Death of a Crafty Knitter (10 page)

"Of course I shaved." He rubbed his chin. "Only a fool would frame a masterpiece in knotty pine."

I stamped my boots on the outdoor mat, then squeezed past him into the warm house. I was on my way to the back porch when he called after me, "Since you're heading to the kitchen anyway, I guess I'll have a beer. Use a mug from the freezer."

I smiled as I hung up my coat in the back mud room, as I'd been trained to do. It wasn't the first time he'd used this trick. In fact, kitchen errands were likely the main reason my sister and I hadn't been allowed to use the guest hooks by the front door.

I pulled open the fridge, taking comfort in the familiarity of these movements. It seemed really full for one person. The beer was on the bottom shelf, and to my surprise, he'd sprung for expensive beer, from a microbrewery.

Finnegan Day's usual choice of beverage was the rock-bottom cheapest. He could afford top-shelf beer, but seemed to take pride in his lowbrow taste, especially when he entertained and all his buddies complained about his choice of "swill."

My sister and I referred to this trait of his as Hobo Pride. My father grew up poor, and although it had been many years since he'd suffered hardship, he was occasionally obstinate about one thing or another, just to prove he
could
do without. He'd accept new wool socks for Christmas, but if I wanted him to actually wear them, I had to sneak into his room and confiscate the old ones with the holes.

Hobo Pride.

You had to laugh, of course, because that was one of the reasons he did it.

I selected two frosty glass mugs from the freezer and replaced them with fresh ones from the cupboard. Unlike Voula Varga, my father had too many glasses and mugs for the kitchen, unless you kept a few in the freezer.

I poured beer for both of us, tossed the bottles in the recycling bin under the sink, and proceeded toward the living room with both hands full plus a bag of pretzels tucked under my chin.

He was already in his easy chair, so I set his beer next to him, atop the coaster he had ready and waiting.

"Service with a smile." I took a seat on the sofa and looked around. There was something different about the room, but I couldn't put my finger on it.

He eyed my beer.

"That's why I don't keep the fancy stuff in the house," he said. "You'd drink it all."

I took a sip, smiling. After the day I'd had, the cold beer felt like the perfect solution, cheaper than therapy. I would have to start keeping frosty mugs in my own freezer. I'd put tiny bowls in there as well, so I could pour Jeffrey a saucer of cream and never drink alone.

"Go easy on that," my father said. "You'll give yourself the hiccups. Just like that young pup who brought me the beer."

"I should have known you wouldn't spring for anything with more than one color of ink on the label. Who bought these? The real estate guy selling the house next door?"

He tented his fingers, letting me know he had information and was going to mete it out slowly.

"Guess," he said. "Not the realtor."

This was just like him to make me work for information. If the beer wasn't from the real estate agent, that stumped me. Dad wasn't dating anyone—at least not that I knew of. He'd recently been involved with a younger woman, a physical therapist, but after some unfortunate events, she'd been scared away from Misty Falls.

Was there a new woman? I wouldn't have been surprised if Finnegan Day already had a new girlfriend. Or two. He was in his sixties, but other than the gray in his buzz-cut hair and a few laugh lines on his face, he hadn't changed much over the years. He'd always been a handsome devil, with movie-star looks—a square jaw and gold-flecked brown eyes that
smoldered
.

The
smoldering
of his eyes was something I'd been unfortunate enough to overhear about from a teacher at my high school. The worst part was, the lady who'd said it wasn't even single. I'd been horrified enough to drop out of her art class and transfer into a career prep class about business math.

I wondered how my father would feel if he knew my start in the business world came courtesy of his smoldering eyes and the wagging tongues of the women of Misty Falls.

Now, where had this beer come from? I gave it a swirl, imagining I was a psychic, waiting to see something in my crystal ball. Besides dating, my father had an active social life, from his time at the shooting range to fundraising for the local veterans' association. The swirling beer bubbles were golden… like a certain rookie cop's hair.

"Dimples," I guessed. "This beer came from Dimples. Also known as Officer Kyle Dempsey."

Finnegan Day slapped his knee in surprise. "He told you. Kyle must have been there today at the crime scene."

"He didn't tell me you knew each other. Face it, Dad. Your daughter is a little bit psychic."

"Not psychic. You
deduced
. Just like a good detective."

"You called him a young pup. There's definitely a puppy dog quality to him. He reminds me of a Golden Retriever."

Talking about Kyle reminded me of the photos, so I took out my phone, opened the folder, and handed it over to my father. "What was Dimples doing here at the house?"

"He had some questions about a cold case."

I raised my eyebrows as I took another long sip of the beer. The drink was going to my head, right where I needed it. My father, meanwhile, was diving into the crime scene, studying the photos on my phone with a look of determination on his face.

I asked, "How does Tony feel about the young pup digging up cold cases?"

"Tony doesn't know." He shot me a warning look. "And we won't be mentioning it to him."

"Fine by me. I don't want to talk to Tony, anyway. He was super arrogant today, acting like I was going to mess up his crime scene." I sniffed. "He's lucky I had that appointment, or the body might not have been called in for days."

"You did them a favor," he said without looking up from the screen of my phone.

"Tony sure has changed. He rushed me out of there like I was going to make him look bad."

"Cops don't like civilians getting involved. We'll have to keep a low profile."

"We?" I reached for my phone. "Gimme that back. I shouldn't have taken those pictures. I'm going to delete them."

He let me take the phone. "Delete away. I already emailed them to myself."

"Oh, really?" I gave him a dirty look. "So, you know how to use modern phones when you want something, but you can't reply to one of my text messages?"

"I sent you one of those picture things."

"On my birthday, you sent the icon of the little red devil, plus a fork, and a dog, and some other stuff. It made no sense."

"That was a story. Your old man, making hotdogs on the grill for your birthday. You weren't here, but I still made them in your honor."

I pulled up the message in question. There'd been no new texts from him since my birthday last summer, because he preferred voice calls.

I studied the bizarre combination of icons. "Fine. The dog is a hotdog. But what's with the diamond ring? Our trips to Ruby's?"

"That means you're my little jewel, Stormy." He cocked his head. "Did you hear that? Someone's breaking in the back door."

"What?" I got up and ran through the kitchen to investigate. The back door was locked, the sky out the window a dark gray as evening approached, and there wasn't a living soul in sight.

He called back, "Since you're in the kitchen, I could use a refill."

He got me again.
I grabbed two more bottles, and was about to start a lecture about
The Boy Who Cried Wolf
when some papers on the kitchen table caught my eye.

The top sheet was the first page of an application for a private investigator's license. None of the fields had been filled in with my father's handwriting, but a pen sat nearby.

Rather than asking him about the papers, and having to play one of his guessing games, I returned to the living room with my mouth shut. If my father wanted to get his PI license, that was his business.

However, it bothered me he hadn't said anything about the PI application. Had he discussed it with Kyle, a.k.a. my father's new favorite person, and the son he'd never had?

My father flicked on the television, oblivious to the jealous, stormy mood coming over me, and started hunting around for something to watch.

After ten minutes, he clicked it off again with a heavy sigh. The living room was surprisingly quiet, and in that stillness, I finally noticed the blank spots in the room. Gone were all of his former girlfriend's photos and furniture, but that wasn't all. The room had less than half of what had been there the last time I'd been over.

"Dad, where'd all the furniture go? I see you got rid of Pam's stuff, but it looks like you got carried away. Where's the antique sewing table? Were you robbed?"

"Nobody steals those old iron tables. Most folks pass them along with the sale of a house, along with half-empty paint cans."

"You're not selling the house, are you?"

Instead of answering, he grabbed his cane from next to his chair and pointed the tip at the bare corner of the room, like a wizard pointing his staff. I half expected a puff of smoke to appear at the end.

"What's going on?" I asked. Something was very wrong, judging by the weary look on his face.

"That empty space is where your old man does his physical therapy exercises," he spat out. "He grunts and groans, and on a good day he can lift his knee all the way up without soaking through his shirt."

Oh. He was having a tough time recovering from his hip surgery. I'd asked him about it a dozen times, but he hadn't said a word. This was so like him to let his emotions bottle up until they exploded.

Gently, I said, "That sounds rough, Dad. Is there anything I can do to help? Say the word and I'm here. Twice a day, every day, if that's what you need."

He let out a long, audible breath, and sank back into his chair.

"Is that why you came back to town?" he asked. "To take care of the sad, old man in his twilight years?"

I snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. You know I'm only back in this town because nowhere else will have me."

"Yeah?" He lifted one white-flecked eyebrow.

"Yeah. And I'm only over here at your house to steal your beer. We both know Finnegan Day doesn't need anyone to take care of him."

A bit of his twinkle returned to his eyes. "Way to rain on my pity parade."

"Don't throw a pity parade and I won't have to rain on it." I nodded at the empty corner of the living room. "Your therapy corner needs some color. You've got room for one of those big exercise balls that are good for stretches."

"You must be psychic. I've actually got one of the darn things. In teal. Just haven't blown it up yet."

"No time like the present." I jumped up.

Rearranging the living room
took about forty minutes, and by the end, we were sweating, but smiling. We'd moved the sofa and chair for better balance, and we'd set up a whole station for his therapy exercises. A checkered rug borrowed from the spare bedroom made the corner cheery.

We sat and admired our hard work.

"Happy New Year," he said.

"Oh, no! I totally forgot. We're supposed to be having a big dinner, and the oven's not even switched on." I jumped up. I'd seen the roasting pan and the defrosted turkey in the fridge when I'd gone for the beer, but must have completely blocked it out.

"Canceled," he said. "I called everyone already."

I stood, swaying. If I cranked up the oven, we could have turkey by midnight. It wouldn't be the latest we'd served dinner.

"Sit back down," he said.

"But the turkey…"

"Do you want to spend the next several hours peeling potatoes, then entertaining some shirt-tail relatives, or do you want to go over those crime scene photos, make some phone calls, and do up a list of suspects?"

I looked up at the ceiling, pretending to wrestle with the decision.

"Well?" he prompted.

"Can the first phone call be to a pizza place? I haven't eaten anything but those pretzels since breakfast. We'll do pizza, then crime scene photos, like the good ol' days."

The twinkle had fully returned to his eyes. "That's my girl," he said. "You want deep dish? Let me call Romeo's."

Chapter 10