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.
It took me twenty minutes to compose a long message explaining exactly where he could go, what he could do to himself, and the clothes he could wear while he did it. I didn't send the message, though. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my father exiting the police station, and that gave me an idea.
I deleted the wordy message, then randomly selected a string of picture icons, including plants, animals, food. I hit send on the cryptic message and chuckled to myself.
Good luck figuring that one out, Christopher.
Finnegan Day got into the passenger seat. "Ooh, nice and warm. I do like this business of having a personal driver."
"That's all I am to you?"
"We'll discuss your official title during the annual review."
"Thanks. How'd it go in there? And don't tell me what everyone thought about the donuts. Cut to the chase for once."
"Those young guys." He shook his head. "They didn't even pretend they had leads on the case. I had to get out of there before they all kissed me in gratitude."
"Are you serious? They're going to look at Dharma's van?"
"Some of the crime scene guys are driving out already. Poor Gene will have to get out of bed before noon and let them in."
"Will they know right away about the residue?"
"With one of the test kits, yes. There are some other tests that get sent out to the lab, but a positive with the on-site kit will be enough to bring Dharma in for questioning. Tony stopped by the Fox and Hound yesterday and interviewed her about throwing the drink. He said she seemed nervous, in retrospect. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, as they say."
"It was definitely her van at the wreckers?"
He grimaced. "Yes, unfortunately." He rubbed his hands together. "Do you have any plans for the rest of the day? Can we run some errands?"
I started backing out of the parking spot. "Your driver is booked for the whole day. Your wish is my command."
He listed off some stores that wouldn't even be open yet, then said the name of a restaurant where we could get breakfast. My stomach growled, the sugary donut long gone.
I drove toward the restaurant, half listening as he talked about how much bacon he was going to order.
My heart felt heavy in my chest. As proud as I was of our work, I hoped the test on the van's steering wheel would come up negative.
"When will you find out the test results?" I asked. "Do we have to wait for tomorrow's newspaper and town gossip, or do you have an old buddy there who'll leak it to you?"
"Dimples—I mean Kyle—is going to keep in touch."
I shot my father a look. "You're going to get him in trouble."
"Oh, and you aren't going to get him in trouble? I heard you were"—he made air quotes with his fingers—"helping Kyle search the crime scene."
"What are you implying? What are people at the station saying?" I held my hand up between us. "Never mind. I don't want to know. Whatever other people choose to think about me is their business, not mine."
My father and I had a quiet breakfast, then ran some errands that included getting a new area rug to put in the living room. Home decor shopping with my father was a learning experience. I had no idea my father knew the difference between teal and aquamarine, let alone that he had strong opinions about which color looked more "modern."
His new teal rug was too long to fit in my car without bending the roll, which the salesman advised against, so we would have to strap it to the roof of my car. The store offered us free delivery, but Finnegan Day, and his Hobo Pride in doing things himself on the cheap, wouldn't accept free delivery.
"Hobo Pride is not about being cheap," he said as he tossed me the coil of yellow rope through the interior of the car. "Being self-sufficient is an admirable trait. That's why people watch those TV shows about the zombies. The shows are mostly trash, blah-blah relationship talking, but sometimes they'll show something useful, like how to make a stew using just a squirrel and whatever you have on hand, in under thirty minutes." He continued looping the rope through the windows, front and back. "Or maybe I'm thinking of the cooking channel. Hmm. Have you ever had squab?"
"Squab? That sounds like something Christopher would order at one of his beloved fancy restaurants."
"Well, don't eat it," my father said. "Unless you like pigeon." He tied a knot in the rope, then pointed across the street behind me. "I need a new computer. A laptop."
"Why?" I turned to follow his gaze to Misty Microchips across the street. Was he serious? His old computer looked and sounded like it might catch on fire during startup, but his Hobo Pride meant he'd wait for the implosion before upgrading.
Could the private investigator application—the one he still hadn't mentioned—have something to do with this sudden interest in a laptop?
"Do you really want a new computer?" I asked. "Why now?"
"They're having a sale."
He started toward the computer store, looking both ways before crossing at the middle of the street. I ran after him, surprised yet again. First the interest in teal rugs and laptops, and now Finnegan Day was jaywalking.
Wonders never cease!
The computer store was clean and bright. Some teenagers came in right after me and headed straight to the game section.
I hadn't seen the owners, Marvin and Marcy, since New Year's Eve.
Marcy gave us a friendly greeting, making me feel guilty about not returning the phone call from her—the o
ne that I'd forgotten about until that very moment.
"So nice to see you," Marcy said warmly. Her gold-brown eyes had a bright gleam under the store's lights, and her sandy brown hair looked freshly styled, with copper highlights.
"You look healthy," I said. "Getting lots of fresh air walking Stanley?"
She laughed and started telling me how she felt like a whole new person, thanks to some new resolutions.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched my father head straight for the most expensive laptops and dive right in without waiting for help. Within seconds, Marvin was at my father's side, patiently smiling and ready to ring up a laptop or two.
I wondered if selling one computer a day made their sales quota, or if they had to sell several just to pay the rent. I knew how razor-thin the margins on computers were. My gift store probably made as much profit on a set of napkin rings as the computer store did on a laptop sale. The real money was in the computer accessories—the little charging cords, foam cases, and sticker doodads that have a triple markup.
Over by the laptops, my father was gesturing wildly. Was he describing the recent explosion and demise of his old computer? If the tough old bird—as he called her—had expired, that would explain his need for a new one.
The teens in the games section were making just enough noise that I couldn't hear what my father was saying, but I did hear Marvin exclaim, "Really? That's cool! So cool!"
Not cool, I thought. If he was telling Marvin about his private investigator business before he told me, he could ride home strapped to the roof of the car, next to his new teal rug.
Marcy giggled. "He's been so wonderful lately. So attentive and affectionate."
"Who?" I asked, confused. I hadn't been paying much attention, but she was gazing with adoration at her husband, who'd I'd only witnessed being attentive to his wine, and affectionate toward, well, his wine. Those two secretly hated each other. She had to be talking about their dog.
Death of a Crafty Knitter Page 13
