She swallowed audibly then replied, “Stormy, putting the word 'just' in front of something doesn't make it acceptable.”
I gently removed my fingers from the deceased's nostrils. “He's dead all right,” I said.
“Are you sure? Did you check his neck for two small puncture wounds?”
“Not yet, but since you're here, you can guard the door while I unbutton his shirt.” I moved toward the body but then stopped myself. “Wait. What? Puncture wounds on the neck?”
Peggy's thin lips twisted up at the corners the way they did whenever she talked about her cat. “I'm pretty sure we don't have a vampire on the loose,” she said.
“Your jokes are so deadpan,” I said. “You totally got me.”
“Are you going to tell me what you're doing in here? Or am I to assume you have a thing for dead bodies?”
I closed the top of the casket to make the situation feel less creepy.
It didn't help much.
“You've heard about his widow's delusions,” I said. “I heard a rumor he paid off the coroner to declare him dead when he wasn't. Plus, I was thinking about those chemicals that Benjamin Biggs knows how to make.”
“What are you saying? Do you think Michael Sweet stored up a supply of his own blood for staging a crime scene, paid off multiple state and local authorities, dosed himself with some chemical compound Benjamin Biggs cooked up in his basement laboratory, then gave himself multiple fake stab wounds and crawled into a bathtub to wait for his vital signs to drop below detectable levels?”
“It sounds far-fetched when you say it out loud like that.”
She raised her eyebrows and nodded slowly. “It does. And I've already questioned Benjamin Biggs. He assured me he had nothing to do with this.”
“And you believed him?”
“He told me that arrogant jocks like Michael Sweet don't make friends with geeks like him.”
“True enough,” I said.
“And he's not hurting for money. His health-food company is worthless, but he sold a few of his chemical compounds to Big Pharma and made a mint.” She rubbed her hands together as though brushing my far-fetched theory away for once and for all. “More importantly, Michael truly is dead.” She glanced at the closed coffin. “They drained what was left of his blood and filled him with embalming fluid.”
I turned and looked at the coffin as well. As part of the embalming process, the mortician would have jabbed Michael's body in the abdomen with a trocar to aspirate gases. If a person wasn't already dead, they sure would be after that. I could have checked the body for the trocar buttons that would have been used to cover the holes following this procedure, but sticking my fingers up the nostrils had seemed less invasive.
In hindsight, under the cold stare of Officer Peggy Wiggles, I probably shouldn't have touched him at all. But I had to be sure. That's just how I am.
I tried to look recalcitrant. “Peggy, am I in trouble?”
She frowned at me.
I smiled. “Do you need to call in a ten-fifty-nine?”
“You heard about that? We'll have to change the code.” She shook her head. “You promised you weren't going to get involved in this case.”
I shrugged.
Peggy took a step back, blinked twice, and glanced around the room as though confused. “This isn't the washroom,” she said, as though talking to herself. “I guess I'll be exiting this room now, having seen nothing noteworthy.”
“Before you go, there's one more thing.”
She clenched her jaw, emphasizing the angular lines of her face. “Don't you dare open that coffin again.”
“It's something else,” I said. “I overheard something.” I hesitated, even though I wasn't bound by cousin-swear confidentiality. Jinx and Samantha had a reasonable expectation of privacy. I shouldn't have listened to their conversation. But then again, they didn't check all seven stall doors. I had a reasonable right to be in there using the washroom.
“What did you”—she made air quotes with her fingers—“overhear?”
“The day before Michael was killed, he told Samantha he was about to come into a big windfall. Some big payoff.”
Peggy lifted her chin. The tendons in her neck strained out, as though she was struggling to chew on this new information. If I had to guess, I'd say this particular bit of information was news to her.
She asked through her teeth, “Any other details?”
“Just that he was keeping the specifics from Samantha. You can try asking her about it, but I honestly don't think she knows anything. It does explain her hope, though. He planted the seed for her delusion.”
“Thank you,” Peggy Wiggles said with a nod. “I appreciate the information.”
“You're not still looking at Colt Canuso for this, are you?”
She stared at me for a while, her cool gaze unwavering, before answering. “If you didn't think your friend did it, why did you turn him in?”
Good question. And I truly didn't know why until I heard the words coming from my mouth.
“Because it was what my father would have done,” I said.
“He raised you right.” Peggy turned back toward the door and slipped away discreetly.
I waited a few minutes and then did the same.
Chapter 32
FRIDAY
I entered the Fox and Hound, keeping my head down to avoid an exuberant greeting by Dharma Lake.
It didn't work. The white-haired older waitress accosted me by the front door and locked me into a hug. The woman had been friendly to me ever since we'd met, and after I helped the kind senior get out of a murder charge, she'd only become more friendly.
“How's Logan?” She waited expectantly, as though she alone was responsible for getting the two of us together. Dharma saw herself as a matchmaker and believed it gave her good karma to pair people up. As far as she was concerned, every loose sock had a match, and it could be found right there in Misty Falls. Working as a waitress in a bar that served plenty of alcohol must have made her matchmaking job as easy as shooting fish in a barrel, but I never mentioned that to her face. She was a generous woman with a sincere, loving heart.
“You know Logan,” I said. “He's always busy, busy, busy.” After the funeral the day before, I'd gone for lunch with him and his sister, and then they'd gone off together to attend some family functions without me. He'd finally gotten a few days off from his work at the law practice, but now he would be busy with his sister for a while. I wasn't one to complain. When Logan got busy, I just found my own things to be busy with. Tonight I would be socializing with the girls, and that was fine by me.
Dharma grabbed my left hand and made a hmm sound. I pulled my hand away self-consciously.
“No, I don't have an engagement ring,” I said with a laugh. “Trust me. If Mr. Sanderson and I get engaged, you'll be the first person I tell, right after my father.”
She made a tsk-tsk sound.
“Dharma, it's fine. I've been engaged before, and that was a disaster. Getting a ring on my finger is not the be-all, end-all, believe me. And besides, Logan and I have only been together about six months.”
“That's half a year,” she said. “You're not getting any younger, dear. What are you now, thirty-nine? Forty is right around the corner.”
I made a shocked face. “I'm thirty-four. These bags under my eyes are because I didn't get much sleep last night, because I was working.”
“I've worked late hours for many years. The secret is to take a nap in the afternoon. My husband John calls it my fountain-of-youth sleep.”
I caught myself frowning and tried to relax my face so I didn't make myself look worse.
She continued, “The key to a good nap is to not sleep too long. Thirty minutes is perfect. Especially if your lover wakes you up with a kiss and a hot cup of tea.”
“Ah. That's what I've been doing wrong. I'm usually woken up by either my phone ringing or my cat sitting on my face.” I twitched my mouth from side to side. �
��This afternoon, it was both.” I turned my head and scanned the crowded pub. “Have you seen Jessica? We're supposed to be having a girls' night.”
“She's upstairs, by the fireplace. What can I bring you to drink?”
“Irish coffee, with an extra shot of espresso.”
“We don't have an espresso machine, but I'll stir in an extra scoopful of the instant coffee mix we use.”
“Perfect,” I lied. I succumbed to another one of her friendly hugs and headed upstairs to find my friends.
I spotted Jessica by her red hair, which was twisted up in another of her elaborate braided hairstyles. My best friend always looked about one brocade vest short of being dressed up for a Renaissance fair.
Jessica was sitting with two blondes: Harper Hinton and Quinn McCabe.
I strode up to the table of three and said, “Looks like this girl group is missing their brunette.”
Jessica whipped around on her chair and grinned up at me. “Stormy! I was just telling the girls I wasn't sure if you were going to join us. I thought you might be busy with your adulterers.”
The other girls laughed as I took a seat in the fourth chair, facing the fireplace.
“Laugh now,” I said with a mock-serious tone. “You won't be laughing when I catch one of you in flagrante delicto. That's Latin for 'in blazing offense,' in case you're wondering.”
Harper, the youngest of the group, gave me a shy smile. She often wore lipstick that was a bit too dark for her skin, which made her look tired and a bit malnourished—not that I was one to judge, apparently.
Harper said, “Stormy, I'd need to have a husband first before I could get another one to adulter with. Wait. Is adulter a verb? Or even a word?” She glanced around at the other girls, who were a decade older.
Quinn McCabe started coughing into her fist. “How should I know? Why are you asking me?”
I took a good look at Quinn, who was still clearing her throat and avoiding eye contact with the group. I quietly put the clues together. On Monday of that week, Quinn's husband, Chip, had visited me at the store and asked about putting a tail on his wife. He'd said it was for her protection, but then, thanks to Brianna's family gossip, I'd figured out Quinn had something going with a photographer. It was no wonder the topic of adultery was making her uncomfortable.
“Adulter,” Jessica mused. “Sounds like a word.”
“It's not a word,” I said. It was warm there by the fireplace, so I immediately slipped my jacket off and put it on the back of my chair. The girls were watching me expectantly, so I explained further. “In the private investigation business, we simply call it committing adultery. Interestingly enough, you can adulterate something, but that generally means adding cheaper or inferior material. For example, adding lead to pewter.”
Dharma arrived with my Irish coffee, took drink refill orders from the other three girls, and left.
I continued explaining, “So, you could theoretically adulterate a marriage by adding cheap, inferior material such as another person's affection, but I wouldn't use that word in a client report. We prefer the term indiscretion.”
Quinn was watching me with narrowed eyes. Did she know her husband was onto her, or was she suspicious of me due to her guilt? Perhaps a few drinks would loosen the truth out of her.
Harper turned to me and asked, “What about my boss, Michael Sweet? Would you call what he was up to adultery?”
I stared back at Harper, who'd clamped her dark burgundy lips together in a straight line. Why was she asking me? She worked for the Sweets part-time as an administrative assistant. She probably knew more about Michael's hobbies than anyone.
Quinn leaned in eagerly, licking her pink-hued lips. “Yeah, Stormy! Tell us what you know. Was Michael messing around? Is that why Samantha killed him?” She lowered her voice. “I mean, assuming it was her, and not a jealous spouse.”
I took a slow sip of my Irish coffee and licked the whipped cream off my upper lip. The three women were watching me intently. They had no idea that this very moment was the first time I'd heard anything—outside of my own internal ruminations—about Michael Sweet committing adultery.
“You go first,” I said slyly. “Tell me what you know, and then I'll tell you what I know.”
Quinn elbowed Harper. “Tell Stormy what you told us.”
Harper gave me an uneasy look. Her dark-hued lips were still pressed in a flat line. She was a recent transplant to Misty Falls, having moved there with her younger sister not long before I'd returned the previous fall. She and Jessica had become friends when they'd worked together and lived in the same apartment building, before Jessica had moved in with me.
Harper was a likable girl, but I'd noticed her acting skittish around me. I suppose the time I attacked her by throwing an industrial-sized jug of laundry detergent at her in the basement utility room hadn't helped our relationship. In my defense, I'd thought she might be trying to kill me. She hadn't been, but you can't be too careful.
Harper and I had seen each other around town since then, though we didn't talk about anything meatier than how much my father was enjoying the old green Ford Torino he'd bought from her in the summer.
Quinn kept urging Harper to tell me something. Jessica watched quietly, her expression neutral.
Harper shifted her chair to face me but a few inches further back, as though she preferred to keep her distance from me. Her mouth seemed to be getting smaller and smaller, her darkened lips rolling in until I couldn't see her lipstick at all.
“You can speak freely,” I said to her. “This is all totally off the record.” Inside, I gagged a little over using the phrase “off the record.” It made me feel seedy and underhanded, yet it flowed so easily from my mouth. And it did the job. Harper's lips slowly reappeared, and she relaxed visibly.
Harper said, “Well, as you know, I've been working as an office assistant to the Sweets for a few months now. Just part-time.”
Quinn waved her hand impatiently. “Tell Stormy the good part,” she said.
Harper murmured something quietly. I couldn't hear her over the music and din of the busy pub.
Quinn put her elbows on the table hard enough to rattle our drinks. She exclaimed, “Michael Sweet was some sort of sex addict,” she said. “He would disappear for hours at a time, and Harper thinks he was using their house listings for his sex romps.”
I asked, “With who?”
Quinn leaned back contentedly, like a queen holding court. Just like old days. “We were hoping you could tell us,” she said. “Surely you're the one person in town who knows all about who's zooming who.”
I had to smile. Quinn had always referred to sex as “zooming.” I hadn't heard the term in years, and it really brought me back to a more innocent time. I nearly forgot we were discussing the reputed sex life of a homicide victim.
“Quinn, I was never on the case. If Samantha had been suspicious enough to hire me to tail him, then I would know.” I looked down at my Irish coffee. “In fact, it might have saved his life if he'd been busted sooner.”
Jessica leaned across the table and patted my shoulder. “Stormy, you can't save them all.”
I patted her hand and thanked her with my eyes.
“It wasn't another woman,” Harper said, her voice quaking. “I mean, it might not have been.”
We all exchanged wide-eyed looks.
Harper said, “A few weeks before Mr. Sweet's accident, a client found something he left behind at a house. It was a—”
Quinn interrupted, “I knew it! He was gay. That explains a lot, actually. When we dated in high school, I caught him trying on my cheerleader uniform more than once.” Her hands fluttered excitedly. “Do you think his gay lover killed him?”
“That's not what I meant,” Harper said, looking flustered. “If you would let me talk...”
Jessica stretched one arm across Quinn like the safety rail on an amusement park ride. “Go ahead,” Jessica said to Harper, “I'll clamp my hand over the Queen
Bee's mouth if she tries to interrupt you again.”
“Please finish,” I said to Harper, speaking slowly and trying not to spook her.
“The client found pornography magazines,” Harper said. “I think he was using the houses for dates... with himself.”
Quinn wrinkled her nose. “That's all? Phooey. That's boring. I bet it was hookers. This town is small, but it's not that small. I know there's a dominatrix in town, available for—”
Jessica made good on her threat to clamp her hand over Quinn's mouth. “That's enough,” Jessica said. “The man is dead. He's not even been buried for a full day.”
I raised my hand meekly. “Actually, there is more than one dominatrix in the local area.” I waved my hand. “Which is a topic for another time.” I gave Harper a friendly smile. “Do you still have those magazines?”
Harper shook her head vehemently. “I picked them up from the client and gave them some spa coupons to the Canuso Resort as an apology. Then I threw them in the garbage. I never told Michael or Samantha.”
I asked her, “Did you tell the police?”
“Oh, Stormy,” Quinn interrupted. “Don't be such a narc.”
Don't be such a narc. The phrase stung every bit as much as it had in high school. Growing up the daughter of a cop in a small town hadn't been without its challenges.
“Never mind,” I said. “I'm pretty sure Michael's porno magazines didn't kill him. Not even the sharpest paper can cut a man's throat.”
Quinn laughed at my joke. Jessica raised her eyebrows and gave me an I-don't-know-what-to-do-with-you look. Harper hunched deeper into her chair, clutching her bottle of beer and watching me out of the corner of her eye.
I sipped my Irish coffee, let the conversation settle, and then asked, “What else is new?” I turned my head to check out our surroundings. “Is this place under new management yet again? Those light fixtures look different.”
“New owners,” Jessica said. “They got rid of karaoke night. Mainly to get rid of a certain singer, which is a shame, because she's really talented.”
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