” Kid logic.

  I checked to make sure she had her seat belt on, and we drove to the fast-food place.

  Misty Falls doesn't have a McDonald's, but it does have a Goodie Burger.

  We ordered fries and chicken nuggets, plus milkshakes and a burger. I was really hungry.

  While we ate in the car on a side street, Sophie told me more about her personal vegetarian rules.

  “Bacon is not vegetarian,” she said. “It comes from a pig. Did you know that?”

  “I may have heard that before.”

  “Same with sausages.” She made a world-weary sigh. “All the most delicious meats come from a pig. But not a guinea pig. Not in this country.”

  “Good to know.” I dipped my chicken nugget into the container of honey mustard sauce we'd been sharing.

  Sophie squealed, “Double Dipper!”

  “That doesn't count,” I said. “I turned it around, so it was the bread-crumb side that I dipped.”

  “My dad is a Double Dipper,” she said. “Mom says he does it just to be gross and make everyone mad at him. He thinks it's funny.”

  “Does your dad do a lot of funny things around the house? To make people mad?”

  “Not really.” She didn't elaborate, but she did watch my next nugget dip like a hawk.

  “This is fun,” I said. “I don't usually let people eat in my car, but this is fun.”

  Sophie let out a big burp, and we both laughed.

  “That's my stomach saying thank you for the food,” she said.

  “Better your stomach than your butt.”

  Her eyes widened, and she made a gasping sound. I panicked, thinking she was choking on a fry or having an asthma attack. But then she started laughing.

  It turns out that, to an eight-year-old, there are few things in this world funnier than a grownup saying the word butt.

  Her laughter cheered me up so much that by the time we wiped away our tears, the guilt I felt about what was yet to come was crushing.

  Our next stop was picking up the baby, her little brother, from the daycare.

  As soon as I picked up the kid, I realized I didn't have a safety car seat in my vehicle.

  The woman at the daycare assured me it wasn't the first time it had happened. Parents sometimes sent friends to pick up kids. Luckily, the daycare had some loaner car seats.

  She offered to help me get everything set up in my car.

  “Michael has been a good boy today,” the woman said as I unlocked the car doors.

  Michael? I was thrown off by the name for a second, then I remembered the baby was Michael Junior. Samantha usually referred to him simply as the baby.

  We got the borrowed car seat as well as Michael Junior into my vehicle.

  The woman spotted the fast-food bags from Goodie Burger and gave me a judgy look.

  “It was just for today,” I said. “Things are topsy-turvy.” She continued the judgy look. “It was Sophie's idea,” I said. “Right Sophie?”

  I turned to see Sophie pick up a loose fry from the floor and eat it.

  The daycare lady gave me a grim look. “Tell Michael Senior I hope he had a great day on the green.”

  “On the green?”

  “Golfing,” she said slowly, as though I was not very bright. “That's what it means when you're on the green.”

  I smiled politely. I knew what she meant but had been surprised to hear of Michael's plans for the day. If he'd been scheduled to golf, how had he ended up at the house?

  “Yes, golfing,” I said. “It's certainly a nice day for being outside.” I glanced around guiltily. This wasn't my investigation or my business, but I couldn't help myself. “Did you chat with Michael very long this morning?”

  “Just a few minutes, when he dropped off Junior. He was meeting some business contacts at the Misty Pines and playing golf all day.” She picked at a fleck of dried vomit on her shirt. “Must be nice!”

  “Are you sure he said he was playing golf today?” I looked at the daycare's open door, which was letting out all manner of chaotic sounds. “Things can get a bit hectic with so many kids around.”

  The woman frowned at me. “I have an excellent memory. You need to be on the ball when you're responsible for this many children. Mr. Sweet was golfing today at the Misty Pines, all day.”

  Except he wasn't, I thought.

  I thanked her again and got into my car. She hadn't asked for identification. Having the older sibling with me had been enough proof of my legitimacy, as far as she was concerned.

  The baby made some fussy noises, but his big sister knew how to get him settled.

  Good, I thought. Samantha will need all the help she can get.

  I wanted to call Officer Wiggles right away with the information about Michael's planned day of golfing, but I couldn't do it in front of the children.

  Chapter 16

  We got into the Sweet residence without needing to use a key.

  I poked my head in, while holding Michael Junior. The interior of the house smelled like an active family lived there—not bad, but it was the general sort of “lived in” smell Samantha tried to get rid of in the homes she was showing.

  The furnace wasn't running, and the house was quiet. Maybe too quiet. The skin on the back of my neck prickled.

  The front room looked disheveled, with cereal strewn across the coffee table an
d sofa cushions jutting out at messy angles. Was this how the home normally looked, or had someone been ransacking the place, looking for something?

  Whoever killed Michael Sweet could be there now, waiting inside the house.

  I hesitated in the doorway and asked Sophie, “Do you always leave your front door unlocked?”

  Sophie strode in past me and raised her hands in the air. “How should I know?” She tossed her pink backpack and her purple jacket on the floor, a mere foot away from an array of child-height clothes hooks on the wall.

  I shifted the baby to my other arm so I could pick up her gear and hang it on the hooks. “Sophie, didn't your parents teach you to hang up your things? When I was your age, my sister and I got banned from using the front door. We had to come in through the back door and hang our stuff in the porch. My sister used to—”

  Sophie interrupted. “Can I watch a movie?”

  The baby clamped onto my ear with one hand while attempting to poke out my eyeball with the other.

  “Sure,” I said, and I got her set up on the couch with her movie playing. “Is this the way your living room normally looks?”

  She stared at the TV and didn't answer.

  I tried to put the baby down on the couch next to her, but he clung to me like he was made of Velcro.

  Over the sound of the television, I could hear a scratching noise. I lowered the volume. It was coming from somewhere inside the house.

  For a second time, I tried to put the baby down. He screamed like a banshee. I picked him up, and the screaming stopped immediately, like a tap being shut off.

  “Neat trick,” I told him. “I guess I'm stuck with you. Or, rather, you're stuck to me, Mr. Velcro.”

  He lunged for my ear happily.

  The scratching noise started up again.

  “Sophie, do you guys have a dog?”

  She didn't answer until I used the remote control to pause the show. I repeated the question.

  “Mom says we're not allowed until I'm twelve and I'm more responsible.”

  “Then do you have a cat?”

  “Dad says cats are disgusting because they poop inside the house.”

  “Uh, humans poop inside the house, too, Sophie.”

  She covered her crooked-toothed-smile with her hands and giggled. “I made you say poop.”

  “Humans go to the washroom inside the house.”

  “No, they don't,” she said matter-of-factly. “They go in the toilet.” Without taking her eyes off the paused cartoon princess on the TV screen, she reached in between the sofa cushions, pulled something out—a granola bar—and started eating it. She'd eaten a huge meal in my car, and she wasn't a big girl. Where the heck was she putting all the food? It had to be some sort of child magic.

  “Anyway, dad says cats are gross,” she said.

  “Your dad is wrong, as usual, because cats are awesome.”

  She took her gaze off the screen and turned to me, still munching the sofa granola. “My dad is wrong?”

  Oops. Now that I did have her attention, I wanted her to go back to her movie. I clicked the button to get the movie playing again.

  While I was leaning over, the baby arched his back without warning, pulling away from me and pushing me off-balance. I quickly shifted my center of gravity to get under him. He ricocheted off nothing but air and gave me a solid head butt, right on the side of my face.

  I actually saw stars—spots of light in my vision.

  Sophie laughed. “He does that.”

  “Michael Junior hits people in the face with his head?”

  “All the time.”

  I turned to the little guy and asked, “Is that true? Are you the big brute who tried to give your mommy a black eye?” Michael Junior gave me an innocent look while cramming his fingers into his tiny nostrils.

  Sophie was engrossed in her show again.

  I walked over to the living room's front window. The baby was getting heavier by the minute, but his warmth was soothing, and the top of his head smelled nice—when he wasn't head-butting me with it. Outside, the quiet residential street looked normal enough. I didn't see any suspicious vehicles or people. I got a chill down my back, just thinking about nightfall. It wasn't even five o'clock yet, and it wouldn't be dark for hours, but I closed the curtains and walked around the living room turning on every lamp anyway.

  The scratching sound hadn't happened in a while, but I couldn't shake the feeling someone or something was in the house with us.

  Maybe mice, I thought. Or rats. There was certainly enough loose bits of food around to attract rodents.

  I wanted to sit on the couch and keep Sophie company, watching whatever she wanted to watch and eating whatever she wanted to eat, right up until she received the worst news of her young life. But first, I had to secure the premises.

  With the baby in one arm and my ninja stick in my other hand, I started a search of the house.

  The scratching sound started again.

  I actually smelled the culprit before I saw him.

  I found him in Sophie's bedroom.

  He was a wild-eyed guy, with big front teeth and patchy brown and white hair. He was startled by me pushing open the door, and froze.

  Then we just stared at each other, each of us daring the other to make a move.

  He squeaked first.

  “So, you're a tough guy,” I said to him. “What do you weigh? A whopping two pounds?”

  The guinea pig flashed his big, scary chompers at me in what appeared to be a knowing smile.

  I had only myself to blame. I'd asked Sophie if she had a cat or a dog, but I hadn't specifically asked if she had any other pets.

  “Today might be a long day for this family,” I said to both the guinea pig and the baby in my arms. Michael Junior stared at my mouth. “A really long day,” I said as I sunk down to the floor to sit across from the cage. “You guys have to stick together.”

  The guinea pig made a noise that sounded like WHEEK!

  I looked down at Michael Junior, who wasn't smelling so fresh anymore.

  “Neither of you can understand a word I'm saying, but you're still good listeners.”

  The baby squealed.

  The guinea pig went WHEEK!

  It would be a long day, for the Sweet family, and for me. At least these two wouldn't understand what was going on. They were the lucky ones.

  Chapter 17

  SUNDAY

  (SIX DAYS AFTER MURDER)

  “A guinea pig,” my father said. “The scratching intruder was a guinea pig?”

  “His name is Higgins,” I said. “After the British sergeant major on Magnum P.I.”

  My father took a sip of his cheap beer and then licked his lips. In a near-perfect English accent, he replied, “Stormy, I know very well who Jonathan Quayle Higgins is.”

  “That's a good accent,” I said. “Almost as convincing as your Irish.”

  “Says the woman who was terrified by a guinea pig.”

  I laughed. “In all fairness to me, Higgins is a really big guinea pig. Over two pounds.”

  Finnegan Day grinned. “Glad to see you can laugh at yourself.” He lifted his can of beer. “A good laugh and a long sleep are the two best cures.” He nodded at the six-pack of beer on the kitchen table. “Go ahead.”

  I pulled a can from the beer package and cracked it open. I clinked my can to his and took a sip. It wasn't bad.

  “Heaven help me,” I said. “I'm starting to enjoy the taste of your cheap beer. How much was this? Or do they pay you to take it away?”

  “If that's not good enough for your refined palate, Dimples left some of his fancy bottles in the fridge.”

  “This'll be fine,” I said with a grimace. “When was Dimples over?”

  My father raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you care?”

  “Dad, I know Kyle Dempsey tells you everything that's going on at the department. And I also know he's over here two times a week, minimum. And since it's been nearly seven d
ays since someone made shish kebab out of Michael Sweet, that covers at least one visit, if not two. You're as up to date on the Sweet homicide as anyone.”

  “Perhaps not,” he said. “Until tonight, I haven't heard a single word about your brave confrontation with a two-pound guinea pig.”

  “Speaking of confrontation, that kid has a head like a bowling ball. Michael Junior is a regular one-man wrecking crew. He screamed if I set him down, so I had to keep holding him, which was how he was able to do the most damage. He bopped me on the chin, the cheek, and even the side of my eye. I'm lucky he didn't give me a shiner.”

  As I described the baby's head-butting abilities to my father, he nodded knowingly. “I'm familiar with that particular maneuver. Both you and Sunny got in a few baby love taps on me as well.”

  “Enough baby talk,” I said, and then, “Now there's a phrase I never thought I'd be saying, especially not to you.”

  “Just because the little gaffer caused some bruising, that doesn't mean the husband wasn't taking his fists to the wife as well.”

  “I know, I know,” I said. “But it does provide an alternative story.”

  “Aye,” he said with an accent. “Aye, it surely does.”

  I finished the can of cheap beer and went to the refrigerator to raid the supply left behind by Kyle Dempsey, a.k.a. the cop son my father never had.

  “Please catch me up,” I implored. “I'm trying to keep my nose out of it, but I'm dying to know. Are they any closer to arresting whoever killed Michael Sweet?”

  “They followed up on your tips. They checked out the open house visitor who'd been handling the knives. There were a few men who came through on their own that day. One name in particular stood out. A fellow named Dwayne Efrain Greer. Have you come across him?”

  “Dwayne Efrain Greer? Not that I know of. Should I?”

  “I'd steer clear. He's not without his issues—a few priors for public indecency and intoxication—but he does have an alibi for Monday. He was up in Seattle on Monday, all day, wrapping up some business. He didn't recall picking up a knife in the kitchen and giving your friend Samantha a scare, but guys with a record get careful about what they admit to.”