Something occurred to me, so I asked Kyle, “Did you guys find any dirty magazines at the crime scene?”
“Not that I recall. Why?”
I told him about how the Sweets' part-time assistant had covered for Michael with some clients, after they found some materials he'd left behind.
Kyle seemed puzzled by this, setting the Reader's Digest aside and rubbing his smooth chin for a long time.
Finally, he said, “Why would someone buy a magazine when they have the internet? I mean, it's all there, and it's free, and you can—”
“Gross.” I held up a hand, begging him to stop sharing. “Dimples, I don't want to know.”
“Michael Sweet was your age, though, so I guess he'd do it the old-school way.” He shifted his chin-rubbing hand down to his Adam's apple and scratched it thoughtfully. He had some razor burn and raised red bumps that looked itchy. I remembered what I'd said to my father about hickies, and pondered how soft Kyle's skin looked.
Then I found myself looking at his lips and wondering how soft they were.
I cleared my throat and forced my thoughts away. Picture his bare baby butt, I told myself. It didn't work, and I pictured his adult butt instead.
I grabbed a throw pillow from behind me and hugged it to my stomach. I grabbed my bottle of beer and chugged the remainder.
Kyle was watching me.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and let out a good burp. That'll reset the tone, I thought.
“That was well brought up,” he said. “Too bad you weren't.”
I looked down at my phone. “Come on, Brianna. What kind of millennial are you, letting your phone go unchecked for seven minutes?”
Kyle snorted. “Not all millennials are the same.”
“You're all the same when it comes to your phones,” I teased. “All of you wacky, tech-obsessed youngsters.”
Just then, Brianna came through. She even apologized for taking so long. She'd sent the photo she'd taken of Colt Canuso on Monday morning, just hours before the homicide.
My fingers trembled as I opened the attachment and zoomed.
My heart immediately sunk. The room spun around me, closing in.
Colt was wearing a shirt that was indistinguishable from the one on the video.
I handed the phone to Kyle and cursed. I cursed loud enough to get my father's attention in the kitchen.
He came out, and we explained to him what I'd hoped to get, only to be disappointed.
“Same shirt,” Finnegan Day said. “He's probably got a half-dozen in the identical style, to go with his suits.” He took the phone from Kyle and stared at it. “I've always admired the bolo tie, but I couldn't pull one off.” He glanced up at Kyle. “Were there any ligature marks? If I wanted to kill someone and I had a bolo tie on me, I'd use what I had on hand.”
“No ligature marks,” Kyle said.
The microwave beeped repeatedly in the kitchen. “Potatoes are done,” my father said. “Let's eat before it gets cold.”
After dinner, I was outnumbered by boys when it came to TV channels, so we watched the NFL game.
We watched football for nearly an hour without speaking. I tried not to think about the Sweet homicide. It wasn't my case, and it wasn't my business.
Finally, my father muted the television during commercials and turned to me with a sympathetic expression. “Stormy, it was worth a shot,” he said. “I'm just as disappointed as you are that your friend wasn't wearing a different shirt that Monday morning.”
“I doubt that,” I said grumpily.
“I've been where you are right now,” he said. “It's not a good place to be. But you can't give up just because one idea didn't work out.”
“What's to give up? This isn't my case.”
Kyle patted me on the shoulder. “I won't give up,” he said.
I pulled my shoulder away and shifted over to the edge of the couch.
After a few minutes, I asked Kyle, “What have you got on Trigger and where she was all day Monday? I know she wasn't with her dumb boyfriend.”
He glanced over at my father. Neither of them said anything.
“Off the record,” I said.
Kyle pulled his head back, giving himself a small double chin. “What do you mean, off the record? You're not a reporter.” He narrowed his sky-blue eyes at me. “Is this one of your dirty private eye tricks?”
I shrugged. “Would you prefer a pinkie swear?” I held up my pinkie finger.
My father chuckled.
Kyle said, “Colt Canuso doesn't have a great alibi for the time of the murder. He was supposed to attend a men's group meeting. His two security guard friends were at the meeting, but Colt never showed up. When he met up with them later, he said the dogs had been acting up, so he took them for a walk.”
“I asked you about Trigger,” I said. “Where was she that day?”
“She was not with Rick Tanner all day,” Kyle said. “He did change his statement, thanks to your helpful suggestion. He met up with her later at about four o'clock in the afternoon, and she was agitated.” He quickly added, “More agitated than usual.”
“Why are you sitting around drinking beer and watching football with my dad when you should be out solving this case?”
“Cops don't work twenty-four seven. We're allowed time off.”
“You need to figure out where Trigger was all day.”
Kyle gave me a grumpy look. “Don't tell me how to do my job. I worked a lot of high-profile cases before I moved back here to Oregon.”
I took out my phone and called someone.
Kyle demanded, “Who are you calling now?”
“Harper. She's the part-time assistant for the Sweets. It's okay. I'm friends with her.”
“That doesn't make it okay.” He gave me a serious look, which was downright adorable thanks to his dimples.
“Harper,” I said brightly when she answered the call. “Hey, how have you been? You sure bolted out of there on Friday night.”
Harper was hesitant to answer. “Uh... Your friend Quinn gave me a ride home. She's kind of intense.”
“Sorry about that,” I said. “Did she demand to know your waist measurement? That's her way of bonding with a new girl.”
“Actually, she did,” Harper said, bemused.
“That means you're in,” I said.
We talked a bit more, and Harper shared her perspective on Quinn's terrifying driving skills in the Land Rover. I laughed and smiled broadly at Kyle, who was looking more confused by the minute.
I tilted the mouthpiece away from my mouth and whispered to him, “Subtlety is an art.”
Harper was saying something about a party. “Will you be there? Quinn said we'd be celebrating her daughter getting that big TV role.”
“Of course I'll be at Quinn's hootenanny. Why not?” I turned to my father and made a gagging face. He barely took his eyes off the television.
“Thanks for checking in on me,” Harper said. “These last two weeks have been the absolute worst.”
“I can imagine.”
Brightly, she said, “At least you and Jessica have been so nice to me. And your dad, too. I think he might have paid me too much for the car.”
“Nonsense,” I said vehemently. “My father has never paid too much for anything in his life.”
Finnegan Day's eyes lit up. He grinned at me from his recliner, Hobo Pride evident.
“My battery's running low,” Harper said. “But I'll see you Friday night, right?”
“I'll be there with bells on.”
I ended the call and filled Kyle in on what I'd learned, which was nothing yet. “But I'll be socializing with her Friday night,” I said. “You can't get more subtle than that.”
“And you think she knows more about Michael's side hobbies than she's been telling us?”
“She didn't tell you about the magazines, did she?”
Kyle was speechless. I glanced over to catch my father giving me an approving wink.
Kyle said, “I'm coming as your date to this hootenanny.”
This again? I thought we'd gotten past Kyle's puppy crush on me.
“Good idea,” my father said. “Bring Kyle with you. Work as a team to find out what people know about Trigger. Plus, if Samantha's there, he can protect you from her.”
“I doubt she'll be at a hootenanny.”
“Be safe,” he warned. “If you see that woman, make sure you know where the big kitchen knives are at all times.”
“Dad! Samantha wouldn't hurt a fly.”
“Never be hasty to rule out the spouse,” he said.
I looked over at Kyle. “Samantha continues to be of interest,” he said.
I let the information sink in, and I considered my options. Logan and his sister might be interested in the party, but that didn't mean we couldn't go as a big group. My car would hold five people, albeit things would get cuddly in the backseat.
“Dimples, can you dance?”
“I can,” he said with a twinkle in his sky-blue eyes. “That doesn't mean I should.”
Chapter 37
When I got home Sunday night, the lights next door at Logan's were off. His vehicle was in the driveway, which meant both Sanderson siblings had hit the hay early.
I walked in my own door to find Jessica asleep on the couch with Jeffrey curled up beside her. Neither of them stirred. I switched off the TV, which was showing the end of the nature documentary marathon that I'd wanted to watch at my father's.
The kitchen counter was clean, which made the recent addition of a flower bouquet jump out at me. Was it for Jessica or for yours truly? The flowers were all cat-friendly, with no dangerous lilies that could harm my curious Russian Blue cat. And it was a good thing, because by the look of the yellow petals strewn about, he'd taken a sample nibble.
Next to the vase were a card and a small blue box.
The interior of the card read: Sorry I haven't been much fun lately. I'll make it up to you soon. I hope you enjoy the gift in the box. Love, Logan.
For me! I also hoped I would enjoy the gift in the box. I opened it breathlessly. I wasn't much for wearing jewelry on a daily basis, but that didn't mean I wasn't a fan of receiving it. Back when I'd been growing up, my father used to take me to Ruby's Treasure Trove every single birthday so I could pick out something special. I still had every single piece, even though their monetary value was low and the style was more suited to a pre-teen girl.
The box didn't contain jewelry; it held a small, gray, dark-whiskered mouse.
I picked up the mouse and was so shocked by the feel of it in my hand that I immediately dropped it on my foot. What on earth? I picked it up gingerly, by the tail. It was eerily realistic for a cat toy, seemingly covered in real fur.
I looked in the box, at a small paper tag that proclaimed the furry thing to be of premium construction and 100% natural materials. The label went on to explain that the company's products were all recycled, made from unwanted leather and fur coats that had been donated to charities but were unsalable. The label also specified that it was an object d'art, not a toy. So that was how they got around the regulations against making toys out of anything but new materials. You can't just sell consumers any ol' thing made out of random bits and bobs. I knew a lot about these rules, thanks to my experiences ordering for Glorious Gifts.
Jeffrey, who had silently jumped up on the counter without me noticing, snaked one gray paw over and effortlessly grabbed the mouse from me. He sank his teeth into the fur body with an excited growl and took off with it, bounding down the hallway.
I crossed my arms and looked at the wall dividing my side of the duplex from Logan's. He meant well, but he wasn't so great at selecting gifts. For my birthday, he'd taken me to dinner and then given me a computer mouse pad with his law firm's logo on it. “Everyone likes useful things,” he'd said. “And your other mouse pad is all worn out and tattered.” His gift had been entirely office supplies, including a matching Tyger & Behr mug and a set of pens.
I picked up the card and read the neatly printed interior text again. Sorry I haven't been much fun lately. I'll make it up to you soon. I hope you enjoy the gift in the box. Love, Logan.
Was the card meant for Jeffrey? It didn't have my name on it. If this was Logan's idea of a funny prank, it was way too subtle for me.
I sniffed the flowers, which had no scent at all, and then headed off to prepare for bed.
I found Jeffrey in the bathroom, where he was making the excited SNARF SNARF sound he usually reserved for dirty wool socks. He had successfully eviscerated the recycled-fur mouse and was conducting an autopsy on its white cotton innards. I reached down to take away the stuffing before he choked on it. He made a sound that was part growl and part SNARF, grabbed the inside-out mouse hide, and ran off.
At least he was enjoying the gift, albeit not as intended.
When I was done brushing my teeth, I went to the living room to check on Jessica. She was already sitting up, yawning. She asked, “Done in the bathroom?”
“Yes,” I said. “And I think I'm done with Logan.”
“I told him it was a bad idea,” she said.
“You think?” I sputtered. “A cat toy? Made out of germy old fur that's been god-knows-where? What was he thinking?”
“You didn't find the robe, did you?” She got up and folded the sofa blanket. “I told him he was being an idiot. He doesn't know you like I do, does he? Go look on your bed before you say something you'll regret.”
I went down the hall. There on my bed was another box, larger than the first one I'd found on the counter. Inside was a beautiful silk robe, dark red. It didn't look as warm and cozy as the multicolored robe I'd snagged from my father's former girlfriend, Pam Bochenek, but it was beautiful. It looked expensive.
“Your secret is safe with me,” Jessica said from the doorway. “I won't tell Logan his surprise was so bad you were on the brink of ending things with him.”
“I hadn't meant it,” I said. “You know me. I say dumb things when I get mad.”
“What's that expression your father has, about Freudian slips?”
“Where the tongue slips, it speaks the truth.”
She made a mouth-smacking sound and a sour face. “I need to brush these teeth or throw them away.” She shuffled off to the washroom.
Jeffrey jumped up on my bed and hunkered down in the middle of my pillow with his flattened mouse hide, which had a disturbingly accurate shape; it truly did resemble the carefully skinned and tanned pelt of a mouse. He began licking the fur side lovingly. I could hear the raspiness of his tongue on the long-dead material. To each their own, I thought.
I pulled off my clothes and slipped on the dark-red silk robe. The fabric was cool and made me shiver. I slipped it off, put it on a hanger in my closet, and pulled on a favorite threadbare sleeping shirt. I rubbed the goose bumps on my arms and stared at Logan's gift. While I was admiring the robe, it slithered off the hanger and pooled on the floor.
I wondered, why red? Why not a color that looked less like a puddle of blood?
I dug through my closet, found one of my padded fabric hangers, and hung it up again.
As I switched off the lights and crawled into bed, I hoped Jessica wouldn't remember our conversation in the morning.
The week passed quickly and without any major disasters, unless you count all the times I found Jeffrey's chewed and mangled mouse pelt in various places a person doesn't want to find a mangled mouse pelt, such as inside my shoe and tucked in my bed. Once, I looked down to find it on my lap, and I had no recollection of Jeffrey even being in the room with me. Had the revolting thing gained consciousness and started moving freely about the house? Surely it had, for self-ambulation was the only logical explanation.
Jessica didn't bring up our Sunday night conversation, and for that I was grateful. We all say dumb things when we're tired or agitated.
I had some investigation cases that became my focus on Monday and kept me
busy straight through to Friday. Logan was busy as well, with work at Tyger & Behr, and also with his sister, who'd decided to stick around Misty Falls a bit longer. Jinx had gotten a few meetings about getting on the hair and makeup team for the upcoming Hallows filming that would be taking place in our corner of Oregon soon. I hadn't considered the local economic impact of a large HBO production until Jinx and Jessica had a discussion about rising rent prices in the apartments around town. There was even talk of our town plus two nearby towns working together to create a new “Hollywood Northwest.”
Rumor had it people were getting excited about speculating on local real estate. Jessica told me that the tiny house Samantha had been trying to sell, which now had the dubious distinction of being a violent crime scene, had received several competing offers.
“That's good news for Samantha,” I said to Jessica on Friday. “She could use the sales commission.”
“Until the insurance money comes in,” Jessica said.
We were eating a quick dinner of grilled cheese sandwiches and canned soup before we headed off to Quinn's family's farm for the evening's hootenanny.
Jessica tapped the crumbs off her grilled sandwich and casually asked, “Do you have life insurance on yourself?”
“I don't have any dependents,” I said.
“Poor Jeffrey,” she said. “Left to fend for himself without his mommy.”
“Stop,” I said, laughing through the sudden heartbreak. “You're going to make me cry. I know you're joking, but it's a horrible thought.” I looked over at the cat, who was curled up with his mouse pelt on the sofa.
“What about the bank? Don't they have insurance to cover the mortgage?”
“Sure, but it's only for their benefit.” I looked down at my red tomato soup. “But you make a good point. I should make sure my will is up to date, and that you'll be looked after.”
She snorted and ate her sandwich without further comment.
After dinner, Jessica sprung a whole new surprise on me.
“Come on, it'll be fun,” Jessica said.
I shook my head. “Nothing fun has ever started with the phrase Come on, it'll be fun.”
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