Death of a Double Dipper (Stormy Day Mystery Book 5)

by Angela Pepper

  I checked the top buttons on my blouse and took a step back. The previous night's dreams had been vivid, but reality was even more intense.

  The door chimed, and another customer entered. I breathed an actual sigh of relief.

  It was a petite blonde with a familiar face. At first, I thought it was Samantha, but this woman was wearing a sexy black cocktail dress, and Samantha always wore bright colors and white blazers. But I did know this woman. I'd been so focused on Colt that it took a few seconds for my brain to switch gears and cough up a name.

  “Quinn!” My arms flew up in the air girlishly. The arms-in-the-air move had to be a muscle memory from high school and the enthusiastic way we cheerleaders always greeted each other in public.

  “Stormy-poo!” Quinn threw her arms in the air as well. She ran toward me, saw Colt, and did a double take. “Colty-poo!”

  Colty-poo? I'd completely forgotten about the head cheerleader's diminutive nicknames for everyone.

  I'd circled around the counter to give her a hug. Colt had his arms outstretched as well.

  Quinn laughed and hugged both of us at the same time. Her arms weren't very long, so it felt less like a group hug and more like I was being purposely crushed against the front of Colt Canuso, like a child's Ken and Barbie dolls being forced to kiss.

  This is life in your hometown, I told myself. Every day was an opportunity to reunite with high school friends, for better or worse.

  Quinn must have been thinking a similar thing. She squealed, “It's like a miniature high school reunion happening right here.”

  I broke away from the squishy embrace and looked my old girlfriend up and down. She was smaller than I remembered. Even in spiky black heels, her eyes were barely the same level as mine. Quinn Baudelaire had seemed larger than life when we were teenagers. The bossy head cheerleaders in teen movies had seemingly been inspired by our own Quinn, a true queen bee to the rest of the squad.

  Her blond hair was now styled in a sensible mom haircut, but her enviable figure remained unchanged by time and motherhood. Beneath the hem of her short black cocktail dress were the legs that couldn't possibly be as long as they seemed.

  “Look at you,” I said with genuine admiration. “Nothing but legs and boobs and a smile.”

  She squealed in delight and kicked up a heel. “Pilates five times a week!”

  “I believe it,” I said.

  “You should come, Stormy! I do a cardio funk class twice a week as well. It's like cheerleading, but for older gals like us.”

  “Older gals.” I snorted. “Speaking of cheerleading,” I waved at Colt, who'd been standing by patiently, “Colt was just telling me on Saturday morning that he should have been on the squad with us.”

  “Saturday morning? You were together in the morning, as in...?” She glanced between the two of us and let out a bubbly squeal. “I knew it!” She made the shame-shame finger gesture. “Shame, shame. Stormy, now I know your new boyfriend's name.” She stopped the gesture and put her hands on her petite waist. “It's about time you ditched the weird lawyer with the hipster beard and got yourself a real man.”

  A real man?

  Colt grinned and waggled his eyebrows at me.

  “Actually, I'm still dating the lawyer with the hipster beard,” I told Quinn. “I just happened to bump into Colt the other day at—”

  “Did you see him punching Michael in the guts at the casino?” She shook her head but kept smiling. “You boys and your scuffles. You're so silly.” She reached up and bopped Colt on the nose. “Silly Colty-poo. You know Michael's harmless.”

  “He's not harmless,” Colt growled. “And don't call me that.” He straightened his bolo tie and gave me a formal bow as he took a step back, toward the exit. “Stormy, I'll be seeing you around. Next time you want to go for a swim, try the pool.”

  “Ha ha,” I said.

  He winked at me and then left.

  Now I was alone with Quinn. What other unwanted surprises did that Monday have in store for me? I glanced over at the back hallway, hoping for Brianna to emerge and save me before Quinn signed me up for Pilates and cardio funk, whatever that was.

  Quinn gave me an openmouthed smile. We both looked each other over once more.

  She said, “At least your bearded guy's a lawyer. I hear they make good money.”

  “They can,” I said. “And you married a mailman. I hear that's secure.”

  “Chip?” She covered her mouth and giggled. “I did always love a man in uniform.”

  “Congratulations,” I said. “I met your daughter, Quinby, on Saturday. Very charming, just like her mother. So confident.”

  “And ambitious,” Quinn added. “She's going to be a big star.”

  “Did the talent scouts at the casino give her some encouragement?”

  “Oh, yes,” she breathed as she leaned forward and bounced up and down on the balls of her feet with excitement.

  “Quinn, I don't mean to be a killjoy, but promise me you'll be careful around those entertainment people. They're only in it for themselves. They want nothing more than for every proud parent to drop a thousand bucks on professional styling and photographs, from their approved vendor list, of course.”

  The smile fell off her face. “Jessica's right. You have changed. You've become so jaded and cynical.”

  “Come on, Quinn. We're all a few years older now. We've both changed.” I leaned forward and sniffed her. “You don't smell like watermelon lip gloss anymore.” I sniffed again. “Are you wearing perfume? It smells expensive. And nice.”

  She giggled. “It should smell nice, because yes, it is expensive.” She tilted her head to the side and narrowed her eyes as she scrutinized me. “And you've let your hair go... natural?”

  I fluffed my pixie cut self-consciously. “I'm a low-maintenance kinda gal.”

  “Sure you are,” she said. “Just keep telling yourself that, Stormy. Never mind that low maintenance is just another word for lazy.”

  And there it is, I thought. The note of condescension. The Quinn bossiness that was more than simple enthusiastic support. Back in high school, we secretly called her the Queen of another B-word. Nothing was ever good enough. If we did five perfect cartwheels, she insisted we do six. If we stayed an hour late for cheer practice, she demanded we skip dinner and stay for two.

  I let her veiled insult of my hair hang in the air and didn't respond.

  Brianna walked past us, back from her break in the nick of time.

  “Hey, cousin,” Brianna said to Quinn. “I mean cousin-in-law.”

  “That's right! You're related,” I said. “We're all related.”

  “Not really,” Quinn said. “My husband, Chip, is second-cousins with your employee.”

  I gave her a big smile. “But we're all one big, happy family here in Glorious Gifts.”

  Brianna said, in a little-girl voice, “I'm allowed to use the sharp mail opener.”

  “You goofball,” I said, cracking up.

  Quinn gave us a disgusted look. She'd never been a fan of antics.

  “I hope you're both coming to the big party I'm hosting.”

  “Wouldn't miss it for the world,” Brianna said.

  The conversation ground to a halt. Brianna walked away and busied herself with the window display, seemingly having no interest in further conversation with her second-cousin's wife.

  Quinn pursed her lips and looked me up and down. “Speaking of big families, I hear you've been spending time with Samantha Sweet and her family.” She pursed her lips until they were sharp enough to pop balloons. “Who knew Michael Sweet could be housebroken, right?”

  “You know, Quinn, I always thought you two would end up together. You really did make a lovely Homecoming King and Queen.”

  She sighed and got a faraway look in her eyes. “We really did create something wonderful together.” She shifted her attention back to me. “Thank goodness Samantha got him house-trained. He was running around climbing on half the girls in t
own like it was his job. Even a couple of the Canuso girls.” She raised her eyebrows. “I'm surprised he didn't get himself killed.”

  “There's still time,” I said with a dark chuckle.

  The door chimed with an incoming customer. Thankfully, it wasn't anyone I went to high school with. It was a retired couple, Canadian tourists by the flag pins on the man's fanny pack. The last stragglers of the summer tourism rush.

  They leaned over our sparse candles display, which reminded me, I had candles to order.

  I rearranged the stapler and pens on the counter. “Quinn, I've got some work to do.”

  She made a disappointed sound. “Boo. I wanted to catch up. But I guess you only have time for Danish royalty. It's a shame Countess Whats-her-face had you tied up on my birthday.”

  Ouch. She was the Queen of Passive Aggression.

  I sighed. “If you're still downtown around lunchtime, let's get a bite to eat and catch up.”

  “Maybe,” she said with a yawn. “I've got a bunch of boring housewife errands to run first.”

  I looked her up and down. “Boring housewife errands? You look like you're dressed for something more exciting than that, in your little black dress and your come-get-some heels.”

  She covered her mouth with her hand and giggled. “A girl needs to keep things interesting.”

  The way she said it, I pictured her ambushing her husband Chip somewhere along his route and dragging him into the bushes. It was a startling daydream that was hard to dismiss.

  We said goodbye, she hugged me again, and I watched her leave, walking away in the spiky high heels as easily as some people walk in tennis shoes.

  Later that Monday, at 1:47 p.m., my phone rang. That was when I realized that not only had Quinn not come by to take me out for lunch, but I'd forgotten about eating lunch entirely.

  The incoming number wasn't programmed into my contact list. It came up as PRIVATE CALLER.

  My stomach grumbled. I wanted food, not another distraction. I was tempted to let the call go to voicemail, but I knew it could be an investigation client, and I did need to grow my business. In a town as small as Misty Falls, investigation cases didn't grow on trees.

  I answered with a professional, “This is Stormy Day.”

  There was no response except for heavy breathing.

  “Hello?”

  More heavy breathing.

  I was about to end the call when a trembling female voice came through. “Stormy? It's me. Samantha.”

  I took in a deep breath and steeled myself to deal with another of Samantha's crises of confidence. From the sound of it, she was crying. Again. How could I have made her cry? I'd been safely in my office all day, having no contact with the outside world except for with the wholesales department at our scented-candle supplier.

  “Samantha, tell me what I can do for you,” I said gently.

  “Is Logan there with you?” Her tone sounded robotic and urgent at the same time.

  “No. Logan's not here. I'm at the gift shop. What's wrong, Samantha?”

  “Michael,” she said, and she started to say more, but it broke off into a sob.

  “Did he hit you?” I put together a scenario instantly. “Listen, Samantha. Stay where you are. Tell me your location and I'll be there as soon as I can to pick you up. We can go to the police station and make a report.”

  “What?” More sobbing.

  “Never mind the details. Where are you?”

  She gave me the address. It was the house she was trying to sell, the one we'd been to the open house for on Saturday.

  “Stay right there,” I said. “I'm on my way.”

  I grabbed my purse and ran toward the back door, calling out to Brianna that I was dashing out to help a friend. She yelled back something about the candle order but I kept going. Samantha's phone call had me riled. I'd heard the woman upset before. This was different.

  I drove fast enough to get a speeding ticket—if they'd caught me, which they didn't.

  When I got to the house, I found Samantha Sweet trembling and incoherent.

  Now I understood why she'd sounded so strange on the phone.

  She was covered in blood, yet she had no wounds.

  Chapter 12

  Samantha's white blazer was smeared with blood. Her skirt and legs had only minor transfer stains. I got her to take the ruined blazer off so I could check her for injuries. As I expected, the blood hadn't come from her.

  She didn't say a word to me.

  I put through a second call to Logan, telling his voicemail it was urgent, and then I called 9-1-1.

  Samantha swayed on her feet, as though she could fall over in a strong gust of wind. I led her over to the home's small dining room and sat her on a wooden chair. She folded her bloodied hands neatly on her lap.

  After a minute, she spoke softly, asking me about Logan, muttering, “He's a lawyer, right? I think I need a lawyer. That's what they always tell you.” She continued rambling incoherently.

  I held the phone away from my mouth and told her Logan would be there soon.

  Samantha looked up at me and right through me with an eerie emptiness.

  “Everything's going to be okay,” I told her.

  The woman on the phone asked me to speak up and clarify the nature of my emergency. I gave the dispatcher on the other end of the call as much information as I could, as I ascertained it.

  “There's a woman here, Samantha Sweet, and she's got blood on her clothes, but no injuries that I can see.”

  Samantha's eyes flickered at her name and went blank again. The dispatcher asked more questions.

  “No, she hasn't told me what happened, but I'm looking around now.” I patted Samantha on the shoulder and ventured into the other parts of the house. When I'd arrived, she'd been standing inside the front doorway. I told the dispatcher, “I can see one set of bloody footprints coming down the stairs. The footprints match the shoes that Samantha is wearing. It looks like the source of blood is upstairs.”

  The voice on the line continued, but the words blurred together as though she was speaking another language. I swallowed and closed my eyes, which didn't help. I opened my eyes and found the room was swimming. Time pulled away and stretched out.

  “Yes, the source of the blood is upstairs,” I repeated.

  The dispatcher said more words. I struggled to stay present.

  Upstairs.

  This moment felt so much like the time I'd discovered a con artist dead in her rented home. The self-styled fortune-teller hadn't been able to foresee the future after all. She'd been shot by someone she knew well, with an antique pistol borrowed from the Koenig Estate. I'd stumbled across the scene in her house not long after the incident. Her blood was still warm. And as I walked through her house, the killer may have been watching me.

  Was it happening all over again? No, it couldn't be. The killer had been caught and jailed. Logan still had the scars from the confrontation.

  “Ma'am,” came the voice over the phone line. “Are you still there?”

  “Barely,” I said. “I just realized something. I need to secure the premises.”

  “Ma'am, please stay by the front door to let in the paramedics.”

  “I left the door open,” I said.

  She protested my plan, suggesting instead I go outside and wait on the sidewalk with neighbors, but I ignored her. I headed up the stairs, stepping along the side of the staircase to avoid treading through Samantha's bloody shoe prints.

  I tucked the phone into my pocket without switching it off. I slowly opened my purse and pulled out some personal self-defense items. I'd gotten in the habit of being over-prepared, with more goodies than hands. I selected my top two picks from my EDC. First there was the kubotan, also known as a ninja spike, that connected to my keychain. Second, and relatively new to my kit, was the monkey ball, a steel ball bearing wrapped in a cord.

  They say the safest fight is the one you run away from. I had every intention of running if someon
e scary jumped out at me, but I could still run with a kubotan in my hand. I carefully wrapped my fingers around the base of the spiky object some people referred to as the “attitude adjuster.” I'd only practiced striking a dummy, but the concept was simple: introduce the pointy end to something bony, fleshy, or sensitive.

  Feeling just a teensy bit like a ninja, I reached the upper floor.

  “Hello,” I called out. “The police are on their way now.”

  I held steady, listening for signs of movement.

  The upper part of the house was still. It felt empty, yet not empty.

  The air was moist.

  A tap was dripping.

  I could hear Samantha downstairs, still rambling semi-coherently to herself. I wanted to sit beside her and be a source of comfort, but there'd be no comfort if an assailant was still in the home.

  I checked the first bedroom, where I'd seen Samantha talking with Colt two days earlier. Empty.

  Second bedroom. Empty.

  The lack of closets made the home a tough sell with home buyers, but it did speed up my search.

  In the silence, a small, tinny voice called out. “Ma'am?”

  I wheeled around, ready to stab with my ninja stick, strike with my monkey balls, or run.

  There was nobody behind me.

  “Ma'am? Are you still there?”

  As my heart rate settled down, I realized the tinny voice was the 9-1-1 dispatcher trying to talk to me on the phone, which I'd put on speaker mode.

  “I'm still here,” I said loudly. “Just have to check the bathroom. That's the room with the bloody footprints leaving it.” I cursed under my breath. “And the door is closed. Of course.”

  The dispatcher said, “Ma'am, did you say bloody footprints? Ma'am, do not go into that room.”

  “The footprints are coming out,” I said. “Someone might be hurt in there.”

  “Are they calling out for assistance?”

  “No.”

  “Ma'am, you should go wait outside, with a neighbor.” After some heavy breathing, she broke away from her script. “Lady, you need to get outta that house! Use your head, girl! If I walk in some place and see bloody footprints, I'm gonna bust my way out, not keep goin' in!”