by Ann Yost
A Double Pointed Murder
The Bait and Stitch Cozy Mystery Series, Book Two
Ann Yost
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Copyright 2018 by Ann Yost. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
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eBook ISBN: 978-1-947833-54-8
Contents
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Reader Invitation
A Fair Isle Murder
Purchase A Fair Isle Murder
Joulutorttu
Also by Ann Yost
About the Author
For Pete, with love
Foreword
Now you can experience the smells and flavors of the Keweenaw Peninsula just like the ladies from Red Jacket. When you finish the story, page ahead to the recipe for Christmas tarts – Joulutorttu – which are not to be missed. Enjoy!
* * *
ePublishing Works!
Chapter 1
The body on the morgue slab reminded me of the yellow-and-black swallowtail I’d exterminated in a kill jar and mounted on a piece of foam board as part of my tenth-grade insect collection.
Maybe it was the long, streaked blond hair and the thick black eyeliner.
Or maybe it was her name: Cricket.
Or maybe it was because the smooth epidermis just below the woman’s breastbone was punctured by a small, round aperture like that one I’d made with the insect pin. Only a little bigger.
I’d shed tears when I’d been forced to kill the beautiful butterfly to satisfy the demands of a bloodthirsty biology teacher but at least the mission had been clear. It was different this time. I could think of no possible reason for anyone to have rung in the New Year by turning Cricket Koski into a shish kebab.
Well, that’s not strictly true. I could think of one reason but I was hoping, in fact, praying, I was wrong.
In the main, we don’t approve of murder here in my hometown of Red Jacket on Michigan’s Keweenaw Peninsula, a witch’s finger of land that crooks into frigid Lake Superior. I mean, we swat the heck out of the black flies that arrive like a tsunami every spring, we hunt and we fish and we have more than our share of roadkill, but we don’t slaughter each other.
For one thing, there aren’t enough of us to spare. For another, we are a close-knit, Finnish American community and our “Bible” is the actual Bible. We are taught to honor our parents, make no graven images and not to kill. Our county jail has only one cell. There is no detective on the sheriff’s staff. In fact, there is no staff. Just a part-time deputy. There is no coroner’s van. There is, in fact, no single coroner.
Unfortunately, though, things started to change last summer when our midsummer celebration (Juhannus) was interrupted by a swan dive off the Painted Rock Lighthouse fourteen miles away on the shores of Lake Superior. And last month, the lifeless body of our reigning St. Lucy turned up in the sauna at the Maki Funeral Home. The death of Cricket Koski last night seemed to confirm what I was beginning to suspect: we were becoming a destination location for murder.
My involvement with the investigation of the previous crimes was purely accidental. I had some credentials. I’d gotten through a year of law school (I dropped out to get married, but more on that later) and I’ve read plenty of mystery novels but, quite frankly, my deductive powers are closer to those of Agatha Raisin than Agatha Christie. My main qualification though was like that of Chauncey Gardner, who stumbled into the role of president: I was there.
So this was to be my third murder investigation and, arguably, the most important. This time the crime was close to home. Very close. In fact, Cricket Koski was a relation.
If you consider adultery one of the ties that bind.
A one-night stand three years earlier between the pretty barmaid and Lars Teljo, my sister Sofi’s husband, had turned my brother-in-law into an ex. Recently, Sofi and Lars had been inching toward a reconciliation based on, in part, Lars’s assurances that he’d had nothing to do with the woman during the intervening time. Unfortunately, Cricket’s body had been discovered, last night, in Lars’s bed and I was pretty sure that the fact that she was dead would cut no ice with my sister. She would be furious with her ex-husband.
I just hoped the news would come as a surprise.
* * *
Let me introduce myself.
My legal name is Hatti Lehtinen Night Wind but for simplicity’s sake and since I have been separated longer than I was married, I don’t use my husband’s name. Well, not at the moment. Everything about my marriage is up in the air and by that, I’m not talking about castles or rainbows. I guess you could call the outcome pending. Like a patent.
Our relationship started with a bang–love at first sight (at least for me) and it ended with a whimper (mine) thirteen months ago. After a year’s separation, we’re back on terms (speaking and otherwise) but last night was New Year’s Eve and I celebrated it with my friends. Jace Night Wind was, once again, AWOL.
Anywho, as my stepdad, Pops would say, I’ve returned to the scene of my childhood. Red Jacket, Michigan is a time capsule of a town left over from the days of copper mining and populated by descendants of Finnish miners. And let me just say that, while I don’t know what Thomas Wolfe’s deal was, I do know that if he’d tried to go home again to a close-knit Finnish-American community in Upper Michigan, he’d have had no problem. It was as if time had stood still during the years I was away.
It was as if it had waited for me.
These days I spend my time managing Pops’ bait shop which I’ve turned into a hybrid enterprise that sells both fishing and knitting supplies. I call it Bait a
nd Stitch, but haven’t had a sign made yet. Hybrids, by the way, are very popular up here where people are so scarce we all have to wear multiple hats. My sister owns Main Street Floral and Fudge and our post office branch is located inside the Hakala Pharmacy.
Back to me. I’m nearly twenty-eight years old, about five foot seven with thick, wheat colored hair that gets blond streaks in it during the summer and I have blue eyes. This coloring is not remarkable. You can’t swing a dead cat on the Keweenaw Peninsula without hitting a blue-eyed blond.
When I’m with Sofi, who is six years my senior, five inches shorter and more curvaceous and Elli Risto, the cousin who is just my age, my best friend and an elf, we look like a set of Finnish-American nesting dolls. Or at least we did when we all wore our waist-length hair in a thick braid. Nowadays, thanks to a moment of grief-stricken madness, my hair is short and ragged and it flops on my head in a pile of uneven petals. Think of a fading chrysanthemum.
At the moment, I’m back in my parent’s butter-colored Queen Anne Victorian house on Calumet Street, sleeping under the glow-in-the-dark stars Pops stuck on the wall twenty years ago. I know that sounds lame but, in my defense, I’d started to move to a little bungalow on Toivo Street when Pops was struck with a snowmobile in the line of duty—he was Red Jacket’s police chief. Since then he’s recovered but he and my mom decided to spend the winter in Lake Worth, Florida, which is the third point of the Finnish Golden Triangle, along with the Upper Peninsula and Helsinki. I’m keeping the pipes from freezing by flushing the toilets. And I’m keeping Larry, Pops’s beloved basset hound, company. Or, maybe it’s the other way around.
I stared at the body and tried to focus. The death blow appeared to be a small, perfectly round hole just under the left breast of the woman my sister had nicknamed “the Insect.”
“Weird lookin’ wound, eh?”
I jumped at the sound of the familiar tenor. I’d forgotten I wasn’t alone.
Waino Aho, Sheriff Horace A. Clump’s latest in the revolving door of deputies, was hard to overlook, or he would have been if I hadn’t known him my entire life. Waino possessed the physique of Paul Bunyan, the stunning baby blues of Paul Newman and the likeable grin of Paul Rudd. He’d broken the rules to let me into the morgue this morning and, anyone in town (at least anyone of a certain age) would have said it was because he was secretly in love with me, a myth that dates back to sixth-grade Vacation Bible School when we’d been caught playing spin-the-bottle in the cloak closet at church. In fact, Waino was doing me a huge favor. He knew, as well as I, that I was at the top of Clump’s people-I’d-like-to-run-out-of-town list. The sheriff and Pops had never gotten along and Clump still resented my involvement with the last two murder cases.
“Weird,” I agreed.
“Looks like a wormhole.”
I knew he wasn’t referring to the hypothetical, topological feature that would be (if it exists) a shortcut through time and space. When Waino said “wormhole” he was referring to the orifice in a piece of fruit created by a burrowing maggot. I shook my head to dislodge some of the cobwebs. It had been a mistake to drive the five miles from Red Jacket to Frog Creek without any coffee but it was too late to worry about that now. I needed to learn what I could here.
“So what do you think made the wormhole?”
Waino shrugged his massive shoulders, a vacant expression on his handsome Nordic features.
“Not a bullet.”
I’d already figured that out. There was no torn flesh, no wounding around the pinhole puncture.
“Doc’ll know,” Waino added.
“Doc” could have referred to any of the four men who share the medical examiner duties but I knew he meant Doc Laitimaki, the general practitioner who had delivered Sofi and Elli and me and, most likely, Waino, too.
“He’s still in Lake Worth,” I murmured.
Waino shrugged. There was nothing to say to that.
“Could the weapon have been a rapier?”
The baby blue eyes widened.
“A what?”
“One of those long, thin blades people used for sword fights during the Regency.”
“The what?”
I sighed and decided not to explain. There probably wasn’t a rapier on the entire Keweenaw. Our antique weapons run to Finnish hunting knives.
“What about a skewer,” I suggested. He looked uncomprehending. “You know, that long, thin metal thing that people use to roast hotdogs and marshmallows.”
“I use a whittled birch stick,” he said. I nodded. We have plenty of birch trees. We use their branches for everything from building fires to making a vihta, or whisk that we use to slap ourselves on the back during a sauna. I refocused on the wound. I was mesmerized by it. There was something so familiar but I couldn’t put my finger on it. A hazy image danced in my mind, as if I were looking at one of those stereograms and trying to relax enough to find the hidden 3-D image.
Waino released a puff of air, an indication that he, too, was seriously concentrating on the matter.
“Ya know, Hatti, a nail gun coulda’ did it.”
A nail gun? I stared at his blue eyes but they blurred as the answer came into focus.
“Waino,” I breathed, touching his arm. It felt like a steel cable. “You’re a genius. You figured it out.”
“So it’s a nail gun?” He sounded pleased. I shook my head.
“No, but the nail gun image got me thinking in the right direction.” I paused. “Dollars to doughnuts this wound was made with a long, thin instrument made out of a carbon fiber composite, like the stuff they use in stealth fighter jets and Formula One racing cars.”
Waino tilted his head to the side.
“What in the heck are you talkin’ about, Hatti?”
“An instrument with tapered tips. The beauty of it is there’s one in every household in Red Jacket. It’s a weapon in plain sight.” He still didn’t get it, so I helped him out.
“A knitting needle, Waino. Probably a double-pointed one because it would be the right length and heft for a weapon. I’m guessing a size six. Or eight.”
He shook his head. “That’s crazy. Why would the killer use a knittin’ needle when it would be a whole lot easier to use a huntin’ knife?”
“Because,” I said, thinking aloud, “it would be harder to trace. And the victim wouldn’t see it coming. Because it was handy.” I paused and Waino made one of those leaps of logic that was as terrifying as it was unexpected.
“In that case, Sofi musta kilt her, eh?”
Chapter 2
Geez Louise. It’s what everyone would think. There was no one on the Keweenaw who didn’t know that Sofi blamed Cricket Koski for the breakup of her marriage. There was no one who didn’t know that Sofi and Lars had finally begun to talk about reconciling. Considering the efficiency of our grapevine, and believe me, it rivals the Internet for speed, folks were, no doubt, already speculating about Cricket’s death and the fact that she’d been found in Lars’s bed. Wait until they found out the murder weapon may have been a knitting needle.
The anxiety I’d felt when I’d gotten the late-night, jail-cell call from Lars, rocketed. Sofi and her ex were likely already at the top of the public opinion suspect list.
Double geez Louise.
“It wasn’t Sofi.” I’d waited too long to reply and Waino knew it. “She was with Elli and Sonya and me at the Leaping Deer last night.” The Leaping Deer is Elli’s Bed and Breakfast and it is on the corner next to my folks’ house on Calumet Street. “Anyway, she had no reason to kill Cricket.”
“Then it musta been Lars.”
I felt a cold sensation in my forehead, as if I’d eaten ice cream too fast.
“Lars had no motive,” I heard myself say. “He hadn’t even seen Cricket Koski in three years.”
“’Cept for last night.” I glared at him. “Listen, Hatti, for what it’s worth I don’t think Lars killed the girl. He seemed floored when I went out there last night. My money’s on your sis
. You know what it says in the Bible; A woman scorned is mad as a hornet.”
I didn’t want to contemplate his point so I argued with his reference.
“That’s not in the Bible. It’s Congreve. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. The thing is, though, Sofi wasn’t scorned. The whole thing happened three years ago and she’s not scorned now.” He shrugged his massive shoulders.
“Unless Lars started up with the waitress again.”
Impossible. At least I hoped it was impossible. In any case, there was no point in arguing with Waino. He was just verbalizing what everyone else would say.
“I need to talk to Lars,” I said. He opened the door that connects the morgue to the very short hall and the jail’s single cell.
“Make it quick, Hatti. Sheriff’s gonna be in early.”
“To work on the case?” Waino shook his head.
“Vesta down to the diner’s making fresh pannukakku. It’s New Year’s Day.”
* * *
I took the seven steps necessary to get to the door of the jail cell. The small, square room, located, as I said, between the morgue and the sheriff’s office, is made of cinderblock and contains a metal bed with a thin, stained mattress, a wash stand and an extra chair. It is sometimes used during the week as a drunk tank and, regularly on Friday nights for the sheriff’s weekly pinochle game.