Chapter 19
“Lasagna?” I'd just walked in the door of my house and kicked off my shoes. “What have I done to deserve your amazing vegetarian lasagna?”
Jessica looked up from the sink, where she was scrubbing a pan. “I thought you could use a hot meal that didn't come from the gas station.”
“My father did make me his famous meatloaf last night. Which he served with potato chips.” I knelt in front of the oven and peered at the bubbling cheese through the round-cornered window. “I'm actually looking forward to eating some vegetables.” Jessica's lasagna was usually meatless but filled with every kind of roasted vegetable, from mushrooms to peppers and even eggplant. Jeffrey came over to see what I was looking at.
I asked, “How was your day?”
My red-haired roommate didn't answer. My gray-furred roommate rubbed against my leg before walking away.
I stood up again and took a seat at the table. “Was your day that bad?” I tapped my fingers on the table. “Jessica?”
“Huh?” She turned from the sink and blinked at me. “Oh. I thought you were talking to Jeffrey.”
“Really? I don't talk to Jeffrey that much.”
She laughed. “Sure.”
“What's been happening with Mitch the Fireman?” I heard the phrase Mitch the Fireman come out of my mouth. Jessica was right. I did say his name like he was a character in a children's book. “I mean Mitch, who happens to be a firefighter?”
Her shoulders crunched in with body tension as she screwed up her face. “He sent me some text messages but I don't know what they mean.”
I held out my hand. “Let the private investigator see.”
She got her phone from the charger and held it to her chest. “Okay, but promise not to send a reply.”
“Come on. Would I do that to you?”
She gave me a look that said she wouldn't put it past me. I rolled my eyes as I took the phone from her.
I scrolled through Mitch's messages. He'd said things like, “Watching TV with the guys,” and, “Gotta do laundry. Learning how to separate.”
“That's sweet,” I said.
“Did you read them? They're all like that. He actually sent one yesterday to tell me it was raining. We live in the same town. I can tell by looking out the window that it's raining.”
“He's letting you know that he's thinking about you. I know it seems like he isn't saying anything, but honestly, I wish I could get messages like this from Logan.”
She sat across from me, her face still pinched with worry. “You don't have to lie to make me feel better.” She picked up the phone and frowned at it. “Is his phone missing the question mark key? He never asks me a single question.”
“That doesn't mean he doesn't want to know,” I said. “This regular everyday stuff is how guys let you know they're thinking about you.”
“Does Logan send you messages like this?”
“No,” I said. “But that's different. His personality is... intense.”
“Yes,” she said, still frowning. “Logan is more to the point. He doesn't understand that sometimes an invitation to do something doesn't mean you actually do the thing. Like watch a video, for example. He gets antsy if we take an hour to make nachos and then another hour to pick out a movie.”
I glanced over at the wall separating my half of the duplex from his rented half. “You're right,” I said. “Like how Sunday before last, he cooked three steaks and he couldn't relax until he'd lined up three people to eat the steaks. That was when the Lubbesmeyers came over.”
“Guys are weird,” she said.
Jeffrey jumped up on her lap and rubbed his head on her chin.
“Present company excluded,” she said.
I leaned over and peered through the oven door at the lasagna. “That's a big pan of food. Do you want to invite Mitch the Fireman over for a bite? They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach.”
She picked up a butter knife. “Not through the chest?”
“What?”
Jessica's eyes widened. She gasped and set the knife down. “I'm so sorry, Stormy. That was awful of me. You know, this whole week, I keep catching myself making comments like that. It's almost like the more I try not to think about Michael Sweet getting stabbed, the more it bubbles up in my subconscious.”
“It's affecting everyone,” I said. “Let's hope they catch the person soon.”
“I sure hope so. Harper has been a wreck.”
“Harper that you work with?” Harper was in her midtwenties and new to Misty Falls. She lived with her younger sister in the apartment building where Jessica used to live before moving in with me. She also worked at the Olive Grove with Jessica. “Why would she be worried?”
“I didn't tell you? She's been working part-time for the Sweets, doing some administration for the business. She's thinking about getting her real estate license, so she's been getting job experience. I guess she's jumpy because it could have been a client or another realtor in town. Maybe a competitor. The killer might be a person she talks to regularly.”
“Or maybe Harper knows something.”
Jessica picked up the knife again and made a stabbing motion. “Ree ree ree,” she said, grinning and imitating the iconic soundtrack from the movie Psycho—composer Bernhard Hermann's screaming violins. “Or maybe Harper killed him. She didn't have a lot of respect for Michael.”
“Does she have an alibi for Monday?”
Jessica set down the knife and rolled her eyes. “I'm just joking. Harper wouldn't hurt anyone. Don't take everything I say so literally.”
“To quote my father, where the tongue slips, it speaks the truth.”
The timer on the stove started beeping. The subject quickly turned away from homicide and toward lasagna.
I tried not to think about Michael Sweet and all the reasons someone might want to kill him, but if there was one person who would have known where he was that day, it was his office assistant. Whenever I needed to track down Logan and he wasn't answering his phone, I'd ask Corine, the receptionist at his law firm, Tyger & Behr.
I couldn't stop wondering what Harper might know about the case.
“We should hang out with Harper again soon,” I said.
“Promise you won't interrogate her?”
“I'll buy her a drink. That's all.”
Jessica poked at her lasagna and narrowed her eyes at me. “Okay. I'll set something up.” She looked down at her phone. “We've got the funeral Thursday, so how's Friday for you?”
I'd forgotten about Michael Sweet's funeral. We had to go to support Samantha and the family, even though it would mean being stared at by people.
“Set it up for Friday,” I said. “After Thursday's funeral, I'll need a drink.”
“Are Logan's parents coming?” Logan was Samantha's cousin, so his parents were her aunt and uncle.
“No. They're busy.”
She sniffed. “Runs in the family.”
I dug into my lasagna. It was a masterpiece, as usual.
“Don't fill up,” Jessica said. “Dean Lubbesmeyer is coming over with some new potato chip flavors he wants us to taste test.” She gave me an ultra-serious look. “It's a dirty job, but somebody's got to do it.”
Chapter 20
“Stormy, I need to make a confession.”
I looked across my kitchen table and its silver bowls of flavored potato chips at my next-door neighbor, Dean Lubbesmeyer. His hair wasn't as colorful as his wife's purple locks—in fact, he didn't have much hair at all—but his cheerful tropical-print shirt matched his zesty, always-joking personality.
Tonight, however, his expression was serious for a change. Were we not giving him the feedback he was hoping for? We'd been crunching on new flavors of potato chips for the past thirty minutes, and enjoying them immensely. I'd thought doing a buttered popcorn flavor on a potato chip would be gross, but the resulting chip reminded me of my favorite road trip travel snack, Old Dutch Popcorn Twists.
“Go ahead,” I said. “What's this confession you need to make?”
“First of all, these aren't zero-calorie diet potato chips.”
“No kidding,” I said flatly. “Don't worry, Dean. You didn't fool me for a minute.”
“And also, I think some of my DNA might be at a crime scene.” He scrunched up his rubbery features. “Like on the murder weapon?” His voice pitched up at the end, as though he was asking a question.
My lovable neighbor's DNA was on the murder weapon that killed Michael Sweet?
“That's not funny,” I said, pushing the bowl of buttered-popcorn-flavor potato chips crumbs away from myself. “Or maybe it is, but I'm not really in the mood.”
“I'm dead serious,” he said. “You know the house where that man was found killed last week?”
I glanced over at Jessica again to see if this was part of a prank. I knew the Lubbesmeyers loved to joke around, but this didn't seem like a typical Dean and Eve gag. Was it possible Dean without Eve was like a bicycle missing a tire? Jessica looked as stunned as I felt, at hearing Dean talk about his DNA being at last Monday's homicide. The look on Jessica's face reminded me of another night, when I'd made the horrible mistake of confronting a criminal over dinner at that same table. The evening had ended with Logan being rushed to the hospital. He still bore the scars on his stomach, but Jessica's were invisible. Except times like this, when I saw the trauma surface on her face.
I gave Dean a stony look. He'd better have a good reason for being so dramatic.
“Yes,” I answered slowly. “I'm familiar with that particular house.” Did he not know I was one of the people who saw the body? How could he have missed that bit of gossip? He had to be messing around. I glanced around for signs of his wife, Eve. Surely the woman with the spiked purple hair was about to pop out from behind my sofa with some wisecrack.
“I toured that house on the Saturday before the homicide happened,” Dean said.
“So did we,” Jessica said. She took a large potato chip and crunched it noisily. The room was so quiet, I could hear every chew.
I sighed and shook my head at my overly dramatic neighbor. “Is that all? Dean, a lot of people toured the house.”
“But did they all handle the knives?”
I kept shaking my head, but for a different reason. “Dean Lubbesmeyer. Tell me you didn't handle the knives.”
“Sorry.” He hung his head. “I'm a bit of a knife nerd. I found myself alone in the kitchen, and I noticed the homeowners had some good ones—Henckels chef knives, and also some Messermeister cleavers—so I took them out and I'm afraid I handled all of them.”
“That's a bit strange,” I said. “But anyone who knows you would believe it. You do love your kitchen equipment, and industrial potato slicers and peelers.”
“I believe it,” Jessica said brightly. “The first time we met, you offered to sharpen all of our scissors.”
I reached across the table and patted his hand. “Dean, if there's a legitimate reason for your epithelial cells to be found on the murder weapon, the police aren't going to come after you. They want to close the case, but they're not going to pin it on an innocent man.”
He looked straight at me, his big brown eyes extra serious-looking due to the new dark circles underneath them. “Should I turn myself in?”
Jessica laughed nervously. “That's funny.”
I slowly withdrew my outstretched hand. Jessica was a gentle soul who always saw the best in people, but I'd learned to pay attention to the smallest signs of guilt or shame. And the fumes coming off Dean Lubbesmeyer were pretty strong.
Casually, I said, “We could call the police right now to come take a statement.” I paused. “That is, if you think you might have done something wrong. Maybe by accident.”
Dean pushed his chair back and stood quickly. “Never mind.” He started stacking the stainless steel serving bowls of potato chips on top of each other, crushing the chips carelessly.
Jessica asked him, “Did you cut a cupcake in half that day?”
He paused in his stacking of bowls. “A cupcake? Yes, I do believe I did. I was testing the knives when the blond realtor came in and screamed. I was too embarrassed to say I'd been playing with the knives, so I made up something stupid on the spot. I think I told her I was on a diet.” He stared at Jessica, his eyes bulging. “How did you know about that?”
“Oh, Dean,” Jessica said warmly. “You silly goose. You scared the dickens out of Samantha that day. She actually told us about it. I guess she hasn't met you before, so she didn't know who you were.”
“No,” he said plaintively. “No, no, no,” he cried. “This is bad, right?”
“It's not bad,” I said calmly. I was feeling more confident about his innocence by the second. If he'd made Samantha scream that day, it had probably made him feel awful. That could be what he was feeling guilty about now.
Jessica looked at me and flashed her eyes for me to fix the situation.
I told Dean, “It's good, see? You have an eyewitness who saw you touching the knives on Saturday. You're actually better off than if you hadn't frightened poor Samantha.”
He squeezed the bowls in his hands, crushing more potato chips audibly. “So, I don't need to hire Logan to defend me?”
Jessica let out a loud, high-pitched laugh. “Not unless you killed someone! You didn't stab Michael Sweet to death in a tub, did you?”
More potato chips crushed under pressure. “Of course not,” he gasped. “No, no, no.”
“You could talk to Logan if you want,” I said. “Just to be certain.” I used one hand to make a sweeping gesture between myself and Jessica. “Neither of us is qualified to give legal advice.”
“But you know stuff,” Dean said. “You know about epi-feel-y-alls”
“Epithelial cells,” I said.
“Exactly,” he replied, and he sat in his chair again. He set the bowls on the table and covered his face with his hands. “Ugh, what a mess.”
“Dean, why were you at the open house anyway? You guys already bought a house, and a potato chip factory.”
He kept his hands over his face. “I was thinking it might be a good starter home for one of the kids when they get done with college. I could rent it out for the time being, as an investment.”
Jessica said soothingly, “That's a very generous and kind thing to do for your children. Lucky kids.”
“This is not legal advice, but you probably have nothing to worry about,” I said. “Did you sign the visitor log that day?”
“I think so,” he said.
“Then the police already have your name. If they recovered DNA from something and wanted to exclude people, they would have been in contact. I know they reviewed the visitor log.”
He peered at me from between his fingers. “They did? How do you know?”
Oops. I wasn't supposed to tell people that Dimples fed information to my father who fed it to me.
“I'm assuming they did,” I said quickly. “They're good cops. Very thorough. They've got this one under control, I'm sure.”
Dean slowly lowered his hands. “If you say so.” His eyes weren't as bulging, and his eyelids looked almost sleepy. He yawned. “I think I'll finally be able to sleep tonight. Thanks for letting me get that off my chest. I'm going to tell Eve about it now. I've been keeping it to myself all week, but she always knows when something's up.” He yawned again. “The spouse always knows.”
“Go home and talk to Eve,” I said.
He grabbed the bowls and got to his feet again.
“Hang on just a minute,” I said with a slight growl.
His eyes bulged guiltily and he gasped, “What?”
“Those are my bowls,” I said.
He let out a high-pitched laugh. “Of course they are.” He set the bowls of crushed chip samples on the table. “Keep the chips.”
As soon as Dean Lubbesmeyer left, I called my
father and gave him a summary of what had just happened.
“They should have some results back on the knife,” he said. “The lab's always backed up, but this should have been a high priority.” He muffled the speaker and spoke to someone else in the room. When he came back, he said, “Dimples wants to talk to you.”
“I don't want to talk to him,” I said. “I don't want anything to do with this case.”
“Then why'd you call?”
“Dad, tell Dimples it's nothing. I'm just being paranoid.”
“He's waving his hand for me to give him the phone.”
“I gotta go,” I said. “Jessica just put dinner on the table.”
“At eight o'clock?”
“Love you, Dad.” I ended the call.
Jessica made a tsk-tsk sound. “Lying to your father?”
“No,” I said sullenly. “If I take a second helping of that lasagna, it's technically not a lie.”
She gave me an amused look and pulled the wrapped-up lasagna pan from the refrigerator.
At eight-twenty, there was a knock at the door.
“The movie,” I said with a start. “I'm supposed to go see that new horror movie with Logan at nine o'clock.”
“You forgot?” Jessica gave me a crooked smile as she looked over my lounge outfit. “If you're going on a date wearing pajamas, you should at least make sure the top and bottom match.”
I ran toward my bedroom. “Can you stall Logan while I get changed?”
“I'll do my best,” she said, laughing. She yelled at the door, “It's not locked!”
The door opened and someone in boots came in. “Hello, Ms. Kelly.”
“Officer Dempsey!”
I groaned, and not just because someone had shrunk my favorite jeans in the wash and I had to wiggle to get into them. Officer Kyle Dempsey must have left my father's house and come straight to mine right after my phone call.
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