Death of a Batty Genius (Stormy Day Mystery #3) (2 page)

“Bygones.” He nodded. “Now we need to find your friend. He’s scared of me, so I’ll stand back and keep an eye on the perimeter of the parking lot, especially the side along the main road, and you go check between the rows of cars. I’ll holler if I see anything.”

“That’s a solid plan. I can tell you’ve done this often.” He looked confused, so I asked, “As a forest-dwelling cannibal, do you always play catch-and-release with your human prey?”

“Only when they run.” He leaned over me and growled, “Spoiler alert: They always run.”

I shied away, pretending to be terrified, then began my patrol, looking for my crazed former fiancé. I rubbed my arms as I checked between the rows of vehicles. We’d left the restaurant in a hurry, so I wasn’t wearing my winter coat. The parking lot had a row of trees on one side as a wind break, but it didn’t stop the breeze coming from the other direction.

“Christopher,” I called through chattering teeth. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

The silence that followed chilled me even deeper than the night air. I walked faster, searching as fast as I could in my dress and heels.

As the minutes passed, the gravity of the situation set in, and I began to panic. Christopher had been sopping wet with sweat, and wearing only a lightweight blazer. If we didn’t find him soon, he could be in danger.

And, on top of everything, I couldn’t shake the sensation I was being watched, from high above.

Suddenly, something moved at the edge of my vision. At the same instant, my right foot hit a patch of ice, and I started to fall.

Chapter 2
 

In Misty Falls,
there’s a colorful expression for falling down. Just saying it takes away some of the sting.

When I slipped on the ice, I went
tail over teakettle, dumping crumpets everywhere
.

Flat on my back, the wind knocked out of me, I could do no more than stare up at the night sky, noting the feathery halo of multiple rings around the moon. Bad weather was coming.

I rolled my head to the side and found a benefit to my predicament—a bug’s eye view of the parking lot. I easily spotted Christopher’s retro-style Vans sneakers, three cars over.

I got to my feet and snuck up behind Christopher. He was squatting and nibbling on a purloined bread roll, holding it with two hands, in the manner of a squirrel.

“Hey, there,” I said softly. “Aren’t you cold?”

He looked up and began to shiver, as though he hadn’t realized it was chilly until my question.

I dusted some twigs off his blazer and got him standing just as Logan trotted up, looking worried after seeing my fall.

Christopher flinched, about to bolt again, so I grabbed his hand and locked my fingers between his.

Over on the main road, a police cruiser with lights flashing drove by, followed by an ambulance, and another cruiser. To my relief, they kept going, off to another call, and not coming to arrest Christopher for causing a disturbance and petty theft of baked goods.

Logan, keeping his distance, led us over to his SUV truck. He opened the rear door for us, then jumped in up front to get the engine and heater running. “I’ll be back after I run back in to pay the bill,” he said. “We don’t need to get charged by the police for a dine-and-dash.”

“Thanks for the fun dinner,” I said.

After Logan was gone, Christopher relaxed, curling up with his body on the seat and his head on my lap.

Despite my annoyance at his chaotic interruption of my life, I found myself smoothing his wavy, light brown hair, and rubbing his back.

In addition to his beloved white-soled Vans sneakers, he wore gray jeans and a blazer over one of his favorite button-down shirts. The shirts weren’t custom-made, but they did come from a boutique company that secured its first round of financing by crowdsourcing on the internet, before partnering with Fairchild Capital. The shirt’s fabric looked like a weave, but stretched like a knit, and was made of a wrinkle-resistant material that wicked away moisture. Christopher was dry already.

“These shirts really are durable,” I said, unsure if he could hear me. “I can see why you like them. I kept a sample of one of the women’s models, but I can never figure out what looks right with what.”

He didn’t stir. The interior of the vehicle was silent, except for the sound of the heaters on full blast. Christopher’s eyes were closed, but not clenched, and I sensed he was listening to me.

I continued, “Lately I’ve been buying entire outfits off store mannequins. How decadent is that?”

He answered, “You and those ugly cut-off denim shorts. And the army boots. You need to take off your dirty army boots if you want to sit on the bed.”

“What army boots?” I was wearing heels that matched my dress. But many years ago, I had worn a beloved pair of Doc Martens boots all through Europe, including the night Christopher and I first met.

“Take off the boots and you can sit on my bed,” he said.

He was hallucinating, remembering the evening we met. I gently asked him to tell me where we were.

He snorted. “We’re in the hotel, silly. The Lancaster Hotel.”

“And what are we doing?”

“Not much. My cousin’s in the bath with your two friends, and I got ditched with you.” Softer, he added, “But I don’t mind. Underneath all that dark makeup, I think you’re pretty.”

“Christopher, if we’re really in the Lancaster Hotel in Paris right now, can you tell me my name?”

“You said it’s Stacy, but I think you’re lying. You’re not really a Stacy.”

I silently mouthed a
wow
to myself. Whatever drug he’d taken, it was giving him uncanny powers of recall.

He adjusted his position and wrapped one arm around my legs possessively. “Sleep here at the hotel tonight. It’s getting late, not safe for you to travel back to whatever bed-bug-infested hostel you’re slumming at. Stay with me, and we’ll order room service in the morning.”

“Room service,” I mused. Buttery, flaky croissants. Fresh strawberries. Bowl-sized lattes. All served on gleaming silver trays in the luxury suite.

Backpacking across Europe had taken a turn for the glamorous when I met Christopher and his cousin at a rock concert in Paris. The band playing was from Japan and played American Rockabilly music. I was traveling with two other young women, and the five of us danced all night. We left together, with Christopher’s cousin promising us secret access to the catacombs under the city.

We never did find the entrance to the catacombs, but—conveniently enough—we did end up near enough to the guys’ hotel to make a “pit stop.”

My thirty-three-year-old self would see right through their plot, but I was young and eager then, with all the wide-eyed wonder of a small-town girl with more enthusiasm than money.

So, while Christopher’s cousin did some very French things with my two travel companions on the other side of the washroom door, Christopher and I watched dubbed American movies from the eighties. He even let me sit on the bed—after I’d removed the offending army boots.

When the sun came up, we awoke fully clothed, spooning on top of the covers. I said good morning, he declared that I was more beautiful than all of Paris in the sunshine, and we kissed for the first time.

“No,” Christopher groaned from my lap, tugging me out of the sunny memory and back into the dark truck.

“No,” he moaned again.

“Shh. You’re just having a bad trip.” I smoothed his fine hair, which had gotten damp and curly at the temples. “You took mushrooms again, didn’t you? After you swore you wouldn’t.”

The driver’s side door opened, and Logan slid in with a pocket of cold air. He looked back at Christopher, who still had his head in my lap.

“Keep him just like that,” Logan said. “If he throws up, it’ll be on your lap and not my leather seats.”

“He’s feeling calmer now,” I said crisply. “Thanks for asking.”

Logan handed back my jacket as well as his, both of which I draped over Christopher.

“Where to?” Logan asked. “We should blow this popsicle stand before Captain Milano shows up to handcuff me to a freight train leaving town.” He put the engine in gear. “Did your friend happen to tell you where he’s staying?”

I patted Christopher’s pockets, then dug inside and located his keys, phone, wallet, and a gas station receipt, but no sign of a hotel pass card or motel key.

With a formal air, I announced, “Mr. Fairchild will be staying at our place.”

Logan chuckled.

“Are you laughing at me, Mr. Sanderson?”

“Not at all. It’s just… I like it when you say ‘our place.’ I don’t know why.”

I let out an amused huff. “It’s because that duplex is a fantastic investment property in an up-and-coming neighborhood.”

He glanced back over his shoulder, blue eyes twinkling. “That must be why.” He turned around, stepped on the gas, and pointed us toward home.

During the drive, Christopher relaxed even more, rocked by the gentle motion. Whatever he’d taken, I hoped he’d learned his lesson.

We pulled into the wide driveway, next to my car, then Logan came around to get Christopher. He picked him up easily and cradled him in his arms—which was what we should have done at the restaurant. Seeing this really drove home how big and strong Logan was, especially compared to my former partner.

Logan crunched through the snow, carrying Christopher diagonally across the lawn, past my side of the duplex and on toward his own door.

I asked where he was going, and Logan explained, “I’ve got a spare bedroom, and you don’t. Your friend can sleep it off on my side.”

“He’ll probably irritate you as soon as he wakes up.”

“I’ll consider myself forewarned. Forewarned is forearmed.” He hoisted Christopher to get a better grip. “Would you open the door for me? My keys are in my front pocket.”

“Sure thing, boss.” I reached into the pocket of Logan’s trousers. The funny thing was, I’d not had a second thought about rooting around in Christopher’s jeans, but touching Logan’s hip-front pocket area gave me the giggles.

It was all I could do to keep a straight face while we got inside. We held Christopher between us as though he were a limp marionette so we could walk him down the hall and into the spare room’s pull-out bed.

Logan went looking for a thermometer while I coaxed Christopher to sip a glass of water. His temperature was normal, so after a quick consult with Doctor Internet, we decided to let him sleep off his bad trip under Logan’s supervision.

“He’s going to be obnoxious when he wakes up,” I said.

“Forewarned,” Logan replied.

“He’ll probably demand room service and a monogrammed bath robe.”

“Get out of here before I change my mind.”

I thanked him for everything, then left and ran along the shoveled walkway to my side, where I flung open the door. I was already laughing in anticipation of telling Jessica about my crazy night.

“Jessica?”

The lights were all on, but nobody answered.

I found my gray cat on my bed, but my redheaded roommate and best friend wasn’t in her usual nest of blankets on the couch, nor was she in her bedroom, the bathroom, or even in the basement laundry room. I sat on her bed and called her phone with mine. I followed the ringtone to the empty kitchen. Jessica’s phone, which rarely left her side, sat on the kitchen countertop.

The phone did its vibration dance next to the blender and two empty glasses, dirty with the residue of a thick drink.

Two glasses. A smoothie.

My energy surged as I connected the dots.

I ran to my bedroom, changed out of my dress and into jeans and a sweater, pulled on some sturdy boots and a heavy jacket, then ran out the front door, calling Jessica’s name.

She didn’t answer. At least her car was still parked there. If she was on foot, that was a good thing. I knew where to find her.

I didn’t even stop to tell Logan where I was going. I just headed straight for the ravine that lay past the park.

I clenched my fists, punching the air as I alternated between walking and running. Why hadn’t I thought about Jessica earlier and called to check on her?

Christopher must have gotten the name of the restaurant from someone. He’d mentioned a smoothie, and now it was clear she could have been drugged in the same way.

I should have asked him more about the smoothie, and who else he’d given one to. Being thorough is the domain of the private investigator. But anyone can do research. It takes a good detective to look at a situation, then use logic and reasoning to work forward, backward, onward, and inward.

If my father, who’d been mentoring me on my way to get my private investigator’s license, could see me jogging toward the ravine right now, panting desperately, he’d have advice.

He’d say something like,
Stormy, let’s take the Batmobile. I don’t care if the Queen of England and all her corgis have gone missing. I’m not running anywhere. Hip surgery, remember? I’ll let you drive while I eat this pulled pork sandwich and get sauce and coleslaw all over your car interior. Don’t make that face. A real detective eats in her car. And since you drink so much coffee, you should start saving up empty mayonnaise jars. Did I ever tell you about Detective ‘Sun Tea’ McAdams?