Chip turned away from his cousin, his expression growing more serious. “Miss Day, can I, uh, talk to you?”
“Sure. Do you need help picking out a gift for Quinn? She can be picky, but I know her taste pretty well.” I rubbed my hands together, relishing the idea of selling him the most expensive item in the shop.
He glanced at Brianna, blushed, and then looked back at me. “In private? It's about your other business.”
Normally, I didn't see private investigation clients at my retail store. I paid a monthly rental fee to a packaged office space company so I could use their private meeting rooms. I should have insisted Chip make an appointment. However, my curiosity got the better of me. Plus I really didn't feel like putting in another boring candle order.
“Sure,” I said. “We can talk in my office, but you should know the walls are pretty thin.”
Brianna chimed in, “I'll turn up the music.” She winked at her cousin. “Plus Stormy will tell me everything after you leave.”
“No, I won't,” I said, shaking my head. To Chip, I said, “I won't. It's confidential.”
He seemed hesitant, but he followed me back into the office. I gave him the good chair, because I didn't think the other one would hold his weight.
I closed the door and asked what I could do for him.
“I hear you can dig up dirt on people,” he said. “Like for blackmail.”
I held my hands up. “Whoa there, Nelly. Blackmail is a crime. A federal crime.”
“So, you don't dig up dirt on people?”
“Chip, I can do a background check on someone, if you'd like. In the business, we don't call it dirt.”
“Then what's the point?” He attempted to lean his elbow casually on the armrest of the chair, but the chair had no armrest, and he nearly fell off. “What I mean is, what exactly comes up in a background check?”
“Well, a potential employer might request a background investigation on an individual before employment, or security clearance. If that were the case, I would then look up and compile various records—criminal, commercial, financial, academic verification, citizenship, and so forth. All the information that's perfectly legal for me to collect.”
He stared at me with his big, blue eyes. A bead of sweat dripped out of his fair, fine hair and down the side of his temple. If I didn't know he was always sweaty, I might have thought he was extremely nervous.
He crossed his arms. “What about following them around town? Like for protection?”
“That can be arranged, on an hourly or a per-day basis. Perhaps you could give me some more details?”
“I'd rather not,” he said. “I just want my family to stay intact.”
“Is someone threatening you? If you're being threatened, you should go straight to the police.”
He snorted. “I'd rather not bother them while they're trying to catch a killer. Have you heard? They haven't even made an arrest. We might never know who killed Mikey Sweet.”
“I'm sure they're working on something.”
His eyes widened. He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. “What have you heard? Is it true you saw the body? Was his head hacked right off?”
“What? No! I mean, who told you that?”
“All the rumors,” he said, his eyes bulging and spit flying from his mouth. “But it makes you wonder, doesn't it? My wife used to date Mikey in high school. What if there's someone out there who's obsessed with Quinn? She was really popular, and she's still so beautiful. What if I'm next?”
I was so relieved, I nearly laughed. “Is that why you're here, Chip? Are you worried you might be the next victim of a serial killer?”
“No,” he said, a little too vehemently. “But what would you charge to follow Quinn around town? You know, just to make sure she's safe.”
“Something tells me Quinn can take care of herself.”
“Are you saying you won't do it? I'll have to get someone else.” He looked down and muttered, more to himself than to me. “Actually, that might be better, because if it's a stranger, then she won't know she's getting followed.”
“I could refer you to another service provider,” I said. “Or—and please forgive me for being presumptuous about your situation—there's a group therapy session for anxiety that's quite affordable. Since last week's events, a lot of people around town have been on edge. There's no shame in getting some help.”
The sweaty mail carrier pulled a checkered handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. “Never mind,” he said. “I should be on my route right now, anyway. It was stupid of me to come here. Can you do me a favor and not tell Quinn about this?”
“This meeting was strictly confidential,” I said.
He stared at me with bulging eyes. “Was his head cut right off?”
Normally, I wouldn't have said anything, but since I thought it might help Chip's anxiety, I said, “No. Not at all.”
He let out an audible breath, thanked me, got up from the chair, and left with surprising speed.
A few minutes later, Brianna sauntered into the office. “Everything okay?”
“My meetings really are confidential,” I said. “And they would be even if you weren't a soon-to-be-famous internet cartoonist who draws from real life for inspiration.”
“I understand,” she said. “But I can tell you stuff, right?”
“Maybe. What kind of stuff?”
“It's probably nothing.” She looked down at her feet. She was wearing mismatched novelty socks with vintage dancing shoes.
I waited and let the silence do the coaxing. Most people can't handle dead air and will cough up all manner of secrets just to alleviate the quiet.
“Quinn keeps talking about this photographer guy,” she said. “She keeps sharing his photos on social media and talking about how talented he is. And there's one picture in particular that's got everyone in the family talking.” She used her phone to pull up a photo to show me.
In the image, Quinn's daughter Quinby was sitting on a stool in the background, and Quinn was in the foreground, filling the frame. Her chest in particular. The picture had a caption reading, A divine outtake featuring the flower from which the petal was plucked.
“Quinby's the petal and her mother's the flower?” I made a gagging face. “Ew. This photographer's a bit much.”
“And he charges a bit much,” Brianna said. “But Quinn thinks her daughter's going to get that big TV role, so she doesn't want to spare any expense.”
“That sounds like our Queen Bee.”
“Except the photographer didn't charge anything at all. I think she might have paid him in... another way. As in, another form of currency.” She winked twice. “Like money, but not money. Like—”
I cut her off. “Yes, Brianna. I get the picture.” I chewed my lip and put the pieces together. Chip didn't want me to follow his wife around for protection from a serial killer. He wanted me to catch her in adulterous activities. Hah! Why hadn't he just told me the truth? I might have done it for free.
Chapter 19
“Lasagna?” I'd just walked in the door of my house and kicked off my shoes. “What have I done to deserve your amazing vegetarian lasagna?”
Jessica looked up from the sink, where she was scrubbing a pan. “I thought you could use a hot meal that didn't come from the gas station.”
“My father did make me his famous meatloaf last night. Which he served with potato chips.” I knelt in front of the oven and peered at the bubbling cheese through the round-cornered window. “I'm actually looking forward to eating some vegetables.” Jessica's lasagna was usually meatless but filled with every kind of roasted vegetable, from mushrooms to peppers and even eggplant. Jeffrey came over to see what I was looking at.
I asked, “How was your day?”
My red-haired roommate didn't answer. My gray-furred roommate rubbed against my leg before walking away.
I stood up again and took a seat at the table. “Was your day that bad?” I tapped my finger
s on the table. “Jessica?”
“Huh?” She turned from the sink and blinked at me. “Oh. I thought you were talking to Jeffrey.”
“Really? I don't talk to Jeffrey that much.”
She laughed. “Sure.”
“What's been happening with Mitch the Fireman?” I heard the phrase Mitch the Fireman come out of my mouth. Jessica was right. I did say his name like he was a character in a children's book. “I mean Mitch, who happens to be a firefighter?”
Her shoulders crunched in with body tension as she screwed up her face. “He sent me some text messages but I don't know what they mean.”
I held out my hand. “Let the private investigator see.”
She got her phone from the charger and held it to her chest. “Okay, but promise not to send a reply.”
“Come on. Would I do that to you?”
She gave me a look that said she wouldn't put it past me. I rolled my eyes as I took the phone from her.
I scrolled through Mitch's messages. He'd said things like, “Watching TV with the guys,” and, “Gotta do laundry. Learning how to separate.”
“That's sweet,” I said.
“Did you read them? They're all like that. He actually sent one yesterday to tell me it was raining. We live in the same town. I can tell by looking out the window that it's raining.”
“He's letting you know that he's thinking about you. I know it seems like he isn't saying anything, but honestly, I wish I could get messages like this from Logan.”
She sat across from me, her face still pinched with worry. “You don't have to lie to make me feel better.” She picked up the phone and frowned at it. “Is his phone missing the question mark key? He never asks me a single question.”
“That doesn't mean he doesn't want to know,” I said. “This regular everyday stuff is how guys let you know they're thinking about you.”
“Does Logan send you messages like this?”
“No,” I said. “But that's different. His personality is... intense.”
“Yes,” she said, still frowning. “Logan is more to the point. He doesn't understand that sometimes an invitation to do something doesn't mean you actually do the thing. Like watch a video, for example. He gets antsy if we take an hour to make nachos and then another hour to pick out a movie.”
I glanced over at the wall separating my half of the duplex from his rented half. “You're right,” I said. “Like how Sunday before last, he cooked three steaks and he couldn't relax until he'd lined up three people to eat the steaks. That was when the Lubbesmeyers came over.”
“Guys are weird,” she said.
Jeffrey jumped up on her lap and rubbed his head on her chin.
“Present company excluded,” she said.
I leaned over and peered through the oven door at the lasagna. “That's a big pan of food. Do you want to invite Mitch the Fireman over for a bite? They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach.”
She picked up a butter knife. “Not through the chest?”
“What?”
Jessica's eyes widened. She gasped and set the knife down. “I'm so sorry, Stormy. That was awful of me. You know, this whole week, I keep catching myself making comments like that. It's almost like the more I try not to think about Michael Sweet getting stabbed, the more it bubbles up in my subconscious.”
“It's affecting everyone,” I said. “Let's hope they catch the person soon.”
“I sure hope so. Harper has been a wreck.”
“Harper that you work with?” Harper was in her midtwenties and new to Misty Falls. She lived with her younger sister in the apartment building where Jessica used to live before moving in with me. She also worked at the Olive Grove with Jessica. “Why would she be worried?”
“I didn't tell you? She's been working part-time for the Sweets, doing some administration for the business. She's thinking about getting her real estate license, so she's been getting job experience. I guess she's jumpy because it could have been a client or another realtor in town. Maybe a competitor. The killer might be a person she talks to regularly.”
“Or maybe Harper knows something.”
Jessica picked up the knife again and made a stabbing motion. “Ree ree ree,” she said, grinning and imitating the iconic soundtrack from the movie Psycho—composer Bernhard Hermann's screaming violins. “Or maybe Harper killed him. She didn't have a lot of respect for Michael.”
“Does she have an alibi for Monday?”
Jessica set down the knife and rolled her eyes. “I'm just joking. Harper wouldn't hurt anyone. Don't take everything I say so literally.”
“To quote my father, where the tongue slips, it speaks the truth.”
The timer on the stove started beeping. The subject quickly turned away from homicide and toward lasagna.
I tried not to think about Michael Sweet and all the reasons someone might want to kill him, but if there was one person who would have known where he was that day, it was his office assistant. Whenever I needed to track down Logan and he wasn't answering his phone, I'd ask Corine, the receptionist at his law firm, Tyger & Behr.
I couldn't stop wondering what Harper might know about the case.
“We should hang out with Harper again soon,” I said.
“Promise you won't interrogate her?”
“I'll buy her a drink. That's all.”
Jessica poked at her lasagna and narrowed her eyes at me. “Okay. I'll set something up.” She looked down at her phone. “We've got the funeral Thursday, so how's Friday for you?”
I'd forgotten about Michael Sweet's funeral. We had to go to support Samantha and the family, even though it would mean being stared at by people.
“Set it up for Friday,” I said. “After Thursday's funeral, I'll need a drink.”
“Are Logan's parents coming?” Logan was Samantha's cousin, so his parents were her aunt and uncle.
“No. They're busy.”
She sniffed. “Runs in the family.”
I dug into my lasagna. It was a masterpiece, as usual.
“Don't fill up,” Jessica said. “Dean Lubbesmeyer is coming over with some new potato chip flavors he wants us to taste test.” She gave me an ultra-serious look. “It's a dirty job, but somebody's got to do it.”
Chapter 20
“Stormy, I need to make a confession.”
I looked across my kitchen table and its silver bowls of flavored potato chips at my next-door neighbor, Dean Lubbesmeyer. His hair wasn't as colorful as his wife's purple locks—in fact, he didn't have much hair at all—but his cheerful tropical-print shirt matched his zesty, always-joking personality.
Tonight, however, his expression was serious for a change. Were we not giving him the feedback he was hoping for? We'd been crunching on new flavors of potato chips for the past thirty minutes, and enjoying them immensely. I'd thought doing a buttered popcorn flavor on a potato chip would be gross, but the resulting chip reminded me of my favorite road trip travel snack, Old Dutch Popcorn Twists.
I glanced over at Jessica and then back at Dean.
“Go ahead,” I said. “What's this confession you need to make?”
“First of all, these aren't zero-calorie diet potato chips.”
“No kidding,” I said flatly. “Don't worry, Dean. You didn't fool me for a minute.”
“And also, I think some of my DNA might be at a crime scene.” He scrunched up his rubbery features. “Like on the murder weapon?” His voice pitched up at the end, as though he was asking a question.
My lovable neighbor's DNA was on the murder weapon that killed Michael Sweet?
“That's not funny,” I said, pushing the bowl of buttered-popcorn-flavor potato chips crumbs away from myself. “Or maybe it is, but I'm not really in the mood.”
“I'm dead serious,” he said. “You know the house where that man was found killed last week?”
I glanced over at Jessica again to see if this was part of a prank. I knew the Lubbesmeyers loved to joke around
, but this didn't seem like a typical Dean and Eve gag. Was it possible Dean without Eve was like a bicycle missing a tire? Jessica looked as stunned as I felt, at hearing Dean talk about his DNA being at last Monday's homicide. The look on Jessica's face reminded me of another night, when I'd made the horrible mistake of confronting a criminal over dinner at that same table. The evening had ended with Logan being rushed to the hospital. He still bore the scars on his stomach, but Jessica's were invisible. Except times like this, when I saw the trauma surface on her face.
I gave Dean a stony look. He'd better have a good reason for being so dramatic.
“Yes,” I answered slowly. “I'm familiar with that particular house.” Did he not know I was one of the people who saw the body? How could he have missed that bit of gossip? He had to be messing around. I glanced around for signs of his wife, Eve. Surely the woman with the spiked purple hair was about to pop out from behind my sofa with some wisecrack.
“I toured that house on the Saturday before the homicide happened,” Dean said.
“So did we,” Jessica said. She took a large potato chip and crunched it noisily. The room was so quiet, I could hear every chew.
I sighed and shook my head at my overly dramatic neighbor. “Is that all? Dean, a lot of people toured the house.”
“But did they all handle the knives?”
I kept shaking my head, but for a different reason. “Dean Lubbesmeyer. Tell me you didn't handle the knives.”
“Sorry.” He hung his head. “I'm a bit of a knife nerd. I found myself alone in the kitchen, and I noticed the homeowners had some good ones—Henckels chef knives, and also some Messermeister cleavers—so I took them out and I'm afraid I handled all of them.”
“That's a bit strange,” I said. “But anyone who knows you would believe it. You do love your kitchen equipment, and industrial potato slicers and peelers.”
“I believe it,” Jessica said brightly. “The first time we met, you offered to sharpen all of our scissors.”
I reached across the table and patted his hand. “Dean, if there's a legitimate reason for your epithelial cells to be found on the murder weapon, the police aren't going to come after you. They want to close the case, but they're not going to pin it on an innocent man.”
Death of a Double Dipper (Stormy Day Mystery Book 5) Page 12
