Death of a Crafty Knitter (37 page)

"Will you be my valentine?"

I offered Jeffrey a heart-shaped satchel of catnip. He took it without so much as a thank-you, carried it over to the corner of the living room, and started enjoying a private catnip party.

"Is he okay?" Jessica asked. "He's breathing heavily, making a funny noise."

We both listened.

SNARF SNARF.

"Weird," I said. "I've heard him make that same snarf-snarf sound while rubbing his face on my father's dirty wool socks. Mr. Jeffrey Blue has eclectic tastes."

Jessica rested her head on my shoulder. "Hey, thanks again for letting me move in with you for a bit."

"Thanks for volunteering to scoop Jeffrey's litter box every day."

"That's funny. I don't remember seeing that detail on the lease."

I chuckled. "You should have read the fine print. You also have to make cinnamon buns for breakfast whenever I get a craving."

Jessica sighed dramatically. "I should have had my lawyer friend look over the contract."

On the floor in front of us, Jeffrey flung his catnip heart into the air, attacked and killed it, then resumed nuzzling the toy and making SNARF-SNARF noises.

Behind us, the movers brought in Jessica's dresser and took it down the hallway to the second bedroom. She had until the next day, the end of the fifteenth, to vacate her apartment, but we'd come up with the brilliant idea to book her moving date for the fourteenth, so we single girls had something to do on Valentine's Day.

When I'd first asked Jessica to move in, she refused, saying I was already too generous to her. It took me a while to convince her that she was doing me a favor, and not the other way around.

After all, it was me who'd invited her over for a dinner party that was just a ruse for confronting two murder suspects and having them turn on each other.

I should have known things might turn violent, and that sweet-as-a-peach, innocent, never-left-Misty-Falls Jessica could be traumatized. That night, she saw two of her friends at their worst.

Ever since then, Jessica had been making excuses to stay over at my place. When I gently confronted her, she confessed she'd been having nightmares and problems sleeping.

I felt beyond awful. Yes, I'd gotten Dharma free of prison, but there'd been a cost, and two of my friends had paid it. Logan would have a scar on his stomach, and Jessica was scarred as well, just not visibly.

Until Jessica healed, I felt better having her under my roof. As we got to work directing the movers and getting her clothes unpacked, I hoped that soon she would find comfort.

And also make cinnamon buns.

By the next Saturday, Jessica seemed happy in her new surroundings—so happy, in fact, that she refused to leave her nest for dinner with me, Logan, and his former client, Dharma.

Truth be told, I wasn't that excited about the dinner, either, but I'd agreed to go.

In the month since the police arrested Marvin, I'd done a few more investigations for Logan. None of the cases had resulted in anyone getting skewered, but I did score another bruise on my rear end, slipping on ice while in pursuit of an adulterous spouse. On the bright side, I did get some crisp images of the cheaters exchanging more than kisses, up high in the bleachers at the skating rink.

Now that I was working for Logan, our relationship was evolving. We shared a roof, so it was easy to schedule meetings for dinnertime, then enjoy a casual meal while comparing case notes. Sometimes, one of us would show up at the other one's door with food, even when there was no new case information.

I wasn't unhappy with the comfortable place we were in, but there were times I longed for some passion in my life—and kisses from someone who didn't have cat whiskers.

For that night's dinner, I put on the stunning black and white dress I'd worn for New Year's Eve, then went next door to catch a ride with Logan.

He came out and started telling me about the stressful day he'd had, without even a glance at my dress.

In his truck on the way to the restaurant, I scrolled through messages on my phone and only half listened to him complaining about his high-maintenance legal clients.

At the restaurant, Dharma greeted me with a warm hug, then stepped back and declared that I looked stunning
and
youthful. I returned the compliment, noting how beautiful her hair was in its natural snowy-white shade. She had gotten the dyed length trimmed off, so her hair was much shorter than my pixie cut, barely an inch long, but adorable.

The three of us took our seats, ordered some drinks, and settled in with some talk about the weather. Compared to how she'd been the night she turned herself in, Dharma was a whole different person, exuberant and charming. Her husband was doing well, managing his health issues, but didn't come along for dinner, because he preferred quiet nights in during the winter.

By the time our meals arrived, we were deep in conversation about the Voula Varga case. More information had been come to light, including the fact Marvin had been installing spyware on Misty Falls residents' computers. This malicious software gave him access to all sorts of things, including email and banking records. He'd shared information with Voula, so she could convince people she was tapped into a mystical, all-seeing psychic energy field.

The two of them had met when she purchased a refurbished laptop. The laptop had later been recovered at Misty Microchips, wiped as clean as a snowy mountaintop.

Once the police knew what they were looking for, it was easy to find the evidence. The crime lab found Marvin's hairs in Voula's laundry, and the police found an eyewitness—the black-haired girl with the Corgi—who would testify that she'd seen Marvin leaving Voula's house several times.

Dharma's memory had returned. She remembered taking the gun from her uncle's mansion at Voula's urging. It was, in her words, a "stupid, childish" thing, but Voula had convinced her she was justified. Her uncle, Deiter Koenig, had been a miser to some family members, like her, but exceedingly generous with others. She wanted to invest in Voula's friend's movie, make her own fortune, and stop trying to suck up to her uncle at his horrible dinner parties.

She'd let jealousy and greed get the better of her, and it had nearly cost her everything.

As for the day of the murder, she'd left the gun with Voula, gone to her van to leave, and accidentally flooded the old thing by hitting the gas too hard. It happened frequently, and she knew the solution was to let the gas evaporate, so she waited.

She waited a good ten minutes, then leaned forward to floor the accelerator and try the engine. Before she'd turned the key, she heard a horrible bang.

The antique gun must have gone off by accident, she thought. She ran into the house to check on Voula. The ceiling squeaked with movements on the upper floor. She ran to the foot of the stairs, calling Voula's name.

Her friend didn't answer, but she thought she heard the radio. It was a man's voice, and he was talking about making someone a doll that looked like the only person they cared about.

She thought it was just another of the odd things the local radio DJ talked about in the afternoon, so she called out again for her friend, louder.

The house went quiet. She walked up the stairs slowly, entered the room, and saw the victim on the floor. Panic set in, making her decisive. There were no neighbors for miles, so she would drive into town to get help. Once the thought had come to her, she didn't even consider using the phone to call for help.

She ran outside, where the van started without flooding, and she raced toward town. That was when she ran me off the road—something she apologized for repeatedly—and then went on to crash into another vehicle on her way to the hospital to get help.

After our dinner, we ordered lemon mousse for dessert.

Logan gave me a sly smile when the bright yellow slices arrived at our table in a scented citrus cloud.

"I know this mousse," he said.

"But you didn't get any that night," I said. "It really was in the fridge, standing by to serve if I didn't get a confession from either Marcy or Marvin."

He lifted a forkful to his mouth, then closed his eyes and made a happy face. I really liked that look on him.

Dharma saw me watching him, and gave me a knowing look.

"Sorry you didn't get any lemon mousse that night," I said.

"That's okay. The sight of blood on my shirt would have ruined my appetite, if seeing your good friend
Tony
gobbling down the Golden Wok leftovers hadn't already killed it."

I let his comment go without correction. Captain Tony Milano hadn't eaten the Chinese food, at least not from what I'd seen, but he did pillage my refrigerator and "confiscate" the lemon mousse to serve to all the first responders who were on site. I think it was my father's idea. The two of them were in their glory, in the heart of chaos, celebrating the arrest.

Dharma set her napkin on the table, preparing to go. She'd already finished her lemon mousse, whereas I hadn't even started mine.

"My job here is done," she said.

"Wait," I said. "Your job? You're leaving already?"

"My husband's waiting at home, and it's our date night. Don't get up. You two stay. I've already ordered a special treat, and it'll be out any minute."

Logan and I exchanged a look, eyebrows raised.
Special treat?

I turned to ask Dharma what she meant, but she was already gone.

The waiter appeared, and opened a bottle of
Veuve Clicquot
with a dramatic POP.

We sat in stunned silence as the waiter poured two flutes of champagne.

"I guess we're celebrating," Logan said.

I lifted my glass to clink it with his. "Cheers!"

"Wait," he said. "I want to do a proper toast."

"Okay." I set my glass back down and waited.

"First of all, you look beautiful tonight. That dress is my new favorite thing—not that I don't love your bathrobe, of course."

"Thanks, I think."

He gazed at me, his eyes as blue as the winter sky, and just as calm.

"You look beautiful every day," he said. "I've really enjoyed working with you these last few weeks, and getting to know you." He glanced down at the tablecloth bashfully, then back up at me. "What I'm trying to say is—"

He looked up, over my head, and frowned.

"Stormy, who's that guy, and why's he staring at us?"

I turned around in my chair and followed his gaze.

A man stood by the entryway to the dining area, at the hostess station. He straightened up with recognition when he met my gaze.

I turned back around slowly.

Uh-oh.

Dharma Lake had made a plan, and now her plan was going wrong.

"I'm so sorry about this, Logan," I said. "That guy staring at us is my former fiancé. It's Christopher."

Angela Pepper