Death of a Crafty Knitter (25 page)

"I'll keep my eyes open." He gave me a friendly wink, then walked around me on the sidewalk and continued on his way. "See you around, Stormy Day."

"Not if I see you first, Logan Sanderson!"

Chapter 24

Two hours after
running into Logan, I pulled my car up my driveway alongside his truck. I quietly creaked my way out of the driver's seat and limped to my front door. The purple bruise from my fall only hurt when I sat on it, so the pain had to be from pulled muscles—muscles I'd never given a second thought to until now.

I unlocked my door, went inside, and closed the door gently, so the sound wouldn't travel to Logan's side.

Despite what I'd said on the sidewalk, I'd had no intention of doing inventory. I went to the cafe where Jessica worked, and sat at the staff table in the corner for almost two hours, mostly reading through the recent issues of the
Misty Falls Mirror
. I'd meant to only pop in for a few minutes to catch up with Jessica, but as the place filled up for lunch, I was well situated to overhear town gossip.

People talked at their tables, and even across tables. The murder had been juicy news, and now everyone had wild stories about the ghost of Voula Varga.

One woman said the ghost broke her washing machine, but it was a good deed in disguise, because her husband bought her a new, better one. Plenty of people had been emailing Voula's email address and getting the automated semi-customized responses from Marcy's program.

While at the restaurant, I emailed her using my phone. I tried it a few times and confirmed what other people were saying: the second message from my email account generated a different response, stating she was unable to further consult by email, and recommended an in-person session.

The town seemed so delighted by the mystery of the emails and recent ghostly occurrences—none of which seemed very ghostly to me—that they weren't even worried about the murderer, who was still at large. By the time I left the cafe, I'd learned nothing new about the case, but plenty about the townspeople; there was no shortage of creative imagination in Misty Falls.

As I got comfortable inside my house, I smiled over one story: a lady who swore her Siamese cat was routinely possessed by Voula's spirit from 11:00 p.m. to 11:16 p.m. every night.

I went to find Jeffrey to tell him all about it. He was on the floor of my bedroom, curled up in the empty cardboard tray his canned food came in. He preferred the plain box to the cute pet bed I'd gotten him for Christmas.

He didn't know what a Siamese cat was, but his tail flicked with enjoyment at being spoken to.

"This explains Kitty Playtime Hour," I said. "You're possessed by a ghost every night. It's so obvious now."

He stretched, scratched his nails on the cardboard, then stepped out, giving the box an accusing look for always making him sleepy.

I put away the clothes I'd tossed around that morning in my rush to get dressed for Kyle. He padded after me as I straightened up the house. I'd come home with the intention of getting into the tub, to soothe my sore muscles, but I hadn't taken a bath since a troubling incident the previous month. The idea of being naked and vulnerable bothered me almost as much as my sore body.

The only way past my fear was through it, though. I talked my way through the process. "Got my towels, my book, water, tea, fully charged phone. What else?"

Jeffrey gave the tub a suspicious look.

"Good idea. I'll zip down to the basement and look at the hot water heater, in case there's some sort of warning light flashing." I kept talking to Jeffrey, who followed me down the hall, where I opened the door to the basement.

"That was just a joke about the warning light," I said. "I know hot water heaters aren't cars. I'm checking for a leak, or a blown-out pilot light."

I patted Jeffrey on the head, then turned to go down the stairs just as the basement light flicked off.

Or had it? I hadn't been paying close attention when I'd opened the door.

"Hello?" I called down into the darkness. Some light seeped in through the basement's narrow windows, but only enough for me to make out the basic shapes of the appliances and shelves.

"Logan? You'd better not be hiding down here with your lizard farm."

No response, but I thought I could hear someone breathing.

"Hello? You should know I'm a master of martial arts, like, um, Krav Maga, and some of the other ones." I smiled, proud that I knew the
term
Krav Maga—not that I knew anything about
practicing
the technique of disarming your opponent in a fight by using anything within reach.

Still no answer. I reached for the light switch on the wall, but found nothing, of course, because there
was no
switch on the wall. The only control was the beaded-metal cord on the fixture. I usually left the light on all the time, because a few dollars on the electric bill was better than a broken leg from falling down the stairs.

As I stepped cautiously into the murky depths, basement scenes from horror movies played in my head. I sniffed deeply, detecting the invigorating scent of freshly washed and dried laundry.

Unless the killer was hiding in my basement, doing a load of laundry, it would seem Logan had washed some clothes that day and clicked off the light.

I was halfway down the steps when I stopped. What was I going to the basement for? I didn't have a laundry basket in my hands. Had I been going down for paper towels? I had to start taking some of those vitamins for memory.

It came to me:
I'm checking the hot water tank
. I went back up the steps and grabbed the flashlight I kept hanging on the wall. The batteries needed charging, but the light was strong enough to get me down the wood steps in one piece.

I got to the bottom and was reaching up for the light switch cord when I noticed a pair of slippers near the edge of the wall. I pointed the flashlight at the slippers, then moved the light up, up a pair of legs in jeans with rolled cuffs, then a dark blue sweater, and finally, a face.

Two eyes stared back at me.

It was a woman.

A woman was standing under my stairs, in my dark basement. She put up one hand to shield her eyes from the light of my flashlight.

Someone screamed. It had to be me, because her mouth didn't move. I screamed again. Then she screamed.

There were only two ways out of the basement, and the narrow window wasn't fast enough. I started for the stairs, but the woman was closer, so she beat me to staircase and bounded up noisily.

Jeffrey, who stood watch in my open doorway, arched his back and hissed like a tiny dragon when she got to the top.

The woman didn't turn back, nor did she enter my apartment. She opened the other door, the one leading to Logan's half of the duplex, and went through. The door slammed shut, and I heard the telltale click of the handle being twisted to lock it.

I'd only caught a glimpse of her, but it had been more than enough for me to identify the woman. Logan did have a houseguest, but it wasn't a girlfriend.

Unless he'd taken up dating much older women, he was harboring a fugitive.

Dharma Lake.

I'd found her.

Someone's karma was about to change.

Chapter 25

As I turned
my living room upside down looking for my cell phone, I cursed myself for not having a landline. With a phone plugged into the wall, it could only wander the length of the cord.

Someone knocked on my front door. It was a polite knock, which only made it more terrifying.

"Stormy? It's me, Logan."

I latched the chain before I unlocked the door and opened it a crack.

"Just you?" I asked.

"I'm alone." Both of his hands came through the crack in the door.

I panicked, screamed, and tried to close the door on his hands. He quickly withdrew them, but he thrust his boot in at the bottom.

"Easy now," he said. "I was just showing you I was unarmed. Can we talk?"

I shifted so I could see him through the crack.

"Start talking. Why do you have a killer over there?"

He fixed his winter-sky eyes on mine.

"Dharma's not a killer. People are wrongly accused of things all the time. That's why we have lawyers."

"You're her defense attorney? Is that why she's at your place? Are you planning to hide her forever?"

"May I come in?"

"I guess she can't stay at her house, because the cops are looking for her. And she can't exactly hide out in a hotel, not in a town this size, where everybody knows everybody."

"Exactly," he said. "You're pretty smart."

"Flattery will get you nowhere." I kicked the toe of his boot out of the door crack and slammed the door shut.

Yes, pretty smart, indeed.
I'd been quietly putting on my own boot while I talked through the hotel issue.

He knocked again.

I yelled at the door, "I've got my phone and I'm calling the police right now. I'm punching in the number."

"No, you've lost your phone. I have to walk past your front window to reach your door, remember? I saw you tossing cushions off your couch. Something tells me you weren't redecorating."

I opened the door a crack. "Can I borrow your phone?"

"I've got something else for you." He slipped a sheet of paper through the opening. It was a check, made out to me.

It wasn't a rent check. The subject line at the bottom had a line written in messily:
Investigative Services Retainer.

"Logan, you don't have to pay me for locating the fugitive in our shared laundry room. Honestly, it's a freebie. My pleasure."

I shut the door.

He knocked again. "Stormy, I need to employ you as an investigator. It's so I can talk to you and we can share privileged information. You see, there's this client-attorney thing, and—"

I pulled the chain free and yanked open the door. "I know." I waved my hand, inviting him in. "I think I'm familiar with attorney-client privilege. I've seen every episode of
The Good Wife
."

He stepped inside. "That's a great show. They take a few liberties, of course, but it's excellent. No spoilers, I haven't seen them all." He kicked off his boots, which hadn't been tied up, and rubbed his bare forearms. He'd run over in a hurry, with no jacket. I almost felt bad for making him wait on the step. Almost.

Logan took a seat at the kitchen table, and I rearranged the magnets on my fridge so I could affix the check where it was visible. It felt like the official thing to do.

He nodded at the check. "Does this mean you accept my offer of employment?"

"I do. I do accept your hand in… handing me a check for employment."

"Good. I have other paperwork for you to sign, but I came over in a hurry." He rubbed his forehead as a smile spread across his face. "That's quite the panic-inducing scream you have."

I grabbed two cans of beer, cracked both open, and set them on the table as I sat down. My bruise didn't even hurt, thanks to the adrenaline.

"What's your plan?" I asked. "A diminished capacity plea? She seemed plenty sharp to me, but a jury might buy it. I hope her hair dye washes out. White would look better on the witness stand."

"She's innocent."

"Did the psychic shoot herself?"

"Maybe she did." He stared into my eyes with intensity, like he was trying to convince me through mind control. I looked away and took a sip of my beer. He did the same.

"How did your client get gunshot residue on her hands?"

"It was on her steering wheel, not her hands. These are very different things."

"You're such a lawyer."

He frowned. "Thanks." He took another sip of his beer. "She doesn't remember anything about what happened that day."

I snorted. "How convenient."

"The old van didn't have airbags, and she hit her head in the accident. Concussion can cause memory loss."

"Very convenient."

"I have a consultant with medical training, and she's looking into it for me. Actually, you might have seen her around. She was in town for a few days after Christmas."

"Hmm," I responded as I took another drink. The beer didn't taste great, but sipping it did keep my mouth from running ahead of my brain. It must have been Logan's "consultant" friend who was over on New Year's Eve. I didn't want him to think I
cared
who he had visiting over there—as long as they weren't wanted by the police.