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

by Angela Pepper

  She looked up from her bowl of ice cream. We'd had a second helping after her mother left. It was Jessica's idea, I swear.

  “You've got zombie eyes,” she said. “Are you sleep-eating?”

  “Just thinking about how the passage of time changes things and gives you perspective.”

  “Still waters run deep.” She lifted the small dessert bowl to her mouth and poured the melted gelato into her mouth. “Shall we go try on those wigs?”

  “Sure,” I said, patting my full stomach. I got up and “accidentally” set my gelato bowl on the floor for Jeffrey to lick clean. Jessica did the same.

  We brought her mother's wigs into the bathroom, which had the largest mirror. She showed me how to pin back my real hair and then how to fasten the wig, which was a strawberry-blond color.

  “This looks like real hair,” I said. “Seriously. This must have been expensive.”

  “It would have been, but it was a donation. From when she was doing her chemo.”

  “What?” I took a step back and turned to look at Jessica. “When was that?”

  She waved her hand. “It was a couple years ago. You were busy at Fairchild, and we weren't talking all that much.” Her eyes started shining. She blinked rapidly and looked down at the sink. “She's clear now, so it all worked out. Please don't bring it up with her. She doesn't like talking about it.” She didn't say the words, but I heard neither do I.

  “I'm so sorry,” I said. “I didn't even know.”

  “Actually, you did,” she said softly. “I mentioned it once, but then you didn't ask again, so I thought maybe it was too painful for you to talk about, because of how you lost your mother when you were so young.”

  I was speechless. What she was saying sounded familiar, or at least it sounded like something I might have done. I'd been so focused on my career, and on Christopher, that I had put Misty Falls and all of its contents behind me. And then I'd been so mystified about why I had such a big hole in my heart.

  “Don't sweat it,” Jessica said. “Stuff happens. That's life.” She picked up a wide-toothed comb from the edge of the sink and smoothed down my strawberry-blond wig. “This color looks cute on you. Not natural or anything, but totally cute.”

  I looked in the mirror and imagined Mrs. Kelly, bald from her chemo treatments, wearing the wig. Grim reality definitely took away some of the fun factor.

  “No wig for me tonight,” I said, slipping it off.

  Jessica, who could be perceptive to the point of reading my mind at times, asked, “Because it's a chemo wig?”

  “No,” I lied. “I just think it will be too itchy. My scalp already feels like it's crawling with ants.” I gestured to the other wig, the bright blond one. “But you should wear that one. You'll look like Marilyn Monroe.”

  “Or my old Sunday school teacher. She had hair just like that. And her name was Marilyn, coincidentally enough.”

  “Stop stalling and put it on,” I said.

  She did, and the transformation was surprising. She applied some extra concealer over her nose to conceal her freckles, and she looked like a different person.

  “Gorgeous,” I said. “And Jessica, I'm not just saying this because you look like a movie star, but you mean the world to me. And I'm so sorry about not being a better friend to you in the past. If there was one thing I could change, I—”

  She clamped her hand over my mouth. “That's enough, Sappy McSapperson.”

  I raised my eyebrows and allowed myself to be silenced.

  Jessica, the blond bombshell, whispered theatrically, “You had me at 'you look like a movie star.' Now let's go have a fun Saturday night at the casino.”

  I nodded. She released her hand from my mouth slowly.

  “I'll go make sure Jeffrey has enough food,” she said. “We wouldn't want His Royal Fluffiness to starve while we're having Roomies' Night Out.”

  She left me alone in the bathroom.

  I was ready to go, but I stalled by trying on a few shades of lipstick.

  Jeffrey came in and jumped up on the vanity counter with ease, like a dark gray puff of smoke. He gave me a questioning look, his green eyes inquisitive.

  “You sure do know your name,” I told him. “Yes, we were talking about you a minute ago. How come you know your name, but you don't know what it means when I say don't touch?”

  He blinked, looked down, and tentatively swatted a tube of lipstick with one gray paw. His rose-colored toe pads were a similar shade to the lipstick.

  “Don't knock that over,” I said. “Don't touch.”

  He curled his toes, claws extended, and delicately pushed the tube toward the brink.

  “Okay,” I said. “Go ahead. Give it another nudge and see what happens.”

  He gave it another delicate swat, sending the tube swirling around in the sink like a skateboarder in a skate park bowl. He tilted his head and watched it even after it had stopped rolling, as though it might suddenly reverse direction and spin out again.

  “Good work, genius.” I picked him up, gave him a kiss on the top of his head, and put him down. He caught the smell of the food Jessica was preparing and scampered off.

  I looked at my lips in the mirror, sighed, and reached for a tissue.

  “This is why I don't wear lipstick,” I muttered through gray-fur-covered lips.

  Before Jessica and I left, we popped over next door to see if either Logan or Jinx had changed their minds about coming with us.

  Logan wasn't there. He was out picking up groceries, according to his little sister, Jinx, who was sitting on a beach towel on the living room floor, painting her toenails.

  Jinx said, “We've got a full evening planned, between eating chicken wings and watching old movies. Hey, why don't you drop by after and fill us in on your bossy cheerleader friend's big announcement? We can save you some chicken wings, and I'll be happy to share the couch. It ain't no thaing. I'm kinda curious about the news. It'll be a nice change of pace from all the funeral stuff.”

  Jessica and I exchanged a look, grinning.

  “We already know what it is,” Jessica told her. “The newspaper says they're announcing the role of Kinley tonight, and that it's a child who lives in Misty Falls.”

  “It's going to be Quinn's daughter, Quinby,” I said.

  Jinx asked, “How can you be sure it's her kid?”

  “Because Quinn's excited about it,” I said. “And Quinn only gets excited about things that benefit her.”

  Jinx made an ah face. “I know people like that.”

  Jessica wrinkled her pale, freckles-hidden nose at me. “Quinn's going to be unbearable.”

  I replied, “More than before?”

  All three of us laughed.

  Jinx said, “Jessica, I love this blond bombshell look for you. I almost didn't recognize you when you came in.” She finished applying dark red polish to her toenails, put the lid back on the bottle, and waved for Jessica to twirl around. “Let me see you spin!”

  Jessica obliged, spinning out the bottom of her bright yellow dress. She had purchased the dress after seeing a similar one on a famous redhead actress in a musical movie. Because the weather had cooled recently, she'd paired it with cream-colored cable-knit tights and an orange cardigan. Paired with the bright blond wig, she looked like the personification of autumn leaves.

  Jinx said, “You look like you're about to burst into song about the changing seasons.”

  Next, Jinx looked me up and down. “And you, Stormy, look like you're heading out to smoke cigars and play poker with the other gentlemen.”

  I tilted my fedora forward. “I'll take that as a compliment.”

  We said goodbye to Jinx and went to my car.

  Jessica was moving slowly, as though distracted. She had her arms crossed.

  I asked her, “Do you need a warmer jacket? I've got one in the trunk.”

  She dropped her arms and shook them out. “I'm fine. Just wondering if we should even go to this thing. A night in with chicken
wings sounds pretty good, and I don't normally eat chicken wings.”

  “We don't have to go,” I said.

  “Actually, we do. Quinn phoned me this morning and made me swear on the sacred bond of the cheerleader squad.”

  “Sounds like a legally binding verbal contract.” I looked up at the dark sky. The long days of summer were so far away now.

  Jessica sighed. “I wish I wasn't such a worry wart, but you know how I am.” She fussed with the yellow skirt of her dress, which was sticking with static electricity to her cable-knit tights. “Stupid Quinn,” she said. “Stupid static electricity.”

  I popped open the trunk of my car and waved her over. I pulled out a dryer sheet and used it to quickly de-static her skirt.

  “You're prepared for everything,” she said with admiration.

  “Dryer sheets are great multi-purpose items,” I said. “You can clean your windshield, wipe off pet hair, sharpen scissors, de-squeak the soles of new shoes—” I stopped myself.

  “Don't stop,” Jessica said. “I love that my best friend is so smart and handy.” She skipped over to the passenger-side door. “Now let's get to the casino and find Quinn. We wouldn't want to be late, or she'll make us run laps like the good ol' days.”

  Chapter 34

  The Canuso Lake Casino and Resort was busy that Saturday night, but not as busy as it had been two weeks earlier, for the official House of Hallows TV series casting call. We were able to park in the main parking lot, albeit a fair hike from the front door.

  We stepped out of my car and got ready to walk in.

  “You forgot your hat,” Jessica said.

  She was right. I'd left my fedora in the backseat of the car, since a woman wearing a fedora—or really anyone, in these modern times—would have been suspicious. I explained to Jessica that I'd only left my house wearing the hat to make her laugh.

  “But it looked good,” she said, smirking. “That hat really brought your whole old-man look together.”

  I smiled down at my father's old clothes—a button-down shirt and a pair of trousers with suspenders, topped off with a vest. My outfit was drab but not too scruffy, perfect for blending with a crowd. Plus I liked how the suspenders kept my pants up without making the waist tight. It was much easier this way to keep my shirt tucked in.

  “Since you like the hat so much, I'll wear it to Quinn's hootenanny next Friday.”

  Jessica stared at me blankly as she bit her lower lip dramatically. In her blond wig and dress, she looked exactly like the femme fatale in a gritty film noir detective movie.

  “Stormy, it's a dance,” she said. “Don't you want to be a pretty girl on Logan's arm?”

  “It's a dance,” I said. “Who's got two thumbs, a law degree, and doesn't dance? My boyfriend, Logan Sanderson.”

  “Oh, right,” she said glumly. “I guess he's not perfect after all.”

  “He's close enough,” I said. “Christopher wasn't much of a dancer, either. The first time we met at that rock concert in Paris, I thought he was doing a comedy thing—a parody of how a guy so white his last name is Fairchild dances.” The band that night was from Japan, playing American Rockabilly music, so Christopher's jokey dancing had seemed appropriate enough. The two girls I was traveling with thought he was hilarious. It wasn't until much later that I found out Christopher really danced that way all the time.

  Jessica smiled and shook her head. “I can picture it now,” she said. “With those white-soled Vans sneakers of his flashing under the lights.”

  “I wish you could have been there,” I said, and I meant it. I had wanted her to come with me at the time, but she either hadn't been able to save up the money for a trip to Europe or was too nervous—maybe both. Had I done everything I could have to convince her to come? Probably not.

  But that was the past, and here we were, having a whole new adventure.

  We locked the car doors and headed toward the entrance right behind a loose crowd. As we walked, I gave Jessica some tips on how to disappear into a crowd.

  Looking “normal” is a subtle art. One key is to not try too hard. Dressing in all black like a ninja would be one such example of trying too hard. You should wear normal, plain clothes, keep smiling, and continue carrying on a casual conversation with your companion. Yes, bringing a friend will make you appear less conspicuous.

  “Don't look up,” I said to Jessica when we entered the main atrium with the water feature.

  “But shouldn't I make a mental note of the locations of the security cameras?”

  “Just assume they're everywhere, and remember this: The ones on the ceiling point down and capture the tops of people's heads. When you look up at the ceiling, your face suddenly shows up in a sea of brown heads, attracting the attention of anyone monitoring the screens. Our brains are geared toward recognizing a human face. Looking up is a sure way of getting security's attention, which we could use to our advantage if we had another party operating as a decoy.”

  “Uh-oh,” she said. “I shouldn't have worn a yellow dress with an orange sweater. Or does it matter? The screens are all in black and white, aren't they?”

  “A casino this up to date will have color cameras on the floors, probably fifty with three-sixty degree views, plus more in the choke points. The lighting in here is more than bright enough to get a good picture. It's only outside, on the exterior grounds and parking lots, where they'll have cameras that are black and white, because they get a crisp image with lower light.”

  “But we're inside. So why did you let me dress up like a buttercup?”

  I chuckled. “You might notice that nobody's looking at me right now.”

  “Is that all I am to you?” She laughed. “A decoy body?”

  I gave her my best noir detective impersonation. “Sweetheart, you're so much more than a skirt to me. Why, with my brains and your looks, we could really go places.”

  She rolled her eyes and led the way toward the ballroom where the casting announcement was being made.

  We located Quinn and her family sitting at a reserved table near the stage where the casting announcement would be made shortly. It was the first time I'd seen the trio of McCabes all together.

  Chip's round cheeks flushed red with a blush that carried all the way across both ears when he made eye contact with me. We hadn't seen each other, much less spoken, since Monday of that week, when he'd dropped by my store to casually ask me about digging up “dirt” on people for blackmail. As I looked his way, he slid down in his chair, arms tucked tightly at his side, as though he was trying to disappear behind the drinks-menu card standing upright on the table. Whether or not he still suspected his wife of sneaking around with a photographer, he certainly looked embarrassed about having brought it to my attention.

  Quinn, on the other hand, was standing over the table with an aggressively wide-legged stance, waving both arms wildly as she regaled the others seated at the table with a story about how much champagne they'd special-ordered for their gala on Friday.

  Jessica greeted her with a hug and two cheek kisses. It seemed to take Quinn a few minutes to recognize Jessica under the wig.

  Quinn scowled at her, “Is this your new look? I liked you better as a redhead.”

  “It's just a wig,” Jessica said. “What's this about a gala? I thought your party was a hootenanny?”

  “Oh, it's still at the barn,” Quinn said slowly. “But this might be the last year a barn will be able to hold everyone.”

  “Mom,” Quinby said, tugging her mother's arm. “When can I take off this coat? It's hot and itchy.”

  All eyes turned to the youngest McCabe, who was sporting beauty-pageant-style full makeup, and a brown trench coat.

  “In a few minutes,” Quinn snapped at her daughter. “We've waited this long, and we don't want to ruin the surprise.”

  “But I'm hot!”

  “Come here, duckie,” Chip said. “I'll unbutton you a bit. I know how much it sucks to be overheated.”

  “
Don't,” Quinn snapped at her husband. “Leave it.”

  The round-cheeked mail carrier's ears became even more red. He grumbled something I couldn't hear, and then told his daughter to be patient. “Just a few more minutes,” he said. “Your mother knows best.”

  Jessica and I exchanged a look as we took our seats across from the McCabes. Jessica leaned over and whispered, “Quinn knows best.”

  I suppressed the urge to giggle. Quinn knows best was a phrase we used to say whenever the head cheerleader made us do extra laps or ordered our celebratory pizza with half the cheese left off. Said with enough sarcasm, it was almost enough to make up for the taste of sad, cheeseless pizza.

  Jessica and I introduced ourselves to the others at the table. I recognized Quinn's parents, though the Baudelaires didn't recognize me until I said my name.

  “Your hair,” said Mrs. Baudelaire with a note of horror. “I do hope it will grow back. You were always such a lovely girl, Stormy. How is your father?”

  “He's got a new hip and an old car and couldn't be happier with retirement.”

  “Is he in remission then?”

  “From what?”

  Mrs. Baudelaire glanced at her husband, who wasn't paying any attention to the conversation at all. She looked back at me with a thin smile. “Never mind. I'm getting my wires crossed.” She smiled across the table at her daughter and granddaughter. “We just couldn't be more excited about tonight's big announcement.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I can't imagine what the good news will be.”

  She nodded and picked up her glass of wine.

  A few minutes later, curiosity must have gotten the better of Mrs. Baudelaire because she started up a conversation with me again. I'd been checking messages on my phone and set it aside politely.

  “I have a theory,” she whispered. “Don't let my husband overhear me. Is he looking at me now?”

  Mr. Baudelaire had wandered away from the table in search of the washroom.

  “Nobody's listening,” I assured the woman.

  “And is this conversation... off the charts?”

  “If you mean off the record, then yes.”