Death of a Crafty Knitter (19 page)

It took me twenty minutes to compose a long message explaining exactly where he could go, what he could do to himself, and the clothes he could wear while he did it. I didn't send the message, though. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my father exiting the police station, and that gave me an idea.

I deleted the wordy message, then randomly selected a string of picture icons, including plants, animals, food. I hit send on the cryptic message and chuckled to myself.

Good luck figuring that one out, Christopher.

Finnegan Day got into the passenger seat. "Ooh, nice and warm. I do like this business of having a personal driver."

"That's all I am to you?"

"We'll discuss your official title during the annual review."

"Thanks. How'd it go in there? And don't tell me what everyone thought about the donuts. Cut to the chase for once."

"Those young guys." He shook his head. "They didn't even pretend they had leads on the case. I had to get out of there before they all kissed me in gratitude."

"Are you serious? They're going to look at Dharma's van?"

"Some of the crime scene guys are driving out already. Poor Gene will have to get out of bed before noon and let them in."

"Will they know right away about the residue?"

"With one of the test kits, yes. There are some other tests that get sent out to the lab, but a positive with the on-site kit will be enough to bring Dharma in for questioning. Tony stopped by the Fox and Hound yesterday and interviewed her about throwing the drink. He said she seemed nervous, in retrospect. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, as they say."

"It was definitely her van at the wreckers?"

He grimaced. "Yes, unfortunately." He rubbed his hands together. "Do you have any plans for the rest of the day? Can we run some errands?"

I started backing out of the parking spot. "Your driver is booked for the whole day. Your wish is my command."

He listed off some stores that wouldn't even be open yet, then said the name of a restaurant where we could get breakfast. My stomach growled, the sugary donut long gone.

I drove toward the restaurant, half listening as he talked about how much bacon he was going to order.

My heart felt heavy in my chest. As proud as I was of our work, I hoped the test on the van's steering wheel would come up negative.

"When will you find out the test results?" I asked. "Do we have to wait for tomorrow's newspaper and town gossip, or do you have an old buddy there who'll leak it to you?"

"Dimples—I mean Kyle—is going to keep in touch."

I shot my father a look. "You're going to get him in trouble."

"Oh, and you aren't going to get him in trouble? I heard you were"—he made air quotes with his fingers—"
helping
Kyle search the crime scene."

"What are you implying? What are people at the station saying?" I held my hand up between us. "Never mind. I don't want to know. Whatever other people choose to think about me is their business, not mine."

My father and
I had a quiet breakfast, then ran some errands that included getting a new area rug to put in the living room. Home decor shopping with my father was a learning experience. I had no idea my father knew the difference between teal and aquamarine, let alone that he had strong opinions about which color looked more "modern."

His new teal rug was too long to fit in my car without bending the roll, which the salesman advised against, so we would have to strap it to the roof of my car. The store offered us free delivery, but Finnegan Day, and his Hobo Pride in doing things himself on the cheap, wouldn't accept free delivery.

"Hobo Pride is not about being cheap," he said as he tossed me the coil of yellow rope through the interior of the car. "Being self-sufficient is an admirable trait. That's why people watch those TV shows about the zombies. The shows are mostly trash, blah-blah relationship talking, but sometimes they'll show something useful, like how to make a stew using just a squirrel and whatever you have on hand, in under thirty minutes." He continued looping the rope through the windows, front and back. "Or maybe I'm thinking of the cooking channel. Hmm. Have you ever had squab?"

"Squab? That sounds like something Christopher would order at one of his beloved fancy restaurants."

"Well, don't eat it," my father said. "Unless you like pigeon." He tied a knot in the rope, then pointed across the street behind me. "I need a new computer. A laptop."

"Why?" I turned to follow his gaze to Misty Microchips across the street. Was he serious? His old computer looked and sounded like it might catch on fire during startup, but his Hobo Pride meant he'd wait for the implosion before upgrading.

Could the private investigator application—the one he still hadn't mentioned—have something to do with this sudden interest in a laptop?

"Do you really want a new computer?" I asked. "Why now?"

"They're having a sale."

He started toward the computer store, looking both ways before crossing at the middle of the street. I ran after him, surprised yet again. First the interest in teal rugs and laptops, and now Finnegan Day was jaywalking.

Wonders never cease!

The computer store
was clean and bright. Some teenagers came in right after me and headed straight to the game section.

I hadn't seen the owners, Marvin and Marcy, since New Year's Eve.

Marcy gave us a friendly greeting, making me feel guilty about not returning the phone call from her—the one that I'd forgotten about until that very moment.

"So nice to see you," Marcy said warmly. Her gold-brown eyes had a bright gleam under the store's lights, and her sandy brown hair looked freshly styled, with copper highlights.

"You look healthy," I said. "Getting lots of fresh air walking Stanley?"

She laughed and started telling me how she felt like a whole new person, thanks to some new resolutions.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched my father head straight for the most expensive laptops and dive right in without waiting for help. Within seconds, Marvin was at my father's side, patiently smiling and ready to ring up a laptop or two.

I wondered if selling one computer a day made their sales quota, or if they had to sell several just to pay the rent. I knew how razor-thin the margins on computers were. My gift store probably made as much profit on a set of napkin rings as the computer store did on a laptop sale. The real money was in the computer accessories—the little charging cords, foam cases, and sticker doodads that have a triple markup.

Over by the laptops, my father was gesturing wildly. Was he describing the recent explosion and demise of his old computer? If the
tough old bird
—as he called her—had expired, that would explain his need for a new one.

The teens in the games section were making just enough noise that I couldn't hear what my father was saying, but I did hear Marvin exclaim, "Really? That's cool! So cool!"

Not cool
, I thought. If he was telling Marvin about his private investigator business before he told me, he could ride home strapped to the roof of the car, next to his new teal rug.

Marcy giggled. "He's been so wonderful lately. So attentive and affectionate."

"Who?" I asked, confused. I hadn't been paying much attention, but she was gazing with adoration at her husband, who'd I'd only witnessed being attentive to his wine, and affectionate toward, well, his wine. Those two secretly hated each other. She had to be talking about their dog.

She came out from behind the glass display counter and grabbed my forearm like we were high school girls talking in the hall about our crushes. "He wrote me a poem and read it to me."

"That's… wow. A poem." So, we were talking about Marvin after all, and not the couple's cute but needy Labradoodle.

The door jingled as the teens who'd been looking at the games walked out, chattering about who would spring for a round of frozen slushy drinks.

Now it was just the four of us in the computer store, and judging by the way Marvin was hustling past me toward the stock room, my father's business was nearly finished. It irked me that he'd selected an expensive laptop in less time than he'd taken that morning to decide on his pancake topping.

Marcy was still chattering about romance and date nights. I smiled as I nodded along. There was a pause, and she asked if I was feeling okay.

"Sorry, I'm a bit spaced out," I said. "I've got a lot on my mind."

"Has her ghost done anything for you?"

Now Marcy had my attention. "Ghost? What?"

She still had her hand on my forearm, and squeezed it now. "Everyone's talking about it. Voula's ghost. She's been granting people's wishes from beyond the other side." Marcy grinned. "You should try making a wish and see what happens. Send her an email, and she might email back."

"Someone's been emailing people from Voula Varga's account?" I wondered if the police knew about this, and if it would stop once they had the matchmaking waitress in custody.

"Not just someone. It's her." She let go of my arm and stepped away to help Marvin ring up my father's new purchase.

As I watched her compliment my father on his excellent taste in laptops, then try to sell him the extended warranty—
good luck with that, Marcy
—I wondered if the woman was on some new medication with interesting side effects. Perhaps she was taking the dog's antidepressant pills.

Marvin switched places with Marcy behind the counter and came over to talk to me. "I hear you're having a fun shopping day with your father. Tell me the truth. Is he driving you crazy, or is this a good bonding experience?"

"Apparently, he likes teal."

"That explains why he wanted the laptop with the teal case."

I looked over at Marcy, who was pitching the extended warranty hard. Neither of them were paying any attention to us.

"What did he say to you?" I asked as I turned back toward Marvin. "Did he tell you why he wanted the laptop?"

Marvin waggled his eyebrows. "Wouldn't you like to know?" For a man in his forties, Marvin was acting strangely juvenile, almost stranger than his wife with her ghost stories. I switched to a new theory about the dog medication: Marcy was grinding up so-called "happy-dog pills" and hiding them in Marvin's food.

"How about you?" Marvin asked. "Are you in need of any upgrades?" He waggled his eyebrows again, and this time he let his brown eyes take a detour down the front of my body. Huskily, he said, "I do house calls, so if you'd like me to stop by your place sometime and do a private assessment of
your needs
, just call me and we'll make that happen."

"Uh, thanks."
And please stop being gross. Please stop right now, Marvin.

"We can make lots of things happen," he said.

"No, thank you."

I moved away from Marvin, toward the ring of safety within my father's hearing range. If I'd been ten years younger, I might have continued naively talking to Marvin, excusing his behavior as just harmless joking. But I was thirty-three, and I'd had enough life experience to know that "I was just joking" is what a man says only after you've called him on his lascivious behavior. If Marcy wasn't such a nice woman, I might have done something dramatic, right then and there.

My father gathered up his new laptop and we walked out of the store. I shook my arms, trying to rid myself of the slime residue from Marvin.

We paused on the sidewalk while my father pulled out his phone to check for messages or missed calls.

"Bingo," he said, then handed me his phone.

There was a text message from Kyle Dempsey, whose contact info my father had programmed in as
Kyle Dimples-Dempsey
.

Kyle Dimples-Dempsey
: Good news. Nitrocellulose on the steering wheel of the van. Bad news. Suspect has fled town. Her husband seems as shocked as anyone. He called in a Missing Persons report this morning. My gut says he's telling the truth. He doesn't know where she is or what she's done.

"That was fast," I said. "Do you think Dharma's rich uncle is helping her disappear?"

"We could pay him a visit and ask."

I laughed, because I thought he was joking, but his brown eyes didn't waver.