Death of a Crafty Knitter (18 page)

We pulled up to the gate for the enclosure. It was locked up tight, and the handwritten sign listed the opening time for that day as "Noon-ish." Beyond the gate was a sight that would have made my car shiver, if she only knew—a post-apocalyptic pile of cars and trucks in various states of destruction. My girl sported bullet holes, and the passenger-side mirror was still in the trunk, but that didn't seem so bad compared to the horror on the other side of the fence.

My father said, "Park here and we'll walk around the side. There's a hole in the fence Gene never fixed after the Cannonball Incident. He doesn't mind us police going in to look around on our own—prefers it over being woken up, actually."

"We're not police, Dad."

He already had his seatbelt off and was grunting his way out of the car. I switched off the engine and ran around to help him out.

"How's the hip today?" I gripped his elbow for steadiness as he held my forearm.

He answered me with a flash of his eyes.

"Did you do your exercises today?"

He nodded. "Don't you worry about your old man. I've signed us up for the Forest Folk Run in August. We'll go as a father-daughter team, with monster costumes and everything."

I laughed, thinking he was joking, but he just gave me a serious look. He wasn't kidding around.

As we walked along the fence, shuffling through the snow, I was quiet. August was still eight months away, and the run was only three miles. I'd never been a fan of jogging, but the Forest Folk Run was just goofy enough that training for it seemed almost fun.

"We're not going as zombies," Dad said.

"Of course not. We'll go as genuine Forest Folk, in sasquatch fur, with the bones of our cannibalized victims strung on ropes we wear as necklaces."

My father chuckled in a that's-my-girl sort of way, then held open the break in the fence for me to go through first. We walked past snow-capped stacks of rusty, flattened metal. The stacks became more colorful, the paint still intact, as we got to the newer acquisitions.

He knew his way around the junkyard and pointed out the organization system, stopping to wave his cane this way and that, like a pointer. We reached the vehicles that had been involved in the collision, the crash date of January first written on them with a waxy grease pencil.

There were three wrecks from that day, two cars and a van. The van was a Dodge, blue, with a white stripe. The cars were both silver, different makes and models, and thoroughly average. We walked around the three vehicles, observing the damage and discussing how the crash must have happened. The side of one of the cars was shredded, courtesy of the Jaws of Life equipment used to extract the driver.

My father talked through his theory. "The van T-boned this car, which slid across the snowy road and rolled when it hit the ditch. The rolling crimped the doors on the other side and compressed the roof enough so the first responders couldn't extract through the front window." He rubbed his chin, which I noticed had been freshly shaved that morning—a sign he was feeling chipper.

"But the roof is barely dented."

"True enough." He kept rubbing his chin. "But the fire department gets rookies, too, and they like to train them up on the equipment. I've seen it happen a few times, especially when the injuries aren't too bad. It builds up their confidence."

I shivered and rubbed my forearms as I said a silent thank-you those who run into danger to help others.

"Anything look familiar?" he asked.

"The van." An image kept flashing through my head, of the blue and white van racing toward me on the dimly lit road. "I feel like I'm remembering this van coming at me… but how can I remember it now, when I didn't yesterday?"

He snapped his fingers and pointed at me. "Exactly."

"The problem with eyewitnesses," I said with a sigh. From my experience as an armchair detective, watching true crime documentaries on TV and talking about cases with my cop father, I knew too well that memories aren't photographs. They're more like watercolor paintings, and every time you visit a memory, you're going in with a wet brush and more paint, coloring and altering it with your changing perceptions, influencing it with your desires.

I wanted this blue and white van to be the one that ran me off the road, so my mind was fitting it into place, trying to help.

My lack of sleep the night before hit me hard. The sun crouched low on the horizon, bathing us with golden light, but sun alone couldn't energize me. I circled around to the back of the banged-up van and took a seat on the bumper.

"This was a waste of time," I said grumpily.

"Don't say that. Ninety-nine percent of all investigations is about chasing around hunches and eliminating theories." He came to stand across from me, his back to the sun and his shadow stretching tall across the rear doors of the van. "If you were working with Tony on this case, and someone thought they saw this van leaving the scene of the crime, what would you do?"

He looked me in the eyes as he hung his cane over his forearm and rubbed his hands together. He kept rubbing his hands, not to warm them, but as though he had something stuck to his palms.

"Gunshot residue!" I shouted. "The shooter would have that on their hands, transferring it to the steering wheel. If I were Tony, I'd have the whole driver's side of this van tested for gunshot residue, and the other two cars as well, just to be thorough."

"Very good. You call Tony and tell him you saw this van leaving the scene of the crime."

I blinked up at him, unable to read his expression in the shadows. The rising sun created a halo effect with his silver hair.

"That's it?" I asked. "Just call Tony and hand the whole thing over?" I got to my feet and began to survey the van with renewed interest, walking around to peer inside at the steering wheel. There was no way I'd be able to see evidence with my bare eyes, but it helped me to think, all the same.

When a gun is fired, particles from the propellant and primer in the bullet come out of the muzzle and the back of the gun, landing on the shooter's hands and clothing. Gunshot residue, or GSR, isn't a single telltale thing, like the ink packets that modern anti-shoplifting tags contain, but the general term for a combination of elements like antimony, lead, and barium.

Lucky for me, the typical components of gunshot residue were a normal dinnertime conversation topic in the Day residence. I also knew that the metal elements wouldn't degrade, and could be pulled onto the police department's test kit sticky tabs for testing as easily today as two days ago, the date of the shooting. That evidence wouldn't go anywhere, provided nobody got into the vehicle and transferred it onto themselves—which was a shame, because I really wanted to get inside the van and look around.

My father came up behind me and said something about rewarding ourselves with coffee, but his voice barely reached me, because I was deep in thought.

I knew who the owner of the van was. Even though the glove box sat open, the insurance and identification papers removed, the owner's presence was there—there in the sparkling prism hanging from the rearview mirror, the wood-bead seat covers, and the plastic travel mug sporting the iconic logo of the Fox and Hound. This van belonged to Dharma Lake, the friendly, older waitress from the pub. She'd thrown a drink on Voula, in front of everyone, and now…

Dharma, what have you done?

I pointed out the items to my father and told him who the van belonged to. "Come to think of it," I said, "she mentioned owning a beat-up van the first night I met her. She was teasing me about my car, when she was trying to set me up."

"Set you up for what?" His forehead wrinkled with vertical creases.

"Not for murder, just for a date. Long story. Not relevant."

The air around me felt thick, but I didn't see any fog.

I unzipped the top third of my jacket and rubbed my bare knuckles on my sternum. He kept looking at me, his worry lines deepening.

"I feel funny," I said. "Like I can't get any oxygen, which is weird, because we're outside."

"She was a friend of yours? Dharma Lake? I know who you're talking about. Her uncle is Deiter Koenig, the man who could buy every house in Misty Falls and still have enough money to put the houses on stilts and convert the town to a canal system, like in Venice."

"Canals?"

He pointed his cane at the break in the fence and began walking away, riffing on this new idea of his. "Of course, the canals would need to be wired up, like those heated sidewalks in Sweden, or they'd freeze up in the winter."

I let him have a head start while I pulled my phone from my purse and took photos of the three vehicles. My chest still felt fluttery, but my breathing deepened when I focused on it.

Discovering the identify of the driver had been shocking, but my father's patter about electrified canals did lighten the mood. My whole life, he'd driven me crazy with his wild stories and circuitous answers, but I could see how stressful police work was, and how a playful attitude would help.

I circled the van, taking more photos. The vehicle looked artfully decrepit in my shots.

Dharma's uncle, Deiter Koenig, was the richest man in Misty Falls, but he certainly didn't spoil his niece, by the look of it. The van's paint job looked like an emergency fix, done with a brush and a can of Tremclad, to stop the rust from spreading like barnacles on an old boat. Three of the tires were bald, and the one with treads was skinny—obviously the spare tire, a temporary measure for a repair job that would never be done now that the vehicle was a write-off.

I put my phone away and ran to catch up with my father.

"I haven't called Tony yet," I said as I fell into step next to him. "We could pick up some donuts and drop by the station in person."

My father shot me a quick look, then grinned down at the snow in front of us. He didn't elaborate on whatever it was he found amusing. It might have simply been the donuts. We walked to the fence in silence and got back into the car.

"Well?" I asked. "What do we do next?"

"Depends on what you want out of life. Do you want a chunk of Koenig's fortune? If so, we could drive over there and tell him what we found out about his niece. He's not the type to spoil his family with lavish gifts, but he's a proud man. He'd pay up to keep the family name clear of things like murder convictions."

I stared at my father in disbelief. Was this another of his tall tales, or had retirement changed the former cop into a potential blackmailer?

I answered slowly and deliberately, "We split the million dollars fifty-fifty."

"Sixty-forty," he countered.

"Let's just up the ask to two million. More to go around."

"Good thinking. We start at two, but our bottom is one-point-five. Then we have room to come down on negotiations."

I put the car in reverse and backed down the narrow entry road toward the main road.

"Or… we could do the right thing and let Tony know about what we've found," I said.

My father tilted his head from side to side, pretending to grapple with a difficult decision.

"Not as exciting, and the end result is sending a sweet old lady to jail."

The tightness returned to my chest. He was joking around, but he made a great point about the outcome being unpleasant. Dharma Lake had seemed like a kind woman, whereas the stories I'd heard Voula Varga made her seem like not such a kind woman. The B-word had been used a few times at the wake, and I don't mean
businesswoman
.

My father seemed to know exactly how I was feeling, because instead of joking around, he reached over and squeezed my shoulder.

"The right thing is always the right thing. That's the beauty of it, Stormy."

Chapter 18

We picked up
a box of donuts and drove to the police station. The winter sun hung low on the horizon, and the day was as bright as it was going to get. I couldn't shake the feeling that sending the police after sweet Dharma was the wrong thing to do.

"Dad, would you mind if I wait in the car? Your old friends will probably be more comfortable if your daughter isn't hanging around."

"But everyone loves you."

"Says the World's Best Dad."

"What's wrong? You used to love visiting the station with me."

"Sure, but the last time I was here, I was in a housecoat, with my cat in tow. Let's allow the humiliation to age a little." Also, I didn't want to run into Tony, who I was mad at, or Kyle, who'd probably hit on me in front of my father.

"I won't be long." He opened the donut box and shook it until I took one for myself—lemon blueberry. He got out of the car, moving more easily this time, and went in on his own.

I kept the engine running and the heater on while I used my phone to check my various messages.

To my surprise, there was a message from my ex-fiancé. To my total lack of surprise, it was a rude message.

Christopher:
What's this about you wandering into a crime scene? Isn't this the second one? What the sam-heck is going on with you that this keeps happening?

I rolled my eyes and shook my head. This was just like Christopher to break our months of silence this way, not by sending me something nice like a Happy New Year message, but by implying that everything bad that happened in my life was always my fault. And he'd said
sam-heck
instead of
hell
. Somehow that made it worse.