Murder of a Real Bad Boy

by Denise Swanson

  Skye watched until the taillights disappeared, then went back into the house. Should she have insisted on going with Wally to be with Alana? No. She and Alana weren’t that kind of friends, and with Alana’s boyfriend there, she really wasn’t needed. Besides, Neville didn’t strike Skye as the type who would want or appreciate her company.

  As she swept up the pieces of shattered mirror and restacked the boxes that had fallen, her thoughts were fixed on Alana’s suicide attempt. While emotionally fragile, the art teacher had never struck Skye as depressed, nor had she ever exhibited any self-destructive behavior. Why would Alana try to kill herself?

  Skye was still trying to answer that question as she started to clean up the remains of the Chinese dinner. Putting the leftovers in the fridge, Skye wondered, Could Alana’s suicide attempt be motivated by guilt? Could she have had something to do with Beau’s murder?

  No. She simply couldn’t see Alana killing her brother.

  Not after that heartbreaking story Alana had shared with Skye about their mother’s murder.

  On her last trip to the sunroom to make sure nothing had been forgotten, Skye noticed her partially unwrapped fortune cookie under the table. She scooped it up and broke it open. Her fortune read: SEVEN BLIND MEN WILL ALL HAVE A DIFFERENT PICTURE OF AN ELEPHANT.

  Skye considered the message, then looked around for Wally’s cookie, but there was no sign of it. He must have taken it with him. What had his fortune been?

  “Hello.” Skye snatched up the telephone receiver, then glanced at the grandfather clock in the hall outside the living room. It was a little past one.

  “Did I wake you?” Wally’s tone was apologetic.

  “No. I’ve been waiting for your call.” She put the psychological report she had been writing down on the sofa and stretched. “Is Alana okay?”

  “The doctors pumped her stomach, but she hasn’t come to. They’re guardedly optimistic that she’ll recover.”

  “That doesn’t sound too positive.”

  “They don’t seem to know why she’s still unconscious and I think that worries them.” Wally’s voice was gentle.

  “How’s Neville?”

  “Raising hell,” Wally said in disgust. “He’s threatening lawsuits right and left.”

  “Why?”

  “Since he’s not a relative, they won’t let him stay in the room with Alana.”

  “Then I don’t blame him.” Skye rotated her head, trying to unkink her neck. “It’s not as if there are a lot of relatives lined up to be with her.”

  “They let him see her, but not stay. The nurses have to follow the hospital rules.”

  “That’s true. Every profession has a set of ethics they’re bound to follow.” Skye thought of her own current confidentiality issue. “I appreciate you calling. You must be exhausted.” She stood up; she hadn’t realized how tired she was, and tomorrow was a school day. “I’m pooped.”

  “I guess that means you don’t want me coming back over tonight.”

  “That’s right.” Skye smiled into the phone. “I’ll call you after school tomorrow.”

  “You’re a cold, cold woman.”

  “And you’re a pushy, pushy man.” After placing the receiver into its cradle, she looked at it for a long moment.

  Even in the midst of her worry over Alana, hearing Wally’s voice made her feel better. Had Simon been able to do that?

  She couldn’t remember.

  News of the art teacher’s suicide attempt had raced through the high school, and Skye spent most of her time Tuesday talking to teens who ranged from curious to upset.

  It had not been the best day for Xenia to start, and Skye was grateful when Trixie said she would meet the girl when her mother dropped her off and keep an eye on her for the rest of the day.

  At lunchtime Skye finally broke away from seeing kids and went to check on how Xenia was doing. As Skye approached the library her stomach tightened. What if the girl had turned on Trixie and hurt her? Automatically, Skye’s footsteps quickened, and by the time she got to the entrance, she was nearly running.

  She forced herself to slow down, then walked through the library door. When she rounded the circulation desk she blinked. Xenia would have been easy to identify even if Skye didn’t already know all the other students in the room.

  She was tall, probably at least five-ten, and well built.

  She wore an extremely short ruffled skirt with a pair of un-laced combat boots, along with two or three Tshirts, all ripped in various places and none reaching her waist. Over fishnet gloves she wore at least twenty bracelets on each arm, and her hair stood out as if she had put her finger in an electric socket. Her white skin and the magenta streak at her temple were the only contrasts to the unrelieved black of her clothing.

  But it wasn’t the girl’s appearance that shocked Skye; it was what she seemed to be doing. Skye crept closer, hoping to go unnoticed as she observed.

  Standing slightly behind one of the shelving units, she heard Justin say, “That would be a way cool article. Don’t you think so, Mrs. Frayne?”

  Trixie answered, “Sure would, Justin. Would you be willing to work on it, Xenia?”

  “Sounds like fun,” the girl said in a bored tone.

  Skye couldn’t stand it anymore. What in heaven’s name would someone like Xenia want to write about that Trixie would approve? Surely how to kill your father in three easy steps wouldn’t get an adult’s okay.

  Skye eased from her hiding spot, stepped forward, and said, “Hi. What are you all up to?” Frannie looked up and said, “Ms. D, Xenia has a terrific idea for a piece for the paper.”

  Skye smiled at the new girl. “Hi, Xenia, I’m Ms. Denison, one of the newspaper’s sponsors.”

  “Hi.” Xenia gave her a cool look. “My mom told me you were the school shrink.”

  “Right, that’s one of my jobs, too.”

  “So, do you think I’m crazy, like the guy at the other school did?”

  “Not so far.” Skye’s expression remained neutral. “Do you think you are?”

  “Maybe.” Xenia shrugged.

  “This probably isn’t the place to discuss it, but if you ever want to talk to me, drop by my office.” Skye watched as Xenia checked out the other kids’ reac-tions. When none seemed shocked, she looked a little disappointed, then shrugged again and said, “Sure.”

  “What’s the great idea?” Skye changed the subject.

  Justin spoke up. “Xenia suggested that we profile a different teacher each week.”

  “Oh.” Skye couldn’t quite see how that was such a great idea. A good one maybe, but not extraordinary.

  “The twist is,” Frannie broke in, “we concentrate on what they do when they’re not at school. You know, present them as a person, not a teacher.”

  “Interesting.” Skye wondered if the teachers would go along with that.

  “Maybe we could start with you, Ms. D,” Justin pro-posed. “You know, how you like to solve crimes.”

  “No.” Skye barely stopped herself from screaming. “We don’t want the other teachers to be jealous. We’ll do Mrs.

  Frayne and me after all the others.” Skye would have to figure out some other hobby for them to concentrate on when it was her turn.

  The newspaper staff agreed, and Skye excused herself since she had to get back to her counseling duties.

  As she walked to her office, Skye wondered about the look on Xenia’s face when Justin had announced that Skye solved crimes. Had the girl looked a little scared?

  *

  *

  *

  When the final bell rang that afternoon Skye was exhausted, but she had one more task to complete — calling Mrs. Craughwell. Skye waited half an hour, figuring that was a reasonable amount of time to return home after having picked up Xenia, then punched in the numbers.

  After greetings had been exchanged, Skye said, “Before I forget, you need to bring in Xenia’s birth certificate. It’s missing from her file.”
/>   “Why do you need that?”

  “It’s proof of her date of birth.” Skye wondered at the mother’s hesitation. “It’s something we require from all students.”

  “Oh.” There was a brief silence; then Raette said, “You know we’ve just moved, so I’m not sure I can put my hands on it right away.”

  “The district’s policy is that within a week of the student starting school, his or her birth certificate needs to be on file.”

  “Okay. I understand.”

  “The other thing I’m calling about is to let you know Xenia had a good start.”

  “That’s wonderful.” Raette sounded relieved. “I thought about her all day.”

  “I figured you might, but considering we had a bit of a crisis here, and the other kids were upset, Xenia did quite well.”

  “A crisis?”

  Skye explained about Alana, ending with, “Her brother, Beau Hamilton, was killed a few days ago, and she must not have been able to cope with the loss.”

  “He never told me he had a sister.” Gotcha! Skye smiled. “Then you knew Beau?” Silence. Then Raette said, “I had talked to him about doing some home repairs for me.”

  “Really? It must be more than that. If you only met once or twice to discuss business, why would he have mentioned Alana?”

  Raette’s tone conveyed her unease. “Look, I told the police I was not dating Beau and that’s the truth.”

  “Not dating him since you moved to Scumble River, right?” Skye chewed her lip. Should she press the matter? In for a penny, in for a pound. “But you did date him sixteen years ago, right? He’s Xenia’s father.”

  “How did you —” Raette cut herself off and slammed down the receiver, disconnecting them.

  Skye leaned back in her office chair and stared at the ceiling tiles. Had Raette been about to say “How did you know,” or “How did you ever jump to that conclusion?” Wally wasn’t at the police station or answering his cell.

  Skye left messages in both places, then got up to leave for the day. With Dulci and her crew on the job, Skye was actually looking forward to going home and seeing what progress they had made.

  Skye played a game with herself on the way home. If she guessed correctly how many more windows Dulci and her crew had installed since yesterday, Skye could invite Wally over for supper when he returned her calls.

  Her bet was five — no, four. Okay, five if they didn’t do the finish work, four if they did. She mentally shook hands on her wager as she turned into her driveway, before coming to a screeching stop.

  At first she couldn’t comprehend what she was seeing.

  She closed her eyes, but an instant later they snapped open and the scene hadn’t changed. It was like a bad summer action movie. A mutant bulldozer was chasing Luella Calhoun, one of Dulci’s crew, back and forth in front of Skye’s house.

  The dozer had already torn up the gravel drive, several bushes lay uprooted, and a compact car had been turned on its side.

  Luella was a big woman, tall and brawny; regrettably, she was not fleet of foot. While it looked as if given a chance she might be able to bench-press the dozer, she was having trouble outrunning it.

  Her fellow workers were yelling and chasing after the grotesque vehicle as it careened in a circle, its movements abrupt and unpredictable.

  Only the worn treads and the rusty, pockmarked blade were visible. Some sort of gray metal box had been welded onto the top of the machine, and a small slit where the driver could peer out was the only observable opening. Why would anyone armor-plate a bulldozer?

  Skye briefly considered throwing the Bel Air into REVERSE and hightailing it out of there. Regrettably, she had a strong feeling that she could run, but she couldn’t hide — at least not for long.

  Still, she had no idea what to do. After a second or two, when no inspiration came, she decided she’d simply have to leap into the fray and ask questions later.

  She backed up a few feet, parked her car by the downed wrought iron gates, climbed out, and sprinted down the driveway. At least she had worn slacks and flat shoes to work that day. Skye imagined herself trying to navigate the gravel surface in a skirt and high heels, and shuddered.

  Off to the side, Skye spotted Dulci near her purple pickup. The contractor had reached into the open window and was extracting a shotgun from the rack mounted behind the driver’s seat. Making an abrupt turn, Skye darted toward the truck.

  She skidded to a stop and panted, “What the devil is going on here?”

  Dulci looked up from loading the gun. “Some freak is trying to kill my crew, and I’m going to stop him.”

  “Why?” Skye instinctively reached for the gun, but Dulci swung it out of her reach. “Why is someone trying to kill your crew?”

  “These women all come from abusive situations.” Dulci stepped around Skye and pumped the shotgun. “It could be any one of their exes.”

  Skye recoiled. She had read enough professional liter-ature about what an abuser could and would do if he felt

  “his property” was getting away from him. She must remember to thank her good friend Loretta, if she lived through this. Sure, no police or Mafia had shown up —

  only a crazed husband or lunatic boyfriend driving a mon-stermobile.

  Dulci had begun a flanking maneuver on the dozer, and Skye ran after her. “Have you called the police?”

  “Someone probably did.” Dulci shrugged. “But he might kill someone before they bother to show up. Sheriff Peterson is not big on protecting women from domestic violence.” Skye wondered if she could wrestle the gun from Dulci, but decided she didn’t have a chance in hell of overpower-ing the muscular contractor. What else could she do? She had to stop this before shots were fired. After that happened, all bets were off.

  She zigged away from Dulci toward the front of the hulking bulldozer. Always one to believe in the power of words, she managed to get near the right front tread and yell, “Stop!

  You are trespassing on private property. The police have been called.”

  The dozer slowed to a crawl, and several moments later a familiar voice shouted from behind the metal box, “Miz Skye, I come to rescue you.”

  She peered into the slit. “Earl? Earl Doozier, what are you doing in my driveway trying to crush an innocent construction worker?”

  Earl was the patriarch of the Red Raggers, an extended family of misfits who always seemed to be around whenever there was a troublesome situation. They didn’t usually make the first move, but they never missed a chance to be in the thick of the fighting.

  The Dooziers were tough to describe to anyone who hadn’t grown up with the legend of the Red Raggers. The best Skye could come up with was that Dooziers didn’t invest in mutual funds — they invested in Elvis memorabilia.

  They didn’t have a (k)— they had the gambling boat.

  They didn’t have a landscaping crew — they had a parking attendant for all the junked cars and crashed trucks that occupied their front lawn.

  She had established a good relationship with Earl through working with his many children, sisters, brothers, nieces, and nephews, in her job as a school psychologist.

  Also, Earl and his kin had managed to save Skye on a few occasions, which meant they now treated her like their pet hound: with casual affection unless someone bothered her; then it was all-out war.

  The bulldozer ground to a halt, and the hull squeaked open. Earl popped up like a life-sized jack-in-the-box and was instantly surrounded by a mob of angry women bran-dishing nail guns, sledgehammers, pickaxes, and various other makeshift weapons.

  Earl quickly sat down and tried to lower the metal box back over himself. It stuck halfway, and he bawled, “Save me, Miz Skye! Save me!”

  Skye shouted to the female army gathered around the bulldozer, “Hold your fire. I know this man. He’s not all there.” She pointed to her forehead and twirled her finger. “He’s missing a few buttons on his remote control, if you get my drift.” Earl whined, “That
ain’t a nice thing to say about a friend trying to help you, Miz Skye.”

  “Shut up, Earl.” Skye looked nervously from face to face. If these women were all abuse victims, they wouldn’t be too trusting of what a man had to say. She turned to them and said, “Ladies, how about if you all go over to Dulci’s truck and let me figure this out.” No one moved. Skye met Dulci’s gaze and the contractor raised an eyebrow.

  “Ladies, I promise you this man isn’t dangerous. His receiver is just off the hook.”

  “Miz Skye!” Earl bleated.

  She ignored him. “Listen, you all still have the gun. If he tries anything, you can shoot him.”

  “Shush, Miz Skye! What are you sayin’?” The women whispered among themselves, then moved off toward the pickup. Before Skye could move, an ancient Buick Regal came rattling into the driveway and the queen of the Red Raggers burst out of the driver’s side.

  Skye moaned. She hadn’t thought it possible, but things had just gotten worse. Earl’s wife Glenda had arrived. She had do-it-yourself dyed-blond hair, a Dolly Parton bust, and the personality of a wolverine. Ignoring everyone else, she glared at her husband and screamed, “If you know what’s good for you, Earl Doozier —”

  Earl, taking his life in his own hands, cut her off, saying,

  “Aw, ain’t that sweet? She’s worried about my health.”

  “Get out of that thing right now.” Glenda put her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes.

  “But, honey pie, Miz Skye needs me —”

  “Don’t make me break a nail by comin’ in after you.” Everyone’s gaze was drawn to the bright red talons on the ends of Glenda’s fingertips.

  “You get home.” Earl didn’t move, a stubborn expression on his usually slack-jawed face. “This is man’s work.”

  “I’m countin’ to three.” Glenda crushed out her cigarette under a scarlet stiletto–shod foot. “And you better have your skinny butt out of that there contraption or I’m comin’ in to get you.”