In contrast, Mick was nearly unanimously thought to be a controlling jerk who ruled Kara with an iron fist, had no interest in Kayla, and had been happy she would be moving out completely in a month. Still, no one could think of any reason for him to kill his stepdaughter.
It was nearly seven thirty when Skye felt a wave of exhaustion hit her. She’d been on the go for more than twelve hours and had not eaten since noon. She needed a break and a candy bar. Making her way to a sofa situated off to the side of the row of folding chairs, she sat down, prepared to intervene if any of the remaining teenagers needed comforting. So far, although Kayla’s friends had been sad, none had become hysterical, but it took only one to set off all the rest.
Skye settled back, relieved to be off her feet, and fished a Kit Kat from her tote bag. She had spoken briefly with Simon, but he’d had no new information about Xavier, who had the night off.
Nevertheless, as Skye bit into the chocolate-covered wafer, something was bugging her. Something Hugo had said had pertained to Xavier. But what was it? Finally she stopped trying to think of it, hoping it would come to her after she had a good night’s sleep.
CHAPTER 21
All the King’s Men
Saturday afternoon, Skye arrived at Tales and Treats early for the store’s first author event. She was eager to meet a real live novelist, as well as intent on talking to Risé about her previous job. Wally had agreed that since Skye had established a rapport with the shop owner, she would be the best one to approach Risé regarding her past and to ask her if any locals had lost money when her employer went to jail.
A chat with Xenia was also on Skye’s to-do list. She didn’t believe for a minute that the girl was really working at the store to earn a salary. Xenia’s true motivation had to be something more Machiavellian.
As per Skye’s usual luck, both Risé and Xenia were busy with customers when she stepped through the door. Frustrated, she walked over to a rack of greeting cards near the register. From this location she could watch and seize whatever opportunity arose to speak to either woman.
Skye was giggling over a humorous birthday card featuring a black cat wearing a tiara when a commotion near the entrance drew her attention. Curious, she looked over her shoulder, blinked several times, then froze, unable to believe her eyes.
Oh, my gosh! What were the Dooziers doing at a book signing? They weren’t a family that generally valued the written word, nor did they attend many of Scumble River’s social occasions. So, what in the heck were they doing here? Spelling not being their long suit, had they supposed that a store with “tales” in its name sold hunting dogs? Or maybe, because beer was the ultimate delicacy, they figured that the “treats” part had to mean a bar?
Earl Doozier, the patriarch, led his brood straight through the middle of the store. Tattoos covered most of his body, and he usually wore shorts and a tank top so everyone could enjoy them. But today he had on overalls, a corduroy blazer with leather elbow patches, and a limp fedora with a chunk missing from the brim. Skye wondered whether one of his hounds, or possibly one of his offspring, had taken a bite out of it.
Following him like reluctant ducklings were his son Junior, his nephew Cletus, and his twelve-year-old daughter Bambi. All three of the kids’ sullen expressions matched that of the woman who brought up the rear.
Earl’s wife, Glenda, was clad in a denim miniskirt that showed her butt cheeks with every step she took and a red T-shirt that had been ripped open and tied back together just under her breasts. Skye thought the high-heeled purple cowboy boots were a nice touch.
Glenda’s chalk white skin and heavily made-up face caused her to look more corpselike than any cadaver Skye had ever seen in a casket. Topping off this fashion disaster was a head of poorly dyed-blond hair that had been styled into an elaborately teased tower that soared a good two feet in the air. By comparison, the six-inch feather earrings and daggerlike fuchsia fingernails seemed almost ladylike.
Skye had dealt with most of the Dooziers in the years she had been the Scumble River school psychologist. They had a family tree full of stunted twigs and thorny branches, but in a funny way, she counted them among her friends. Maybe not pals she’d go to the movies and dinner with, but allies she could count on.
With that in mind, and not wanting them to stumble into any trouble or get their feelings hurt, Skye replaced the greeting card she’d been reading in the rack, pasted a smile on her face, and sprinted over to the Dooziers. Better she find out right now why they were there, and be prepared, than wait for something to happen. Where Dooziers went, trouble usually followed.
“Hi.” Skye popped up in front of the family, halting their march to the front counter. “Everyone recovered from the big wedding?” She had attended Earl’s younger brother’s nuptials last June. It had been quite a sight. A couple dozen beer cans, a wire-hanger arch, and a cement-filled kiddie pool had transformed their backyard into a chapel. The reception had been held next to a rusted-out pickup decorated with plastic flowers and NASCAR flags.
“Miz Skye. It was the bestest ever.” Earl smiled broadly, revealing several missing teeth.
“How are Elvis and his new bride doing?”
“Those two are as happy as two flies in a spit cup. Mavis’s gonna pop out the kid any second now.”
“Great.” Skye slid a glance at Earl’s wife. They hadn’t been on the best of terms since their first meeting, when Skye had tried to offer some parenting tips to the bleached blonde. “Hello, Glenda.”
Glenda had been giving her version of the Doozier Death Stare to a trio of women whose heads were bent close together as they gossiped in low voices, occasionally sneaking quick peeks at Earl and his family. But she focused her attention back on Skye and said, “Hey.” Her voice was like a squeaky hinge. “How’d your kinfolk’s hitchin’ go?”
“Pretty well.” Skye wasn’t about to go into what had happened at her cousin’s platinum affair. “I’m sure it wasn’t half as fun as Elvis’s.”
“I heard it was a hot mess.” Earl snickered.
Skye opened her mouth to protest, but Glenda stepped between them.
Standing chest to nose with her husband—Earl being barely five feet and Glenda a good ten inches taller— she said over her shoulder to Skye, “Don’t pay him no attention. He likes to speak his mind, which makes the conversation pretty damn short.”
“Hey!” Earl wrinkled his brow, apparently trying to figure out exactly how he’d been insulted. “It ain’t right sayin’ stuff like that about your man.”
“You can dress a pig up,” Glenda said with a shrug, “but that don’t make him king of the prom.”
Earl snorted, chewing tobacco shooting from his mouth and spraying the front of his wife’s shirt. As he continued to snigger, Glenda’s face turned red.
She grabbed him by the lapels and warned, “You better pray that comes out.”
Skye raised a brow. She had no idea the Dooziers were so religious.
“Don’t be a dumb-ass,” Earl sputtered. “You got no call to be getting so huffy. I should—”
Glenda interrupted him. “I’m goin’ home now, and after I wash my shirt, I’m gonna take a nap, so you better be mighty quiet when you get back.”
“You know, Glenda,” Skye called after her, “it’s not a good idea to go to sleep mad.”
Glenda ignored Skye and kept walking, but Earl said, “You is right, Miz Skye. I always stays awake to plots my revenge.” Skye had no idea how to respond to that statement, so she didn’t, and Earl continued. “I ain’t got time for all this social chitchat. I needs ta talk ta that lady about my book.” He pointed to Risé, who was bagging a sale for a young woman with a baby strapped to her back.
“Your book?” Skye was surprised that Earl wanted to buy a book. “Which one do you want? Is it a hardcover or a paperback? Maybe I can find it for you.”
“Not one that’s already wrote.” Earl puffed out his chest. “The one I’m gonna write. Junior looked on the Inte
rnet and it says how anyone can write a book and publish it theyself, and make lots of money sellin’ it.” He elbowed the redheaded teenage boy behind him. “Right, Junior?”
“Yeah, Pa.” The boy rubbed his ribs. “It said all the bookstores would be glad ta sell it for you and give you the money.”
“You’re planning to write a book, publish it, and have Tales and Treats sell it for you?” Skye felt a tic start underneath her left eye as she tried to find a diplomatic way to say, Are you freaking kidding me? She knew Earl was all foam, no beer, but this was bad even for him. “Um, what is your book going to be about?”
“Me and my kinfolk.” Earl shifted around Skye and swaggered up to the counter, now devoid of customers. “All the Dooziers done did real interestin’ stuff. We been around these parts since afore the Civil War.”
Risé had stepped over to help Xenia with a transaction, so no one was behind the register, and Skye took the opportunity to ask Earl, “What made you decide to write a book?”
“The little girl that used ta work here afore she got herself kilt.” He paused until Skye nodded. “She made a movie based on me and my kin. Only, you know, she sorta added and changed stuff ta make it more interestin’ and not so apt ta git me arrested.”
“Oh.” Skye wasn’t sure how that connected, but she waited for Earl to go on.
“ ’Bouts a year ago, she came ta the house, and I telled her all my family yarns and she used them ta make her picture show.” He poked himself in the chest with his thumb. “We even got to be in it.” He grinned. “She was real excited that it won some kinda award or somethin’ that gave her a free trip ta Hollywood and a chance ta show some real important folks my story.”
“She won this award recently?” Skye was distracted, still trying to figure out how Kayla’s Dooziers Through History movie added up to Earl writing a book.
“Yep.” Earl nodded, his straggly ponytail whipping around his shoulders. “She came out ta tell us about it a month or so ago.” He dug in his ear with his pinkie and frowned at the substance he exhumed. “But then I seed her a coupla weeks back, and something had sure put a hitch in her getalong. She twern’t happy no more, and she said ain’t nobody would see our movie after all.”
“So you decided to fix that.” Skye finally thought she saw the light in Earl’s tunnel of confusion.
“Yep.” His head bobbed up and down like a balloon caught in the breeze. “At first I was gonna make a movie, too, except that turned out ta take too much fancy equipment. But you don’t need nothin’ ta write a book.”
Skye’s mouth opened and closed, but before she could think of a reply, a male voice boomed, “My reading will begin in one minute. Please take your seats.”
Risé swept everyone into the literature alcove, introduced the author, and then stepped away, allowing the man to take her place behind the podium, aka the desk. Folding chairs had been arranged in rows facing him. He wore jeans, a tweed jacket, and a hat rather like the one on Earl’s head, although without the bite taken out of the brim.
As Skye sat down, Earl announced, “I’m gonna go talk ta the book lady. She won’t have nothin’ ta do what with you all sittin’ in here.”
Skye opened her mouth to point out that he’d miss the talk, then thought better of it. Maybe that was for the best. With Earl, the lights were flashing, the gates were down, but there was no train coming.
“Me and the other kids’ll be waiting in the café,” Junior told his dad.
Earl nodded and went in search of fame and fortune.
Skye glanced at her watch. It was one o’clock. Trixie had said she’d try to meet her here, but Owen had wanted her help in buying some new clothes at Farm and Fleet in Kankakee, and she might not make it back in time. Just in case, Skye put her tote bag on the seat next to her to save it, although people weren’t exactly pouring into the room. Besides herself, there were the three ladies that had provoked Glenda’s ire, four or five teenagers, a strange guy dressed in a long overcoat, and Orlando.
The author, Walker Josephson, picked up a hardback with a cover featuring a tough-looking man holding a big gun in his hand, his arm around a seminaked girl. Twenty minutes later, Skye was fighting to keep her eyes open. Josephson had a monotone voice, and she would have much preferred that he talk about the story rather than read it to them.
When the writer finally closed the book, took a sip of water, and asked for questions, Skye looked around. Who would be brave enough to go first?
Orlando stood and said, “Walker, thank you for coming to our bookstore.”
“It’s my pleasure.” Josephson nodded his head regally.
Next, a brunette from the trio of women raised her hand and said, “It’s such an honor to have you here in Scumble River.”
Thank you, little lady.” The author sucked in the small potbelly that hung over his waistband. “Which of my books was your favorite?”
“Oh.” The brunette tittered. “I haven’t actually read any. I don’t have time to read. Are they available on CD?”
He grimaced and shook his head. “Any other questions?” He glanced around the small space, stroking his beard.
Silence. Then finally one of the teenagers asked, “Did you write the whole book yourself, or did you, like, copy some of it?”
“That would be plagiarism.” He glared at the girl. “I would never do that.”
“Sorry. My history teacher said to ask.” The girl chewed, then blew a bubble with her gum. “He told us if we came to this we got extra credit and he wouldn’t fail us for using papers we bought on the Internet.”
“Well.” Josephson seemed to be unable to think of anything else to say.
Skye felt sorry for him and raised her hand. “Could you tell us a little about your writing process?”
While he was explaining his method, Risé stepped back into the room. Once he finished, she said to him, “Thank you, Walker.” There was a smattering of polite applause. When it died down, she pointed to a table off to the side. “We have cookies and coffee, and Mr. Josephson will be happy to autograph books for you.”
Orlando slipped out of the room, but everyone else rushed for the refreshments, and Skye had to fight her way in the opposite direction. Once she got her book signed, she walked over to Risé and asked, “Do you have a minute to talk to me?”
“Sure.” Risé raised an eyebrow. “Somehow I don’t think there will be a run at the register.”
“Somewhere private?”
“Okay.” Risé led the way. “We can use the back room.”
When they were settled, Risé in an old office chair and Skye perched on a box, Skye said, “I wanted to warn you that my cousin Hugo found out about what happened in your previous job and plans to tell everyone.”
“I know.” Risé shrugged. “It was never a huge secret, although it would have been nice to be able to leave it in the past.” She grimaced. “I wish it hadn’t happened, but I had no idea my boss was running a Ponzi scheme. The police cleared me, and I was hoping to start fresh.”
“You might want to give the Star an interview and get your side out in the open. Maybe something on the order of the positives in starting over.” Skye made a face. “I don’t always agree with Kathryn Steele, the paper’s publisher, but she’s usually fair.”
“Good idea.” Risé nodded. “I don’t worry about what people think—they don’t do it often enough for me to be concerned—but it does bother Orlando. And right now he’s struggling to stay sober, so I don’t want him more stressed-out.”
Skye nodded sympathetically. “Then it really would be a good idea to let people know what really happened versus what Hugo might say.”
Risé pursed her lips. “I met Kathryn at a chamber of commerce meeting, and I think she’d be open to my story.”
“Great.” Skye smiled. “One other thing.” She twisted the handles of her tote bag. “You know the police now think that murder was the primary intention, not burglary. So we’re exploring all possibiliti
es, which includes the chance that you rather than Kayla were the intended victim.”
“Really?” Risé’s face knotted with surprise. “Me? Why?”
“Well, I hate to ask . . .” Skye hesitated.
“Go ahead.” Risé met Skye’s gaze. “I’ve never flinched from uncomfortable questions, and I’m not about to start now.”
“Fair enough.” Skye nodded. “I’m thinking it might be someone who lost money with your firm and blames you. Was there anyone local who invested?”
“Yes.”
“Who?” Skye asked, hoping Risé wouldn’t claim confidentiality.
“Troy Yates.”
“The bank president?” Skye clarified, although the only other Troy Yates she knew was his son, Troy Jr., currently away at college.
“Uh-huh.”
“Then we’ll talk to him.” Skye dug a pad from her tote and made a note. “Anyone else around here who lost money and might want to kill you?”
Risé hesitated for a nanosecond before shaking her head.
Skye watched the other woman’s expression. “Are you sure?” She was certain Risé was holding something back.
“Yes.” Risé got up. “Yates is the only one from this area who lost money and might hold a grudge.”
“Okay.”
Skye started to leave, but Risé stopped her. “Um, if I was the intended victim, do you think the killer might try again?”
“It’s hard to say,” Skye hedged. “It would probably be a good idea not to be alone, make sure the doors are locked after hours, and keep up your guard.”
“Yeah.” Risé’s skin was pale, and there was fear in her eyes. “I’ll do that.”
Skye watched Risé head into the café, then walked over to the counter. Xenia was alone at the register, and Skye handed the girl Josephson’s book and a fifty-dollar bill. “I’m curious about something.”
“Yeah?” Xenia rang up the purchase.
“Let’s face it. I know you don’t need the money, so why are you really working here?” Skye held out her hand for the change and was a little dismayed to see it was less than twenty dollars. This was why she rarely bought hardcovers.
Murder of a Bookstore Babe Page 21