"That's enough out of you," Tony barked, like Logan was about to describe some twisted stalker fantasy. "Next time an officer of the law asks you to identify yourself, you'll know what to do."
"I sure will." Logan had gotten to his feet and now squared his shoulders, facing Tony. Logan was taller, and he tilted his head back, making it clear he was looking down. They looked like brothers, with their similar dark hair and rugged good looks. Logan was younger, but looked older because of the height and beard.
They were barely moving, locked in a macho staring contest, their chests swelling and getting dangerously close to touching.
"Just kiss already," I said.
They broke eye contact and gave me annoyed looks.
"Oops." I brought my hand up to my mouth. "Did I say that out loud? Don't mind me, really. Keep going. I love a good bro-mance. Or a bro-mantic comedy."
"You're not funny," Tony said.
"Ouch," Logan said. "Burn."
"I suppose formal introductions are in order," I said. "Captain Tony Milano, I'd like you to meet my tenant and friend, Logan Sanderson. How about you two shake hands, now that nobody's in cuffs?"
The two moved hesitantly, shaking hands mechanically.
"You two have something in common," I said. "You're both involved in the justice system. Logan is a lawyer."
Tony gave him a surly look. "Not with that beard, you aren't."
Logan took a step back and pointed at Tony. "I remember you now. We met once before, at the veterinarian clinic. You said the same thing about my beard."
Something buzzed—Tony's phone, rattling in his belt holster.
"Excuse me a moment," he said, walking away from us to take the call in private.
Once he was across the yard, his low voice barely audible, I turned to Logan. "It's been a long day. Happy New Year, by the way."
He brushed the remaining snow off his clothes, but made no move to go back into the house.
I asked, "What were you thinking about on your walk?"
"Lots of stuff. I can't remember. But when I got back and saw you, I had the strangest thought. I was wishing we both were smokers."
"Smokers?" I let out a laugh, because laughter lubricates awkward social situations, and with Logan fresh from being tackled for alleged prowling, and me in my crazy bathrobe, the only thing that would make this more difficult would be my father turning up and asking when I planned to pop out some kids, while giving Logan meaningful glances. The last part of that wasn't just my overactive imagination—he'd done it to my former fiancé, Christopher.
For the second time in as many days, I was thinking about Christopher. What was he doing now, at two in the morning? Probably guzzling energy drinks at his computer keyboard, on his second or third wind of the day.
"Hey." I felt a warm hand on my shoulder, and looked up into Logan's blue eyes. "There you are," he said. "Did you hear a word of what I just said?"
I gave him an apologetic smile. "I'm tired. It's been a long day." I thought about telling him about my discovery at Voula Varga's house, but it was all too much information for words—let alone words that wouldn't lead to me sobbing in his nice, strong arms.
He gave my shoulder a respectful squeeze, then dropped his hand away. "About the smoking," he said. "I saw you talking to your cat, and I felt jealous of him, because he gets to live here without paying rent."
"You wish you were a freeloader who claws my furniture? I don't need two of those."
He chuckled and looked at the dark window. "Then I was thinking about how it would be nice if we both smoked, because we could meet on the front lawn for smoke breaks, and casually talk about our day."
"That would be nice," I said. "For two people who live together, we don't bump into each other much. Plus you don't dance, or so you say."
"Have you given any thought to vegetables?"
I laughed. He was good at changing the topic away from dancing.
He expanded on his vegetables comment, talking about putting in raised garden beds in the backyard. He described a method of multiple platforms stacked in a pyramid. It didn't gain you any space, but it made weeding a breeze and picking strawberries easier, because you didn't have to stoop down so far to spot the red berries under the leaves.
I nodded in agreement, my mouth watering at the idea of fresh summer strawberries. Logan's voice had such a rich, comforting timbre, like someone who could have his own gardening show on the radio. For a recent transplant to small-town life, Logan had such an earthy, woodsman vibe. I could imagine him in a log cabin, chopping his own wood for a potbelly stove.
He had snow in his beard, from his tousle with Tony. Without thinking, I began tidying up his beard, pulling chunks of icy snow from the dark hairs on his chin and jaw. He kept talking about gardening while I pulled away the ice chunks.
"…and fresh spinach to go with the tomatoes. Hey, thanks for grooming me."
I realized what I was doing and yanked my hands back. "Sorry. Jeffrey gets snow clumps between his toes. Force of habit for me to help pull them out."
Logan gazed at me calmly. His blue eyes looked dark gray under the thin light of the street lamp. "I got my wish," he said, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "I got to be your cat for a few minutes."
"You're a big cat. Don't start using Jeffrey's litter box."
"Somebody's jealous."
I thought he meant Tony, but then followed his gaze and saw Jeffrey on the windowsill, his dark gray body barely visible with the interior lights off. He saw me looking and feigned a yawn.
Something occurred to me out of nowhere. "Logan, you don't have a cat, or a dog. Why were you at the vet's the day we met? Don't tell me you have lizards or snakes in your place. You're not a reptile person, are you? I mean, why? Why would someone own reptiles?"
"Snakes are beautiful," he said with a neutral tone and expression. "Magnificent, even."
"No!"
"The snakes enjoy our shared laundry room, actually. If you see them in there, don't panic. They like to get up in the ceiling and then surprise you."
"Ugh," I said, playing along. "How many snakes?"
He shrugged. "They're so hard to keep track of once they start multiplying. I really should count up hatched eggshells."
"You're a big tease."
He held up both hands. "Guilty. If you must know, and it seems like you're the type of person who can't leave any mystery unsolved, I was waiting to get a fax."
"That makes sense."
His blue eyes twinkled. "The best alibis always do."
Captain Tony Milano cleared his throat to let us know he was approaching. "You two can be on your way."
"Why were you driving by?" I asked. "Did you want to talk to me about… that thing, from today?"
"It's late," he replied gruffly.
"But you drove here for a reason."
"It's late," he repeated, looking at Logan. "I'll drop by tomorrow morning. Around ten."
"I'll have the coffee on," I said cheerily.
He almost smiled. "I'll bring the donuts." He gave Logan a stiff nod, then started walking back to his car.
Logan watched him leave. "I'm glad he roughed me up. It might come in handy, to have a cop owing me a favor. I'm sure the captain doesn't want a complaint filed against him."
"Please don't file a complaint. Tony's a good cop. His heart's in the right place."
"For you, I'll drop the issue," Logan said. "But could you put in a good word for me?"
"Sure. I'll tell him how helpful you were last month, with the whole snowman thing. Plus you pay your rent on time, don't have parties, and probably don't own any snakes."
Logan looked down at my crossed arms. "Someone's teeth are chattering, and they don't sound like mine." He unzipped his jacket and tried to hand it to me.
I stepped back. "I should head inside this perfectly warm house."
He folded his jacket over his forearm and turned toward his own front door, on the other side of the house. "
Sounds like a plan. See you around, landlady."
"See you around, tenant. Keep your scary reptiles out of the laundry room."
"No promises."
Chapter 12
January 2nd
In the morning, I left a voicemail for my employee to let her know our plans for doing storewide inventory were delayed, and she should open the store and run it as usual.
I didn't expect my meeting with Tony would last very long, but even if he got to my house right at ten, it could be noon by the time I got to the gift store, and counting inventory seemed like the sort of gargantuan task that was wrong to start mid-day.
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.
Death of a Crafty Knitter Page 9
