"I'm still sorry about everything."
"You're sweet, Bri."
I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, someone walking toward us on the sidewalk. For privacy, I pulled open the door of the shop and nodded for Brianna to go in ahead of me.
The familiar scent of the store immediately made me feel both relaxed and invigorated. It wasn't a single specific potpourri or room freshener, but the mix of everything, every scented candle and box of natural objects like acorns or seashells, picked off the ground, soaked in essential oils, and sold with a high markup. Some company should market a candle called Gift Shop and have it burn through a thousand layers of everything from eucalyptus to cinnamon.
There were new items on the center table, so I eagerly went to look at them. I'd forgotten ordering the blown-glass pears and plums, and held them with wonder. Moments like these, when I walked into my store and enjoyed it the way a customer might, made me feel happy about my choice to buy the place—happier than when I looked at the financial reports.
Brianna finished switching on the lights and stood behind the counter, looking over the notepad we kept there for messages.
"Do you want these phone messages on your desk in the office?" she asked.
"Only the important ones. All the calls from salespeople can all go in the circular filing cabinet."
She nodded, tore the page out of the book, and tossed it into the circular filing cabinet, which was a round recycling bin.
I finished admiring the glass baubles and leaned my elbows on the counter like customers did.
"Bri, what did you mean about emailing Voula's ghost? Don't tell me you actually tried it." Her cheeks reddened, giving her secret away. "You did? What happened? Show me."
She pulled out her phone and showed me the email.
Brianna: Dear Voula, I hope your spirit is at peace. I was wondering if you could tell me if my webcomic will ever take off? Sincerely, Brianna
"I was joking," Brianna said. "Mostly."
There was a reply, with yesterday's date, and the timestamp was a little over three hours after Brianna's message.
Voula Varga, Psychic Extraordinaire: Dear friend, I have consulted the mists that surround this beautiful world, and I have a message for you about your webcomic. Go outside and find a round, flat stone. Place it on your windowsill, and whenever you think of your most ambitious desire, turn the stone over, to bring your destiny closer. If you would like to meet with me, please see my phone number and rates below.
Under that message was a list of rates and packages. I scanned back up and reread with interest.
Setting up an email auto-responder was easy enough, and most folks in the corporate world ran them while on vacation. You can even set one up on a time delay, so it seems more like a human response, if you want to trick people.
This message, however, seemed both generic and personalized at the same time. It contained the word webcomic, and that was awfully specific.
"Do you mind if I forward this to myself?" I asked Brianna. She said she didn't mind, so I sent a copy of the message to myself, and also to my father.
"I phoned the number," Brianna said. "Like a total loser, but whatever. The recording from the phone company said the mailbox was full, and when I tried again later, the number was disconnected."
"She's not checking her messages," I said solemnly. "She's really dead, I swear. If emails are going out, it's because someone hacked her account. Ghosts aren't real."
Brianna wrinkled her nose. "I know, but my friends all emailed her and they got different emails back. Why would someone bother to answer them? It would take a lot of time, wouldn't it?"
"Not necessarily. Some tech support companies have automated systems to cut down on wages. There are programs that scan customer emails for certain keywords and then respond to the most common problems."
She frowned like she didn't believe me, but in my corporate life I'd seen such things firsthand, even overseen deals licensing the technology. It wasn't magic, but it did make me curious.
And distracted.
I looked around my store, at the shelves full of wonderful things. So many things. If I stuck around, I would have to get started on annual inventory. My lower back was already aching, just above the bruise. I was taller than Brianna, but I still would need the ladder to reach the tallest shelves, and my aching backside probably wouldn't appreciate climbing up and down, reaching, or bending.
"You probably don't need me breathing over your shoulder today," I said.
She shrugged. "I don't mind, either way." She pressed her lips together, careful not to mention the big annual inventory job.
"I'm going to look into this email thing," I announced. "Just because."
She seemed surprised by this, but wished me luck on my way out the door.
You don't need to be an expert on all technology to run a computer shop, but experience told me I would get answers at Misty Microchips, which was only two blocks off the main street and a short walk from my gift shop. I headed there, walking briskly.
It wasn't until I walked in the door that I remembered how creepy Marvin had been on my last visit. Thankfully, he didn't seem to be around.
Marcy was wiping down the glass display case that served as their checkout counter. She must not have heard me come in, because she jumped when she turned around and saw me there.
I quickly apologized for stress-testing her cardiovascular system, and while I was at it, I also apologized for not returning her phone call from a few days earlier.
"Stormy Day, don't worry about a little thing like that." She swatted the air with her cleaning cloth. "I don't even remember what I was calling about." She let out a high-pitched laugh.
"How's the sale going?"
"Sale?" She blinked, her gold-brown eyes unfocused.
"The big computer sale." I pointed to the window, and the sale banner my father had seen the day before.
"Oh." Her cheeks reddened and she shrugged. "Marvin has that sign in the window more often than not, but we're not really having a sale. Can't afford to."
I nodded in understanding. "Thin margins."
"As Ruby Sparkes would say, thinner than margarine at a butter convention." She shook her head and gave me a crooked smile that seemed forced. "What a character, that Ruby."
"She must be one of your best customers. She has a new tablet or some other tech every time I see her." I gave Marcy a double eye-raise and intoned in a funny voice, "Ruby sees all, and reports to the others."
Marcy gave me the dazed look again. "What others?"
Oops, I thought. They're called the Secret Tearoom Ladies for a reason, Stormy.
"Others? Uh, I don't know," I lied. "Sometimes my mouth says things at random." That part wasn't a lie.
Marcy gave the glass surface of the case another spritz and wipe while she worked her way around so that it was between us. Her mood was less friendly than the day before. I hoped her coolness didn't have to do with me, or with her noticing her gross husband's ill-advised flirtations.
She asked, "Is everything working out with your dad's new laptop?"
"Yes, fine. Her name is Lizzy."
I hadn't forgotten my reason for coming in, but didn't know how to bring up tracing a ghost over the internet.
"Your dad seems… energetic. You must have your hands full now that he's retired. And that cane! Wherever did he find such a thing? Marvin was on the internet all last night, looking up cane swords, and now he wants one. I told him it was a terrible idea to keep a concealed deadly weapon on himself, but…" Her cheeks reddened again, and she stared down at the floor, unmoving, like someone had hit her pause button.
"Marcy, are you okay?"
She looked up and forced another smile. "Just a bit tired. Friends kept calling last night to tell me about these emails. Did you hear? They're coming from that poor dead woman's email account."
I cheered internally that the subject had come around to exactly what I wanted.
&
nbsp; "What do you know about auto-responder programs?" I asked. "My employee is spooked over the reply she got. I told her it was probably something automated, and maybe the program has been running for months, but nobody noticed when she was alive. My guess is it's a modified technical help desk script."
"Can you keep a secret?"
"Are you going to tell me you know who set up the script? Was it Marvin?"
Marcy patted her chest with one hand. "Me. I set it up. Please don't tell anyone, because I don't want to be associated with that woman." She grimaced, looking for an instant like she might throw up.
"You're the programmer?"
"Guilty as charged. I'm a big nerd. Programming is what I used to do for a living before we moved here. The setup was easy enough. I'm actually the one who suggested it. That woman was in here buying one of our refurbished laptops, and she wasn't that tech savvy, so she was worrying about having to answer a lot of emails. I said I could whip something up, and I didn't even charge her."
"Are you going to take the program down? Or are you trolling?"
"Trolling?" She had a blank look again.
"By trolling, I mean enjoying causing trouble. If you let it run, the whole town of Misty Falls will keep thinking there's a ghost floating around, granting wishes." I snorted at the idea. "You could tweak the responses to suggest people get new laptops because new computers are more lucky."
"Good one," Marcy said, but she didn't laugh.
Shadows passed over us; people were walking past the shop's front window. My gaze lingered on the exit. I'd gotten what I came for, almost too easily, and now I wanted to go.
"Marcy, I was just on my way to get coffee. Would you like to come with me? Maybe Jessica will take a break and sit with us."
"No, I have to stay here and mind the store." There was a tinge of bitterness to her voice. "I have to be the responsible one."
I walked to the door and called back cheerily, "If I see Ruby, I'll send her in so you can sell her something."
A big truck whooshed by just as I opened the door, so her response was drowned out, but she did give me a wave goodbye.
I stepped outside and breathed in the fresh air, which was cold and dry, and burned my nasal passages enough to make my eyes water. After a few blinks, I acclimatized. Now where?
Inventory?
Ugh.
Ever since my mouth had suggested coffee, the rest of me had decided it was a good idea, so I walked in the direction of the nearest cafe, which was where Jessica worked. Their coffee was nothing to blog about, but it was still coffee, and I could tell Jessica about yesterday's trip to the Koenig Mansion.
After a few blocks, a gust of wind dried out my nose again, sending tears to my eyes and down my cheeks. I couldn't see where I was going, and ran into a blurry thing that smelled like the Golden Wok and cursed mildly in a man's voice.
I stepped back and blinked my watering eyes clear. Logan came into focus.
"Yeah, I ran you down," I said. "That'll teach you to use all the hot water and leave me none for my shower. That's an awfully big tank for one man to drain. You must have been really dirty this morning."
"This morning?" He shifted a paper bag of food to one arm and scratched his beard. "I didn't do anything out of the ordinary. Maybe it's your taps."
"You used all the hot water, but you're blaming my taps?
He nodded. "It must be your taps, because my water's always fine. How about I come over and have a look at your shower? I'm working from home again today, just heading there now. How about I pop over to your side, you help me eat this Chinese food that I've ordered too much of, and I'll check your taps?"
I leaned forward to inspect the fragrant contents of his bag. He did have a lot of food, but his fidgeting made me think his offer was a hollow one. Logan was up to something. First, I'd heard the female voice in his bathroom on New Year's Eve, and now the hot water was running out. It did not take a private investigator's license for me to guess Logan had a new friend. A girlfriend.
"Sorry, but I'm busy at my store doing inventory," I lied. "It's going to take all day, and then some."
"Sounds fun." He shifted the bag again, sending the mouth-watering scent of the Golden Wok's sweet and sour chicken balls my way. The first time I'd eaten them, I thought they were terrible, but I'd found myself craving the deep-fried nuggets, and every subsequent tasting had been more delicious.
"What else is new?" Logan asked. "Have you seen your friend Tony around?" He pronounced Tony's name with an Italian accent. Tony didn't have an accent, so it just sounded like Logan was making fun of him.
"Not lately. I guess Tony's busy chasing after their suspect for the fortune-teller's murder. Did you hear about that? It was Dharma Lake. You've met her at least once, I think. She's the waitress at the Fox and Hound with the snowy white hair, only now she has brown hair. Keep an eye out for that one." I nodded solemnly. "Armed and dangerous."
"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.
Death of a Crafty Knitter Page 17
