Stormy Day Mysteries 5-Book Cozy Murder Mystery Series Bundle

by Angela Pepper

  Jessica obliged, spinning out the bottom of her bright yellow dress. She had purchased the dress after seeing a similar one on a famous redhead actress in a musical movie. Because the weather had cooled recently, she'd paired it with cream-colored cable-knit tights and an orange cardigan. Paired with the bright blond wig, she looked like the personification of autumn leaves.

  Jinx said, “You look like you're about to burst into song about the changing seasons.”

  Next, Jinx looked me up and down. “And you, Stormy, look like you're heading out to smoke cigars and play poker with the other gentlemen.”

  I tilted my fedora forward. “I'll take that as a compliment.”

  We said goodbye to Jinx and went to my car.

  Jessica was moving slowly, as though distracted. She had her arms crossed.

  I asked her, “Do you need a warmer jacket? I've got one in the trunk.”

  She dropped her arms and shook them out. “I'm fine. Just wondering if we should even go to this thing. A night in with chicken wings sounds pretty good, and I don't normally eat chicken wings.”

  “We don't have to go,” I said.

  “Actually, we do. Quinn phoned me this morning and made me swear on the sacred bond of the cheerleader squad.”

  “Sounds like a legally binding verbal contract.” I looked up at the dark sky. The long days of summer were so far away now.

  Jessica sighed. “I wish I wasn't such a worry wart, but you know how I am.” She fussed with the yellow skirt of her dress, which was sticking with static electricity to her cable-knit tights. “Stupid Quinn,” she said. “Stupid static electricity.”

  I popped open the trunk of my car and waved her over. I pulled out a dryer sheet and used it to quickly de-static her skirt.

  “You're prepared for everything,” she said with admiration.

  “Dryer sheets are great multi-purpose items,” I said. “You can clean your windshield, wipe off pet hair, sharpen scissors, de-squeak the soles of new shoes—” I stopped myself.

  “Don't stop,” Jessica said. “I love that my best friend is so smart and handy.” She skipped over to the passenger-side door. “Now let's get to the casino and find Quinn. We wouldn't want to be late, or she'll make us run laps like the good ol' days.”

  Chapter 34

  The Canuso Lake Casino and Resort was busy that Saturday night, but not as busy as it had been two weeks earlier, for the official House of Hallows TV series casting call. We were able to park in the main parking lot, albeit a fair hike from the front door.

  We stepped out of my car and got ready to walk in.

  “You forgot your hat,” Jessica said.

  She was right. I'd left my fedora in the backseat of the car, since a woman wearing a fedora—or really anyone, in these modern times—would have been suspicious. I explained to Jessica that I'd only left my house wearing the hat to make her laugh.

  “But it looked good,” she said, smirking. “That hat really brought your whole old-man look together.”

  I smiled down at my father's old clothes—a button-down shirt and a pair of trousers with suspenders, topped off with a vest. My outfit was drab but not too scruffy, perfect for blending with a crowd. Plus I liked how the suspenders kept my pants up without making the waist tight. It was much easier this way to keep my shirt tucked in.

  “Since you like the hat so much, I'll wear it to Quinn's hootenanny next Friday.”

  Jessica stared at me blankly as she bit her lower lip dramatically. In her blond wig and dress, she looked exactly like the femme fatale in a gritty film noir detective movie.

  “Stormy, it's a dance,” she said. “Don't you want to be a pretty girl on Logan's arm?”

  “It's a dance,” I said. “Who's got two thumbs, a law degree, and doesn't dance? My boyfriend, Logan Sanderson.”

  “Oh, right,” she said glumly. “I guess he's not perfect after all.”

  “He's close enough,” I said. “Christopher wasn't much of a dancer, either. The first time we met at that rock concert in Paris, I thought he was doing a comedy thing—a parody of how a guy so white his last name is Fairchild dances.” The band that night was from Japan, playing American Rockabilly music, so Christopher's jokey dancing had seemed appropriate enough. The two girls I was traveling with thought he was hilarious. It wasn't until much later that I found out Christopher really danced that way all the time.

  Jessica smiled and shook her head. “I can picture it now,” she said. “With those white-soled Vans sneakers of his flashing under the lights.”

  “I wish you could have been there,” I said, and I meant it. I had wanted her to come with me at the time, but she either hadn't been able to save up the money for a trip to Europe or was too nervous—maybe both. Had I done everything I could have to convince her to come? Probably not.

  But that was the past, and here we were, having a whole new adventure.

  We locked the car doors and headed toward the entrance right behind a loose crowd. As we walked, I gave Jessica some tips on how to disappear into a crowd.

  Looking “normal” is a subtle art. One key is to not try too hard. Dressing in all black like a ninja would be one such example of trying too hard. You should wear normal, plain clothes, keep smiling, and continue carrying on a casual conversation with your companion. Yes, bringing a friend will make you appear less conspicuous.

  “Don't look up,” I said to Jessica when we entered the main atrium with the water feature.

  “But shouldn't I make a mental note of the locations of the security cameras?”

  “Just assume they're everywhere, and remember this: The ones on the ceiling point down and capture the tops of people's heads. When you look up at the ceiling, your face suddenly shows up in a sea of brown heads, attracting the attention of anyone monitoring the screens. Our brains are geared toward recognizing a human face. Looking up is a sure way of getting security's attention, which we could use to our advantage if we had another party operating as a decoy.”

  “Uh-oh,” she said. “I shouldn't have worn a yellow dress with an orange sweater. Or does it matter? The screens are all in black and white, aren't they?”

  “A casino this up to date will have color cameras on the floors, probably fifty with three-sixty degree views, plus more in the choke points. The lighting in here is more than bright enough to get a good picture. It's only outside, on the exterior grounds and parking lots, where they'll have cameras that are black and white, because they get a crisp image with lower light.”

  “But we're inside. So why did you let me dress up like a buttercup?”

  I chuckled. “You might notice that nobody's looking at me right now.”

  “Is that all I am to you?” She laughed. “A decoy body?”

  I gave her my best noir detective impersonation. “Sweetheart, you're so much more than a skirt to me. Why, with my brains and your looks, we could really go places.”

  She rolled her eyes and led the way toward the ballroom where the casting announcement was being made.

  We located Quinn and her family sitting at a reserved table near the stage where the casting announcement would be made shortly. It was the first time I'd seen the trio of McCabes all together.

  Chip's round cheeks flushed red with a blush that carried all the way across both ears when he made eye contact with me. We hadn't seen each other, much less spoken, since Monday of that week, when he'd dropped by my store to casually ask me about digging up “dirt” on people for blackmail. As I looked his way, he slid down in his chair, arms tucked tightly at his side, as though he was trying to disappear behind the drinks-menu card standing upright on the table. Whether or not he still suspected his wife of sneaking around with a photographer, he certainly looked embarrassed about having brought it to my attention.

  Quinn, on the other hand, was standing over the table with an aggressively wide-legged stance, waving both arms wildly as she regaled the others seated at the table with a story about how much champagne they'd specia
l-ordered for their gala on Friday.

  Jessica greeted her with a hug and two cheek kisses. It seemed to take Quinn a few minutes to recognize Jessica under the wig.

  Quinn scowled at her, “Is this your new look? I liked you better as a redhead.”

  “It's just a wig,” Jessica said. “What's this about a gala? I thought your party was a hootenanny?”

  “Oh, it's still at the barn,” Quinn said slowly. “But this might be the last year a barn will be able to hold everyone.”

  “Mom,” Quinby said, tugging her mother's arm. “When can I take off this coat? It's hot and itchy.”

  All eyes turned to the youngest McCabe, who was sporting beauty-pageant-style full makeup, and a brown trench coat.

  “In a few minutes,” Quinn snapped at her daughter. “We've waited this long, and we don't want to ruin the surprise.”

  “But I'm hot!”

  “Come here, duckie,” Chip said. “I'll unbutton you a bit. I know how much it sucks to be overheated.”

  “Don't,” Quinn snapped at her husband. “Leave it.”

  The round-cheeked mail carrier's ears became even more red. He grumbled something I couldn't hear, and then told his daughter to be patient. “Just a few more minutes,” he said. “Your mother knows best.”

  Jessica and I exchanged a look as we took our seats across from the McCabes. Jessica leaned over and whispered, “Quinn knows best.”

  I suppressed the urge to giggle. Quinn knows best was a phrase we used to say whenever the head cheerleader made us do extra laps or ordered our celebratory pizza with half the cheese left off. Said with enough sarcasm, it was almost enough to make up for the taste of sad, cheeseless pizza.

  Jessica and I introduced ourselves to the others at the table. I recognized Quinn's parents, though the Baudelaires didn't recognize me until I said my name.

  “Your hair,” said Mrs. Baudelaire with a note of horror. “I do hope it will grow back. You were always such a lovely girl, Stormy. How is your father?”

  “He's got a new hip and an old car and couldn't be happier with retirement.”

  “Is he in remission then?”

  “From what?”

  Mrs. Baudelaire glanced at her husband, who wasn't paying any attention to the conversation at all. She looked back at me with a thin smile. “Never mind. I'm getting my wires crossed.” She smiled across the table at her daughter and granddaughter. “We just couldn't be more excited about tonight's big announcement.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I can't imagine what the good news will be.”

  She nodded and picked up her glass of wine.

  A few minutes later, curiosity must have gotten the better of Mrs. Baudelaire because she started up a conversation with me again. I'd been checking messages on my phone and set it aside politely.

  “I have a theory,” she whispered. “Don't let my husband overhear me. Is he looking at me now?”

  Mr. Baudelaire had wandered away from the table in search of the washroom.

  “Nobody's listening,” I assured the woman.

  “And is this conversation... off the charts?”

  “If you mean off the record, then yes.”

  She smiled dazedly, her eyes slightly unfocused. “I think the Canuso boy is going to take the blame for killing Michael Sweet to protect his little sister. She's the one who did it. I've seen her lose her temper a few times in public. She created quite the spectacle around herself, that girl. People don't talk about her much, now that Della Koenig is on everyone's lips. And the Countess when she's in town. But a year or two ago, tongues would have been wagging about that woman with the ridiculous name. Tagger. Who would name a child such a thing? I mean, there's that golfer, Tiger. I can see that, but only for a boy.”

  “Trigger,” I said. “Her name isn't Tagger. It's Trigger. All the siblings have horse-themed names.”

  “But a trigger is part of a gun,” Mrs. Baudelaire said, waving a hand dismissively, as though I hadn't been smart enough to understand a word she'd said. She glanced up as her husband returned to the table. Loudly, she said to me, “There's nothing like a summer wedding. June or July, if you ask me.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” I said, winking. “I'll keep that in mind.”

  Getting planning tips for my nonexistent wedding turned out to be the highlight of the evening.

  Watching Quinby go on stage dressed as Kinley following the casting announcement only made me feel sad. I kept thinking about Q's best friend, Sophie, and how she should have been there. Samantha's kids were currently with family members, so the little girl was being taken care of, but it was a shame she had to miss the party. She'd already lost so much when her father died, and this was likely the first in a long string of things she was going to miss out on. Poor kid.

  For the McCabes and Baudelaires, Jessica and I pretended to be shocked and surprised when the announcement was made. We congratulated the families, stayed for one drink, and then slipped out without letting anyone know we were leaving—a classic Irish goodbye, I thought to myself with a smile.

  We were halfway across the exterior parking lot when we were spotted.

  Or to be more accurate, I was sniffed out.

  The two heart-faced huskies, Juno and Echo, bounded toward me. They recognized me from our day together and happily licked my hands.

  I tried to shoo them away, but it was too late. I'd been spotted. A dark-haired blur moved toward me.

  I braced myself for a confrontation with Trigger Canuso, but it wasn't her after all. It was the smaller of the two security guards I'd bribed for information the previous time I'd been at the casino.

  The young man saw right through our disguises. “If it isn't the fountain girls,” he said, grinning. “Sorry about the dogs. They're good girls, but they get excited when they see someone they like.”

  “It's nice to be liked,” I said. “You're not working tonight, are you?”

  “It's my day off.” He pulled the dogs closer. “Sorry, but I shouldn't be talking to you. The lawyer said not to talk to anyone.”

  “That's good advice,” I said. “You shouldn't talk to anyone. My lawyer tells me the same thing.”

  “You have a lawyer?”

  I glanced over at Jessica, who was fidgeting with the buttons of her sweater. She wanted to get home and enjoy the rest of the evening on a sofa, and didn't look very pleased at me for starting a conversation with one of the people we'd specifically dressed up in disguises to evade.

  I gave her a wide-eyed look, trying to communicate that I knew what I was doing. Ever since Quinn's mother had drunkenly gossiped to me about Colt's little sister being involved in Michael's death, the pieces had been clicking together in my head. It didn't make sense for Colt, a pacifist and gentle soul, to have stabbed a man to death. But it did seem like something his short-fused little sister might do. And it made a certain sense that he would knowingly take the fall for something to protect his sister. He wasn't at all like the Koenig brothers, Brandon and Drake, who'd turned on each other when the chips were down.

  The Sweet homicide wasn't my case, but I'd already been involved so much. Would it kill me to explore a hunch by asking just a few questions?

  Jessica shrugged, as if to tell me she was fine with me doing whatever I was going to do anyway, permission or not.

  I turned back to the security guard with a big smile.

  “Of course I have a lawyer,” I said. “I am a suspect, after all. You're too young to know this, but Michael Sweet and I go way back, all the way back to high school. We had a run-in recently, when I confronted him about some suspicious bruises I saw on his wife.” I glanced over at Jessica, whose lips were pressed together in a straight line. She wasn't going to say a peep, let alone disagree with any of my bluffing.

  The security guard looked me up and down as he chuckled. “Lady, I don't think you killed anyone,” he said. “I bet you've never even been hunting.”

  “I haven't,” I said. “What's your name, in case th
e judge doesn't believe me and I need a character witness?”

  He glanced around the parking lot and then up at the security cameras that were presumably stationed at each light post.

  “Nick,” he finally said. “Nick Tanner. No relation to the Canuso family, but I—” He clamped his mouth shut and shook his head. “I really shouldn't be talking to you. The lawyer said not to talk to anyone.”

  As a good lawyer should. Most people aren't good at keeping secrets. That's a good thing for society, but it's bad if you're trying to keep the details of a legal case confidential and your client blabs to anyone who bats an eyelash or offers a kind word their way.

  But I had a sneaky trick up my sleeve.

  “Your lawyer is right,” I said. “You shouldn't talk to anyone.” I started to walk away then stopped. “But before I go, how about you? Do you have any questions about the case that I could answer for you?” I paused and smiled. “Ask away.”

  The ace I had up my sleeve was knowing how busy lawyers are. Not just my own boyfriend, who was sporadic about returning messages, but all lawyers, everywhere. Even the best lawyer couldn't keep his or her client up to speed on absolutely everything at all times. And clients don't like not knowing.

  Nick Tanner stared at me in disbelief. “For real? No tricks?”

  I held my hands out wide. “I'm an open book, if you'd like.”

  His mouth moved silently for a moment, like the lips of a fish considering whether or not to bite the wiggly worm on the shining hook. Finally, he spoke. “Do they have any other suspects, or do they think it's Colt for sure?”

  I looked down at the two dogs and then up at the security guard. Nick was a cute guy, midtwenties, and he didn't wear a wedding ring. If he had Colt's two dogs with him, that meant he was more than just an employee. He was close to the family despite not being a relative, which could mean a few things, including that he was dating Trigger Canuso.