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

by Angela Pepper

  She smiled dazedly, her eyes slightly unfocused. “I think the Canuso boy is going to take the blame for killing Michael Sweet to protect his little sister. She's the one who did it. I've seen her lose her temper a few times in public. She created quite the spectacle around herself, that girl. People don't talk about her much, now that Della Koenig is on everyone's lips. And the Countess when she's in town. But a year or two ago, tongues would have been wagging about that woman with the ridiculous name. Tagger. Who would name a child such a thing? I mean, there's that golfer, Tiger. I can see that, but only for a boy.”

  “Trigger,” I said. “Her name isn't Tagger. It's Trigger. All the siblings have horse-themed names.”

  “But a trigger is part of a gun,” Mrs. Baudelaire said, waving a hand dismissively, as though I hadn't been smart enough to understand a word she'd said. She glanced up as her husband returned to the table. Loudly, she said to me, “There's nothing like a summer wedding. June or July, if you ask me.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” I said, winking. “I'll keep that in mind.”

  Getting planning tips for my nonexistent wedding turned out to be the highlight of the evening.

  Watching Quinby go on stage dressed as Kinley following the casting announcement only made me feel sad. I kept thinking about Q's best friend, Sophie, and how she should have been there. Samantha's kids were currently with family members, so the little girl was being taken care of, but it was a shame she had to miss the party. She'd already lost so much when her father died, and this was likely the first in a long string of things she was going to miss out on. Poor kid.

  For the McCabes and Baudelaires, Jessica and I pretended to be shocked and surprised when the announcement was made. We congratulated the families, stayed for one drink, and then slipped out without letting anyone know we were leaving—a classic Irish goodbye, I thought to myself with a smile.

  We were halfway across the exterior parking lot when we were spotted.

  Or to be more accurate, I was sniffed out.

  The two heart-faced huskies, Juno and Echo, bounded toward me. They recognized me from our day together and happily licked my hands.

  I tried to shoo them away, but it was too late. I'd been spotted. A dark-haired blur moved toward me.

  I braced myself for a confrontation with Trigger Canuso, but it wasn't her after all. It was the smaller of the two security guards I'd bribed for information the previous time I'd been at the casino.

  The young man saw right through our disguises. “If it isn't the fountain girls,” he said, grinning. “Sorry about the dogs. They're good girls, but they get excited when they see someone they like.”

  “It's nice to be liked,” I said. “You're not working tonight, are you?”

  “It's my day off.” He pulled the dogs closer. “Sorry, but I shouldn't be talking to you. The lawyer said not to talk to anyone.”

  “That's good advice,” I said. “You shouldn't talk to anyone. My lawyer tells me the same thing.”

  “You have a lawyer?”

  I glanced over at Jessica, who was fidgeting with the buttons of her sweater. She wanted to get home and enjoy the rest of the evening on a sofa, and didn't look very pleased at me for starting a conversation with one of the people we'd specifically dressed up in disguises to evade.

  I gave her a wide-eyed look, trying to communicate that I knew what I was doing. Ever since Quinn's mother had drunkenly gossiped to me about Colt's little sister being involved in Michael's death, the pieces had been clicking together in my head. It didn't make sense for Colt, a pacifist and gentle soul, to have stabbed a man to death. But it did seem like something his short-fused little sister might do. And it made a certain sense that he would knowingly take the fall for something to protect his sister. He wasn't at all like the Koenig brothers, Brandon and Drake, who'd turned on each other when the chips were down.

  The Sweet homicide wasn't my case, but I'd already been involved so much. Would it kill me to explore a hunch by asking just a few questions?

  Jessica shrugged, as if to tell me she was fine with me doing whatever I was going to do anyway, permission or not.

  I turned back to the security guard with a big smile.

  “Of course I have a lawyer,” I said. “I am a suspect, after all. You're too young to know this, but Michael Sweet and I go way back, all the way back to high school. We had a run-in recently, when I confronted him about some suspicious bruises I saw on his wife.” I glanced over at Jessica, whose lips were pressed together in a straight line. She wasn't going to say a peep, let alone disagree with any of my bluffing.

  The security guard looked me up and down as he chuckled. “Lady, I don't think you killed anyone,” he said. “I bet you've never even been hunting.”

  “I haven't,” I said. “What's your name, in case the judge doesn't believe me and I need a character witness?”

  He glanced around the parking lot and then up at the security cameras that were presumably stationed at each light post.

  “Nick,” he finally said. “Nick Tanner. No relation to the Canuso family, but I—” He clamped his mouth shut and shook his head. “I really shouldn't be talking to you. The lawyer said not to talk to anyone.”

  As a good lawyer should. Most people aren't good at keeping secrets. That's a good thing for society, but it's bad if you're trying to keep the details of a legal case confidential and your client blabs to anyone who bats an eyelash or offers a kind word their way.

  But I had a sneaky trick up my sleeve.

  “Your lawyer is right,” I said. “You shouldn't talk to anyone.” I started to walk away then stopped. “But before I go, how about you? Do you have any questions about the case that I could answer for you?” I paused and smiled. “Ask away.”

  The ace I had up my sleeve was knowing how busy lawyers are. Not just my own boyfriend, who was sporadic about returning messages, but all lawyers, everywhere. Even the best lawyer couldn't keep his or her client up to speed on absolutely everything at all times. And clients don't like not knowing.

  Nick Tanner stared at me in disbelief. “For real? No tricks?”

  I held my hands out wide. “I'm an open book, if you'd like.”

  His mouth moved silently for a moment, like the lips of a fish considering whether or not to bite the wiggly worm on the shining hook. Finally, he spoke. “Do they have any other suspects, or do they think it's Colt for sure?”

  I looked down at the two dogs and then up at the security guard. Nick was a cute guy, midtwenties, and he didn't wear a wedding ring. If he had Colt's two dogs with him, that meant he was more than just an employee. He was close to the family despite not being a relative, which could mean a few things, including that he was dating Trigger Canuso.

  I asked him, “How well do you know Trigger Canuso?” I quickly waved my hand as though erasing a chalkboard. “Scratch that. I promised not to ask you any questions. Forget I said anything.”

  “Trigger didn't do anything wrong,” Nick said, his voice thin and straining. “She was with me that day. For the whole day.”

  “Oh. I didn't know she was dating you, too.”

  His whole body tensed, and then he straightened up, puffing his chest visibly. “Who else is she seeing?”

  I turned and looked at Jessica. “Didn't you see Trigger around town with that big firefighter guy, Mitch?”

  She opened her mouth and made a sound like a record scratching.

  I turned back to Nick. “You know how rumors are. It might not be anything. I'm sure she's totally faithful to you.”

  “She'd better be,” he sputtered.

  “You mean since you're her alibi,” I said.

  “Exactly,” he said.

  I couldn't help but smile. I had this poor young man's number. Now I was extra glad for my choice of outfits, because I tucked my thumbs into the front of the armpits for my vest and took a wide stance. I'd never felt more like a private eye.

  “Nick, you should ask me about obstruction of j
ustice,” I said with a cool, steely tone. “Ask me about the minimum sentence for lying to police in a statement.”

  His shoulders rounded, and his chest caved inward. “What is it?” He fidgeted with the dog leashes in his hands, switching them back and forth so he could wipe his palms on his jeans.

  Keeping my voice low and slow, I explained, “Here in Oregon, lying in a police report is considered a Class A misdemeanor, with a recommended one-year incarceration and a fine of over six thousand dollars.”

  “Wow. That's intense.” He clenched his jaw and flared his nostrils. I could almost hear his teeth grinding on this new information.

  “And she would know,” Jessica piped in suddenly. “Stormy lies to the police all the time.”

  I gave my best friend and accomplice a look that was part thank you and part seriously?

  Nick asked me, “Can you take it back if you made a mistake? Like a retraction or whatever?”

  “An uncooperative witness can become cooperative,” I said. “They do have some leeway about people making mistakes. Of course, if a person were to make a retraction, it would be better sooner than later.”

  He looked up at the nearest security camera again and tugged the dog leashes as he backed away. “Yeah. Good to know. Like for the future or whatever.”

  “Glad I could help.”

  We were driving back home when my phone started ringing. We had been talking about this new development in the case and how relieved we were that Colt might simply be taking the blame for his sister. Neither of us wanted to see the troubled young woman go to jail, so we weren't exactly happy, but it did make me feel less awful about turning in Colt.

  The phone kept ringing, and it was the special tone I'd given my store manager.

  “That's Brianna calling,” I told Jessica. “Can you answer for me?”

  She dug my phone from my purse and answered. “Hi, Brianna. This is Jessica. Stormy's driving.”

  She listened for a minute.

  “Oh, no,” she said with a groan. “That's got to be illegal or something.”

  While she talked, I had a tough time staying focused on the road ahead.

  “Can we get the video taken down?” More listening. “Of course I want to see it. Send me the link.” Jessica shot me a worried look. “Yes, I'll tell her.” She thanked Brianna and ended the call.

  “Do I even want to know?” I asked.

  “Maybe you should pull over,” she said.

  My phone dinged with the sound of an incoming link via text message.

  I pulled the car over to a rest stop and put it in park.

  Chapter 35

  SUNDAY

  “Let's watch it on my big TV,” my father said. “Make your phone do the thing.” He waved one hand expressively from his seat on his recliner. “The thing where it sends its picture to the television.”

  Kyle Dempsey jumped up from the couch eagerly. “I'll do it,” he said, elbowing me out of the way.

  “This must be what it's like to have a bratty little brother,” I muttered.

  My father shot me an amused look.

  It was just the three of us for dinner that night. Logan was seeing family again with his sister, and Jessica was at her mother's.

  I couldn't relax. Ever since my suspicions about Trigger had been roused, I hadn't felt like sitting around. I got up from the couch and went over to supervise Kyle with the TV settings.

  My father settled back in his recliner and kicked up the footrest. “Stormy, since you're up already, and so close to the kitchen, I could use a refill.”

  “Same here,” Kyle said without looking up at me.

  “Sure thing, Dimples.”

  My father snorted. “Don't call him that,” he said.

  “Everyone calls him Dimples. Even you call him that.”

  He gave me a very serious look. “But when I say it, it doesn't sound affectionate. You make it sound dirty.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  He continued, “You let him take you to a movie. That's right. I know all about it. I've got eyes and ears all over this town.”

  “Yes, Dad,” I said, channeling my inner snarky teen. “Dimples and I sat next to each other in a crowded theater. But we sat in the back row so we could kiss and grope each other the whole time.”

  My father frowned. This wasn't the reaction he'd been hoping for.

  “He gave me so many hickies,” I said. “But I gave him twice as many.”

  My poor father looked like he regretted bringing up the subject.

  Kyle looked like he might throw up.

  “Stormy, thanks again for coming with me,” Kyle said. “It's more fun to watch a movie with a friend.”

  “And thank you for not wearing that pink V-neck shirt again tonight. I wouldn't have been able to control myself.”

  He self-consciously straightened his shirt, which was a bright white T-shirt from a resort in Mexico. “I didn't turn on my full Esquire look today.”

  “Well, you look very nice, honey,” I said in a gravelly, chain-smoking waitress voice. “I'm sure some day a nice young lady will make an honest man of you.”

  He gave me two thumbs up. My father just shook his head and grumbled, “Still waiting on that beer.”

  I went to the kitchen and got the drinks, as requested.

  Kyle was a number of years younger than me. So young, in fact, that I had been his babysitter once upon a time. I had literally changed his diapers. That detail about our shared personal history was something Captain Milano liked to mention whenever the opportunity arose. Little did he know, he and my father didn't have anything to worry about. I appreciated Kyle Dempsey's good looks the way I appreciated a fine oil painting. Besides, age difference aside, I'd decided at a very young age that I'd never date a cop. The one exception I'd made for Tony had been a huge mistake, and I wouldn't make it again.

  There were over a dozen bottles of beer in the fridge. I took three out and popped off the caps. The beer was from a local microbrewery that my father's dimple-faced prodigy was a fan of. It was a bit too hoppy, and not much better than my father's cheap can of choice, but at least the label was pretty; the logo featured a stag standing majestically in front of Misty Falls.

  When I returned to the living room, both the rookie cop and his retired mentor were enjoying the video on the big screen.

  The video was what my employee had called me about the night before. It was security camera footage of myself and Jessica taking a dunk in the casino's water feature. It hadn't gone viral in the global sense. It certainly wasn't as share-worthy as a Korean pop song with an eye-popping video, or cats stealing dog beds from shame-faced dogs. But the footage had gone viral popular by Misty Falls, Oregon, standards, with over a hundred thousand views and climbing.

  I'd already seen the video more than enough times on my phone, but the resolution was surprisingly good, and there was more to see now on my father's large screen.

  The video started with the scuffle between Michael Sweet and the security guards. There was no audio on the security camera footage, so Michael could have been yelling about anything. I'd been there, so I knew it was hate speech toward the Canuso family and other members of their tribe.

  On the left side of the screen, a dark-haired woman and her red-haired friend rose above the crowd, in front of the fountain. That was yours truly and her partner in crime.

  On the right side of the screen, the crowd parted to afford a perfect shot of Colt handing his jacket to a member of staff. The shot was perfectly framed and told a clear story without a single word. Colt's face was in profile when he sucker-punched Michael Sweet in the guts.

  A split second later, something spooked a few people in the crowd. And then others panicked in a chain reaction, bumping into more people who then realized they were hemmed in by other kids and families and subsequently panicked themselves. Individual people moved chaotically. But to the bird's-eye view of the camera, the movements became part of a larger pattern, not unlike dom
inoes toppling. It was a good lesson in crowd dynamics. The dance was almost beautiful in how natural it was, like a herd of animals responding to a predator in their midst. The crowd swirled, crushed, and rebounded.

  Meanwhile, on the left-hand side of the screen, where I could barely stand to look, the two women standing on the rock wall surrounding the fountain flew into motion. One at a time, they threw their arms in the air as though this was a choreographed flash mob. And down Jessica and I both went, into the swirling water.

  We flailed in the water for an eternity.

  “That's funny,” I said. “I don't remember being in the water for so long.”

  “They've slowed down the video,” Kyle said. “And added hippo noises.”

  “That seems a bit cruel,” I said.

  He turned up the volume on the TV. There was no sound from the event itself, but some clever person had added an audio track of what sounded like a wild animal watering hole in Africa.

  “That's an elephant,” my father said. “Hippos don't bellow like that.”

  “I don't think it's an elephant,” Kyle said. “It might be creature sounds from a King Kong movie.”

  “I know,” my father said triumphantly. “I'd recognize that horrific noise anywhere. When Stormy was a little girl, that was the same sound she'd make when she had to take a bath with her sister.”

  Playing along, Kyle said, “This must be the actual sound from the event that day. Of course. Look how perfectly the sounds match up to Stormy's mouth!”

  I knew when I was beat, so I took a seat on the couch and let them make fun of me.

  After a few plays of the video and more mockery, my father suddenly tilted his reclining chair upright.

  “Back it up,” my father said. “Hit rewind.”

  “There's no rewind,” Kyle said.

  “You know exactly what I mean, Kyle. Don't make me swat your smart butt with a rolled up TV Guide.”

  I grinned at Kyle. “That's not an empty threat.”

  “I know,” Kyle said as he used the controls on his phone to scroll the video back again.

  “Look at Colt's face,” my father said, pointing his finger excitedly. “You can see this very specific look come over him, even as he's mid-punch. I know that expression. It's regret. He's not happy about what he's doing, even at the moment he's doing it.”