Murder of a Real Bad Boy

by Denise Swanson

  “Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “I remember the day Beau came out to the house to give me an estimate. When he zoomed up on his shiny black motorcycle, he was so gorgeous I could barely catch my breath.”

  Skye closed her eyes and pictured him. Molded bronze muscles strained the smooth white fabric of his T-shirt, and worn denim jeans emphasized his powerful thighs and slim hips. His thick red-gold hair rippled in the breeze as he walked toward where she sat on the porch. As he got closer, he took off his expensive Oakley sunglasses, and his compelling blue eyes nearly mesmerized her. When he smiled, dimples bracketing his sexy lips, Skye all but forgot her own name.

  Loretta broke into Skye’s pleasant daydream. “What happened?”

  “He was this massive, self-confident presence, and I was swept away by his charm.”

  “You signed on the spot, didn’t you?” Skye defended herself. “He had glowing references, his estimate was reasonable, and . . .” She trailed off.

  Loretta shook her head. “You should have trusted your instincts. Anyone that good has to have a flaw. Never hire a hottie.”

  “You’re right. I gave in to hormones and haste. He’s amazingly handsome, and I was in a hurry to get the renovations started.” Skye paused, then confessed, “You know, what amazes me the most is that every day I go home intending to fire him and I can’t seem to do it, even though when I get there, I find he hasn’t finished anything, or worse, has done work so sloppy it looks as if a five-year-old was playing with his dad’s tools.”

  “So, why can’t you fire him?”

  Skye felt herself blush. “First he looks so darned yummy, with his shirt off and his muscles all golden tan, my mouth goes dry.”

  “And?”

  “And then he starts talking, and he’s so charming. He always has a really good excuse, and then he asks how my day went and how the kids I’m working with are doing and . . .” Skye trailed off. She knew it sounded lame, but it was hard to explain the enthralling effect Beau had on women.

  Loretta narrowed her eyes. “So he’s a real bad boy.”

  “Exactly, but he looks deep into your eyes and makes you feel as if he could be real good to you.”

  “Girlfriend, I know you’ve had bad luck with men, but being taken in by a bad boy isn’t like you.” Suddenly Loretta grinned and snapped her fingers. “How long has it been since you broke up with Simon — a month? Obviously, you need to get laid before you do something else stupid.”

  “I told you, I’m swearing off men.” Skye frowned.

  “Yeah, it sure sounds that way,” Loretta retorted, then asked, “How much money have you given him?”

  “He said he needed a third up front.” Skye couldn’t quite bring herself to name the actual amount. “But I did make him give me copies of receipts for his suppliers.”

  “That’s good. At least you don’t have to worry about the suppliers coming after you. But never hire a contractor who can’t work without getting paid first.”

  “Why?” Skye asked. “Everybody requires a deposit.”

  “Because now, if you fire him, he has your money and you have what? A hole in your roof?” Skye groaned. Loretta had hit the nail on the head —

  which was more than Beau ever seemed to do. “You mean I can’t get my money back?”

  “Legally? Probably, yes. But practically, good luck.” Loretta looked at her Rolex and grimaced. “Sorry, sweetie, but I’ve got to run. Call me Sunday and we’ll talk some more.” As Skye fumbled for the door handle Loretta added, “Fax me a copy of your contract. At least I can send this SOB a scary lawyer letter.”

  “Thanks.” Skye kissed her friend on the cheek and got out of the car. “Drive carefully.”

  Skye watched Loretta turn out of the gas station, then got into her own car and started her indirect route home. As she made her final turn onto Brook Lane, she sat up straighter and took a calming breath. Soon she’d have to face him.

  She exhaled slowly, willing herself to remain composed.

  She had made up her mind. No matter how much she hated doing it, she had to get rid of Beau. She had no choice.

  Two Sides to

  Every Question

  The Griggs house, as Skye still thought of the dilapidated two-story white edifice that she now called home, was a mile north of the city limits, along the west branch of the Scumble River.

  There were no other buildings along Brook Lane, and very few vehicles ventured down the narrow, twisting road.

  Her new residence was even more secluded than her cottage had been, and Skye’s sense of isolation increased as she maneuvered her car through the brick columns at the end of the driveway.

  She turned her face away when she went by the old wrought iron gates that lay rusting in the weeds. The ornate double Gs entwined in the center were unwelcome re-minders that Mrs. Griggs had begun her life in this house as an affluent wife, and died there a poverty-stricken widow.

  Skye hoped the gates weren’t also portents of her own bleak future.

  At the end of the long driveway, Skye steered the Bel Air first to the right, then spun the wheel around and pulled into the left side of the detached two-car garage. Mrs. Griggs’s ancient Lincoln Continental occupied the other half. Its keys, along with those to the house’s back door, hung on a hook in the kitchen, untouched since the old woman’s death.

  Getting rid of the Continental was another task Skye had yet to deal with.

  According to the date inscribed in the concrete floor, the garage had been built in . With its good roof, thick insulation, and reliable electric heater, Skye had begun to believe she should have moved into it, rather than its seventy-year-old neighbor.

  As she walked toward the house, Skye wondered for the umpteenth time what form of architecture it represented.

  The design seemed to have Colonial, Tudor, and even Victorian features.

  The closest she had come to identifying the style was a picture of a house labeled an American Foursquare, but it hadn’t had a wraparound porch like hers did, and the description of the interior had been wrong. A Foursquare was named for the four nearly equal-sized rooms per floor, forming a square, whereas Skye’s house had an uneven number of rooms on each floor and they varied in dimensions.

  Shrugging away the mystery of the house’s architectural lineage, Skye examined the building for any sign of progress in its renovation.

  Her exasperation grew when her gaze fell on the section of Tyvek-encased wall where Beau had begun to remove the old siding. As usual, he had totally ignored her instructions.

  He had begun that project while Skye was at work, conveniently forgetting that she had told him she had decided not to replace the clapboard. He stopped when she came home and threw a hissy fit, but by then half of her front wall was stripped. Now she had to have the whole house resided. But Beau Hamilton would not be doing it.

  A line formed between Skye’s eyebrows as she continued her inspection. The number of gaping holes covered in plastic where the new windows were supposed to go had not decreased, nor had the number of enormous tarps swathing the partially torn-off roof.

  Her fury peaked when she realized that not only had nothing been accomplished, but there was also no sign of Beau or his crew. She stood still and listened: no sounds of saws or hammers or men swearing. She sniffed: no trace of cigarette or cigar smoke. She looked around: no indication of his motorcycle, or the truck and van of his workers.

  How could she fire the jerk if he wasn’t there? Skye felt as if the top of her head would blow off. Now she’d have to hunt him down to get rid of him. Trying to telephone him was useless. He never answered his phone or returned her calls.

  She climbed the wide front steps, dropped her tote bag by the door, and followed the porch along the left side of the house. No hint of any work having been done there either.

  The porch ended three-quarters of the way around, and Skye carefully picked her way down the narrow broken steps and along the crac
ked sidewalk that wound to the back. As she rounded the corner, she paused. The yard emanated a sense of abandonment.

  At one time it had contained a formal garden, but the geometrical plots had long since merged into the general mess of the lawn. In the growing dusk bits of litter and tin cans gleamed bleakly among overgrown weeds.

  She hated seeing it like this, but the landscaping would have to wait until she got the house itself in shape. And at the rate Beau was going, that would be as soon as they had a blue moon on Leap Day.

  Nothing on the outside had been touched since Skye had left ten hours ago. It looked as if the contractor hadn’t even been there while she was gone, though to be fair she should check inside before drawing that conclusion.

  The adrenaline rush from her initial anger was dying down and depression was setting in as Skye started down the remaining wall of the building. She felt as if she had been on a roller-coaster, slightly nauseous and a little dizzy.

  Her footsteps dragged, and the weight of her situation settled on her shoulders. Loretta’s prediction about the contractor echoed in Skye’s thoughts, making her feel hopeless and discouraged.

  Skye was halfway along the last side when she heard a noise. She stopped, slowly turning toward where she thought the sound had come from. Her auditory directional skills were poor, but it seemed as if the noise had come from the backyard. That couldn’t be right. When she had been there a few seconds ago it had been empty. Suddenly she stiffened. She had thought she was alone out here. Was that assumption wrong?

  She retraced her steps, her instinct to investigate stronger than her unease. She scanned the lawn, but it looked exactly as it had a few minutes ago. All that had changed was the breeze, which had become stronger and now blew from a different direction.

  Skye scrubbed her eyes. Was the stress starting to get to her? Was she imagining things?

  No. There it was again, a faint sound carried on the wind.

  It seemed to come from her left, maybe from the woods that stood between the house and the river. She could hear the noise a little louder now, though it was still indistinct — clunking, then a few creaks, and finally a sort of moaning that died away.

  Wait a minute. Maybe it was Bingo. She felt a surge of hope. Her beloved cat had gone missing on Wednesday, and she’d had no luck in her search for him since then.

  The large trees that grew at the southwest border of the property stood limb to limb, draping that section of the backyard in darkness. Skye squinted into the gloom. Was there a shadow near the ground that was moving? Bingo was black, thus hard to spot in the twilight.

  Raising her voice, she called, “Here, kitty, kitty. Here, Bingo.”

  There was no response, and Skye rubbed the goose bumps on her arms. What had been a crisp day was turning into a cold evening. The thin cotton sweater she wore with lightweight twill slacks was not enough to protect her from the chill.

  She took a step toward the trees, calling, “Kitty, kitty.

  Bingo.”

  Abruptly she stopped. What if it wasn’t Bingo? What if something less domesticated was making that noise? Should she call someone? She couldn’t simply forget it and go inside, not with the least chance it might be her much-loved pet trying to find his way home.

  This was the trouble with living alone — no one had your back and there was no one around to give you a second opinion.

  Skye considered whom she could ask to come over.

  Trixie was out of town, Vince was on a big date, it was her godfather Charlie Patukas’s poker night, and her father was unavailable — he never answered the telephone and her mother wasn’t home to pass on messages.

  Simon briefly crossed her mind, but he and Skye would inevitably end up arguing about his female friend in California. He would insist that if she trusted him, he didn’t have to explain, and if she didn’t trust him, he refused to explain.

  Skye couldn’t convince him that when a woman answers a phone that a man is expected to answer, an explanation is the very least a girlfriend is owed.

  That left Wally Boyd, the chief of police and an applicant for the newly open position of Skye’s boyfriend. Although they had never dated, Skye and Wally shared an emotionally charged past. There had been chemistry between them since she was a teenager and he was a rookie cop. Given that back then she was underage, nothing had happened. When she returned to Scumble River as an adult, he was married, and by the time his wife left him several months later, Skye had already become involved with Simon.

  Now that she and Wally were both free, Skye wasn’t sure she wanted to get involved with him. Her track record with men was terrible. Maybe she should just resign herself to being alone for the rest of her life.

  Skye hadn’t heard anything while she had been deliberating, but now the noise sounded again and this time it didn’t seem as eerie. She shook her head. What had made her think she needed someone to protect her?

  She could imagine the way Vince would tease her if she called for help and the sound turned out to be a broken branch scraping against a tree. Plus, any sign of vulnerability would convince May that Skye did need a man around the house.

  Skye squared her shoulders. She was a capable adult. She wasn’t afraid of every little noise and she wouldn’t let this old house spook her. She could certainly rescue her cat without the assistance of a big, strong male.

  Before she could change her mind, Skye grabbed the closest weapon available — a garden shovel — just in case, and calling “Kitty, kitty,” she marched toward what appeared to be an overgrown path.

  When she entered the cluster of trees, her sweater snagged on a branch. She heard the rip, but it took a moment for her eyes to adjust before she could assess the damage.

  Threads from the sleeve were tangled in the bark and there was a puckered spot in the knit. Terrific. A wardrobe fatality this early in her search was not a good omen.

  She sighed and moved forward calling, “Kitty, kitty” every few steps. The air was heavy with the scent of pine.

  She sniffed, then pinched the bridge of her nose, hoping she wouldn’t start sneezing.

  Once she was well into the woods, she stood still, listening for the noise again. When it occurred, she realized a new element had been added — water lapping at the shore.

  Damn. Could Bingo have fallen in the river? Gripping the shovel, she moved along the path, which seemed to lead toward the sound.

  After walking for what felt like quite a distance, she saw that there was an old wooden dock with a modern-looking green motorboat tied to a post. The wind had produced swells in the river, which were causing the boat to thud against the dock.

  As she watched the boat hit the pier, she heard a familiar clunk, then a few recognizable creaks, and finally as the boat drifted backward, a moaning sound coming from the bottom of the boat. Her call of “Kitty, kitty” brought no black furred head with pointy ears popping over the boat’s side.

  Laying the shovel down, she edged forward onto the dock, conscious of the rotten wood and the fact that she was not a lightweight. With every screech of a board, she held her breath, but kept inching forward, hoping the dock would hold her.

  Finally she was close enough. When the boat floated toward her, she grabbed on and looked down into it. Screaming, she staggered backward, windmilling her arms in an attempt to regain her equilibrium. Her left foot smashed through a decayed board and she fell hard onto her rear.

  The dock groaned, and Skye felt wood splintering as she crashed through the pier and plunged rump first into the river. At first shock from the fall and the cold water closing around her immobilized her, but she quickly gathered her wits and half swam, half crawled back to shore.

  Trailing weeds and covered in muck, she got to her feet and turned to check on the motorboat. It was gone. The post it had been tied to had come loose when Skye had fallen, and the boat was drifting out into the river.

  In an instant she shed her shoes, pants, and sweater and waded back into the wate
r. She couldn’t let that boat get away.

  Not with Beau Hamilton sprawled bleeding in the bottom.

  Three Sheets

  to the Wind

  Swimming was the only exercise Skye enjoyed and the only athletic activity she was good at. Although she did laps nearly every day, either at the high school’s indoor pool or at the Scumble River Recreational Club where she worked as a lifeguard during the summer, neither experience had prepared her for attempting to rescue a bleeding man in a skipperless boat.

  Within minutes, Skye was struggling to keep afloat and move forward. The water temperature dropped sharply as she swam farther away from shore, and soon she realized the undertow was much stronger than anything she had ever experienced.

  Almost immediately, she began to tire. Her arms grew heavy and her kicks barely moved the water. Her teeth chattered and she fought a rising panic. No one knew she was out there. If she drowned, no one would know what had happened to her. It might be days before some fisherman discovered her body; by then they’d only be able to identify her from her dental work.

  Mmm, dental work. Was it time for her six-month checkup? Let’s see, six months from now would be the end of March. Hey, that was spring break. Maybe this year she’d go on vacation to Florida. No, darn, what was she thinking?

  She couldn’t afford a vacation; she’d poured all the cash she could beg, borrow, or steal into her new house. And that jerk Beau Hamilton was spending her renovation money like it was water.

  Water! Beau Hamilton! Oh, my God! She was supposed to be catching the boat in which he was bleeding to death, not making dental appointments and vacation plans. What was wrong with her? Why was her mind wandering? Could she already be experiencing hypothermia?

  Skye forced herself to concentrate. She could still see the motorboat, but it was getting farther and farther away, and her strokes were growing weaker and weaker. She turned her head. The shore was also receding. It was time to decide.