Death of a Double Dipper

by Angela Pepper

  Jessica saw me scanning and asked, “Are you looking for someone in particular? Maybe Colt Canuso? He probably came right back here after he left Samantha's open house. This is a huge event for the casino, and I'm sure he'll be around to keep an eye on everything.”

  “I've seen enough of Colt Canuso for today,” I said with a snort. “The man I'd like to have a few words with is Michael Sweet.”

  “No!” She made a face like she'd just eaten a lemon. “You and Mikey don't mix.”

  “We're both adults now. We can have a simple chat about current events.”

  “You'd better not breathe a word about Colt kissing Samantha. Give me that handkerchief.”

  She moved with surprising speed, grabbed the handkerchief from my pocket, and stuffed it into her bra.

  “You've lost your mind,” I said. “I just wanted to talk to Mikey and see if I get a guilty vibe from him. I could drop some hints that if I ever see a bruise on his wife, he might find himself dangling over a canyon.”

  “Let it go,” she said, still making the lemon-pucker face. “This isn't one of your detective cases. I get that you're bored of weighing people's garbage, but you can't go stirring up trouble for no good reason.”

  “Stirring up trouble?” I was genuinely surprised at my best friend's vehemence. She was usually more supportive of my wacky schemes.

  “Don't you have some sort of ethics code? We don't even know if Samantha willingly kissed Colt back. He might have stolen that kiss.”

  I gave her a dirty look. “I'm not a monster, Jess. I'm not going to tell Michael Sweet his wife has been smooching other guys all over town. I just want to chat with him for a few minutes and get a feel for whether or not he's changed since high school. I've barely seen the guy since I moved back to town. Maybe he's become a totally decent person.”

  “And if he hasn't? Then what?” She looked down and adjusted the handkerchief she'd stuffed in her bra. “This isn't one of your cases. It's none of your business.” Softly, she added, “Plus you might make everything worse for Samantha if you start asking questions.”

  I stared into her serene blue eyes. In addition to being an excellent baker and cheerful roommate, Jessica did have some sensibilities where I was lacking. Sure, she was the first one to jump into freezing cold water at the annual Polar Bear Dip, but when it came to personal boundaries, she knew when to be cautious.

  Jessica made a good point. If Samantha was having problems with Michael, the best thing we could do was be patient and listen to her. Unfortunately, one side effect of becoming a private investigator was that I'd forgotten how to be patient and let things unfold in their own time. Or maybe it wasn't the PI thing. Maybe I'd always been pushing people into motion, poking at problems to move conflicts toward their conclusion. Was this the indescribable character trait people were alluding to when they said I suited the name of Stormy?

  “You're right,” I said begrudgingly. “The Sweets' marriage is not my business now. But I swear, if anything happens, I'm going to make it my business.”

  She gave me a patient smile. “Your heart's in the right place.”

  “It's not my heart that Mikey needs to worry about.” I glanced around the crowded atrium.

  The local news crew was interviewing people on an elevated platform. Daphne, the clueless weather girl, was handing a microphone to a dark-haired young woman in a sparkling dress. It was Della Koenig, the town's wealthiest widow and an aspiring pop singer. I quickly turned my back to the platform before Della could catch my eye. She'd hired me for a few small investigative jobs over the last two months, and I was in danger of becoming someone she considered a friend. People's tongues already wagged about me now, just being a private investigator, but if I started hanging out with Della the Diva Widow, all those tongues would be moving at light speed. We'd need to get a tongue specialist set up in Misty Falls to reattach all the tongues that went flying off people's faces.

  The scent of baked goods hit my nostrils. Bagels? Panini sandwiches? I sniffed the air.

  Jessica must have smelled the delicious aroma at the same time. “Soft pretzels,” she said. “I see a sign over there. Eee! Free samples!”

  “Sold,” I said, moving in the direction of the heavenly scent. “Let's go line up for a soft pretzel. If we just happen to bump into either Colt or Michael, I'll try to be normal. I'll even make”—I pretended to gag—“small talk. About the weather and stuff.”

  “Good,” she said. “Do you want your hankie back?”

  I eyed her chest. “It's yours now. Do you want another hankie for the other side, to even them out?”

  She rolled her eyes as she grabbed my elbow to steer me through the crowd and into the line for the free soft pretzels.

  We found a gap in the crowd and took our places.

  Behind me, an indignant male voice called out, “Hey, lady! No budding in the line.”

  Hey lady? I knew that voice. A chill ran up my spine.

  He called out again. “Hey, lady, the line starts behind me.”

  I knew that voice. Hearing it brought me back to a day of tragedy. It was last November, not long after I'd returned to Misty Falls to help my retired cop father following his hip replacement surgery. On that crisp winter day, I'd met my sweet little cat, Jeffrey Blue, as well as my future tenant and boyfriend, Logan Sanderson. But I'd also discovered the frozen body of my father's neighbor. And I'd had my first encounter with Chip the Mailman.

  I turned around slowly. “Hello, Chip,” I said through gritted teeth.

  It was Chip, all right—the mail carrier whose regular route included Warbler Street, where I'd grown up and where my father still lived. Chip the Mailman was in his early thirties, like me, but bigger and taller—average height for a man. Despite his job that had him walking around most of the day, he sported a build that could be kindly described as “big-boned.” He had a round face, pale with splotches of red on his cheeks, and fair hair that was straight and fine, like a baby's. In many ways, he resembled an extra-large toddler, albeit one who was constantly sweating.

  The air conditioning inside the casino was working well, and the space was almost uncomfortably cool, even with the large crowd. Chip wore shorts and sandals, yet he was sweating, drips of moisture beading on his wide forehead. I'd seen him sweating outside in the middle of winter, which was one reason I'd initially suspected him of killing my father's neighbor and hiding the body in a snowman. Chip and I had encountered each other a few times since last November, but we'd never gotten over our first, suspicious impressions of each other.

  “It's you,” he sputtered, his pale blue eyes widening. He looked so much like a surprised baby, I expected him to squeal and clap.

  “In the flesh,” I said, still through gritted teeth.

  “Miss Day,” he said. “Sunny's sister. Finnegan's daughter. The private eye.”

  I raised my eyebrows. Did he still not know my name? If so, he'd be the only one in town.

  “Chip, if you're looking for another thing to call me, I'm also your second-cousin's boss and the owner of Glorious Gifts.”

  He shook his gaze off me and looked down at a pint-sized blond girl who was tugging his hand. “Daddy, is that her? Is that Stormy Day?”

  Daddy? Chip the Mailman had a daughter?

  She let go of her father's wrist and clapped her hands together. “It's really you,” she said excitedly.

  Since it was the most enthusiastic greeting I'd gotten from anyone who wasn't my cat, I knelt down to be eye level with the kid.

  “That's me,” I said, offering my hand.

  The girl had a round, friendly face and perfect teeth. She looked like a miniature professional newscaster as she shook my hand.

  “You're famous,” she gushed. “Your name is on the wall at the coffee place.”

  “You must mean the House of Bean,” I said. “I don't know if I'd call myself famous, but it's true they named a drink after me. It's a latte with vanilla, cinnamon, and a dash of the same chili
pepper powder they put in the Mexican hot cocoa.”

  She gave me a dazzling, angelic smile. “I know.” She seemed to be about eight years old, or possibly a precocious seven-year-old.

  Chip leaned over and asked the girl, “Q, Mom doesn't let you order coffee, does she?”

  “I can get a small one,” she said defiantly.

  Chip shook his head. “Sweetie, coffee's bad for kids. It'll stunt your growth.”

  She used both her pointer fingers to jab him in the round stomach. “Dad! You drink coffee all the time, and you have this big belly!”

  He rubbed his stomach and frowned. “It's true. I'm addicted to their Teenie Weenie Beanie Steamer.”

  Still kneeling, I tilted my head up and looked from Chip to his daughter and back again. This was a side of the mail carrier I hadn't seen before, and it did a lot to soften my impression of him. How could I have been so shortsighted? But of course Chip the Mailman had a life away from his delivery route. The big-boned man didn't just appear by magic to deliver mail to my father's neighborhood and then puff away to another dimension once the mail bag was empty.

  Jessica joined me in kneeling before the precocious child. She said, “Q, it's not nice to comment about people's tummies. Not even if they're family.”

  I asked the girl, “Your name is Q?” I made the connection to the conversation we'd had with Samantha Sweet at the open house. Her daughter, Sophie, was best friends with a girl named Q. I hadn't known it was Chip the Mailman's daughter.

  The blond girl nodded. “Q is short for Quinby. Q-U-I-N-B-Y. Some people call me Queen Bee, but it gets confusing, because that's my mom, too. You can call me Q.”

  “Quinby,” I said, nodding. “And you know Jessica?”

  Jessica answered, “I used to babysit Q when I lived in the apartment, which was near her house.”

  The little angel-faced girl said, in a very mature voice, “Jessica used to babysit me, but now we're just friends.”

  She reminded me of someone. I smiled and told her, “Jessica and I went to school with a girl named Quinn. She was a real queen bee.”

  “I know,” the girl said. “That's my mom. She was the head cheerleader when she was in high school. We have the trophies on our fireplace. One day, I'm going to be a cheerleader, too. But first I'm going to be an actress.”

  I looked up at Chip in yet another whole new light. “You're married to Quinn Baudelaire?”

  He gave me a big grin. He had gaps between all of his undersized teeth, which didn't take away his giant-baby appearance.

  “Actually, I'm married to Quinn McCabe,” he said proudly. “She changed her last name when we got married.”

  Quinby said, “That's spelled M-little-C-big-C-A-B-E. There are two Cs.”

  Jessica and I both stood up again. I looked from my friend to the mail carrier and back again.

  My inner voice was screaming Quinn the Perfect Queen Bee married a chubby mailman! Oh my God!

  Stupidly, I said to Jessica, “So, Quinn still lives here in Misty Falls?”

  “I told you that,” Jessica said. “You were invited to her birthday party, in the summer, but you were too busy to come with me. Remember?”

  “Right,” I said hesitantly. How was it I could clearly remember the sting on my butt from Quinn slapping me when I wavered in the pyramid fifteen years ago, yet I couldn't recall what month her birthday party had been? It had to be shock over seeing who she married. “That was back in...” The date didn't come to mind.

  Jessica caught on and covered for me. “Stormy, you couldn't make it because you had a business appointment with Countess Octavia of Krengerborg.”

  “Ah, yes. The Countess,” I said with the snooty tone we used for talking about the woman.

  Quinn and Chip's daughter, Q, couldn't have looked more interested if she'd tried. She whispered, “You know the Countess, too?”

  “We famous types stick together,” I joked.

  Chip said, “You should invite us along some time. I'd love to meet Countess Octavia when she's in town.”

  “Sure,” I said. “And I do hope to catch up with Quinn very soon.” I smiled at the round-cheeked mail carrier and his precocious daughter, who'd very luckily gotten her mother's good looks. “And her adorable family, of course.”

  “Of course.” Chip wrinkled his nose and lifted his upper lip in a baby chipmunk expression.

  He gave me a long stare before saying, “I know what you're thinking, Miss Day. How could someone as hot as Quinn end up marrying a chunky guy like me? Trust me, I've heard all the jokes. Our friends say we're like those sitcom couples, where they pair the comedian guy with a hot wife. Like Kevin James and a supermodel.”

  “For the record, I happen to like Kevin James,” I said.

  “Sure, but you wouldn't marry him.”

  I tried to look nonchalant. “Who knows? He hasn't asked.”

  Beside me, Jessica chuckled softly.

  Chip didn't laugh. He stared at me with a look no less accusatory than the one he'd given me back when we'd first met.

  I quickly reviewed everything I'd just said to Chip. I hadn't made any comment about his physical attractiveness. But I had been thinking about it. Quinn was a nine or a ten in high school—long legs, blond hair, button nose, flawless skin, big blue eyes, and the kind of perfect hourglass figure that all the guys ogled and all the girls longed to have. Even if she'd let herself go these last fifteen years, surely she was still a seven.

  Chip the Mailman, however, exuded all the sex appeal of an organic turnip. How much better shape could he have been in when he'd snagged Quinn as his wife?

  As he stared me down, I tried to picture them as a couple, but I couldn't. In high school, Quinn had dated athletic guys, some good ones but mostly jerks. She'd taken Michael Sweet to the senior prom, despite my protests.

  “Quinn used to date jerks,” I said to Chip. “If you're good to her, that's all that matters.”

  “I am,” he said. “I'm her devoted subject, and she's my queen.”

  “I'm happy for you both,” I said, and I meant it. I looked down at the girl they called Q. “Just the one kid or are there more cuties?”

  Chip pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his sweaty forehead. His cotton square was the red-and-white kind, not like the plain white ones I carried.

  “We've only been blessed with one little firecracker so far,” Chip said. He lifted his upper lip in the chipmunk expression again. “I run hot. That's why I always wear shorts on my delivery route, even in the snow. The doctors say there's nothing wrong with me. That's just how some people are. But body heat's bad for the little swimmers.”

  “I've heard that,” I said, nodding sagely. “Not about you specifically, but about”—I looked down at the kid to make sure she wasn't listening too closely to our discussion of her parents' baby-making issues—“the little swimmers.”

  The crowd around us shifted. The scent of hot bread wafted through. A space opened up, and we found ourselves at the counter being asked what heat level of mustard we wanted with our soft pretzels.

  I was thankful to have the conversation changing away from talk of Chip's body heat and its side effects.

  We placed our orders, and Chip graciously bought us a round of refreshments.

  We thanked Chip, and before we parted ways, I made a vague promise that I'd be seeing him again soon.

  “Not if I see you first,” he quipped, and then he held his stomach with both hands and laughed silently. “See? I'm funny, just like Kevin James.”

  Jessica and I exchanged a look.

  I started to step away and excuse myself, but young Quinby grabbed my hand and looked up at me with her big blue eyes.

  “Stormy Day, I'm going to be famous, just like you,” she said. “I'm going to get my own drink named after me.”

  “How are you going to do that? You need to get super famous to get your own beverage.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you want me to put i
n a good word for you with Chad? He's the manager at House of Bean. We're pretty tight.”

  Jessica snickered as she took a big bite of her soft pretzel. Chad and I weren't tight, but he had stopped rolling his eyes at the other baristas whenever I came in and refused to order their version of a vanilla latte by its full name: Teenie Weenie Beanie Steamer.

  Quinby covered her mouth with both hands and smothered a laugh. Then she flung her arms in the air and dramatically whisper-yelled, “I know a secret!”

  Jessica and I made the appropriate ooh faces.

  Chip made a fatherly growl. “That's enough, Junior Queen Bee.”

  Jessica asked the girl sweetly, “What will they put in this drink they name after you? Lots of honey? Honey from the queen bee's hive?”

  “No.” She gave us an adorable you-grownups-are-always-so-stupid look. “Warm mead with cinnamon. Like what Kinley drinks after sword fighting, in the books.”

  Chip clamped his hand over his daughter's mouth and gave us a nervous laugh. “That's enough making new friends for today.” He began herding her away. “See you around. Miss Day, I hope you can make it to the next party. It's our annual hootenanny.”

  “I wouldn't miss it for the world,” I said. “It's high time I caught up with Quinn Baudelaire. I mean, Quinn McCabe.” I smiled at the little girl. “And the future most-famous-person of Misty Falls.”

  “It really is a hootenanny,” she said brightly. “With a live band and everything!”

  “Will there be straw bales for sitting on?”

  “Duh!” She shook her head at me adorably before taking another bite of her pretzel and walking away with her father.

  I turned to Jessica and said, “Duh! Of course there are straw bales. It wouldn't be a hootenanny otherwise.”

  Jessica took a bite of her pretzel. “Quinn wants us to wear our old cheerleader uniforms to the hootenanny.”

  “You'll have to kill me first,” I said.

  “The party's in three weeks. We can do lots of jogging before then.”

  “But we always jog a route that leads us to the bakery. It sort of defeats the purpose.”