Murder of a Real Bad Boy

by Denise Swanson

  Skye seized the moment to climb up into the dozer and grab Earl by the shirt. “Move it or lose it.” Tugging at the crotch of her spandex shorts, her halter top exposing a large expanse of chalk white skin, Glenda glow-ered at Skye. “What are you doing with my man?” Skye kept a firm grip on Earl, but said placatingly, “I promise I’ll send him home as soon as he tells me what he was doing and why.”

  Earl looked from his wife to Skye and back. “I’ll be right home, baby, I promise.”

  For the first time, Glenda seemed to notice the armed women surrounding her. Several shouted that Earl wasn’t going anywhere until they got an explanation.

  Not quite as thick as her husband, Glenda nodded her agreement, then bawled at Earl, “Ok, mister. You stay here and tell the ladies what was on your puny little mind when you tried to run them over with that thing.” She turned to leave, but swung back, facing her husband. “I told you that guy was more full of crap than an outhouse. Miz La-di-da Skye don’t need your help.”

  “What guy?” Skye asked.

  Glenda ignored her and continued to lecture her husband.

  “So you stay, but you better not be comin’ home half drunk.” Earl scratched his head. “What if I run out of money?”

  “Don’t be stupider than you already are.” Glenda whacked him upside the head and got in her car. “You best be home in half an hour, or don’t bother comin’ home at all.” After Glenda roared away, Earl meekly followed Skye into the house, where she sat him on a Queen Anne chair in the parlor. When she got a good look at the skinny little man dressed in desert fatigues and a combat helmet, sitting on the delicate antique chair, she sniggered. Earl almost looked like a ten-year-old boy playing army, until you noticed the dense tattoos up and down his forearms and exposed by his half-buttoned shirt.

  He immediately started to whine. “Why’d you go do that, Miz Skye? I had them on the run.”

  “Why, Earl?” Skye collapsed down on the sofa and eased off her loafers. Blisters were forming on both heels. “Why did you want them on the run?”

  “I heard that your contractor was cheatin’ you and messin’ up your fancy new house.”

  Fancy? Skye let her head flop back. “That was my old contractor, Beau Hamilton. Didn’t you hear he was murdered last Friday?”

  “This guy only told me yesterday about you bein’ taken advantage of.”

  “What guy?”

  Earl shrugged. “Just some guy who stopped by the house to admire the Doozier Dozer.”

  “And why did you have an armor-plated bulldozer hanging around your front yard?”

  “I’m getting ready for the end of the world.” Earl took off his camo-colored helmet, revealing muddy brown hair that formed a horseshoe around a bald spot the size of a can-taloupe. “Haven’t you been watching Reverend Alphonse on TV? The godless hordes are about to attack us any day.”

  “Okay, at least now I sort of understand why you had the dozer.” Skye would have loved to explore Earl’s latest whim further, but she had a feeling that Dulci and her crew would be growing restless real soon. “But why didn’t you call me and ask me if I needed help?”

  “What kind of friend would I be if I expected you to ask for help?”

  “I see.” Skye realized she wasn’t getting anywhere with this conversation. “So, do you promise to never bother these women again? No matter what anyone tells you?”

  “I does, Miz Skye. I surely does.”

  “What did this guy who told you I needed help look like?” Skye tried again to make sense of what had happened.

  Earl blew his lips in and out before finally saying,

  “Rich. Rich and important.” Earl stood and put his helmet back on. “I’ll just skee-daddle out the back way, and come over later for the Doozier Dozer.” Over his shoulder he added, “You tell those ladies I’ll fix anything I broke.”

  “Terrific.” Skye waved him down the hallway toward the kitchen, then walked to the front door, leaned out, and yelled, “You all want to come in now? Everything’s settled.”

  Once Dulci and her crew were inside and seated, Skye asked, “So what happened?” She’d heard Earl’s story; now she wanted to hear the other side’s.

  “I called a break at three thirty and the crew scattered,” Dulci explained. “Some headed for the bathroom, others to their vehicles for some privacy to make phone calls, and I went to get the cooler from the back of the truck.”

  “Then what?” It was a huge leap from women going on break to being chased by a mad dozer.

  “As I reached for the tailgate, I heard a rumbling. I looked up and this mutant machine came barreling through your gates.”

  “Luella, how did you end up being chased?” The powerfully built brunette leaned against the door-jamb, having flicked a derisive glance over the delicate antique sofa and chairs. “I had climbed into the bed of my pickup to stretch out and take a nap, when that moron came through the gates. I jumped up when I heard the noise, then when that fool lurched by, I jumped on top of the hull. I figured if I could get to the driver, I could stop him before he did any damage.” She straightened and flexed her arm. “I’ve been working out since I left that no-good husband of mine.

  No man will ever hurt me again.”

  “I see. Very impressive.” Skye nodded encouragingly.

  “Did you slip off the bulldozer?”

  “Yeah. I bounced like a basketball. From the way the thing looked, I thought it was armor-plated and would hold me, but it was some cheap lightweight metal. For armor-plating you need two sheets of half-inch steel with a layer of concrete between them.”

  Skye raised an eyebrow. How did Luella know that? Why did Luella know that?

  “What does all this matter? It’s not what we did, it’s what he did.” Dulci had plainly had enough. She had been pacing up and down the center of the room, but now she stopped in front of Skye and put her hands on her hips. “Who was the goon in the dozer, and why did he attack us? Did one of our exes send him?”

  After Skye finished explaining Earl’s origins and his motivation, she looked up at Dulci and said, “So he acted completely on his own.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, something tickled the back of her mind and she wondered if she’d spoken the truth. Why would some rich guy tell Earl she needed help?

  Before she could pursue that thought, Dulci turned to her crew and asked, “Are you all okay with that explanation?” The workers responded with nods and “yeahs.” Skye beamed at the women. “Earl said he’ll make resti-tution for anything he damaged. Give me a list and I’ll pass it on to him. Didn’t I see a car he had overturned?” A delicate woman with long strawberry curls down her back said, “That was my VW. The girls helped me put it right side up, and it’s fine.”

  “Anyone with any claims?”

  They all shook their heads and Dulci said, “The only thing he harmed was your landscaping.” Skye nodded. “I’m so sorry this happened. I sure hope you won’t quit on me.”

  Dulci looked at her crew, then back to Skye. “No. We’ll stick with you.”

  After the women left, Skye moved her car into the garage, then went upstairs to change. As she was taking off her school clothes, she wondered again who had told Earl her contractor was giving her a problem. Was it an innocent comment, or had someone goaded Earl to act? The Dooziers weren’t a family that others casually gossiped with. It looked as if the man had deliberately sought out Earl to tell him about Skye’s supposed contractor problem.

  Twenty-One Gun Salute

  Skye surveyed the damage done by Earl and his Doozier Dozer. What a mess! The front lawn’s sod had been peeled back like a banana skin and the bushes that had bordered the front sidewalk were uprooted and flung into the yard like croutons on a salad.

  It was a miracle he hadn’t flattened the steps leading up to the porch as well. Luckily, the two oak trees that stood on either side of the front of the house were huge. Earl had only managed to clip off a few low-growing branches.

 
; She had been hoping to put off the cost of landscaping until the spring, but now she wasn’t sure she could. Skye squinted, trying to picture the minimum that would have to be done. There was no way she could charge Earl for his destruction — not when he thought he was rescuing her. But maybe if she had him haul away all the uprooted shrubbery and sheered-off tree limbs, and roll the turf back into place, she might be able to live with the result until April.

  As she considered her options, a sheriff’s car pulled into her driveway and parked by the front steps. Deputy McCabe, who bore an unfortunate resemblance to Barney Fife from the old Andy Griffith Show, leisurely exited the vehicle.

  Skye knew him from several previous encounters, starting with her first week back in Scumble River when she had found the body of a TV celebrity, Mrs. Gumtree. Sad to say, but if stupid were a talent, he’d be considered gifted.

  He sauntered over to Skye, hand on his gun, and drawled,

  “Got a report that some crazy man on a bulldozer was chasing a bunch of ladies around your yard.” Skye raised an eyebrow. “So you’re told several women are in danger, and it took you how long to get here?” Dulci’s crew must have called the sheriff by three forty-five, four at the latest. Skye glanced at her watch. It was now past five o’clock.

  McCabe hitched up his pants and bristled. “It’s a big county. I suppose you want me to run over little children so I could be here faster.”

  Skye shook her head, tempted to point out that there was supposed to be a deputy patrolling each twenty-mile sector of the county, and that even if McCabe had been in Laurel, the farthest point from Scumble River, it shouldn’t have taken him more than forty-five minutes, tops. But she knew that showing him the errors in his statement would get her nowhere, so she remained silent.

  McCabe waited a few seconds for her to speak, and when she didn’t, he tugged at the collar of his uniform shirt. “Well, I’m here now. Where’s the galldarn emergency?”

  “You’re too late. It’s all been settled.”

  “Settled?” McCabe took off his hat and hit the side of his leg with it. “You mean I came all the way over here for nothing?”

  “It looks that way.”

  “Who owns that bulldozer parked over there?” McCabe pointed to his left. “That’s an illegal vehicle. I could give you a ticket for it.”

  “Not me — Earl Doozier. He was under the impression I needed saving, but when he learned everything was okay, he left peacefully.”

  “Doozier.” McCabe paled and his Adam’s apple bobbed like it was caught in a Slinky. He’d had many run-ins with the Doozier clan and had yet to win one. In fact, he usually ended up being made a fool of. “Uh, you don’t want me to go talk to him or nothing, right?” His tone had swung from pompous to pleading.

  “Well . . .” Skye realized she had the deputy over a barrel. “Since no one was hurt . . .”

  “Right. No need to involve the long arm of the law.” McCabe backed toward his patrol car.

  “Right. We need to save you for the really dangerous cases. So, if you answer my questions, and since Earl’s promised to restore whatever he damaged, I could let this go.”

  McCabe froze. “What questions?”

  “About Beau Hamilton.”

  “That case is closed. We have a confession.”

  “So I heard. But I was wondering if, before the confession, the sheriff was looking at someone else for the murder.”

  A crafty expression took over McCabe’s face. “Besides you?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, we were sort of thinking it had to be someone who lived along the river or had private access. It looked as if the killer arrived by boat.”

  Skye stopped herself from rolling her eyes. “Had you narrowed it down any more than that?” Since Beau had been found in a boat, the fact that his killer had river access wasn’t exactly a quantum leap.

  “Let’s see, there’s that guy that owns the liquor store in town. It’s right on the river and he had a set-to with Beau.”

  “Jess Larson.”

  “Right, and then there’s one of Beau’s girlfriends.”

  “Which one?” Skye asked.

  “She’s new around these parts. Bought a place on the river in June.”

  “Raette Craughwell?”

  “Yep.” McCabe had made it to his cruiser and opened the door. “And of course the sister lives not too far down the river from you.”

  Skye hadn’t realized Alana lived nearby. Of course prox-imity on the river and closeness via the road were two different things. Still, it was odd that when Skye inherited the Griggs house, Alana had never mentioned that they were practically neighbors.

  “Anything else?” McCabe was now inside the vehicle.

  He rolled down his window a couple of inches and his pointy nose stuck out. “I can’t spend all day here.”

  “Was there any indication that Beau had a pet?”

  “I can’t say I heard of any.” He turned on the motor. “Can I go now?”

  “Just one more question. Did the sheriff’s department search Beau’s storage building?”

  “Hamilton didn’t have a storage building.” With that he put the squad car in DRIVE and sped away.

  Skye watched the taillights as McCabe turned out of her driveway. She remembered Wally saying they had searched Hamilton’s house, but that was it. It looked as if neither the sheriff nor the police knew about the building on the back of Alana’s property. She’d better let Wally know right away. It could be important.

  Thinking about the other suspects McCabe had named, Skye went inside and changed clothes. She still didn’t feel Jess was Beau’s killer. Nor did she believe Alana had killed her own brother, unless she was a better actress than Katharine Hepburn. Skye would swear that Beau’s sister had really been attacked and was truly distraught over his death.

  That left Raette Craughwell. Her name certainly kept popping up. Skye was ninety percent sure Beau had been Xenia’s father, but that ten percent was keeping her from breaking confidentiality and telling Wally. She chewed her thumbnail; she had already tried to brazen it out with Raette, and another confrontation would probably be useless.

  She’d have to figure out a way to point Wally in Raette and Xenia’s direction without actually telling him anything she knew from reading the teen’s file or from meeting with the mother. Maybe she could suggest to him that he try and find out if Beau had ever fathered a child. As long as she didn’t mention Xenia’s name, she was pretty sure that would be ethically okay.

  In the meantime, she had a mess to clean up. Skye grabbed a box of trash bags and went outside. She started by picking up the smaller pieces of debris, and when she had filled two sacks, she took them around back to the Dumpster. As she slung the bags into the receptacle, the momentum forced her to take a step backward, and she felt a sudden pain in her ankle.

  At first she thought it was a branch poking into her skin, but when she looked down, she gazed into the malevolent yellow eyes of the moose head she had thrown off her balcony. Its gaping jaws were around her ankle and the teeth were digging into her flesh.

  Gingerly, she worked her foot free of the moose’s mouth, then bent and struggled to pick up the offending stuffed head. “Okay, Bullwinkle, you’ve had your last bite of me. Into the Dumpster you go.”

  Grunting, she heaved the trophy over the side, then grimaced when she heard the sound of plastic tearing. Putting her hands on the rim, she peeked over the edge. Bullwinkle’s antler had torn open a black plastic trash bag.

  For an instant, Skye considered leaving things the way they were, but the fear of scavenging animals made her fetch a stepladder and crawl over the side.

  As she descended into the Dumpster, she thanked goodness that the majority of its contents was construction material, nothing too squishy or smelly. She had been putting her trash there, but had made sure it was double-bagged and closed tight.

  Carrying a fresh sack, she worked her way to the torn bag and squat
ted down. Her objective was to insert the torn bag into the intact one without losing any contents. The transfer was going well until a field mouse scuttled across Skye’s foot. She screamed and jerked upward, spilling the remain-der of the torn sack’s contents.

  Swearing, she bent to retrieve the items that had escaped.

  What was a book doing in the trash? Oh, yeah, she had found a ruined library book in one of her searches for Bingo.

  Skye picked it up and examined it again. She hadn’t noticed before, but a page had been dog-eared. Flipping the book open to the marked place revealed a fine art painting of a distraught woman lying on a bed. Skye stared at it for a long time. Where had she seen a painting like that before?

  The memory teased her as she finished bagging the rest of the trash, tucked the book under her arm, and climbed out of the Dumpster.

  It was too bad the printing under the photo was so water-damaged. Maybe she’d bring the book for Alana to look at when Skye went to visit her in the hospital, and the art teacher could help identify the painting — once she regained consciousness, that is.

  Skye felt a flicker of anxiety. She’d been repressing the possibility, but what if Alana didn’t recover? Should Skye have done more, been a better friend? The thought of the bright, talented woman dead made her feel as if she had been punched in the stomach.

  She leaned against the side of the metal container and took a steadying breath. Tomorrow after school she would go to the hospital to see Alana, even if she was still not awake. Skye knew that friends and relatives were encouraged to talk to patients who were unconscious in the hopes of rousing them.

  Having a plan made Skye feel somewhat better. After putting the book in the sunroom, she continued clearing up the Doozier damage. As soon as she finished, she planned to call Wally. She assured herself it was only to see how Alana was doing, not because she wanted to hear his voice or have him come over.

  She hoped she wasn’t lying to herself, but she suspected that if she looked in a mirror right then her nose would have grown an inch or so.