Death of a Crafty Knitter (13 page)

It wasn't at all like me to procrastinate an important job, so perhaps this was the positive influence of small-town life. My father wasn't wrong about me moving back to town to keep an eye on him as he got older, but I'd also moved back for myself. There'd been days, working my old job in venture capital, where I felt like I was aging two days for every twenty-four hours.

Luckily, it hadn't shown on my face. One good thing about being a workaholic in an office is you don't get much sun damage. At thirty-three, I hadn't seen any crow's feet yet,
knock wood.

Jeffrey sat on the bathroom counter and watched me put on eyeliner. He tilted his head and continued to watch as I put makeup remover on a cotton ball and swiped the eyeliner back off again, after deciding it was too sexy for a 10:00 a.m. coffee meeting with a married man.

Tony finally showed
up at 11:15 a.m., with apologies, and donuts. For the last hour, I'd been reading a magazine, checking email on my laptop, and watching a daytime talk show. I would have done more, but I only have two hands.

I tidied up and put on a fresh pot of coffee as I told Tony to make himself at home.

He was in uniform, on duty. He kept his boots and coat on, and took a seat at the dining table, which was next to the island portion of the kitchen counter bar in my open-plan space.

"Donuts, as promised." He gave the donut box a shake before setting it on the table and flipping open the lid. The sweet smell of sugared frosting and vanilla wafted up.

"You're the worst," I said teasingly as I took a seat across from him and looked over the donuts. "It's January, and I should be making a resolution to eat more cruciferous vegetables." He gave me a confused look, so I explained, "That's the fancy word for broccoli and cauliflower, and we should all be eating more of those things."

"Cheese sauce," he said. "You learn all the tricks as a parent. Put cheese sauce on it, and they'll eat anything."

I was quiet, letting it sink in that Tony was somebody's dad. And not just one somebody, but three of them. Times like these, I was aware of how long I'd been away, and how everyone's lives had kept on going. Sure, I'd only been a few hours' drive away, but I still felt like an astronaut returning to earth at times.

Tony and I talked about cheese sauce and vegetables. I was curious about whether or not his eldest son, Tony Junior, looked exactly like him, but it seemed rude to ask to see photos. He seemed to be in a chipper mood, so I didn't mention anything about the incident from the night before.

The coffee maker let out a happy sizzle to announce the successful completion of its job.

Tony nudged the untouched box of pastries toward me, then got up to pour us two cups. He hadn't been inside my house before, but he was making himself at home, the way he had at my father's house.

"What do you think of the donuts?" he asked.

"These aren't the typical cheap cop-shop donuts. These are all different flavors, aren't they? So, now I've seen it all.
Artisan donuts
have reached Misty Falls. What's this one with the red-brown chunks?"

"Maple bacon. And there's only one, so you know what to do." He set the mugs of coffee on the table and grinned as he met my gaze, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners. Tony had a few crow's-feet, but they looked so good on him that I almost wanted some.

I licked my index finger and poked the maple-bacon donut, leaving a light imprint. "Dibs."

He licked his finger and poked the edge of the chocolate one next to it. "Dibs," he said with a laugh.

Dibs by licked-finger-pokes was a trick we'd learned from my father. Thinking of him reminded me of the private investigator's license application, and I might have mentioned something to Tony, but after yesterday's rudeness at the crime scene, I'd decided I wanted more distance between us.

The canvas of Tony's department-issued jacket rustled with even the smallest of gestures, and I found myself annoyed that he hadn't taken it off. He was in my home, but keeping me at a distance, drawing a line between officer and civilian. My feelings were very confusing. I wanted distance, but I didn't.

I put the maple-bacon donut on my plate and used a fork and knife to cut pie-shaped wedges.

Tony shook his head, amused. "Some things never change. You and your fork and knife. And that grin on your face."

"I'm only smiling because of the donuts," I said. "I'm still mad at you. Yesterday, at the crime scene, you were so rude to me. Then last night you attacked my innocent tenant. And I haven't heard an apology out of you yet."

"That's what the donuts are for."

"Hmm," I said through a mouthful of donut. The bacon bits added a smoky flavor, yet the donut didn't taste meaty. The maple in the icing was the real stuff, not imitation.

"I am sorry," he said, and his words, combined with the genuine respect in his voice, were even sweeter than the maple frosting.

"It's fine," I said hurriedly, feeling bad about forcing his hand. "Crime scenes are stressful places, and I know you meant well last night. My tenant is a bit macho. He should have identified himself when you asked."

I stuffed another wedge of donut into my mouth to quiet myself.
Why is it always like this?
You want a man to apologize, and then when he does, you feel the need to cover his embarrassment with apologies of your own.

Sometimes, I'd rather they didn't say sorry.

As crazy as it makes me, there's something pleasingly black and white about men refusing to apologize, and it throws everything off when they do. Where can you put the anger you still feel? The outrage doesn't just dissipate, or at least mine doesn't.

I pondered this as I sipped my coffee, the taste cutting through the maple syrup on my tongue perfectly.

Tony hadn't brought up the reason for his visit yet, and the curiosity was overwhelming.

"How's the case?" I asked.

"Fine."

I waited for more, but it didn't come.

"Your rookie, Dimples, claims to have experience in these things. Is he the lead on the investigation? Do you have any suspects?"

Tony avoided my eyes. "Something's bound to turn up."

"Was there a boyfriend? Did you find the laptop that went with the charger?"

"I'm not so sure she had either of those things. We've asked around, and it sounds like she didn't have any use for men, or technology."

"But she had email. There was an email address on her business card."

"She probably checked her email at the library. She had an account there, and checked out books regularly."

"Non-fiction or fiction? Were they biographies about con artists?"

Tony eyed me with suspicion. "How do you know about the books the victim checked out? Do I have a mole at the station?"

I reached for my coffee instead of lying. My father was getting information from someone at the station, but surely there wasn't any harm in it. He was just bored, and the details from a real crime case were more interesting than the ones on TV.

"It was Kyle," he said. "He's up to something, I can feel it."

"Who?" I paused before adding, "Oh, you mean your rookie. The Dempsey kid."

"You're not the first one to fall for Dimples. I'm just glad he's not a firefighter, or we'd have all the desperate housewives of Misty Falls setting their drapes on fire."

"Or putting kittens in trees."

Tony snorted. "That would be a nightmare. It's bad enough I've got you running around like Nancy Drew meets Veronica Mars, taking photos at crime scenes and cracking jokes during a murder investigation."

"Pardon me?" I pushed my plate away, my appetite gone. I glared at Tony, the storm clouds brewing.

"I kicked you out because you were in the way."

"In the way? I've done nothing but
help you
do your job. If it wasn't for me, you'd have two murderers running around, but you wouldn't even know about the second one if I hadn't found the body for you."

He leaned back in his chair, balancing on the back legs like a fidgeting teenager. The old wood creaked in protest.
That's how you break a chair
, I wanted to warn him, but instead, I silently wished the chair would break, so he'd land right on his butt.

"Why are you here, Tony?"

He kept rocking the chair on its back legs, giving me a look that was surprisingly insolent for a man of forty, with silver hair at his temples.

"Stay out of the way," he said. "Mine and Officer Dempsey's."

Now the pieces were falling into place. He wasn't here about the investigation at all. This was about Kyle asking me on a date.

I turned in my chair to look out the big window of the adjoining living room. "Speaking of Kyle Dempsey, where is he? Don't tell me you made him sit in the car." I spotted Tony's car across the street, and a shadow in the passenger seat. Tony hadn't taken off his jacket because Kyle was waiting out in the car.

The clunk of chair legs returning to the floor made me whip around, back to Tony.

"Stormy, don't turn this into a big deal. Just steer clear of this one. It doesn't concern you. Don't ask me about the case, and don't go around talking about it, especially not to Kyle."

He straightened up, looking tall in his chair, the canvas of his jacket rustling with authority.

"Playing detective is dangerous," he said.

"Whatever," I said. "I've already forgotten the whole thing. Voula who? I don't care. And I'm
not
trying to
play detective
."

Technically, that would be a lie if I joined my father's private investigation firm, but as of that moment, it was true enough to hurl at Tony's face. And with the way he was looking at me and diminishing my helpfulness, I did want to hurl things at his face.

"Good," he said. "I'm glad we had this discussion."

"Good," I said with equal finality. "I'll manage my gift shop, and you put away the murderers. How many suspects did you say you have? Was it zero?
Good job locating the victim's public library account.
I'm sure your big lead is right around the corner.
Maybe a librarian killed her for overdue fines.
"

His nostrils flared with the effort it took him to not take the bait. He got to his feet and headed toward the door.

"Wait!" I dashed into the kitchen, where I hurriedly transferred Tony's barely touched coffee into a plastic travel mug. "Take your coffee to go," I said sweetly.

He grunted his acquiescence and waited, shuffling by the door.

"Big plans for today?" I asked with fake cheer. "I swear I'm not playing detective, prying for details. Answer as vaguely as you like."

"I'll be talking to the waitress who allegedly tossed a drink on the victim New Year's Eve."

"Not allegedly. She definitely threw the drink on Voula Varga. I hope you have backup. That sweet little white-haired lady is a vicious criminal. If you back her into a corner, she's liable to grab the nearest knitting needle and skewer you."

Tony's nostrils were still flared. "We have to follow up on all the leads."

"All the leads? Did you trace the gun already? I bet the waitress stole it, cat-burglar style. Pat her down for weapons before you start the interrogation."

Tony didn't even smile. He twitched impatiently by the door. I finished the coffee preparations. I'd poured not one, but two travel mugs, and handed them to him.

"That one's for your rookie," I said sweetly. "I don't know if young Kyle takes cream or sugar, but you can send him in and I'll fix his up just how he likes it."

"You're too kind," he said flatly.

"I hope you don't think I'm interfering in police business." I batted my eyelashes. "It's just coffee. Us womenfolk are allowed to make you big, strong men coffee, aren't we? That is, when we're not setting the furniture on fire to get the sexy firemen to come over."

He slowly turned his gaze down to the floor and nodded, conceding that I'd won this particular round. Then he left, closing the door gently.

I went to the window and watched him walk away, a dark blue figure against the dazzling white snow. Unlike the murky gray day before, the second day of January was as gorgeous as a winter day could be.

Tony glanced back over his shoulder, his face neutral. His pace slowed, and I expected him to dump the coffee into the snow right in front of me, but he didn't. He kept walking, got into the police car on the driver's side, and drove off.

Something behind me made a plopping sound. Jeffrey had returned from wherever His Regal Grayness had been hiding, scared by the sound of Tony's boots inside the house. The plop was him calling dibs on the remainder of my maple-bacon donut by knocking it to the floor.

"You act like I don't feed you." I confiscated the donut and cleaned up the mess. He gave me an innocent look, then sauntered away.

A few minutes later, I was sipping my coffee and grump-eating another one of the donuts—chocolate with pink frosting—when a ball of yarn rolled past the table. The yarn was followed by a cat, tackling the ball like it was a dangerous foe. The yarn fought back surprisingly well for an inanimate object. It began to unravel, and after a few wrestling rolls, the yarn was winning, restricting Jeffrey's movements with loops and knots.