Death of a Double Dipper

by Angela Pepper

“Michael Junior hits people in the face with his head?”

  “All the time.”

  I turned to the little guy and asked, “Is that true? Are you the big brute who tried to give your mommy a black eye?” Michael Junior gave me an innocent look while cramming his fingers into his tiny nostrils.

  Sophie was engrossed in her show again.

  I walked over to the living room's front window. The baby was getting heavier by the minute, but his warmth was soothing, and the top of his head smelled nice—when he wasn't head-butting me with it. Outside, the quiet residential street looked normal enough. I didn't see any suspicious vehicles or people. I got a chill down my back, just thinking about nightfall. It wasn't even five o'clock yet, and it wouldn't be dark for hours, but I closed the curtains and walked around the living room turning on every lamp anyway.

  The scratching sound hadn't happened in a while, but I couldn't shake the feeling someone or something was in the house with us.

  Maybe mice, I thought. Or rats. There was certainly enough loose bits of food around to attract rodents.

  I wanted to sit on the couch and keep Sophie company, watching whatever she wanted to watch and eating whatever she wanted to eat, right up until she received the worst news of her young life. But first, I had to secure the premises.

  With the baby in one arm and my ninja stick in my other hand, I started a search of the house.

  The scratching sound started again.

  I actually smelled the culprit before I saw him.

  I found him in Sophie's bedroom.

  He was a wild-eyed guy, with big front teeth and patchy brown and white hair. He was startled by me pushing open the door, and froze.

  Then we just stared at each other, each of us daring the other to make a move.

  He squeaked first.

  “So, you're a tough guy,” I said to him. “What do you weigh? A whopping two pounds?”

  The guinea pig flashed his big, scary chompers at me in what appeared to be a knowing smile.

  I had only myself to blame. I'd asked Sophie if she had a cat or a dog, but I hadn't specifically asked if she had any other pets.

  “Today might be a long day for this family,” I said to both the guinea pig and the baby in my arms. Michael Junior stared at my mouth. “A really long day,” I said as I sunk down to the floor to sit across from the cage. “You guys have to stick together.”

  The guinea pig made a noise that sounded like WHEEK!

  I looked down at Michael Junior, who wasn't smelling so fresh anymore.

  “Neither of you can understand a word I'm saying, but you're still good listeners.”

  The baby squealed.

  The guinea pig went WHEEK!

  It would be a long day, for the Sweet family, and for me. At least these two wouldn't understand what was going on. They were the lucky ones.

  Chapter 17

  SUNDAY

  (SIX DAYS AFTER MURDER)

  “A guinea pig,” my father said. “The scratching intruder was a guinea pig?”

  “His name is Higgins,” I said. “After the British sergeant major on Magnum P.I.”

  My father took a sip of his cheap beer and then licked his lips. In a near-perfect English accent, he replied, “Stormy, I know very well who Jonathan Quayle Higgins is.”

  “That's a good accent,” I said. “Almost as convincing as your Irish.”

  “Says the woman who was terrified by a guinea pig.”

  I laughed. “In all fairness to me, Higgins is a really big guinea pig. Over two pounds.”

  Finnegan Day grinned. “Glad to see you can laugh at yourself.” He lifted his can of beer. “A good laugh and a long sleep are the two best cures.” He nodded at the six-pack of beer on the kitchen table. “Go ahead.”

  I pulled a can from the beer package and cracked it open. I clinked my can to his and took a sip. It wasn't bad.

  “Heaven help me,” I said. “I'm starting to enjoy the taste of your cheap beer. How much was this? Or do they pay you to take it away?”

  “If that's not good enough for your refined palate, Dimples left some of his fancy bottles in the fridge.”

  “This'll be fine,” I said with a grimace. “When was Dimples over?”

  My father raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you care?”

  “Dad, I know Kyle Dempsey tells you everything that's going on at the department. And I also know he's over here two times a week, minimum. And since it's been nearly seven days since someone made shish kebab out of Michael Sweet, that covers at least one visit, if not two. You're as up to date on the Sweet homicide as anyone.”

  “Perhaps not,” he said. “Until tonight, I haven't heard a single word about your brave confrontation with a two-pound guinea pig.”

  “Speaking of confrontation, that kid has a head like a bowling ball. Michael Junior is a regular one-man wrecking crew. He screamed if I set him down, so I had to keep holding him, which was how he was able to do the most damage. He bopped me on the chin, the cheek, and even the side of my eye. I'm lucky he didn't give me a shiner.”

  As I described the baby's head-butting abilities to my father, he nodded knowingly. “I'm familiar with that particular maneuver. Both you and Sunny got in a few baby love taps on me as well.”

  “Enough baby talk,” I said, and then, “Now there's a phrase I never thought I'd be saying, especially not to you.”

  “Just because the little gaffer caused some bruising, that doesn't mean the husband wasn't taking his fists to the wife as well.”

  “I know, I know,” I said. “But it does provide an alternative story.”

  “Aye,” he said with an accent. “Aye, it surely does.”

  I finished the can of cheap beer and went to the refrigerator to raid the supply left behind by Kyle Dempsey, a.k.a. the cop son my father never had.

  “Please catch me up,” I implored. “I'm trying to keep my nose out of it, but I'm dying to know. Are they any closer to arresting whoever killed Michael Sweet?”

  “They followed up on your tips. They checked out the open house visitor who'd been handling the knives. There were a few men who came through on their own that day. One name in particular stood out. A fellow named Dwayne Efrain Greer. Have you come across him?”

  “Dwayne Efrain Greer? Not that I know of. Should I?”

  “I'd steer clear. He's not without his issues—a few priors for public indecency and intoxication—but he does have an alibi for Monday. He was up in Seattle on Monday, all day, wrapping up some business. He didn't recall picking up a knife in the kitchen and giving your friend Samantha a scare, but guys with a record get careful about what they admit to.”

  “But he's totally cleared? He couldn't have killed anyone on Monday?”

  “Not in Misty Falls, anyway.”

  “That's a shame,” I said. “It would have been awfully neat and tidy if the killer had signed his name on the guest log.”

  “And it wouldn't have been the first time,” my father said. “Most criminals aren't masterminds.” He added, smiling, “As you know.”

  “How about Michael's meeting at the golf course?”

  “He was never there. And there weren't any parties booked who were missing a player. He must have lied to the daycare.”

  “Why would someone lie about going golfing?”

  “Image,” he answered. “Most people associate golfing with the rich and well-connected, even though it's more affordable these days. It probably made him feel sophisticated to tell people he was going to be on the green that day.”

  “The daycare lady did seem in awe of him,” I said. “What did the tech guys turn up on his phone and email?”

  “There was one text message they found suspicious. What was it now?” He scratched his chin. “It was from a guy named Binky.”

  “Binky?”

  “Something about meeting at the house at eleven o'clock to practice their knife-throwing act for the upcoming Misty Falls Talent Show. Binky the Clown. Binky said he
had his knives all sharpened for their act. I told Kyle not to bother with that lead. Clowns never harmed anyone.”

  “Very funny.” I shook my head. It was Finnegan Day's way to never give a straight answer when a circuitous story could be worked into the conversation.

  “Clowning is serious business.”

  “I'm sure it is, Dad. I guess that's your hilarious way of telling me the tech guys found nothing on his accounts?”

  He looked down, frowning as he reached for another can of beer. “I'm afraid things don't look so good for your friend Colt.”

  “No alibi?”

  “He said he visited a certain gift shop in town, but his whereabouts are a mystery after that.” He slowly looked up and met my eyes. “He needs your help, Stormy.”

  I leaned back and held my hands out. “I'm just a private investigator. I'm not a homicide detective. The police need to do their job.”

  “That's not what I meant. You can help by getting Colt to cooperate with the investigation. He lawyered up, and he won't talk about where he really was on Monday morning.”

  “What about the other two guys? The security guards Quinn saw in town?”

  “They're each other's alibis.”

  “How convenient,” I said.

  “What do you think happened?”

  “He was taking a shower in a client's house when someone came into the tiny upstairs bathroom and killed him. It sure doesn't sound like he startled someone during a robbery.”

  “It was a crime of passion,” my father said. “People shower after sex.”

  I stared at him. “Yes. I've heard of such things.”

  “Did you ever...?”

  “I hated Michael Sweet in high school.”

  “There's a fine line between love and hate. Haven't you ever watched a romantic comedy? They always start out hating each other.”

  “Dad, I've never had any sort of passionate contact with Michael Sweet. The first and only time I saw him naked was after he was dead.”

  “I know I'm your father, but you can talk to me about anything.”

  I shook my head. Me and Michael Sweet? “I'm not even going to dignify that with a response.”

  “How about Colt?”

  I looked away quickly, feeling guilty about my dreams.

  My father made a knowing sound. He'd caught me.

  “He flirted with me the last few times I saw him,” I said. “That's all. Just flirting. And if you're picking up on my guilt, it's because I do feel guilty. I enjoyed the attention, and things with Logan have been weird lately.”

  He coughed into his fist. “The homeowners are cleared. They were, indeed, out of town. Still are.”

  I fidgeted with my beer's label. My father might talk the talk and tell me I could talk to him about anything, but in reality I couldn't. Whenever I mentioned Logan, he'd change the subject.

  “Next theory,” he said.

  “Michael was sleeping with someone he wasn't supposed to be with—a married person—and their spouse caught them.”

  “Very good,” he said. “That's a valid theory.” He paused. “But on the other hand, it might have been a thrill kill.” He looked down at the table and swept away some stray crumbs. “You know, the movie Psycho comes to mind.”

  “As it should.” I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. “The police need to round up all the local serial killers who run dodgy motels.”

  After a minute, he asked, “How well do you know Samantha?”

  “How well does a person know anyone?” I looked into his eyes. “Sometimes we're sharing a roof with a killer, and we don't even know it.”

  He didn't react, except to not react at all, which told me a lot.

  After a long silence, he said only, “One who lives in the past does not live at all.” He pushed his chair back and stood. “Ready for meatloaf?”

  Chapter 18

  MONDAY

  ONE WEEK SINCE MURDER

  My father might cite a good laugh and a long sleep as being the two best cures, but there's nothing quite like the comfort of routine. Or so I hoped. I really wanted to think about something other than a murder investigation.

  By Monday morning, a full week since I discovered Michael Sweet's body in his client's tub, I was happy to be heading in to Glorious Gifts nice and early to embrace the routine of working on orders and receiving inventory.

  Once I was in the office, I resisted the temptation to snoop around online for clues about the Sweet homicide investigation. I wasn't getting paid to investigate the matter, therefore it wasn't my business. No money, no worries. That was my mantra.

  I worked on the banking reconciliations for a full ten minutes before I got insanely bored and needed a break. I went out to the front of the store to look at the window display Brianna was changing around. She barely noticed me there, due to being entirely focused on the simple task at hand. Why couldn't I be more like her? She looked so content, in a happy “flow” state, rearranging new tableware on a display table decorated with acorns, pine cones, and other natural autumn accessories. She was humming along with a catchy tune.

  I asked her, “Who is this?”

  “Barenaked Ladies.”

  Was she pulling my leg? “Who?”

  “Barenaked Ladies,” she repeated. “BNL for short. You're not a fan of the most celebrated Canadian alt-rock band of the midnineties? They're triple platinum.” She self-consciously smoothed her straight dark hair over her ears. “That's a quote from Community.”

  “You and your pop culture references.” I listened for a bit. “They're growing on me. Is this the radio?”

  “It's a new option from the licensed music service. This one meets the CRTC guidelines for thirty-five percent CanCon.” She explained, “CanCon is short for Canadian content.”

  “Is Oregon no longer part of America? I know things get a little weird sometimes, politically, but did I miss a major development?”

  “We're still in America, boss. I'm just feeling nostalgic for the Canadian tourists now that summer's over.”

  “Their geese are still here. You can go visit them at the lake.”

  “Not the same thing.” She returned to humming along with the Barenaked Ladies tune, which was about the wild things they might purchase if they had a million dollars.

  I was still thinking about the geese. “Fun fact,” I said. “The Canada goose produces two pounds of you-know-what per day.”

  “But they do it politely,” Brianna said matter-of-factly. “And if they get some on your shoes, they apologize, on account of being Canadian.” She spritzed the window interior with cleaning spray and started wiping it clean. “Since when did you become Glorious Gifts' leading expert on the waste production of Canada Geese?”

  “Since Creepy Jeepers cornered me at the post office to tell me all about the local goose overpopulation problem.”

  “Leo Jenkins from the Masquerade Shop? That guy is obsessed with poo.”

  “I hadn't noticed,” I lied. “He also wants me to join the local Chamber of Commerce.”

  “So? Why haven't you joined already?”

  “Ah, I'm glad you asked. You see, once upon a time, your boss had a swanky job in venture capital. Great pay. Excellent travel opportunities. But long hours, and many, many boardroom meetings. So many. If I never have to sit through another long meeting, it'll be too soon.”

  “Because you can't sit still, right? You're only happy when you're whirling around. Like a whirlwind.”

  I narrowed my eyes at her. She might have based a character named Whirlwind on me, but I wasn't going to admit the name suited me.

  Instead, I said, “Why are you looking at me like I'm a bug and you're about to pin me to a specimen board?”

  “No reason,” she answered breezily.

  “Is there something you want to confess? Perhaps something cheeky that you've done without my permission?”

  “Uh.” She spritzed the cleaning spray on the window all over again. “Have you got that candle
order done?”

  “What? I just ordered candles last Monday.”

  “Yes, but we need the other ones now. The unscented, soy-based candles.”

  “I'll get right on it,” I promised.

  Right then, someone walked up to the front door and yanked it. We hadn't opened yet for the day, so the person only succeeded in rattling the front of the store. The noise made Brianna drop her bottle of window spray.

  I avoided eye contact and hoped they would read the hours on the sign before they tore off the door.

  “Hey, it's my cousin,” Brianna said, and she ran to unlock the door.

  Her cousin Chip McCabe came in, dressed in his US Postal Service uniform. As usual, he wore shorts instead of pants.

  She launched herself at him and gave him an enthusiastic hug. At a glance they didn't look like cousins, since half of Brianna's family was Chinese American, but I did pick up on the familial warmth between them.

  Brianna pulled away and said to him, “Don't you have some mail to lose? What did you do, throw it all in a recycling bin so you could take the day off?”

  Chip frowned at his younger cousin. “What about you, Monkey Ears? Why aren't you up in a tree throwing bananas at people?”

  “Nice haircut,” she said. “Nice and straight. Where did they find a salad bowl big enough for your giant head?”

  “They borrowed the water bowl from your cage. Speaking of which, when did they let you out of the zoo?”

  “They freed us all because soon the spaceships are coming to take you back to your real home.”

  “Not happening. The aliens came already, but then they saw you and got scared and went back to their planet.”

  Brianna held her hands up. “You got me, Chip. Sick burn!”

  “I still love ya, Shrimpie Chimpie.” He gave her another hug, which she pretended to despise.

  After they pulled away a second time, Brianna told me, “Chip was my babysitter when I was little.”

  “You're still little,” he said. “Why doesn't your family feed you?”

  She eyed his stomach and smirked. “No comment.”

  Chip turned away from his cousin, his expression growing more serious. “Miss Day, can I, uh, talk to you?”