Death of a Crafty Knitter (32 page)

He raised his eyebrows higher. "I meant your other errand."

Right. The list of names from Sew It Goes.

"All done."

We said goodbye to the two police officers, then headed back toward the car.

Once we were alone on the sidewalk, I told him about the conversation I'd had with Denise while she was measuring me up for a custom-tailored blouse.

We got into the car, where I showed him the photos I'd taken of the customer receipt book.

"Lots of names in here," he said.

"But there's only one who ordered a shirt in the same tan color as mine. John Lake. That's Dharma's husband. We've been assuming he knows nothing about the shooting because he's the one who reported his wife missing a few days ago, but what if he's playing everyone?"

"He wasn't at the Christmas dinner at the mansion, though. Or was he?" He reached for his phone. "Erica would know."

I looked up the address for Dharma's husband while my father called the maid from the Koenig Mansion. He flirted for a few minutes, then asked about Mr. Lake.

"Interesting," he said, then went on to ask Erica about her home security measures. This went on for a while.

He ended the call and turned to me. "Mr. Lake wasn't feeling well that night, but Erica says he always comes down with something right before mansion events. It's been so long since she's seen him, she's forgotten what he looks like." He put on his seatbelt. "Let's go pay Mr. Lake a visit."

"Not so fast. We should check in with our employer and tell him what we've found so far. I don't even know if John Lake knows his wife is staying at my house. We don't want to blow her cover."

My father groaned with impatience, but waved his hand for me to go ahead. Rather than drop in unexpected, I called first.

A woman answered, "Logan Sanderson's office. How may I help you?"

"I need to speak with Logan, please. This is Stormy Day."

"Mr. Sanderson is not available, Ms. Day. I'll let him know you called. What shall I put on the subject line?"

"Hot water."

"And? Is this regarding a specific case?"

"Nope," I lied.

She repeated back my number and ended the call.

I explained to my father that Logan had his cell phone forwarded to either his office or an answering service. Then I verbally debated our next move, and whether we should visit the house, or wait to hear from Logan, or turn ourselves and the button in to the police, or any number of possible choices.

"It's a setup," my father said excitedly.

"Were you even listening to me?"

"John Lake set up his wife for murder, so he could get rid of her. I don't know the man, but let's say he married Dharma thinking he'd get his hands on her uncle's fortune, but recently he's given up on trying to ingratiate himself with the in-laws and he just wants out."

"Wouldn't divorce be easier?"

My father gave me a one-shoulder shrug. "Sometimes you ask a woman to leave, and she won't go. Let's go pay him a visit and take his temperature, so to speak."

I checked the address and started the car. "I've got a bad feeling about this."

"Eat your smoked meat sandwich." He picked up the paper bag and shook it at me.

"I don't eat in the car," I said as I pulled out onto the street. "Don't look at me like that. It messes up the interior, and it's a dirty habit, plus it's bad for digestion."

He opened the bag and rolled half of it back to expose the sloppy smoked meat trying to escape its poppy-seed bagel, then set the thing on the dashboard in front of me.

"Don't be fussy, Stormy. Detectives eat in their car. Eat, sleep, conduct meetings, you name it. I knew this tough old bird who gave birth to her son in her car, on stakeout. She cut the cord with her pocket knife, tucked the little guy into her shirt, he latched right on, and she went back to surveillance."

I rolled my eyes at his tall tale, but the sandwich did smell good. I reluctantly grabbed it and munched away while we drove to the Lake residence.

We stood on the porch of the Lakes' house. It was a small blue rancher, much like the other houses along the street. We'd prepared a cover story, but I had to fight the urge to giggle nervously while waiting for Mr. Lake to open the door.

Sometimes when I'm overwhelmed, I start to giggle like a maniac. The more I try to control myself, the funnier it gets.

As soon as John Lake opened the door, my urge to giggle dissipated.

He looked to be about my father's age, but with a sickly pale face and sweat glistening on his brow. He nodded along while my father gave him the spiel about how we were considering buying a house up the street and wanted to know what the neighborhood was like.

He mumbled one-word answers to our questions about schools and safety. When we got to the part where I was supposed to ask if I could use his washroom, my father gave me the signal, and I said, "Thanks for the information. Maybe we'll see you around. Goodbye!"

He grunted an acknowledgement, shuffled back into his home, and closed the door.

My father gave me a stern look.

"What? It's not him," I said.

"I know you're thinking that old fart couldn't be the one, but trust me on this one. Guilt can look a lot like grief, and people who lie about one thing can lie about another."

"That poor man. He's probably devastated, with his wife missing and suspected of murder."

"Stormy, I never told you this job was easy."

"No, you didn't." I knocked on the door. "Let's try again."

I put on my sweetest smile, waiting for John Lake to return.

He didn't, so I knocked again, louder this time.

We waited another minute, and I started to get annoyed, because I hadn't used the washroom at Sew It Goes, and I'd had a lot of coffee that morning, and I really did need the facilities.

My father walked to the edge of the step and leaned over to look in the man's front room window. "I think he's passed out on the floor," he reported back. "Did you smell alcohol on his breath?"

"No, but he had a medical alert bracelet." I joined my father in peering through the window. We couldn't see much—just legs on the floor, extending from behind an interior wall. "Did he seem confused to you? He was pale and sweaty. Diabetic?"

"I saw a tremble in his hands. He's either passed out, or gone into a hypoglycemic coma. A married man like him probably counts on his wife to let him know when his blood sugar's getting low. She's not around, so he doesn't know how to look after himself."

I had my phone in my hands. "Ambulance?"

He shook his head. "We'll break the door down." He hobbled over to the edge of the step to get a good run at it, with his cane and everything.

"Let's try the handle first." I easily opened the unlocked door before Finnegan Day, the one-man battering ram, could throw himself through it.

John Lake was diabetic after all, and had slipped into shock. It was a good thing we'd been there. The paramedics gave him a glucagon injection and revived him. He said he was feeling better, but they insisted on bringing him down to the hospital anyway.

The paramedics kept congratulating us for being there, and thinking fast, but I only felt worse with every bit of praise.

It was my fault Mr. Lake was in such bad shape. Not my fault, exactly, but because of me. If I hadn't gone to the junkyard and tipped the police off about the van, they wouldn't have made her a suspect. The couple would be having lunch together right now, if not for my meddling.

My stomach pushed acid up, giving me pain in my chest. I surreptitiously raided the Lakes' medicine cabinet for some antacid. My heartburn was either from stress, or gobbling down a smoked meat sandwich while driving. Either way, it was a message from my body that this investigation stuff had consequences.

As they loaded Mr. Lake into the ambulance, the older paramedic joked around with my father, who knew most of the local first responders. The two were on such good terms that the paramedic didn't even question why we'd been there, or why we were volunteering to stay behind in the house to make sure all the appliances were safely turned off.

I watched the ambulance drive away, and silently promised Mr. Lake I would do what I could to get his wife home. Unless he was missing a mother-of-pearl button from a tan shirt.

Left alone in the home, my father and I got to work quickly. Well, I used the washroom, and then we got to work.

"You're not allowed to impersonate a police officer," I told him. "It's part of the rules for investigators. If people don't know you're retired now, and you don't tell them you are, that might get us in trouble."

My father led the way to the master bedroom and opened the closet. "Someone's been thinking about her research. Does that mean you've decided?"

"I don't know. At the moment, I'm kind of focused on finding a tan shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons."

"Like this?" He pulled the shirt from the closet.

Despite the gravity of the situation, seeing the shirt we'd been looking for made me happy. I jumped up and down, clapping my hands like I'd just won the first round on a game show called
Find the Killer's Shirt and Win Huge Prizes
.

We both inspected the shirt and let out a shared groan of disappointment at the result. This custom-tailored tan shirt still had all of its buttons, and the fabric underneath was in pristine condition. If a button had been ripped off this shirt, a genie had magically repaired the tear.

We searched through the closet thoroughly, then checked the clothes hamper, plus the washer and dryer. From the look of it, Mr. Lake hadn't done laundry since his wife's disappearance. We found several custom-made shirts from Sew It Goes, but none with missing buttons, let alone missing buttons ripped from tan fabric.

Since we were in the house already, we took a look around. We found several days' worth of unwashed dishes, but nothing suspicious, and nothing that would lead us to believe Mr. Lake was anything other than a man who was terribly lost without his wife.

And what a wife she was.

From the framed photos on the walls, to the inspirational signs and decorative angels placed throughout the home, Dharma was clearly someone who believed in kindness, goodness, and karma.

My heart sank low at the idea of her being carted off to jail, her husband devastated and alone. My father might have been feeling the same way, because he didn't have much to say, not even one of his wisecracks.

We turned off all the lights and left the house.

Back in the car, we both checked our phones. In all the excitement, I'd forgotten about the message I'd left for Logan with his secretary.

He'd sent me a text message:
Urgent. Please meet me at the house to discuss the hot water tank.

I showed my father the message, and we drove to my house in silence.

Something bad was going down. I could taste it.

Chapter 31

Parking in my driveway
and then walking to my tenant's side instead of my own felt familiar yet unsettling, like brushing your teeth with your non-dominant hand.

Logan opened his door and waved both of us in without a word. His place was dark for the daytime, all the curtains presumably pulled shut for privacy.