Death of a Double Dipper

by Angela Pepper

  Death of a

  Double Dipper

  Stormy Day Mystery #5

  Angela Pepper

  WWW.ANGELAPEPPER.COM

  Chapter 1

  The dispatcher on the phone tried to talk me out of opening the bathroom door.

  “Well, I'm here already,” I said bravely.

  I pulled a fresh handkerchief from my purse and used it to delicately turn the door handle. My overactive imagination helpfully played horror movie music in my mind—the kind with screaming violins.

  I nudged the door open with my toe and quickly took a few steps back. If someone had been trapped in the room and wanted to escape, they could do it right past me rather than through me.

  Nobody ran out.

  The only sound was water dripping.

  I steadied myself and looked inside.

  There was a man lying in the tub, staring lifelessly back at me.

  Michael Sweet.

  Someone had stabbed him.

  Someone had stabbed him a whole bunch of times.

  Who could have done this?

  Off the top of my head, I could think of a few people.

  Oh, Michael, I thought with sadness. You had to keep pushing, didn't you? Now look what you made someone do, you bully jerk.

  His lifeless body didn't offer any thoughts. For someone who always had to get in the last word in a fight, it was strange to be near Michael and not hear him.

  But here we were. Just me and another dead body.

  Time was ticking.

  There were a few things I wanted to do before the authorities showed up, including getting an estimated time of death. I turned away from the horror in the tub and opened the vanity over the sink in search of a thermometer.

  Chapter 2

  SATURDAY

  (2 DAYS BEFORE MURDER)

  “Stormy, you've slept in long enough. I've already eaten breakfast, so you'll have to eat yours on the way. Would you please tear yourself away from the arms of your lover and get your butt out here?”

  I opened my eyes and stared at the closed door of my bedroom.

  Groggily, I called out, “Jessica, why don't you come in and join us?”

  The door opened. My best friend and roommate, the blue-eyed and red-haired Jessica Kelly, smiled as she shook her head at me. “Look at you two, tangled up in each other's arms. It's almost revolting.”

  I blinked innocently. “How can you say that about a love as pure as ours?” I snuggled up closer to my sleeping companion, a sleek gray cat named Jeffrey Blue. “Ours is a true love that transcends space and time. I think we were cuddle buddies in a previous lifetime.”

  Jessica fixed one of her looping red braids, tucking it up into her elaborate hairstyle. “No wonder Logan gets jealous of you two.”

  I rolled my head to the side to give Jeffrey a kiss on his shiny gray nose. The air in the room was dry, though. I accidentally gave him a static electricity shock on the nose. He jumped up on all four paws and gave me an indignant look before stomping over me on his way off the bed.

  He padded over to Jessica with his tail held high, then wove a figure eight around her pale ankles. She was already dressed for our Saturday plans, wearing a pretty flowered sundress that made her look even more like the sweet-as-a-peach small town girl she was. She'd been living with me for nearly eight months—since February—and my big-city cynicism hadn't rubbed off on her yet.

  My cat continued his dance around her bare ankles. He was fully grown now, a year old, and while he retained his kitten-like vigor, his lovely green eyes were different now—more focused. Maybe my cynicism was rubbing off on him? The poor cat heard all the worst stories from my private investigation business. Last night, my furry friend had consoled me with his calm, detached listening style. I'd come home late with my faith in humanity being tested yet again. Sometimes I didn't know who was more pathetic—the guy who lied about a disability claim to scam his employer for more money, or me, the thirty-three-year-old woman who recorded video of the man from her banged-up car and then scurried out with a bathroom scale to weigh his bags of garbage.

  Ah, the glamorous life of the private investigator.

  On the plus side, handling bags of other people's garbage did transfer plenty of interesting scents onto my clothing for Jeffrey to inspect when I returned home in the wee hours of the morning.

  Jeffrey let out a sweet meow, still rubbing Jessica's legs.

  “Now I'm your favorite person,” Jessica teased as she looked down into his eyes. “Cat, if we knew each other in a previous lifetime, I bet I was a sucker in that one, too.”

  She was feeling sorry for herself again. “Jessica, you're not a sucker. You have a good heart.” I pushed my covers aside and rolled out of bed.

  “That's exactly what makes me a sucker,” she said, her lower lip trembling. “I'm so busy trying to see the good in people that I don't notice them taking everything.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Anything you want to talk about?”

  “Not really.” She wrinkled her nose. “Why does it smell like garbage in your room?”

  I feigned ignorance. “Garbage?”

  She narrowed her eyes at me. “And the bathroom scale is missing. You were out weighing garbage again weren't you? Was it to catch insurance scammers?”

  “It wasn't for recreation.”

  She chuckled and waved the air under her nose. “You shouldn't bring your work home with you.”

  I grabbed the jeans and sweater from the floor next to my bed and tossed them into the hamper. “Most of the stink is contained now.” I sniffed my hands and arms. “Give me ten minutes to have a quick shower, and we can be on our way to that open house.”

  “Five minutes,” she countered. “You're always bragging about how low maintenance your short pixie haircut is, so let's put it to the test.” She crossed her arms and in a more serious tone added, “I want to get there before the start of the open house. Poor Samantha is losing her marbles over this one. Don't tell anyone, but she hasn't had so much as a low-ball offer.”

  “Since when do you care? Weren't you the one who threw a hissy fit over how Samantha staged that little house with undersized furniture to trick people?”

  “I still don't approve of her tactics, but the poor girl is doing the best she can, raising two kids while running a real estate business. It turns out Michael Sweet isn't exactly the world's best husband. Surprise, surprise.”

  “Who knew,” I said dryly. We'd gone to high school in Misty Falls with Samantha's husband, and I'd never been a fan.

  A blood-curdling howl came from the vicinity of the kitchen.

  Jessica shook her head. “Sounds like His Royal Fluffiness is either being murdered or has noticed his kibble bowl is less than 90% full.”

  I made a horrified expression. “How could you,” I said breathlessly.

  Jessica rolled her eyes and left to fill Jeffrey's bowl. She called back over her shoulder, “Five minutes or I leave without you! And don't forget to use soap, Stinky McStinkerpants.”

  It was the last weekend of September, and the weather that Saturday was almost too good to be true. We'd had a cold snap and frost two weeks earlier, but the seasons had changed their minds. Now we were enjoying a hazy, smoky sort of heat in our little slice of Oregon—a true Indian summer. The monotone grayness of a Pacific Northwest winter would be upon us soon, but not yet. I'd worn my strappy summer sandals to give them one last fling before the snow returned.

  Jessica and I stood on the sidewalk admiring the work our real estate agent friend, Samantha Sweet, had put into that Saturday's open house.

  Since we'd last seen the hundred-year-old home, the porch, gingerbread trim, and even the front door had been pai
nted. The home now had a lime-green door that made the raspberry hue on the wood siding look fresh and vibrant.

  “Good colors,” Jessica said. “It's a good thing I don't have any money, or I'd be in danger of buying this place.”

  Keeping my voice low, I said, “These heritage houses are a money pit for maintenance. Notice how Samantha has added those boxwood bushes along the front. It's probably to disguise a crumbling foundation.”

  “I'd never buy without a full inspection,” Jessica said.

  “Even if it is stable, even the cutest paint job can't make the house any bigger on the inside.”

  Jessica laughed and punched me on the arm. Hard. As usual. “You don't have to talk me out of buying it. I'm broke, remember?” She looked up and down the sidewalk. “Where's Samantha?”

  I looked around. Thanks to Jessica rushing me, we'd arrived a full thirty minutes before the open house was to begin. Samantha's car was parked on the street in front of the house, but there was no sign of the realtor.

  “Looks like the house is unlocked.” I pointed to the freshly painted lime-green house door, which was open a crack.

  “She must be inside.”

  We walked up the steps of the house and across the porch. The paint was not fully cured, and I could feel it threatening to stick to the bottoms of my shoes. If I knew Samantha, she'd been on her hands and knees the night before, finishing the painting herself. For a real estate agent, she really went above and beyond for her clients.

  Jessica knocked on the doorframe as she entered. “Samantha? I'm here with Stormy. We're here to talk up the place for you!”

  I chimed in, “And eat cupcakes!”

  There was no response.

  Jessica entered the house hesitantly. “She's probably putting out signs and balloons on the main cross streets.”

  I made a straight line for the home's kitchen, following the scent of cupcakes. “Samantha would want us to make ourselves at home.”

  Jessica followed me into the kitchen and watched me attack a pink cupcake.

  “Easy, killer,” she said.

  “This one was asking for it,” I said around a mouthful.

  She swished her lips from side to side. “You really have changed, Stormy.”

  I swallowed down half a cupcake and gave her a questioning look. “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “When you moved back to Misty Falls a year ago, I'd have to twist your arm to get you to eat a cupcake. And you'd freak out if anyone tried to eat in your car.”

  I shrugged. “So?”

  “I was just in your car, and I found wrappers.” She paused, as though preparing to accuse me of a horrific crime. “Wrappers from gas station hot dogs.”

  “Are you saying I've let myself go?” I crammed the rest of the cupcake in my mouth. “Just because I regularly wake up smelling like garbage doesn't mean I'm not a classy”—crumbs of cake and icing sprayed out of my mouth—“sophisticated woman.”

  She stared at me. “Gas station hot dogs,” she repeated.

  I used a napkin to wipe my mouth daintily. “It's the weird hours. Surveillance can be boring, and when I get bored, I eat.”

  She looked at my midsection pointedly. “You're lucky you've always had a good metabolism, but it's going to catch up with you one of these days.”

  “Everything in moderation.” I waved my hand past the cupcakes and over to the platter of vegetables. I chose a handful of baby carrots and swirled one through the dip, followed by another. “I think this is hummus,” I said around my mouthful.

  Jessica's bright blue eyes widened. “Double Dipper,” she gasped. “I saw what you did. You double dipped your carrot. Now your spit's all mixed into the hummus.”

  “I'm not a double dipper. I took three baby carrots and dipped them separately. You can't even double dip a baby carrot. It's too small.”

  She made a tsk-tsk sound. “Dirty Double Dipper.”

  We stared at each other in silence. I couldn't tell if she was teasing me or if she genuinely believed I was a filthy Double Dipper who'd completely let herself go.

  In the silence, the old house squeaked. I knew instantly the sound was coming from upstairs.

  We weren't alone.

  My heart pounded, and the skin on the back of my neck prickled.

  With another creak of the home's old wood, I was transported back in time, to the first day of January that year. I'd entered the too-quiet house of a fortune-teller, expecting nothing more than an afternoon's harmless entertainment. Instead, I'd found the poor woman upstairs in a pool of blood. And the killer who'd shot her might have still been there in the house, hiding in a gap between rooms, watching me make the grisly discovery.

  My mind made a horrible leap. I pictured Samantha Sweet lying upstairs in a pool of blood, her pretty blond hair turning red and her bright green eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling.

  Jessica furrowed her brow and asked, “Did you hear that? Like someone's upstairs?” She turned to go up the stairs. “Samantha?”

  I ran after her and passed Jessica halfway up the creaking stairs.

  I had to lead the way. If something had happened to Samantha, I would protect Jessica. Thanks to me, my best friend had already been exposed to too many horrible things that year. She'd seen Logan get stabbed in the stomach, and then she'd climbed a tree while hallucinating after an accidental poisoning. Plus there was our adventure getting snowed in at the Flying Squirrel Lodge, trapped with a zombie-like victim and his killer, whom she'd inadvertently flirted with. Poor Jessica.

  Recent events hadn't been good for her nerves. She was sensitive. She hadn't grown up the way I had, hearing stories from my father the cop.

  Upstairs, I held up my arm to block her from passing me. She stayed behind, albeit with an impatient sigh.

  One of the bedroom doors was closed. As I lifted my knuckles to knock on the door, I heard voices inside.

  A man was saying, “Mikey doesn't deserve a fine woman like you.”

  A female responded with a flirtatious laugh.

  I yanked my hand back and used it to cover my mouth. I turned to Jessica, who was doing the exact same thing, her blue eyes wide with surprise.

  Samantha's husband was named Michael Sweet. Back when Jessica and I went to high school with him, he'd been known as Mikey. Whoever was in this room, he wasn't wrong. Mikey was a bully, and he didn't deserve a woman as fine as Samantha. But he was the man she'd married, and the two had kids together. From the outside, their marriage was picture perfect—the sort of attractive family you see in the sample picture for photo frames. At the gift shop I owned, Glorious Gifts, I had a whole assortment of families who resembled the Sweets.

  Behind the closed door, Samantha said something softly. I couldn't make out her words through the door. Unfortunately, getting my private investigator's license didn't magically give me superhuman hearing.

  The man in the room said, “How about next Monday? I've got the whole day off. No responsibilities. Let me take you out for lunch. I've got a few things to discuss with you.”

  “Not about Michael, I hope. Honestly, I don't want to know what he's been up to.”

  “So, you've heard the rumors?”

  She paused before replying, “I'm not a fool. Plus I have an excellent sense of smell.”

  “You've smelled other women on him?”

  “I... I don't know what it is. Maybe it's just paranoia.”

  “How could a man do that to you?” His voice got low and husky. “Those green eyes. Those beautiful lips. Kissing you must feel like falling into heaven.”

  She didn't say anything.

  There was the sound of furniture creaking.

  I turned to Jessica, who was silently mouthing what looked like holy crap.

  We had to do something. We certainly couldn't stand outside the door and listen to some guy kissing our married friend.

  Before I could interrupt, someone at the front of the house stomped noisily across the porch and rang the door
bell.

  DING DONG!

  At the sound of the loud chimes, Jessica made a startled noise beside me. By the look on her face, you would have thought she'd been busted kissing a married person.

  Downstairs, a woman called out in a singsong voice, “Hello? Are we too early? We're here for the open house!” There was the sound of shoes on the hardwood floors. “Larry, take off your shoes,” she instructed someone. Larry grumbled in response, and she hissed, “She's going to know we're lookie-loos if you don't take off your shoes.” He grumbled some more.

  Jessica and I had barely taken a few steps back from the bedroom door when it swung open.

  Samantha Sweet met our eyes and made a strangled noise even squeakier than the one Jessica had made.

  “You two,” she wheezed. “I didn't hear you come in.” Her hands fluttered up around the fringe of her blond hair and then down the front of her crisp white blazer.

  Behind her stood a man who was very clearly not her husband. He was using the back of his hand to rub his lower lip.

  “Stormy Day,” the man said, grinning right at me. “I was just talking about you. What's that saying? Speak of the devil, and she appears?”

  Chapter 3

  “If it isn't the industrious Mr. Colt Canuso,” I replied to the handsome, broad-shouldered, black-haired man.

  Colt grinned and adjusted the strings of his bolo tie. He was sporting his usual look, a dark gray suit with a bolo tie, and western-style boots with pointed toes. As I looked down at his footwear, he shifted his feet so the toes pointed directly at me.

  “That's my name,” he said. “Don't wear it out.” His deep voice squeaked up at the end, reminding me of the younger, skinnier version of Colt Canuso I'd known in high school. He'd been shy and reserved as a junior, but by the time we graduated, he was the class clown who'd do anything to make girls laugh. He and I hadn't stayed in touch after graduation, but I'd been seeing him around town in the last year since I'd come back to Misty Falls. He'd even helped me with a case during the summer, supplying me with eye-in-the-sky surveillance video from the casino his family owned, out on Canuso Lake. Who needs a warrant when you've got old friends?