Death of a Crafty Knitter (26 page)

He sighed. "You probably think I'm crazy for taking on this case."

"On the contrary. Her uncle is the richest man in town by a factor of ten, so that makes you anything but crazy."

"Sure, but all the money in the world doesn't give her an alibi for the shooting, or remove the evidence from her steering wheel, or change the fact she was involved in fraudulent activities with the victim."

"You mean stealing the gun from her uncle?"

"You heard about the Koenig Mansion theft?" He shook his head. "I pay good money for information that's apparently common knowledge."

"Why did she steal the gun? Was it her?"

"Her memory's foggy on that, but at least she remembers the big altercation on New Year's Eve. Do you know the truth about that?"

"Just what I saw."

Logan looked pleased to have information I didn't. "The fight was pure dinner theater. All an act."

"You mean when Dharma chewed out Voula in front of the entire crowded pub and threw a drink on her, right after accusing her of being a witch and practicing dark magic and… oh. I get it."

"Part of the long con, I suspect. Who knows how far she might have taken it."

I ruffled my hand through my hair, pushing the short, wavy strands skyward while I put everything together. Dharma had a good reputation in town, so by accusing someone else of genuine witchcraft, it was as good as an endorsement.

"She lied to the whole town," I said.

"My client had mixed feelings about the fortune-telling, but she felt the ends justified the means. If buying magic rocks from a so-called psychic was the thing that helped people stick to their exercise plan, or save their marriages, Dharma figured the karma would balance out."

He tipped back the beer can, drained it, then set it down gently. "That's the worst beer I've ever had."

Of course it was. It was the beer I kept on hand just to serve my father when he stopped by.

"The worst?" I gave Logan a perplexed look. "You're in Misty Falls now, Mr. Sanderson. This is the town's official beer."

He examined the can. "But it's not even brewed in the state."

I shrugged and played innocent. My father would have been very proud.

Logan glanced over at the interior wall. "I must be crazy," he said. "If I can't figure out who else was at the house that day, she might go to prison."

"Any wild theories you want to run past me? You're paid up for the day. Did she have a boyfriend?"

"Voula mentioned a guy she called Bernie. I just wish I knew his full name."

"Bernard Goldstein." I grabbed the printout of the film executive's website bio. I explained what I'd learned from Ruby, and how it seemed the ladies in the knitting club were the potential investors.

"This is great." Logan's shoulders softened as he relaxed in his chair. "I'll call in an anonymous tip and get the local boys in blue to do the investigative work for me."

"But that's what you're paying me to do."

He laughed and glanced over at the check on the fridge, then back to me. "You're my landlady, not a real investigator. I'm only paying you for your discretion."

He kept laughing, which made my stomach feel like it was making a fist. He wasn't being rude, because to him I was just his landlady, a woman who needed help climbing in her car window because she'd stupidly tied a rug to the roof. Who would hire a bimbo like that to do serious work?

"Wait here a minute," I said. I'd remembered my cell phone was in the bathroom, right where I'd left it before my bath. I ran to grab it, came back, and started going through the crime scene photos again, showing him.

"Logan, I hope there was a third person, I really do, but these are from New Year's Day. You'll notice there are two cups in the sink, with lipstick prints, and no other glasses or mugs."

He flipped forward and back through the other shots I'd taken.

"That's a creepy doll," he said. "We should look for someone who matches that doll."

"You'd think, but there was a basket of dolls in the room, and they were all the same. She would customize them with the clothes of whoever they represented. The doll is a dead end, because it's wearing
her
clothes. If you look closely, you'll see there's a chunk of fabric cut from the hem of the victim's dress, and that was on the doll."

He shuddered. "I don't want to look at these photos, but can I get a copy?"

"Sure. You've more than paid for them." I took back the phone and tapped in the email address he gave me, then sent the images. "Anything else I can do for you as your paid consultant?"

He gave me a crooked grin. "How about a plausible explanation for what happened that day? You've been inside the house, and I haven't. Did you get any feelings? Any hunches?"

"My best theory?" Something had just occurred to me while reviewing the photos. "Well, the gun wasn't just any old gun. It was made by some factory that only produced a limited number before it burned down. It was the gun equivalent of a Fabergé egg owned by the Russian royal family. What if the gun was Dharma's investment in the film deal?"

"That's one way to come up with cash. Oh! The third person could have been an antiques dealer who decided to keep the gun and kill the witnesses."

"But he left the gun, and a witness."

"Right."

"Is her memory really that bad? I'd like to talk to her."

"She's too fragile." He shook his head. "She doesn't remember taking the gun from her uncle's house, but it's not unusual for a client to hide things from her lawyer." He pushed his chair back and stood. "I'll show her a few photos and see if that jogs her memory."

He started slipping on his boots.

"Thanks for being so understanding," he said. "You really are the best landlady I've ever had, and I never meant to draw you into this, but you said you were doing inventory, so I figured we had a few hours for her to wash some clothes. I thought some normal activity might relax her, but she's practically catatonic now."

"I'm so sorry I scared her. Please, tell her I'm sorry."

"I will. I'm not sure she can even hear me when I'm talking, though. It's not good."

"Hopefully she feels better soon."

He thanked me again, then left.

I watched as he walked by my front window.

Once he was out of sight, I closed the curtains, even though it was still light outside.

Logan said his client was practically catatonic. And that she had selective memory lapses.

This was the same woman who'd convinced an entire pub that she hated a woman who was actually her friend. Dinner theater, indeed.

Despite wanting to believe in her innocence, it was entirely possible I was living under the same roof as a killer.

Providing laundry facilities for a wanted fugitive.

Sharing a hot water tank with a murderer.

Chapter 26

I called my father
about half an hour after Logan left. I couldn't tell him about who was next door, or he'd call the police… which was what a good citizen should do.

I was the bad one, who took a check to stay quiet.

"How's the physiotherapy?" I asked.

"The stretches? Horrible. If I ever say they're great, that's how you'll know I'm not doing them. Why are you really phoning?"

"Do you want to have dinner with me?"

"Sure, come over right now. I'll take care of everything. Could you swing by the store on your way and pick up some steaks, russet potatoes, and sour cream?"

I enjoyed his version of taking care of everything.

"And coffee," he said. "Plus bread, eggs, and bacon. Are you writing this down?"

"Yes." I was writing his grocery list on my notepad, after the page I'd been using to doodle names for our investigation business.

When he finished the list, I tossed the notepad and some toiletries into an overnight bag, then got Jeffrey's kitty carrier ready. I found him on my bed, watching the door, and looking edgy. He'd been off balance since the screaming in the basement.

He gave a few protest meows, but was a champion all through the car ride to the grocery store, waiting for me to shop, then driving to my father's.

The sun was setting when Jeffrey and I arrived at my father's. As I unloaded the car, I couldn't shake the neck-tickling sensation of being watched.

I whipped around and caught the neighbor across the street peering at me around curtains. I gave her a friendly wave. She pretended to be tending her collection of tea roses on the windowsill.

My father opened the door just as I was lugging everything up the porch steps.

He frowned at the cat carrier. "No returns."

"We're staying overnight. Surprise! It'll be fun. We can make popcorn and watch movies in our pajamas."

He demanded more of an explanation, but I didn't feel right talking about it on the porch, with the eyes and ears of the neighborhood trained on us. I pushed my way in, asking if he had the grill ready.

He didn't ask again why we were staying overnight until we'd finished cooking and eating dinner. The dishwasher was running, and he stood at the sink washing the salad bowl while I attended with the drying towel.

"The Boomerang Generation," he said. "That's what you are. You move away from home, then you come back like a boomerang. I heard all about it on the radio."

"I'm not moving in," I said. "This is just for a few days, because I don't feel safe at my house."

He rinsed the glass salad bowl, then handed it to me, steaming hot.

"Stands to reason you're scared," he said. "Before I retired, it was part of my job to assure people we didn't have a serial killer on the loose, but just because I
say
reassuring things, that doesn't mean you shouldn't be careful. I'm sure glad to be retired now, so I can be honest."

I put the bowl in the cupboard, then turned to make steady contact with his gold-flecked, dark brown eyes. "You keep saying you're retired now, but I saw the papers, Dad. I saw your application to get the license. When were you going to tell me you're becoming a private investigator?"

His dark eyes twinkled. "Never, because I'm not. The application's for you. That's why I left it where you could see it."

My hands went limp, and I dropped the dishtowel. He used his fancy cane for balance as he leaned forward to pick it up.

The application was for me?

For the previous four days, I'd been happily imagining an exciting new career as a private investigator—but that had been as my father's partner. Doing it alone? That was a whole different thing.

"Tea," he said, so we made tea.

Thirty minutes later, we were sitting in the living room. He'd turned on the TV and was enjoying the view from his newly repositioned recliner. Jeffrey was making himself at home on the couch.

The show we'd caught the tail end of finished up, and he muted the volume on the set.

"What do you think?" he asked. "You could always apply for the police academy, and go that route, but I don't think police work is for you. You've always been so independent, and you need the intellectual challenge of investigative work. Stormy, are you listening to me? This is what you've been looking for. This is why you came back to Misty Falls."