Stormy Day Mysteries 5-Book Cozy Murder Mystery Series Bundle
Page 108
“Figured as much.” Colt watched me with amusement. “You need one of those sticky rollers. I've got one in my truck, if you want me to run out and get it. I probably have a spare I can give you. I buy those things by the caseload.”
“You have a cat?” My voice rose up to a squeak.
“Two dogs,” he said. “Sisters. They're mutts, a few breeds mixed together, but mostly Siberian husky.”
“With blue eyes?” He nodded. “They sound adorable,” I said.
“Want to come out and meet them? They're in the truck. I told them I'd take them for a walk in Central Park if they came into town with me.”
I looked at the untouched glass of root beer between us. I'd sent Colt Canuso the photo of the movie theater advertisement the night before, simply because it had made me think of him.
Then I'd accepted his lunch invitation without thinking it through.
As much as I'd promised everyone from Jessica to my father as well as Kyle Dempsey that I wasn't going to get myself involved in the Michael Sweet homicide investigation, here I was, hanging out casually with one of the suspects.
Could I use this casual get-together to help clear Colt's name? All I'd heard against him was that he didn't have much of an alibi for that Monday, and he wasn't being very cooperative.
I might be able to get more out of him. He certainly seemed relaxed around me.
They say that to get someone to participate with an investigation, the best approach is to earn their trust and become a friend. Unless, of course, you're Jack Bauer in an episode of 24, in which case you torture it out of them. But I was never big on torture. Never mind what might be said by one gray cat who was going to get himself permanently banned from my sweater drawer.
I agreed to a walk in the park, and Colt overpaid Melody for the untouched root beer by a factor of a thousand percent.
“I'll get it all back thanks to the slot machines,” he told me as we left the restaurant.
“And you said I was the devious one,” I teased.
He linked his arm with mine at the elbow. “We make quite the pair,” he teased right back.
Chapter 24
The official name of the fenced-in park running through the middle of town is Pacific Pine and Cedar Grove. There was a vote on the name, between pine and cedar, but the results of the vote were inconclusive. It hardly matters, since everyone in Misty Falls calls it Central Park, inspired by the larger and much more famous park in New York.
At Glorious Gifts, we have mugs and fridge magnets that read, Get your bark on at Central Bark, Misty Falls, Oregon. The word Park is intentionally spelled Bark. Visitors find it squeal-worthy, and we do sell a good number of the mugs. The fridge magnets never took off the way I'd hoped, possibly because the background color was a shade of milky puce not unlike the color of lukewarm garbage juice.
Central Park was busy that Tuesday afternoon, full of people taking in the last sunny days before winter arrived with our first snowfall, which was due any time, as it usually snowed in early October.
Colt and I walked around the outer perimeter.
His dogs were adorable. I instantly fell in love with the two huskies. How could I resist? They had lovely blue eyes and white, heart-shaped markings on their faces. Both were very well-behaved and gentle, listening attentively to Colt's short verbal commands.
“I'm glad you like my girls so much,” Colt said as we strolled along in the autumn sunshine. “Can I ask you a favor?”
“You can always ask.”
“Would you take them if something were to happen to me? Would you be their godmother?”
“Why? Are you sick?”
It took him a while to answer. “No,” he said. “I just worry about the future. I don't have a wife anymore, or kids, and my brother's got no energy for anything outside of the casino. There's my sister, but I'm afraid she'd teach them bad habits.”
I bit down a wisecrack about his sister and bad habits. Now wasn't the time for it.
“Colt, you're going to be around for a long time.” I leaned down while walking and scratched the girls' ears while they climbed over each other to get a prime scratching spot. “Your papa is talking crazy talk,” I told them.
“Maybe I am talking crazy,” Colt said. “It's just that after what happened to Michael, a person really can't take anything for granted. Such as being alive at all.” He lifted his chin and gazed off into the distance, east, in the direction of the factories.
The wind had changed direction, and the scent of potato chips drifted over us in the park. The factories were located on the east side of town, so their smell and smoke usually drifted away from town, but that day was one of the rare exceptions. Smelling the chips made me think of my next-door neighbors. I was about to tell Colt about the Lubbesmeyers when he said something startling.
He said, “Who knew Samantha had it in her?”
“What?” I jerked my head to stare at his profile. “Don't tell me you think Samantha killed her husband. You're as bad as the gossipy old ladies at my hairdresser's.”
“Well, she did it. And she's probably going to get away with it, too. Nobody likes to see a pretty, blond mother of two get put behind bars.”
“Those are strong allegations,” I said. “A person who overheard you casting blame on someone else right about now might wonder if you were trying to cover your own butt.”
“Me? I've got an alibi.”
“Plus you didn't do anything wrong,” I said.
“Right,” he agreed. “That, too.”
“What were you doing on Monday last week? I overheard you telling Samantha you were free all day to look at properties. Did you see her at all?” I hesitated before asking, “Or Michael.”
“After I saw you at your shop, all I did was drive around town.” He reached down to pat the huskies. “And then I took the girls for a walk.”
“Dogs aren't great witnesses,” I said.
He chuckled. “I also met up with some of the guys from work. They can vouch for me. We got some steaks and had a good time that night.”
I walked quietly, thinking about how Colt had been enjoying a steak dinner at the same time I'd been hanging around at the Sweet residence, waiting for Samantha to get home and explain to her daughter that Daddy wasn't going to be tucking her into bed that night. Samantha was going to keep her daughter home from school and gradually break the news to her. My heart was breaking for both of them, pulling me away from the sunny fall day in the park and down to a dark place.
After a few minutes, I asked Colt, “Were you hanging out with those two security guys who tossed me out of the casino Saturday before last? Those guys aren't very reliable. It's already been established those two will roll over for forty bucks, cash. That's how much I paid them for information.”
“Ouch.” His stride faltered. “Stormy, if you really think I'm capable of murder, why would you meet with me in private? Why would you get into my vehicle with me?”
“I just want to make sure your backside is covered,” I said. “Plus we're in the middle of town, surrounded by dozens of witnesses.”
He stopped walking. I stopped as well and looked into his eyes.
He said, “Deep down, in your heart of hearts, you know I'm not capable of violence.” He blinked. “I'm a lover, not a fighter.”
I almost smiled. “You're not the best example of a pacifist. I did see you punch Mikey Sweet in the stomach.”
“I barely hit him. It was the surprise of it that made him double over. He was up and swinging within seconds, but you didn't see that, because you were in the fountain. What were you doing in there, anyway?”
“The pool looked so refreshing. Plus I saw a lucky penny.”
He grinned. “The security footage of your refreshing swim has been very popular with the staff.”
“Nice.” I glanced around the park. A few people were looking our way, but that was nothing new for me. “Are you going to tell me what you and your goons were doing in town that
Monday?”
He looked away from me. “Just driving around. My brother is looking to pick up some more properties in town, so we were scoping out that new subdivision.”
“Did you go back for a second tour of the tiny house?”
He was quiet for a long time.
Finally, he spoke. “Stormy, you're barking up the wrong tree. After I punched Michael that day, I went to my office, closed the door, and did something I haven't done in a long time. I got down on my knees and I prayed.”
I felt a chill snake up the back of my neck. I didn't hear people talk much from day to day about praying, except as a joke. Colt was dead serious.
“What? No snarky comment?” He elbowed me. “Aren't you going to tease me about praying, or hearing voices talking back?”
I rubbed my arms. The sun had disappeared behind a cloud, and the air had turned crisp and autumnal. Over half of the leaves in the trees surrounding the park's looping walking trails had turned yellow or red. Time was always marching forward.
“No snark,” I said. “I promise.”
I waved for Colt to continue telling me about his experience, and he did. After punching Michael Sweet, Colt had felt himself hitting a new low. He looked around at the horrified faces of families, and felt deep shame.
Alone in his office, he hadn't exactly gone straight into prayer mode. First, he'd unlocked his personal liquor cabinet and started a conversation with a bottle of whiskey. After a few hours of that, he fell asleep on the rug in his office. In his dreams, he'd been visited by his dead wife, who'd given him a very motivating pep talk.
When he woke up a few hours later, he locked the liquor cabinet and flushed the key down a toilet. And then he'd gotten on his knees and prayed. Nobody had spoken to him, not God and not his deceased wife, but he'd received an inner peace that he'd been lacking, and he knew he had to change his life. He didn't know how he was going to change, or how he could purge the anger that had burned inside him for so long, but he was going to try.
Going for long walks in the woods with his two dogs was how he found his inner strength, so he'd been out practicing his new-found peace that Monday.
“Good for you,” I said. I felt a warmth in my heart, which made me realize how chilly the wind had gotten. I pulled the sleeves of my cat-fur-covered sweatshirt down to cover my hands as makeshift mittens.
“You're freezing.” He whipped off his suit jacket and had it around my shoulders before I could argue.
“Thanks,” I said, and we continued walking.
The dogs suddenly took off. We were on a leashes-optional section of the walking path, and the dogs ran freely, chasing a squirrel up a tree. The squirrel got up to a branch that was just beyond the reach of the dogs, and began angrily berating the blue-eyed huskies.
We watched, laughing at the excited dogs and the mouthy squirrel.
“That is one cheeky squirrel,” I said.
“She reminds me of you,” Colt teased.
“No way! I only climb trees on rare occasions, such as when my roommate has accidentally taken psychedelics.”
“Your life is far more interesting than mine,” Colt said.
We watched the dogs whimper and circle the tree fruitlessly.
“That's enough,” Colt finally said to the dogs. “Leave Miss Squirrel alone. She's not doing anything wrong.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Pick on someone your own size.”
The dogs started barking again.
Colt said, “So much for our nice, peaceful walk.” He apologized to people walking by for the noise and went to retrieve the dogs.
While he was leaning over the two dogs, fastening the leashes to their collars, I noticed something on the back of Colt's shirt. Dark spots, like dried blood spatter. It was exactly the kind of evidence that might be left in a hard-to-see spot following an angry altercation involving stab wounds. When the assailant raises the knife in between stabs, a stream of blood flies off the blade, flying to places where it might not be noticed.
“Hey, Colt,” I said, leaning forward to look at the dark spots. “How did you manage to...” I stopped myself from finishing the sentence.
I wasn't a homicide detective. I was a private investigator. My domain included weighing bags of garbage and serving summonses. Not tricking killers into making confessions—never mind that I'd been successful at that task before.
I had to think fast and figure out what to do. Shifting gears hurt my head as much as my heart. I didn't want to believe what I was seeing, but there it was.
If Colt Canuso was walking around town wearing evidence from Michael Sweet's homicide, it wasn't up to me to trick a confession out of him right now.
I had to be smart, no matter how I felt about Colt. If he was a killer, and he knew that I knew, I could be in danger.
Amidst some excited face-licking, he finally got the two dogs onto their leashes and under control. He glanced back at me and asked, “How did I manage to what?”
I put on a steady smile. “How did you manage to get such lovely dogs? Are they from the local rescue place, or did they come from a breeder?”
“Long story,” he said. “One of the tenants at a rental property we own couldn't make rent, so he gave me the dogs in lieu of payment.”
“That's not a long story.”
“He tried to give me his sister first.”
“Oh.” I forced a laugh. The truth was, I could barely follow the conversation, because my mind was screaming about blood spatter and chain of evidence.
He frowned at me. “Everything okay? You look like you're still freezing, even with my jacket on.”
“Low blood sugar,” I said, my mouth dry and gummy. “I'm wishing I had that root beer right about now.”
“Then we'll go back to the cafe and get another one. This time, we should actually drink it.” He raised a finger at me. “No take-backsies. You promised to share a root beer with me, and I'll be damned if I don't hold you to your promise.”
“Uh,” I said weakly. I didn't want to sit across from Colt Canuso, but if he drove me directly back to the gift shop, he'd be gone. He might even notice the stains on his shirt and get rid of the evidence before the police could track him down. I had to agree to going back to the cafe with him if I wanted to keep him in one place.
I pulled the borrowed jacket tighter around myself. As I did, I looked down at the cuffs of the jacket. Was that another dark blood spatter stain, near the cuff button?
Chapter 25
The waitress at the cafe, slots-loving Melody, found it funny we'd come back an hour later for more root beer, considering we hadn't touched our drink the first time.
“Let's splurge on two glasses this time,” Colt said, grinning. “With ice cream.”
“Two root beer floats,” Melody said. “Can I bring you something to eat, honey? We've got those curly fries you love.”
Colt rubbed his hands together and looked at me. “That walk in the park really fired up my appetite. Two orders of curly fries, and a burger for me, hold the pickle. How about you, Stormy?”
I didn't feel hungry at all, but I ordered the chicken strips anyway.
I heard little Sophie in my head, telling me chicken nuggets were practically vegetarian. Normally, it would have made me smile, but seeing as I was sitting across the table from the man who might have killed her father, it only turned my stomach.
I took off Colt's jacket, handed it back to him, and excused myself to use the washroom.
When I returned to the table, he'd already started eating his root beer float. He made a joke about how my own float would be in danger if I left the table again.
I forced a laugh and kept my hands folded on my lap so I didn't nervously rearrange the cutlery.
After a moment of silence, he said, “They need to follow the money.”
“Who? What money?”
He swished the air with one hand. “I can take a hint. If I keep talking about the Sweets, you'll say I'm gossipy.”
 
; “You got my curiosity,” I said. “Finish the thought.”
“Samantha Sweet is about to come into a few bucks. Rumor is, a million dollars. It might not be the sort of cash that would go far in a big city, but this is Misty Falls. She's going to be set for life.”
“Are you talking about some sort of insurance policy? That seems a bit high to me.”
“Mikey valued himself highly.”
“That he did,” I said.
Colt's dark eyes practically blazed. “Can you keep a secret?” He gestured for me to lean in. I did, and he continued in a hushed tone. “That morning in the house, Samantha offered to split the cash with me if I took care of the old man. She was going to hire a professional, but she figured why not get someone who'd enjoy the job?”
I pulled back and crossed my arms. He had to be messing with me.
Colt laughed and smacked the table, open handed. “Gotcha! Oh, Stormy. The look on your face is priceless. I wish I'd taken a picture.”
“You shouldn't joke about stuff like that,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Or what? Are you going to have me arrested for making jokes in poor taste?” He looked out the window at the parking lot, where a marked police cruiser was pulling into a spot.
“Come on,” he said. “Would it kill you to lighten up? I've got a news flash for you about this whole business we call life. None of us is getting out of it alive.”
I reached for my root beer float. I could feel my hand trembling with nervousness, so I didn't dare lift the glass. I slid it toward myself, leaving a trail of condensation on the shiny table. I leaned forward, closed my eyes, and sipped the ice-cream-infused root beer.
When I opened my eyes, the police were there, asking Colt if he would cooperate with their investigation and provide them with the shirt he was wearing, as well as his suit jacket.
Colt gripped the edge of the table with both hands as though it might fly away. He gave me a bewildered look. “What should I do?”