Death of a Crafty Knitter (11 page)

I got home
from my father's just after midnight, and walked right into a three-ring circus happening inside my living room.

The star of this circus, the ferocious wildcat, was performing an acrobatic routine that involved leaping from the back of a chair to the back of my sofa,
through
the branches of a ficus tree that had been dropping leaves since its purchase.

"Nice moves," I said.

Jeffrey gripped the sofa back with outstretched paws and whipped his sleek gray head from side to side, mouth wide open, trying to convince me he was crazy.

"Oh, dear. It must be the rabies."

His dark tail swished wildly from side to side, then he leapt from the sofa, hit the ground running, and skittered past me, his claws adding even more character to the old wood floor. His energetic activity wasn't much of a surprise—my human bedtime often coincided with Kitty Play Time Hour. If I'd dropped a twist tie on the floor during the day, he'd find it the minute I closed my eyes.

I took off my boots, hung up my coat, and put on the kettle. My mind was still actively chewing on information about the psychic's murder, so it would do me some good to have a cup of chamomile and let Jeffrey's playful kitty antics distract me.

My father and I had gone over the crime scene photos together over pizza—not Romeo's, because they weren't open on holidays—and he'd made several calls to his contacts. According to his source, the police hadn't issued any warrants yet, so we knew they didn't have an open-and-shut case.

I'd listened quietly as my father told more than one person, "C'mon, humor the old man who's been put out to pasture. I'm stuck at home with a bum hip, the literal personification of an armchair sleuth. C'mon, gimme something."

His ploy for sympathy worked, and he'd gotten an impressive amount of information. I had a feeling we were well ahead of the official police investigation.

Dad's contact at the real estate board confirmed that the creepy-faced house was owned by a commercial leasing division, so Voula had been renting it at market rates. His next call was to the property manager. He fed that woman the same lines about being put out to pasture, this time with an added layer of flirtation.

According to the property manager, who was not immune to my father's wily charms, Voula had been there six months so far, on a one-year fixed-term lease. If she chose to renew, she'd go month-to-month, but she'd told the property manager she'd be long gone by then. The notes in the file said something about moving to Greece. The last name of Varga is Hungarian in origin, but that didn't rule out her having connections in Greece.

As far as family went, she had no immediate kin, according to her rental application. She'd been forty-eight, which made her old enough to have adult children interested in an inheritance or insurance policy, but since she had no kids, they couldn't be suspects.

Around the fifth or sixth phone call, right after the thin-crust pizza arrived, my father had whooped for joy. He had a solid lead, in the form of a restraining order. For a few minutes, we thought the crime as good as solved.

Unfortunately, for our investigation, and also for a Mr. Harold Goldstein, the subject of the restraining order, Harold Goldstein was deceased.

Voula's stalker had suffered a misadventure five years earlier, on an unrelated matter, as he attempted to sneak onto the set of a popular spy movie franchise to inform the leading lady of his undying love for her. His love may not have died, but Mr. Harold Goldstein did. It wasn't the fall from the five-story building he was attempting to infiltrate that killed him. It was, as my father declared while slapping his knee, "the landing."

That information led us to what we should have begun our investigation with—a simple internet search. Within seconds, we found Voula Varga in the popular movie databases, linked to her roles in several films and TV series.

She'd never been what anyone would call a "star," but she booked roles regularly. She'd played witches and psychics, gypsy fortune-tellers, and even a one-eyed sorceress. I commented to my father that Voula must have been disappointed to always get typecast like that. He had a different point of view, and said she was lucky to have such a strong look that made her an obvious casting choice for those roles. Then he went on a ten-minute rant about all the entitled young people these days on the talent shows, and how everyone wants to be the big star overnight without any hard work.

I let him carry on while I scanned through movie stills and video clips. Voula Varga wasn't the worst actor—she was better at pretending to tell fortunes than I'd ever be—but I could see why she didn't get cast in meatier roles. She had an aura of
desperation
about her, in the way she drew out her few spoken lines, attempting to keep the spotlight on herself just a few seconds longer.

My father asked me to replay the clip of her as a half-naked evil siren, luring sailors to their deaths on the rocks. He said it was a shame she was gone, as she'd been "easy on the eyes." That was when I pointed out Voula was the curly-haired woman in the background, and he was looking at someone else entirely. He made a face and took back his compliment, which made me laugh, but also feel sad for her.

The woman I'd only spoken to in the women's washroom at the Fox and Hound had not been warm, but I felt pity for her anyway. According to her bio, she'd never been married, and it seemed that perhaps Mr. Harold Goldstein, her short-term stalker, had been the only man to see something special in her.

Without any obvious suspects from her life before moving to our town, that left only the residents of Misty Falls.

My father promised he would try to get access to her client list, even if it meant kissing some frogs at the police department—his words, not mine—but in the meantime I had an assignment. He wanted me to go undercover and
join a knitting club.

According to the property manager, the knitting club had been meeting once a week at Voula's house. Now that the home was a crime scene, my father figured the group would be looking for a new venue. He suggested I volunteer my house.

After I stopped laughing, he told me to give it some thought. "You're the one who wanted to fit into Misty Falls better," he'd said.

"I'm not taking over a dead lady's knitting club. No. Just no."

That night at home, as I sat on my sofa sipping a cup of chamomile tea, I giggled out loud at the mere idea of
being
in a knitting club, let alone hosting one.

Jeffrey whizzed into the living room, darted to the topmost perch in the room, which was a lamp, and gave me a quizzical look. The standing lamp quivered with the steadying movements of his legs and tail.

"Jeffrey, that lamp is not a tree. Off!"

His body tensed, but he didn't jump. He gave me a wide-eyed look, as if to say he was no physics major, but even he knew that leaping off the lamp could result in a broken something and a less-than-graceful landing. He kept staring at me, his tea-green eyes as round as billiard balls, until I finally got up and carefully extricated him from his predicament.

As my thanks for the rescue, I received a lick on the cheek. I had a quick look at the lamp while I held him, noting by the number of cat-claw-sized holes in the perimeter of the linen shade that this was not the first time Jeffrey had been to the peak of Mount Lampshade.

"Why don't you climb your cat-scratching post with the same zeal, hmm?"

He lolled his head around, making crazy eyes, then gave me another communicative look.
The cat post? So boring!

Ah, yes, the cat post was only four and a half feet tall. Mr. Jeffrey Blue preferred more of a challenge. I could relate to that. I thought I'd be content running my gift shop, but now that it was operating smoothly, I was looking for my own Mount Lampshade.

"What do you think of me becoming a private investigator?"

I returned to my seat on the sofa, and Jeffrey stuck to me, settling on my thighs. He made crazy eyes at the paper tag swinging from the edge of my teacup, but soon his eyes became dozy as he curled into the warmth of my lap.

"My father's applying to get his license," I explained. "He hasn't told me yet, but I think it's because he wants me to be his partner, and he wants to wait and drop a few hints before he asks." As I talked, my theories became more concrete. It had only been a hunch, but telling Jeffrey about my father's possible intentions made them seem not just real, but obvious. The more I thought about it, there could be no other possible explanation. Finnegan Day wanted to start a father-daughter detective agency.

I reached over to the side table, careful not to disturb Jeffrey, grabbed a notepad and pen, then jotted down some possible names and slogans.

Day Detectives

We work day and night for you.

Day & Day

Investigating around the clock, no job too big or small.

Two Days Detective Agency

Father and daughter team, with youth plus experience.

I had a tough time being serious and coming up with a pun-free combination. Would people hiring a detective duo appreciate a bit of humor? I had no idea. I didn't know that much about the business, other than the fact it wasn't all glamor. My father had befriended a few private investigators over the years, and most of their stories were about tailing cheating spouses and finding increasingly inventive ways to relieve one's bladder while on stakeout.

I started to get panicky, thinking about hiding somewhere in wait for someone while needing to use the washroom. Maybe it was because I'd finished a huge mug of tea and I'd ignored my bladder's early requests because I didn't want to disturb the cat on my lap.

"No big mugs of tea on stakeouts," I said. "That'll be my first rule. And the second rule is that my father has to treat me like a partner, and not just his lackey. I bring a lot to the table. I've got… um… deductive skills."

Jeffrey gave me a sleepy look as I gently transferred him to a pillow that was warm from being behind my back. I went down the hall to use the washroom and got ready for bed. Was I sleepy yet? Not really. My face looked oily where it wasn't flaking from winter dryness—the joy of combination skin—so I gave myself a mask treatment and read a magazine.

I'd rinsed off the mask and was climbing into my bed when I realized I'd left the living room lights on and the curtains wide open. Ordinarily, I wouldn't have cared, but I'd stumbled upon a murder scene today, and the killer was still at large. I wasn't going to live my life in fear, but I could do a few sensible things.

With the warm, fuzzy bathrobe over my nightie, I walked out to the living room. Jeffrey struck an irresistible pose, front paws stretched out, begging to have his armpits tickled. Naturally, I gave in to temptation.

I was leaning over, teasing Jeffrey in his sleepy state, when I heard a man's voice outside, barking orders. By now it was nearly two, well past the time people took their dogs out for walks.

I couldn't make out the man's words, but his tone was angry. The hairs on my forearms stood up, and I self-consciously tightened my robe. With the bright lamp on, and the curtains for the picture window wide open, I might as well have been standing in a stage spotlight.

A second man answered the first, and they argued. I felt relief that it wasn't one man trying to get my attention, but then I grew worried. The voices sounded close by, like the two were fighting in my front yard.

I glanced over to make note of where my cell phone was—on the table by the door—and then clicked off the lamp so I could see out the front window.

Chapter 11

I squinted as
my eyes adjusted to the light spilling into my snowy front yard from the nearby street lamp.

Two shapes, men of about the same size, were grappling, each with one foot on my shoveled pathway and one foot in the deeper snow.

I would have crossed the room for my phone, to call the police, but the car parked directly in front of my house was a police car. One of the dark-haired men wrestling on my front lawn was Captain Tony Milano.

Just as I was identifying Tony, he got the upper hand on his assailant, swiftly pushing him down, face-first into the snow. I let out a small cry of elation as Tony began handcuffing the other guy.

Through the double-paned glass of the window, I could hear Tony's voice fall into a familiar rhythm—he was making an arrest and informing the man of his rights.

I tapped on the window to let Tony know I was there, in case he needed anything. He whipped his head around, distracted, and loosened his hold.

The other man, craning his neck from his facedown position on the ground, spat out a mouthful of snow and yelled, very clearly, "Stormy!"

He was my tenant, Logan Sanderson.

I didn't even think about what I was doing. I slipped on the shoes closest to the front door and ran out to stop whatever was happening.

"Tony!" That didn't get his attention, so I yelled, "Police brutality!"

Tony kept his knee on Logan's back while he gave me an angry, confused look. "How long has this man been stalking you?"