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

by Angela Pepper

  The pint-sized future head cheerleader twirled once more around the support post then returned to the swing. She parked her butt on the U-shaped seat, walked it back, and kicked off swinging. The squeak-squeak of the chain supports made me long for carefree younger days.

  “It's not very nice to call someone stupid,” I said.

  “What if it's true?” She grinned, showing her perfect teeth. Darn it if she didn't look angelic, despite insulting my adult friend.

  “You know, it's not your fault you're this way. That sounds exactly like something your mother would say. She used to call me lazy.”

  Quinby pumped her legs, swinging higher and higher. “You're not lazy. My mom says you're busy.” The chains on the swing squeaked as though in protest as she soared high above my head. “Busy, busy, busy. You're a real busybody.”

  “She's not wrong,” I said, turning to leave. “Tell your mother I said hello.”

  Quinby abruptly launched herself out of the swing and landed beside me. “Tell her yourself.” She grabbed my hand and tugged me back toward the parking lot. “She's standing over there staring at us like a weirdo. Maybe she has to use the bathroom. She has the ABS. Angry Bum Syndrome.”

  Quinn McCabe was up ahead, standing next to a Range Rover. When she saw us looking her way, she waved and quickly turned around to open the vehicle's rear door.

  “Q, I think you mean IBS. Irritable Bowel Syndrome.”

  “No, Stormy, it's called ABS. It means you get to yell at people if they don't let you use the staff washroom. Angry Bum Syndrome.”

  “You learn something new every day,” I said as we reached the parking lot and her mother. “Hello again, Quinn. Funny how we haven't seen each other in a decade, and now we've bumped into each other twice in one day.”

  She buttoned her oversized sweater over her little black dress. She crossed her arms over her stomach and looked at me while lifting her upper lip in a chipmunk gesture that reminded me of her mail carrier husband, Chip.

  Her eyes had a glazed-over appearance. “Twice in one day?” Her head tilted forward slowly and then jerked up again. “Oh! We were supposed to have lunch. Stormy, I'm so sorry. I got so busy, and I forgot to come see you.” She patted her daughter's blond head. “I got busy with important meetings for Q's career. We have to get head shots and a website. I'll make it up to you, I swear. I'll buy you lunch at the best place in town.”

  “Don't worry about it,” I said. “It's been a crazy day, and it was for the best I didn't eat lunch, as it turns out.”

  “Oh?” She raised one eyebrow and grinned. “Have you got any hot gossip for me?”

  “Not today, Quinn.”

  Her daughter looked up at her. “Mom, I told Stormy about ABS. She didn't know what it meant.”

  All the color went out of Quinn's face. She pulled the front of her cardigan tight across her front and hissed at her daughter, “Sweetheart, we don't discuss these things outside the family.”

  Quinby made two small fists and stomped her foot. “There are so many secrets, I can't keep track of all of them!”

  “Kids,” Quinn said to me with a twisted smile. “When are you going to start popping some out?” She squinted at my midsection. “In about six months?”

  “Ha ha.” Luckily, my cycle had been regular so she didn't scare me. I backed away, toward my car. “I'm really sorry but I have to run. I'm picking up Sadie on behalf of Samantha. I mean Sofia. Er, Sophie. Do you have any idea what street she would have started walking down?”

  Quinn looked over her shoulder, eastward. “I have a good idea where she'll be. You can go home, Stormy. I'll pick her up myself. Is Samantha at the house?”

  “Long story, but I'll be getting Sophie.”

  She uncrossed her arms and bunched up the front of her sweater. It was a men's sweater, dark gray, and quite bulky for such a warm afternoon.

  “What's going on?” She opened the back door of the vehicle and ushered her daughter into the seat. She closed the door and whispered, “Does it have something to do with those two security goons from the casino? I saw them skulking around downtown. The big one and the bigger one.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  She shrugged. “I don't mean to be prejudiced, but some of those people Colt has working for him are super sketchy. A lot of them have criminal records and can't get work anywhere else.”

  “Good to know,” I said. “Which street would Sophie have taken? I really should go. Even in Misty Falls, a little girl shouldn't be on her own at a time like this.”

  “That street.” Quinn turned and pointed. “Then left on Laurel and right on Gumdrop.”

  I thanked her and jogged toward my car. I kept my face calm, but on the inside I had a new thing to panic about.

  Quinn was a snob, but she'd still given me some valuable information. Two of Colt's security guards had been seen in town today.

  My small list of suspects had doubled. There was Colt, the stranger who'd been cutting a cupcake, and now the two security guards. Samantha wasn't on my list, no matter what the statistics said about homicide by spouse.

  Chapter 15

  I found Sophie a third of the way to her house. She had her pink backpack strapped on and was dawdling along in no particular hurry. When she slowly turned to look in my direction, I was reminded of my sister, Sunny, at that age. She'd always been the slowpoke, stopping to smell every flower or to “rescue” snails by helping them cross the sidewalk.

  Had my sister and I ever been as small as eight-year-old Sophie, with her dainty pink shoes and her child-sized backpack? It didn't seem possible.

  I pulled the car over, jumped out, and jogged up to the sidewalk with a friendly smile. Sophie barely noticed me. I knelt before her on the sidewalk and delivered the speech I'd been preparing on the drive, about how her mother really had sent me, but I didn't know the family password, yet I wasn't a stranger because I'd been to their house before and she'd shown me her butterfly collection and so forth.

  She cut me off. “You're Stormy Day,” she said. “Everyone knows who you are.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Duh.” She flashed me a charmingly crooked, gap-toothed smile. Jessica was right about Sophie Sweet having some steep dentist bills in her future.

  She looked at my car. “Your car's dirty. Can I write my name on the dust?”

  “No. You'll scratch the paint.”

  “No, I won't.” She ran at my vehicle with her finger outstretched. Again, I was reminded of my sister. Sunny used to draw snails and flowers on dusty cars, which was how I learned about the tiny scratches such activities left.

  She finished drawing a smiling sun on the door.

  I let her admire her work before I grabbed the door handle for the passenger side and opened the door. “Sophie, it's a masterpiece. Now get in the car so I can drive you home. We'll find some art supplies at your house and have a craft night. How would you like that?”

  “You're going to kill me,” she said ominously.

  I laughed self-consciously, unsure if I could believe my ears. “What makes you say that?”

  “The airbags are in the front,” she said. “I have to ride in the backseat until I'm twelve years old, and then I can ride in the front with the grownups.”

  “Oh.” I clicked the button to tilt the seat forward. “I knew that,” I said defensively. “Get in the back and buckle up.” With a professional air, I said, “Your safety is my top priority.” I put my hand under her backpack as she wiggled her way in.

  I closed the door and circled around to the driver's side, glancing around to see if anyone was watching. Way to look guilty, I told myself.

  I got in and started the car. In the stillness, I realized my heart was pounding, and I felt the first signs of dehydration. I made eye contact with Sophie in the rearview mirror. “How are you doing back there?”

  “I'm hungry. Can we get fries at the drive-through?”

  My first instinct was to say no, but then I
remembered the sight of Sophie's father, Michael Sweet, lifeless in the tub at a client's house. Sophie would never have to see that, but she'd hear about it, and she'd think about it. Her imagined version could be just as terrible as what I'd seen.

  Now what? I wanted to get out of the car again and hold her in my arms, hug her and tell her that this day would pass. This life-changing moment would always stay with her, but it would get smaller and smaller with each new experience. Even though it wouldn't feel possible, someday she would smile again. She would be okay, even happy.

  But the kid barely knew me, and the last thing she needed right now was for me to start crying. I clenched my jaw and fought my emotions back down again, down into a little box.

  “Fries at the drive-through,” I mused. Right on cue, my stomach growled. The last thing I'd ingested had been a vanilla latte, and that had been hours and hours ago.

  “And chicken nuggets,” Sophie said. “Because I'm a vegetarian.”

  I smiled at her in the rearview mirror. “Sophie, chicken nuggets aren't vegetarian.”

  She made an exasperated sound. “When we go to the drive-through, that's when I don't have to be vegetarian, because the meat's already cooked.”

  “Ah,” I said. “Now I understand. Totally.” Kid logic.

  I checked to make sure she had her seat belt on, and we drove to the fast-food place.

  Misty Falls doesn't have a McDonald's, but it does have a Goodie Burger.

  We ordered fries and chicken nuggets, plus milkshakes and a burger. I was really hungry.

  While we ate in the car on a side street, Sophie told me more about her personal vegetarian rules.

  “Bacon is not vegetarian,” she said. “It comes from a pig. Did you know that?”

  “I may have heard that before.”

  “Same with sausages.” She made a world-weary sigh. “All the most delicious meats come from a pig. But not a guinea pig. Not in this country.”

  “Good to know.” I dipped my chicken nugget into the container of honey mustard sauce we'd been sharing.

  Sophie squealed, “Double Dipper!”

  “That doesn't count,” I said. “I turned it around, so it was the bread-crumb side that I dipped.”

  “My dad is a Double Dipper,” she said. “Mom says he does it just to be gross and make everyone mad at him. He thinks it's funny.”

  “Does your dad do a lot of funny things around the house? To make people mad?”

  “Not really.” She didn't elaborate, but she did watch my next nugget dip like a hawk.

  “This is fun,” I said. “I don't usually let people eat in my car, but this is fun.”

  Sophie let out a big burp, and we both laughed.

  “That's my stomach saying thank you for the food,” she said.

  “Better your stomach than your butt.”

  Her eyes widened, and she made a gasping sound. I panicked, thinking she was choking on a fry or having an asthma attack. But then she started laughing.

  It turns out that, to an eight-year-old, there are few things in this world funnier than a grownup saying the word butt.

  Her laughter cheered me up so much that by the time we wiped away our tears, the guilt I felt about what was yet to come was crushing.

  Our next stop was picking up the baby, her little brother, from the daycare.

  As soon as I picked up the kid, I realized I didn't have a safety car seat in my vehicle.

  The woman at the daycare assured me it wasn't the first time it had happened. Parents sometimes sent friends to pick up kids. Luckily, the daycare had some loaner car seats.

  She offered to help me get everything set up in my car.

  “Michael has been a good boy today,” the woman said as I unlocked the car doors.

  Michael? I was thrown off by the name for a second, then I remembered the baby was Michael Junior. Samantha usually referred to him simply as the baby.

  We got the borrowed car seat as well as Michael Junior into my vehicle.

  The woman spotted the fast-food bags from Goodie Burger and gave me a judgy look.

  “It was just for today,” I said. “Things are topsy-turvy.” She continued the judgy look. “It was Sophie's idea,” I said. “Right Sophie?”

  I turned to see Sophie pick up a loose fry from the floor and eat it.

  The daycare lady gave me a grim look. “Tell Michael Senior I hope he had a great day on the green.”

  “On the green?”

  “Golfing,” she said slowly, as though I was not very bright. “That's what it means when you're on the green.”

  I smiled politely. I knew what she meant but had been surprised to hear of Michael's plans for the day. If he'd been scheduled to golf, how had he ended up at the house?

  “Yes, golfing,” I said. “It's certainly a nice day for being outside.” I glanced around guiltily. This wasn't my investigation or my business, but I couldn't help myself. “Did you chat with Michael very long this morning?”

  “Just a few minutes, when he dropped off Junior. He was meeting some business contacts at the Misty Pines and playing golf all day.” She picked at a fleck of dried vomit on her shirt. “Must be nice!”

  “Are you sure he said he was playing golf today?” I looked at the daycare's open door, which was letting out all manner of chaotic sounds. “Things can get a bit hectic with so many kids around.”

  The woman frowned at me. “I have an excellent memory. You need to be on the ball when you're responsible for this many children. Mr. Sweet was golfing today at the Misty Pines, all day.”

  Except he wasn't, I thought.

  I thanked her again and got into my car. She hadn't asked for identification. Having the older sibling with me had been enough proof of my legitimacy, as far as she was concerned.

  The baby made some fussy noises, but his big sister knew how to get him settled.

  Good, I thought. Samantha will need all the help she can get.

  I wanted to call Officer Wiggles right away with the information about Michael's planned day of golfing, but I couldn't do it in front of the children.

  Chapter 16

  We got into the Sweet residence without needing to use a key.

  I poked my head in, while holding Michael Junior. The interior of the house smelled like an active family lived there—not bad, but it was the general sort of “lived in” smell Samantha tried to get rid of in the homes she was showing.

  The furnace wasn't running, and the house was quiet. Maybe too quiet. The skin on the back of my neck prickled.

  The front room looked disheveled, with cereal strewn across the coffee table and sofa cushions jutting out at messy angles. Was this how the home normally looked, or had someone been ransacking the place, looking for something?

  Whoever killed Michael Sweet could be there now, waiting inside the house.

  I hesitated in the doorway and asked Sophie, “Do you always leave your front door unlocked?”

  Sophie strode in past me and raised her hands in the air. “How should I know?” She tossed her pink backpack and her purple jacket on the floor, a mere foot away from an array of child-height clothes hooks on the wall.

  I shifted the baby to my other arm so I could pick up her gear and hang it on the hooks. “Sophie, didn't your parents teach you to hang up your things? When I was your age, my sister and I got banned from using the front door. We had to come in through the back door and hang our stuff in the porch. My sister used to—”

  Sophie interrupted. “Can I watch a movie?”

  The baby clamped onto my ear with one hand while attempting to poke out my eyeball with the other.

  “Sure,” I said, and I got her set up on the couch with her movie playing. “Is this the way your living room normally looks?”

  She stared at the TV and didn't answer.

  I tried to put the baby down on the couch next to her, but he clung to me like he was made of Velcro.

  Over the sound of the television, I could hear a scratching no
ise. I lowered the volume. It was coming from somewhere inside the house.

  For a second time, I tried to put the baby down. He screamed like a banshee. I picked him up, and the screaming stopped immediately, like a tap being shut off.

  “Neat trick,” I told him. “I guess I'm stuck with you. Or, rather, you're stuck to me, Mr. Velcro.”

  He lunged for my ear happily.

  The scratching noise started up again.

  “Sophie, do you guys have a dog?”

  She didn't answer until I used the remote control to pause the show. I repeated the question.

  “Mom says we're not allowed until I'm twelve and I'm more responsible.”

  “Then do you have a cat?”

  “Dad says cats are disgusting because they poop inside the house.”

  “Uh, humans poop inside the house, too, Sophie.”

  She covered her crooked-toothed-smile with her hands and giggled. “I made you say poop.”

  “Humans go to the washroom inside the house.”

  “No, they don't,” she said matter-of-factly. “They go in the toilet.” Without taking her eyes off the paused cartoon princess on the TV screen, she reached in between the sofa cushions, pulled something out—a granola bar—and started eating it. She'd eaten a huge meal in my car, and she wasn't a big girl. Where the heck was she putting all the food? It had to be some sort of child magic.

  “Anyway, dad says cats are gross,” she said.

  “Your dad is wrong, as usual, because cats are awesome.”

  She took her gaze off the screen and turned to me, still munching the sofa granola. “My dad is wrong?”

  Oops. Now that I did have her attention, I wanted her to go back to her movie. I clicked the button to get the movie playing again.

  While I was leaning over, the baby arched his back without warning, pulling away from me and pushing me off-balance. I quickly shifted my center of gravity to get under him. He ricocheted off nothing but air and gave me a solid head butt, right on the side of my face.

  I actually saw stars—spots of light in my vision.