Stormy Day Mysteries 5-Book Cozy Murder Mystery Series Bundle

by Angela Pepper

  “But he's totally cleared? He couldn't have killed anyone on Monday?”

  “Not in Misty Falls, anyway.”

  “That's a shame,” I said. “It would have been awfully neat and tidy if the killer had signed his name on the guest log.”

  “And it wouldn't have been the first time,” my father said. “Most criminals aren't masterminds.” He added, smiling, “As you know.”

  “How about Michael's meeting at the golf course?”

  “He was never there. And there weren't any parties booked who were missing a player. He must have lied to the daycare.”

  “Why would someone lie about going golfing?”

  “Image,” he answered. “Most people associate golfing with the rich and well-connected, even though it's more affordable these days. It probably made him feel sophisticated to tell people he was going to be on the green that day.”

  “The daycare lady did seem in awe of him,” I said. “What did the tech guys turn up on his phone and email?”

  “There was one text message they found suspicious. What was it now?” He scratched his chin. “It was from a guy named Binky.”

  “Binky?”

  “Something about meeting at the house at eleven o'clock to practice their knife-throwing act for the upcoming Misty Falls Talent Show. Binky the Clown. Binky said he had his knives all sharpened for their act. I told Kyle not to bother with that lead. Clowns never harmed anyone.”

  “Very funny.” I shook my head. It was Finnegan Day's way to never give a straight answer when a circuitous story could be worked into the conversation.

  “Clowning is serious business.”

  “I'm sure it is, Dad. I guess that's your hilarious way of telling me the tech guys found nothing on his accounts?”

  He looked down, frowning as he reached for another can of beer. “I'm afraid things don't look so good for your friend Colt.”

  “No alibi?”

  “He said he visited a certain gift shop in town, but his whereabouts are a mystery after that.” He slowly looked up and met my eyes. “He needs your help, Stormy.”

  I leaned back and held my hands out. “I'm just a private investigator. I'm not a homicide detective. The police need to do their job.”

  “That's not what I meant. You can help by getting Colt to cooperate with the investigation. He lawyered up, and he won't talk about where he really was on Monday morning.”

  “What about the other two guys? The security guards Quinn saw in town?”

  “They're each other's alibis.”

  “How convenient,” I said.

  “What do you think happened?”

  “He was taking a shower in a client's house when someone came into the tiny upstairs bathroom and killed him. It sure doesn't sound like he startled someone during a robbery.”

  “It was a crime of passion,” my father said. “People shower after sex.”

  I stared at him. “Yes. I've heard of such things.”

  “Did you ever...?”

  “I hated Michael Sweet in high school.”

  “There's a fine line between love and hate. Haven't you ever watched a romantic comedy? They always start out hating each other.”

  “Dad, I've never had any sort of passionate contact with Michael Sweet. The first and only time I saw him naked was after he was dead.”

  “I know I'm your father, but you can talk to me about anything.”

  I shook my head. Me and Michael Sweet? “I'm not even going to dignify that with a response.”

  “How about Colt?”

  I looked away quickly, feeling guilty about my dreams.

  My father made a knowing sound. He'd caught me.

  “He flirted with me the last few times I saw him,” I said. “That's all. Just flirting. And if you're picking up on my guilt, it's because I do feel guilty. I enjoyed the attention, and things with Logan have been weird lately.”

  He coughed into his fist. “The homeowners are cleared. They were, indeed, out of town. Still are.”

  I fidgeted with my beer's label. My father might talk the talk and tell me I could talk to him about anything, but in reality I couldn't. Whenever I mentioned Logan, he'd change the subject.

  “Next theory,” he said.

  “Michael was sleeping with someone he wasn't supposed to be with—a married person—and their spouse caught them.”

  “Very good,” he said. “That's a valid theory.” He paused. “But on the other hand, it might have been a thrill kill.” He looked down at the table and swept away some stray crumbs. “You know, the movie Psycho comes to mind.”

  “As it should.” I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. “The police need to round up all the local serial killers who run dodgy motels.”

  After a minute, he asked, “How well do you know Samantha?”

  “How well does a person know anyone?” I looked into his eyes. “Sometimes we're sharing a roof with a killer, and we don't even know it.”

  He didn't react, except to not react at all, which told me a lot.

  After a long silence, he said only, “One who lives in the past does not live at all.” He pushed his chair back and stood. “Ready for meatloaf?”

  Chapter 18

  MONDAY

  ONE WEEK SINCE MURDER

  My father might cite a good laugh and a long sleep as being the two best cures, but there's nothing quite like the comfort of routine. Or so I hoped. I really wanted to think about something other than a murder investigation.

  By Monday morning, a full week since I discovered Michael Sweet's body in his client's tub, I was happy to be heading in to Glorious Gifts nice and early to embrace the routine of working on orders and receiving inventory.

  Once I was in the office, I resisted the temptation to snoop around online for clues about the Sweet homicide investigation. I wasn't getting paid to investigate the matter, therefore it wasn't my business. No money, no worries. That was my mantra.

  I worked on the banking reconciliations for a full ten minutes before I got insanely bored and needed a break. I went out to the front of the store to look at the window display Brianna was changing around. She barely noticed me there, due to being entirely focused on the simple task at hand. Why couldn't I be more like her? She looked so content, in a happy “flow” state, rearranging new tableware on a display table decorated with acorns, pine cones, and other natural autumn accessories. She was humming along with a catchy tune.

  I asked her, “Who is this?”

  “Barenaked Ladies.”

  Was she pulling my leg? “Who?”

  “Barenaked Ladies,” she repeated. “BNL for short. You're not a fan of the most celebrated Canadian alt-rock band of the midnineties? They're triple platinum.” She self-consciously smoothed her straight dark hair over her ears. “That's a quote from Community.”

  “You and your pop culture references.” I listened for a bit. “They're growing on me. Is this the radio?”

  “It's a new option from the licensed music service. This one meets the CRTC guidelines for thirty-five percent CanCon.” She explained, “CanCon is short for Canadian content.”

  “Is Oregon no longer part of America? I know things get a little weird sometimes, politically, but did I miss a major development?”

  “We're still in America, boss. I'm just feeling nostalgic for the Canadian tourists now that summer's over.”

  “Their geese are still here. You can go visit them at the lake.”

  “Not the same thing.” She returned to humming along with the Barenaked Ladies tune, which was about the wild things they might purchase if they had a million dollars.

  I was still thinking about the geese. “Fun fact,” I said. “The Canada goose produces two pounds of you-know-what per day.”

  “But they do it politely,” Brianna said matter-of-factly. “And if they get some on your shoes, they apologize, on account of being Canadian.” She spritzed the window interior with cleaning spray and started wiping it clean. “Since when did yo
u become Glorious Gifts' leading expert on the waste production of Canada Geese?”

  “Since Creepy Jeepers cornered me at the post office to tell me all about the local goose overpopulation problem.”

  “Leo Jenkins from the Masquerade Shop? That guy is obsessed with poo.”

  “I hadn't noticed,” I lied. “He also wants me to join the local Chamber of Commerce.”

  “So? Why haven't you joined already?”

  “Ah, I'm glad you asked. You see, once upon a time, your boss had a swanky job in venture capital. Great pay. Excellent travel opportunities. But long hours, and many, many boardroom meetings. So many. If I never have to sit through another long meeting, it'll be too soon.”

  “Because you can't sit still, right? You're only happy when you're whirling around. Like a whirlwind.”

  I narrowed my eyes at her. She might have based a character named Whirlwind on me, but I wasn't going to admit the name suited me.

  Instead, I said, “Why are you looking at me like I'm a bug and you're about to pin me to a specimen board?”

  “No reason,” she answered breezily.

  “Is there something you want to confess? Perhaps something cheeky that you've done without my permission?”

  “Uh.” She spritzed the cleaning spray on the window all over again. “Have you got that candle order done?”

  “What? I just ordered candles last Monday.”

  “Yes, but we need the other ones now. The unscented, soy-based candles.”

  “I'll get right on it,” I promised.

  Right then, someone walked up to the front door and yanked it. We hadn't opened yet for the day, so the person only succeeded in rattling the front of the store. The noise made Brianna drop her bottle of window spray.

  I avoided eye contact and hoped they would read the hours on the sign before they tore off the door.

  “Hey, it's my cousin,” Brianna said, and she ran to unlock the door.

  Her cousin Chip McCabe came in, dressed in his US Postal Service uniform. As usual, he wore shorts instead of pants.

  She launched herself at him and gave him an enthusiastic hug. At a glance they didn't look like cousins, since half of Brianna's family was Chinese American, but I did pick up on the familial warmth between them.

  Brianna pulled away and said to him, “Don't you have some mail to lose? What did you do, throw it all in a recycling bin so you could take the day off?”

  Chip frowned at his younger cousin. “What about you, Monkey Ears? Why aren't you up in a tree throwing bananas at people?”

  “Nice haircut,” she said. “Nice and straight. Where did they find a salad bowl big enough for your giant head?”

  “They borrowed the water bowl from your cage. Speaking of which, when did they let you out of the zoo?”

  “They freed us all because soon the spaceships are coming to take you back to your real home.”

  “Not happening. The aliens came already, but then they saw you and got scared and went back to their planet.”

  Brianna held her hands up. “You got me, Chip. Sick burn!”

  “I still love ya, Shrimpie Chimpie.” He gave her another hug, which she pretended to despise.

  After they pulled away a second time, Brianna told me, “Chip was my babysitter when I was little.”

  “You're still little,” he said. “Why doesn't your family feed you?”

  She eyed his stomach and smirked. “No comment.”

  Chip turned away from his cousin, his expression growing more serious. “Miss Day, can I, uh, talk to you?”

  “Sure. Do you need help picking out a gift for Quinn? She can be picky, but I know her taste pretty well.” I rubbed my hands together, relishing the idea of selling him the most expensive item in the shop.

  He glanced at Brianna, blushed, and then looked back at me. “In private? It's about your other business.”

  Normally, I didn't see private investigation clients at my retail store. I paid a monthly rental fee to a packaged office space company so I could use their private meeting rooms. I should have insisted Chip make an appointment. However, my curiosity got the better of me. Plus I really didn't feel like putting in another boring candle order.

  “Sure,” I said. “We can talk in my office, but you should know the walls are pretty thin.”

  Brianna chimed in, “I'll turn up the music.” She winked at her cousin. “Plus Stormy will tell me everything after you leave.”

  “No, I won't,” I said, shaking my head. To Chip, I said, “I won't. It's confidential.”

  He seemed hesitant, but he followed me back into the office. I gave him the good chair, because I didn't think the other one would hold his weight.

  I closed the door and asked what I could do for him.

  “I hear you can dig up dirt on people,” he said. “Like for blackmail.”

  I held my hands up. “Whoa there, Nelly. Blackmail is a crime. A federal crime.”

  “So, you don't dig up dirt on people?”

  “Chip, I can do a background check on someone, if you'd like. In the business, we don't call it dirt.”

  “Then what's the point?” He attempted to lean his elbow casually on the armrest of the chair, but the chair had no armrest, and he nearly fell off. “What I mean is, what exactly comes up in a background check?”

  “Well, a potential employer might request a background investigation on an individual before employment, or security clearance. If that were the case, I would then look up and compile various records—criminal, commercial, financial, academic verification, citizenship, and so forth. All the information that's perfectly legal for me to collect.”

  He stared at me with his big, blue eyes. A bead of sweat dripped out of his fair, fine hair and down the side of his temple. If I didn't know he was always sweaty, I might have thought he was extremely nervous.

  He crossed his arms. “What about following them around town? Like for protection?”

  “That can be arranged, on an hourly or a per-day basis. Perhaps you could give me some more details?”

  “I'd rather not,” he said. “I just want my family to stay intact.”

  “Is someone threatening you? If you're being threatened, you should go straight to the police.”

  He snorted. “I'd rather not bother them while they're trying to catch a killer. Have you heard? They haven't even made an arrest. We might never know who killed Mikey Sweet.”

  “I'm sure they're working on something.”

  His eyes widened. He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. “What have you heard? Is it true you saw the body? Was his head hacked right off?”

  “What? No! I mean, who told you that?”

  “All the rumors,” he said, his eyes bulging and spit flying from his mouth. “But it makes you wonder, doesn't it? My wife used to date Mikey in high school. What if there's someone out there who's obsessed with Quinn? She was really popular, and she's still so beautiful. What if I'm next?”

  I was so relieved, I nearly laughed. “Is that why you're here, Chip? Are you worried you might be the next victim of a serial killer?”

  “No,” he said, a little too vehemently. “But what would you charge to follow Quinn around town? You know, just to make sure she's safe.”

  “Something tells me Quinn can take care of herself.”

  “Are you saying you won't do it? I'll have to get someone else.” He looked down and muttered, more to himself than to me. “Actually, that might be better, because if it's a stranger, then she won't know she's getting followed.”

  “I could refer you to another service provider,” I said. “Or—and please forgive me for being presumptuous about your situation—there's a group therapy session for anxiety that's quite affordable. Since last week's events, a lot of people around town have been on edge. There's no shame in getting some help.”

  The sweaty mail carrier pulled a checkered handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. “Never mind,” he said. “I should be on my route righ
t now, anyway. It was stupid of me to come here. Can you do me a favor and not tell Quinn about this?”

  “This meeting was strictly confidential,” I said.

  He stared at me with bulging eyes. “Was his head cut right off?”

  Normally, I wouldn't have said anything, but since I thought it might help Chip's anxiety, I said, “No. Not at all.”

  He let out an audible breath, thanked me, got up from the chair, and left with surprising speed.

  A few minutes later, Brianna sauntered into the office. “Everything okay?”

  “My meetings really are confidential,” I said. “And they would be even if you weren't a soon-to-be-famous internet cartoonist who draws from real life for inspiration.”

  “I understand,” she said. “But I can tell you stuff, right?”

  “Maybe. What kind of stuff?”

  “It's probably nothing.” She looked down at her feet. She was wearing mismatched novelty socks with vintage dancing shoes.

  I waited and let the silence do the coaxing. Most people can't handle dead air and will cough up all manner of secrets just to alleviate the quiet.

  “Quinn keeps talking about this photographer guy,” she said. “She keeps sharing his photos on social media and talking about how talented he is. And there's one picture in particular that's got everyone in the family talking.” She used her phone to pull up a photo to show me.

  In the image, Quinn's daughter Quinby was sitting on a stool in the background, and Quinn was in the foreground, filling the frame. Her chest in particular. The picture had a caption reading, A divine outtake featuring the flower from which the petal was plucked.

  “Quinby's the petal and her mother's the flower?” I made a gagging face. “Ew. This photographer's a bit much.”

  “And he charges a bit much,” Brianna said. “But Quinn thinks her daughter's going to get that big TV role, so she doesn't want to spare any expense.”

  “That sounds like our Queen Bee.”

  “Except the photographer didn't charge anything at all. I think she might have paid him in... another way. As in, another form of currency.” She winked twice. “Like money, but not money. Like—”

  I cut her off. “Yes, Brianna. I get the picture.” I chewed my lip and put the pieces together. Chip didn't want me to follow his wife around for protection from a serial killer. He wanted me to catch her in adulterous activities. Hah! Why hadn't he just told me the truth? I might have done it for free.