Death of a Double Dipper

by Angela Pepper

  I unzipped my clothing bag and offered Jessica her choice of two types of footwear.

  “Gee, I don't know,” she said flatly. “Tough choice.”

  “Let me guess. You want the sandals?” I snorted and tossed the army surplus combat boots back into the bag. “You're such a girly girl, Jess.”

  “You are getting to be so weird,” she said with a laugh as she pulled on the sandals.

  She opened her purse, took out Samantha's broken shoes, and looked back at the open house. “Do you think Sam wants these back?”

  I glanced at the shoes. “You could put them in the mailbox, but she's right about them being cheap. The soles may be red, but those are not Christian Louboutins. They're probably not worth fixing.”

  “Are you a shoe expert now?”

  I smiled. “At Fairchild Capital we did a few rounds of funding for a company that was designing a new kind of stiletto heel. The heels are slim and exposed metal, like actual stiletto knives.”

  Jessica grinned. “If I ever see your ex Christopher again, I'm going to hit him up for free samples. Or volunteer as a shoe tester.” She tossed the broken shoes into my trunk. “I'll keep them at the house in case Samantha wants them back for sentimental reasons.”

  I closed the trunk and dusted off my hands. My car was dirty, which shouldn't have been surprising, since I couldn't remember the last time I washed it.

  “Jessica, are you sure you want to go to a crowded casting call at a casino?”

  “If we go home now, I'll just bake things and eat them.”

  “Doesn't sound so bad to me.”

  “Let's go to the casino,” she said with a swing of her arm. “Come on, it'll be fun.”

  “Nothing fun has ever started with the phrase come on, it'll be fun.”

  Jessica made a puzzled face and then an ah-ha face. “That explains why my mother said it all the time before family road trips with my brothers.”

  Chapter 5

  While we drove away from town and toward the casino, I told Jessica about the lipstick-stained handkerchief and my exchange with Colt Canuso.

  Jessica's first question was, “Are you going to tell Logan?”

  “Tell him what? This has got nothing to do with Logan.”

  “Colt was kissing Samantha, but told you it was over, because he's got his eyes on you now. I may be unlucky in the love department, but that doesn't sound like nothing to me.”

  “Nothing happened,” I said with an exasperated sigh. “You know how Colt is.”

  “Exactly. He comes on pretty strong, and when he looks at you, those eyes are like tractor beams. It can make your knees weak.”

  “No kidding.” I cleared my throat. “I mean, I can imagine. But those big brown eyes have no effect on me.” I swallowed. “None whatsoever.”

  She snorted. “The flirting was mutual. I saw you looking up at him while you twirled your hair. And you really don't have much hair to twirl, so it took some serious effort on your part.”

  “I've never twirled my hair in my life!”

  “Hah!” She held her hand out toward me, directly over the center console of the car. “We'll discuss your hair twirling another time. Show me the smoking gun, please. By which I mean the stained handkerchief.”

  “I was thinking we could dig into your love life. What happened on your date with Mitch, the fireman?”

  “His name is Mitch. It's not Mitch the Fireman. You make him sound like a character in a children's book.”

  He actually looked like a character in a children's book. He was tall and enormous, like an oak tree, or Vin Diesel, or a cross between an oak tree and Vin Diesel.

  I bit my tongue on describing him back to her and asked, “How did it go?”

  “Not great. I don't want to talk about it.” She wriggled her fingers. “The handkerchief, please?”

  “Is he still calling you chipmunk? Or was it squirrel?”

  “I don't want to talk about it,” she said tersely.

  Jessica was easygoing as a roommate, but she did have rigid boundaries about a few things. Talking about her dating life was one of those things.

  She had a deep fear about guys calling her “weird” or making sweeping generalizations about redheads. She got along with Logan easily and had plenty of male friends, but they were all firmly in the friend camp. As soon as someone crossed over into being a potential boyfriend, her behavior changed. She became the thing she feared the most—weird. I'd seen it myself, and I couldn't explain it, except as a self-protective behavior. By never letting a man in close, she'd never have to worry about being rejected. It would be simple to blame her father, a con man who'd abandoned her family, for her condition, but I sensed there was more to it.

  Or maybe not.

  Occam's razor states that the simpler explanation is often the true one. Her father was unreliable, so she perhaps feared all other men would abandon her as well.

  “Don't make me dig into your pocket myself,” she threatened.

  I gripped the steering wheel with one hand while I pulled the white square of cotton from my pocket and handed it to Jessica. The handkerchief was part of my personal everyday carry. I always kept one freshly laundered cotton square in my pocket as well as another two in my purse, along with paper towels, zipper-seal bags, self-defense spray, and a whole array of goodies, including items for stabbing or crushing.

  Jessica examined the lipstick evidence on the white cotton. “Good job swabbing Colt's luscious lips. That was a really clever trick. I don't know why I'm surprised. You were always the smart one.”

  “Growing up with a cop for a dad means you pick things up by osmosis.”

  “Sure, but you've been learning so much more lately. If you don't watch out, you're going to be famous some day.” She waved one hand at my windshield as though gesturing to a brightly lit marquee containing my name. “Stormy Day,” she intoned. “The world's sneakiest private eye.”

  I chortled. “I'm sure you meant that as a compliment, but forgive me if I'm not flattered by praise for being sneaky, or devious, or crafty.” I gave her an exaggerated stern look. “Word choice, Jessica. Word choice matters.”

  “Okay, I won't call you sneaky. But I truly do admire the way you get the truth out of people. I tried to talk to Samantha a couple times during the open house, but she wouldn't admit to anything going on with Colt. If it wasn't for this hard evidence,” she waved the pink-stained handkerchief, “I'd probably convince myself that my eyes were lying, and I hadn't seen anything inappropriate in that tiny bedroom.”

  “You mentioned something this morning about Samantha going through a rough time. Is it just the house that won't sell, or is she having problems with Mikey?”

  She hesitated before answering. “They've got some money problems, but who doesn't?”

  I didn't have money problems, but I kept that to myself. I'd been thinking about the bruise on her eye.

  “Mikey always was a bully,” I said. “Do they fight over money? Or how to raise the kids?”

  “Not too much. Sophie's going to need braces, but they're in agreement. The kid's teeth are super crooked. I didn't want to say anything in front of Samantha, but there's no way her daughter has a chance of getting cast in a TV show. She's a cute kid, but with those teeth, she won't get an acting role in anything, except maybe a before-and-after commercial for braces.”

  “Poor thing. It's too bad she didn't inherit her father's teeth. Mikey always had a great smile. That's probably why the teachers let him get away with murder.” The more I thought about Michael Sweet in high school, the more my old memories came back. At that moment, a song that had been popular fifteen years ago started playing on my car's radio. As the chorus played, more old emotions returned in a flood.

  In my mind's eye, I could see Mikey Sweet's perfect angelic smile as he stuck his foot out and tripped the unpopular kids in the cafeteria. I could also see his outraged expression when I “accidentally” dumped a tray of fries and gravy all over him. And t
hen again the next week. And the next, due to Mikey Sweet being a slow learner. By the time he finally smartened up, I had started to wonder if Mikey actually enjoyed me dumping food on him.

  It had been fifteen years since those cafeteria lessons. Had he learned how to be a better person, or had he simply switched to abusing people someplace I couldn't see him?

  “This song reminds me of that spring dance,” Jessica said. She leaned over and turned up the volume on the radio. “Remember how Quinn got all the cheerleaders to wear the same outfit?” She laughed. “I thought I looked exactly like Britney Spears.”

  “I thought you were going for Christina Aguilera?”

  She giggled. “My hair was so straight, it looked like a red sheet of plastic.”

  “At least your hair would go straight,” I replied with a groan. “My curls just sizzled and fried in the flat-iron. I spent a fortune on lotions and oils that didn't do anything. Hey, do you remember putting a raw egg and olive oil in my hair as a conditioner? Did that really happen, or am I mixing up home beauty treatments and Caesar salad recipes?”

  “Was there anchovy paste?”

  “I sure hope not. The fishy smell would have clashed with that sweet body spray we all used to bathe in.”

  “I remember an incident involving your hair, and mayonnaise. I bet I have the photos to prove it.”

  “You'd better not. As soon as we get home, I'm going to find all those photos, and the negatives, and make a bonfire.”

  She flipped down the passenger-side sun visor and looked at herself in the small mirror. “Thankfully my eyebrows eventually grew back from those little comma shapes that were all the rage.”

  “You had perfect eyebrows. You looked like a redheaded Gwen Stefani, especially with the rhinestones glued onto your forehead.”

  “Thanks.” She flipped the visor up with a snap. “And you were a true friend, the way you stood by me through my tanning salon phase. I was such a sucker, the way I believed the girl at the counter. She swore my freckles would disappear once I built up enough of a base tan. She probably worked on commission. I hope she's as wrinkled as a raisin now.” She shook her head. “Thank goodness I switched to bronzer.”

  “Sorry, but your self-tanning lotion phase wasn't much of an improvement. You were so orange, people kept asking me if you were sick. You looked like a Cheeto.”

  She snorted. “Oh, yeah? Remember your chunky blond highlights? You looked like a zebra.”

  “My zebra hair went perfectly with the eye shadow with sparkles so sharp they made my eyelids bleed.” I stared at the road ahead. “Guys are so lucky. The worst high school fashion crime they can commit is growing a wispy mustache.”

  “Remember when Mikey Sweet came back from spring break in senior year with a goatee? He was so proud.”

  “Yup.” I shifted uneasily in the driver's seat. “And when our history teacher teased him about it, Mikey got up and punched the guy in the face. I can't believe he didn't get expelled.”

  “He was such a psycho,” Jessica said.

  The song on the radio finished, and the DJ started talking about the House of Hallows casting call at the casino. The local rock station would be broadcasting live from the event that day. It was also the Casino's grand re-opening following extensive renovations. We listened for a few minutes, until the annoying jingle for the furniture store came on and I switched it off.

  After a few minutes, Jessica asked, “Do you think people ever change their nature?”

  “We're all capable of change. Is there some way you want to change?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Something's bothering you,” I said. “Are you sure you're up to this casino thing? It's going to be crowded and noisy. You always get wiped out by too much stimulation.”

  “I want to go,” she said. “I just keep thinking about Samantha. She's so much like me. I wonder if she lets Mikey boss her around.”

  “You think he's still the same bully he was in high school?”

  “Yeah.”

  I stole a glance over at my best friend. “Has he ever hit her?”

  She answered quickly, “Of course not.”

  “I saw the bruise on her eye. And she said it was from Michael.”

  After a pause, she said, “I've never heard about him being abusive, physically. But then again, Samantha knows I tell you everything. If I ever did find out Michael hit her, I'd tell you, and then you'd tell your father, and then Mr. Day would jump into action. Michael would find himself dangling upside down from a suspension bridge over a creek, like what happened to that other guy.”

  “Allegedly,” I said, clearing my throat. “You're referring to the rumored incident when my father allegedly dangled an abusive man over a canyon by his boots.”

  Jessica snorted. “Sure. Allegedly. They must have gone up there for the after-hours bungee jumping.”

  “No comment.” I turned my head away from the road to give Jessica a quick eyebrow waggle. Could I help it if I was proud of my dad? He drove me nuts, and his texting skills hadn't improved at all over the last year, but I loved him fiercely and admired him for the good he'd done in our community.

  We arrived at the Canuso Casino, where I let out a low whistle of surprise at the quantity of vehicles on the premises. It was amazing Samantha had gotten any visitors to her open house, since it appeared the whole town of Misty Falls had driven out to the lakefront casino.

  Since the main parking lot was completely full, we followed the hand-lettered signs to overflow parking. We eventually squeezed into a spot in the parking lot for the lake's campsites.

  As we got out of my car and stretched from the drive, Jessica squinted at me in the autumn sunshine.

  “Stormy, is it true you made Samantha cry?”

  “I didn't make her cry. I said some things, and she cried, but I didn't make her cry.”

  “Hmm.”

  “It's been ages since we had one of those incidents,” I said. “Last winter, I simply pointed out some fundamental problems with the business investment opportunities she presented me with. Sometimes the truth hurts. But I never tried to tear her down. If anything, I've done my best to build her up. I've given her a number of pep talks.”

  “That explains it.” Jessica made a face, wrinkling her nose. “No offense, but your pep talks could use more pep.”

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “Just that it's hard for other people to keep up with you and your high level of standards.” She reached into the car and grabbed her floppy, wide-brimmed hat.

  “My standards aren't that high,” I retorted. “And I think the fragrant aroma of garbage currently coming off my clothes hamper will attest to that.”

  “True. You're not exactly a perfectionist, or a neat freak. And your diet lately leaves a lot to be desired. When I say high standards, I mean something else. It's hard to put into words, but I can see why men like Colt always chase after you. You're like a wild horse.”

  “Thanks, I think.”

  She donned her floppy hat, glanced up at the clear blue sky, and then sneezed three times from the bright light. She muttered, “Why do I always do that to myself?”

  Her question was rhetorical, but I answered anyway. “People are paradoxical,” I said. “We want what we can't have, and we do things we know are bad for us. And then we lie about it.”

  She reached into the car again, grabbed the wrapper from my recent gas station hot dog, and playfully flung it over the roof of the vehicle at me. “Tell me about it, Miss I Never Eat Gas Station Hot Dogs.”

  I picked up the wrapper, folded it roughly into a paper airplane shape and sailed it back at her. “That's not mine,” I lied. “My dad borrowed my car last week while the Torino was at the garage. It must be his.”

  She caught the wrapper, unfolded it, and examined the interior while she rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “There's a smudge of mustard in here, but the real evidence is the lack of evidence. No ketchup or green relish. Being a close f
riend of the Day family, I happen to know that Mr. Finnegan Day would never eat a hot dog without every kind of condiment.”

  She had me. “No comment,” I said.

  She pursed her lips in my direction before walking over to the parking lot's bear-resistant garbage bins to dispose of the hot dog wrapper.

  I opened the trunk of the car, grabbed two bottles of water, and cracked the lid off one as I looked down the long access road at the distant casino. I'd never seen the place so busy. People must have come from miles around to audition for a few roles.

  The DJ on the radio had been talking about the odds of a local kid landing the role of Kinley. Paradoxically, the more he talked about it, the more I actually wanted to win the role for myself. And I was twenty-some years too old for the part.

  Funny how we always want what we can't have.

  Chapter 6

  The casino had finished their costly expansion since my last visit in the summer. It was no longer just a simple casino with an attached boutique hotel. It had been officially renamed the Canuso Lake Casino and Resort, with a sign boasting about its new conference and spa facilities.

  Between the upgraded Canuso facilities and the Flying Squirrel Lodge up in the nearby mountains, our little corner of Oregon was becoming quite the tourist attraction.

  As we entered the crowd of people milling around in the entry atrium, Jessica took my elbow and murmured, “The whole town must be here.”

  “Plus a whole lot of the surrounding area.” I scanned the crowd. “Times like these, I wish I was taller,” I commented.