Death of a Crafty Knitter (21 page)

"You are not in your uniform." She waved for us to enter. "Come in, come in. No need to freeze."

"I'm not here on official police business," he said. He didn't mention that his lack of uniform was due to him having zero official police business these days. Apparently, Erica knew him, but not well enough to know he'd retired.

Inside, we brushed the snow off our boots on the designated area in the foyer, then followed the maid through the cherry-wood-lined hall, past the regal marble table lined up under a chandelier that was bigger than my car, and on to a sitting room. Following his lead, as he'd advised, I took a seat on a sofa with tufted burgundy upholstery.

The sitting room was not too grand to be cozy. The wood shelves along the perimeter contained books behind glass doors, and a good number of decorative objects, eclectic and probably valuable. Under a pinpoint of brightness supplied by recessed lighting sat what appeared to be a Fabergé egg.

Erica left us there, rushing off to fetch some refreshments.

I leaned over and said to my father, "I forgot how you know half the town. You must have met this maid, Erica, through one of your other cases."

"It was a domestic issue, resolved now."

This sitting room wasn't on the public tour, and for good reason. All the precious objects had to be worth a king's ransom.

My father kept his focus on the room's door, watchful for our suspect.

"Dharma could be anywhere in this huge mansion," I said.

"But that could have been Erica we saw in the third floor window."

"Or maybe another maid. Running down two sets of stairs to answer the door would have had her breathing heavily by the time she reached us, especially in a tall house like this. The ceiling height in here must be twelve feet. Must be nice to be rich."

My father chuckled. "I wouldn't wish this much wealth on my worst enemy."

"Speaking of rich, she said Mr. Koenig isn't here right now, but I'm guessing your plan all along was to talk to the staff, not the uncle?"

"The way you say the word
plan
implies I have one."

"You don't?"

"I have a
process
," he said cryptically. "Never have a
plan
. Plans go wrong."

I nodded, getting the feeling I should be taking notes
. A process is better than a plan, because plans go wrong.

Erica returned with a tray of hot drinks. "Cocoa for your daughter, Mr. Day, because she was freezing."

I took the cup she offered. It was tiny, like from a child's play set. I chalked it up to a weird rich person thing, but when I took a sip of the cocoa, I understood why the serving size was so petite. It was thick, liquid chocolate, rich and creamy, sweet but not too sweet.

Erica asked if the cocoa was warming me up, and I nodded that it was, resisting the urge to jump up and hug her for the incredible treat.

My father reached to his back pocket and withdrew a slim notebook with a pen tucked into its elastic closure. It wasn't one of those fancy leather Moleskine books, but a plain notebook with a thick blue elastic, like the kind you get around broccoli stalks from the grocery store.

"Erica, I'm working on a cold case from a few years back. I know this is a long shot, because you were just a girl at the time, but I wonder if I might pick your brain anyway."

"Oh, Mr. Day, anything for you. What would you like to know?"

"Is it all right for you to talk to me now? Will someone else cover for you if the family needs something?"

"It's okay." She waved her hand in a floppy, relaxed gesture. "Nobody from the family has been here for days."

My father licked his thumb and flipped through the pages of his notepad, appearing to be looking at his notes on the cold case.

"No houseguests?" he asked. "I counted eight cars in the staff parking, out of twelve available spots."

"You're so cute," she said with a laugh. "Always counting things. We have everyone here today for taking down the Christmas decorations. Plus Mr. Koenig returns from Denmark next week, and the interior decorator is here because he wants his room painted the same color as the hotel he's in now. The decorator is so mad, too. She's going crazy. She says the light from the sun here is not like the light in Denmark and the same color is not going to look the same, but she will do it. You can't argue with rich people, you know? That's why they pay you better. So you don't say when they're being—"

She was interrupted by the appearance in the doorway of another dark-haired woman who could have been Erica's older sister. Her eyes were wide and her cheeks looked ashen. She waved for Erica to come talk to her in the hallway.

Erica excused herself, and my father and I waited all of two seconds to get up and tiptoe stealthily to the doorway to listen.

"The police called again," the second woman said. "They asked about Dharma, and they also asked about Mr. Koenig's gun collection."

"So? Why are you bothering me? She hasn't been here since dinner on Christmas Day. Just tell them the truth and they'll leave us alone."

"But the gun collection. Oh, Erica, I'm in so much trouble. I forgot to lock the room on Christmas Day. He wanted to show everyone his new rifles, but then I didn't lock it after he was done. I'm such an idiot. I'm going to get fired, and I'll have to go back to my old job, getting steam burns from the linen press." She made a sharp, gasping sound, then started sobbing.

"There, there." Clothes rustled, and I heard the sound of a back being patted. "I will make you some cocoa when I'm done in here. There's no harm in leaving a room unlocked, as long as…"

The two were quiet for a moment, then lowered their voices to a level where I couldn't make out their words. Shuffling footsteps echoed in the hall as they walked away. I turned to my father with raised eyebrows. He had one hand on his cane and used the other to mime a gun.

The women were well out of range, so we returned to our seats, ready to pretend we'd heard nothing.

My father said to me softly, "Now we know where the murder weapon came from. Dharma slipped into the room where her uncle keeps his collection, and helped herself to a gun. The photo you took wasn't very clear, but I thought the weapon looked antique."

"Antique? That's crazy. Even if it had been kept in a humidity-controlled case and been cleaned, it's an odd choice. Not to mention the fact it would be easily traced back to her if she just left it at the crime scene."

We both sat there in silence for a few minutes, pondering this.

"We're missing something," he said.

"Let's dig deep, then."

Erica returned, apologizing for the interruption.

"I understand someone has stolen a gun from the premises," I said.

Erica's eyes widened, and her hand flew to her mouth. My father looked nearly as surprised by my direct question, but recovered quickly.

"We heard you speaking in the hall," he said. "But to be fair, we have very good hearing. It runs in the Day family."

"We don't want to get in trouble," Erica said.

"I'm sure it's nothing, but since we're here anyway, perhaps I'll just mosey on over and take a look at the gun room, while you prepare a list of everyone who was here for Christmas dinner."

"Okay," Erica said.

Okay?
I gave my father a look that said, for lack of a better description, EEEEEE!

Erica led us out of the sitting room.

My father gave me a look that also said EEEEEE!

Without looking back at us making faces, Erica said, "We just counted, and one of Mr. Koenig's handguns is missing. What's going on, Mr. Day? Is it the gypsy? The one who got killed?" She turned left, leading us down another cherry-wood-paneled hall.

"Ms. Varga's murder is currently an ongoing investigation," he said, neither lying nor being entirely truthful about the legitimacy of our involvement.

"Never cross a gypsy," she said as she led us to a set of stairs.

"Stairs," my father said through gritted teeth. He took a breath. "Actually, this is perfect. I skipped some of my exercises this morning, so now I can catch up."

"We'll take it slow," I said, but he was already five steps ahead of me, admiring the view of Erica's hips.

While we climbed the stairs, Erica kept talking about Voula Varga. "They say her ghost is everywhere. I have all the brooms upside-down by the door at my house. I do not want a visit by her."

"You never struck me as the superstitious type," my father said.

She looked over her shoulder, giving my father a smile that bordered on flirtatious, despite the fact he was twice her age. I looked away, admiring the stairwell's artwork, framed prints of modern art. Were they prints or originals? I wouldn't know, because my degree wasn't in the arts. It wasn't in criminology, either, so I was in way over my head.

The room where
Deiter Koenig kept his weapon collection had not been a part of the annual spring tours of the mansion, and that was a shame, as it would have been far more exciting than the mansion's organic vegetable garden.

And what a weapon room it was. Even my jaw dropped, and I've been to galleries and exclusive private collections around the world.

The room was twenty feet by twenty, with display cases along the walls, thick gold draperies on the windows, and a ten-by-ten display case in the center of the room. Inside the glass case, arranged on staggered plinths of varying heights, were knives, axes, arrowheads, and other ancient tools. Across the low case, on the far wall, were two stunning broadswords.

My father turned left and went to the wall case of pistols, discussing with Erica who would have had access to the room on Christmas Day. As the two talked, I turned right and walked over to the swords. The one on the left was simple in design, and the one on the right looked similar, but fancier, like the movie prop version of the same sword.

The neatly typed note card underneath the swords confirmed exactly what I'd guessed: on the left was the real thing, and the one on the right was a prettier fake that had been used in a movie.

My father continued his casual-sounding questions with Erica, homing in on the information he wanted, while I wandered around the room, admiring the weaponry.

If society were to suddenly collapse under a zombie apocalypse, I would head straight to the Koenig Mansion and its armory. The brain-craving living dead wouldn't stand a chance against this arsenal. And in this apocalyptic scenario, my father's recipe for thirty-minute squirrel stew might come in handy, too.

I wandered over to the arrowheads, turning my head so I could better hear my father's conversation with Erica.

"Most of the guests were from out of town," she said. "Everyone left again right after Christmas, and we didn't do a New Year's celebration here at the house because Mr. Koenig had already left for Denmark."

My father chuckled. "I like how you call this place a
house
."

She stepped in closer to him. "Can I confess something to you?"

My ears practically tingled with interest as I waited to hear Erica's confession.

"We did have a party, but just the staff. All of us were here, except for the two people who don't drink, because they took everyone's kids." She held up both hands in an expression of awe. "We had a wild, wild, wild party in the ballroom. Then everyone slept over and we didn't wake up until past noon the next day."

My father gave me a look, and I knew exactly what he was thinking. The mansion's staff all had solid alibis for the time of the murder. That ruled them out and left us with only Dharma. Things were not looking good for the woman, assuming the police could find her.

My father promised Erica he wouldn't tell anyone about the staff party, then pulled open the glass doors to a display case of pistols. "No locks on these doors. I doubt the perpetrator left any prints." He sniffed the door. "At least none that haven't been cleaned away by Mr. Koenig's hardworking and hard-partying staff."

"What can you tell me about the murder? I know you police aren't supposed to tell people things, but should I be scared? A woman who lived alone was killed. It's just me and my son at my house. I lock the doors and windows, but is that enough?"

"Keep your eyes open," he said. "Plus you can always call me." His voice had taken on a throaty quality.

As my father turned on the charm, I wished I could be anywhere else at that moment. Anywhere. Even trapped in a broken-down car while a horde of brain-craving zombies were closing in, admiring how my short hair revealed the tantalizing shape of my cranium.

"Really? I can call you?" Erica grinned so wide I could see her pearly molars.

I coughed abruptly and shot my father a look.

Erica stepped back and said, "Excuse me. I need paper to write down the names of the people who were here, like you asked." She wrung her hands for a moment, casting her gaze nervously around the room, then turned and left in a swirl of black and white.

"Dad, I don't think there are any clues on the backs of Erica's legs."

"No?"

"Hey, you can charm all the single yummy mommies you want on your own time, and not when we're at a crime scene, operating under the false premise of you still being employed by the Misty Falls Police Department."