The Doom Diva Mysteries Books 1

by Sherry M. Siska

  "I think we should climb over the fence and go in Charli’s back door. They'll never figure it out," I said.

  Except for a wobbly looking swing set, Vanessa's back yard was bare. No ladders, chairs, or anything else we could stand on.

  I chinned myself up so I could see over the fence. "Psst! Hey, Kevin," I said, "go get your Mom."

  Kevin caught sight of me. "Aunt Marty!" he shouted, loud enough to be heard all the way over in Roanoke.

  I finally convinced him to shut up and go get Charli. She brought us her kitchen step ladder and pulled a chair up on her side of the fence. Mom was straddling the fence, her skirt hitched up almost to her waist, when Giselle came tearing around the corner of Vanessa's house, her cameraman in tow. Charli grabbed Mom's arm and yanked, pulling her on over, but not before Giselle's cameraman got a good shot of Mom's rear end.

  Giselle stuck her microphone in front of my mouth and suddenly the camera was on me.

  "Miss Sheffield, would you care to comment on the grisly discovery you made today?" She had on about twelve pounds of makeup and I saw a little red streak of lipstick on her teeth.

  "Hi, Giselle. Moon any State Troopers lately?" (In high school Giselle was caught mooning people on the way home from a field trip. I always knew that information would come in handy.)

  She was momentarily stunned. I scrambled over the fence and we dashed toward Charli's back door. The kids thought we were playing a game. They followed us inside, whooping and screaming like a bunch of wild animals. It was sort of fun. I let out a whoop or two, myself.

  I peeked out the window once we were safely inside and saw Giselle standing on the kitchen ladder looking over the fence and yelling at Robbie, her camera guy.

  "What if they play that on the news tonight?" Mom said. She was examining her skirt. It was streaked with black and gray dust and had a small rip in it. She'd broken the heel off one of her shoes, too.

  "Don't worry, they won't." Actually, knowing them the way I did, they probably would.

  "Now I know how those famous movie stars feel when they get cameras shoved in their faces all the time," Mom said.

  I dropped the wooden slat of Charli’s “plantation” shutter mini-blind back down and flopped onto her family room sectional. "Mom, I hate to tell you this, but, it wasn't your face he was interested in." I patted her rump as she walked by.

  She looked horrified.

  "I'm teasing."

  "Well, it's not funny. Maybe I should call over there and talk to the station manager."

  "Won't do any good. He's got a sadistic streak bigger than Herb's." Herb is my boss. Imagine a cross between Danny DeVito as Louie DePalma and a pit bull, but dressed in a Porter Wagner style western suit. That's Herb.

  Charli brought us big glasses of iced tea. She was about to pop to hear the rest of the details of the murder. I briefly told her what had happened.

  "Warren Turner! Dead! This is just incredible. Nothing like this ever happens in Glenvar! I'd have just died if it had been me that found the body. Goodness, Marty, what on earth made you open that trash can?"

  I gave her an abbreviated version of the story, leaving out the part I still needed to talk to Vanessa about.

  Mom, who was still pacing around the room stopped and looked at me again. "Why don't we talk about something else. Like how I’m going to get my hands on that video Giselle and Robbie took?"

  "Sorry, Mom. You’re just going to have to suffer, I guess.” I glanced back over at Charli. “By the way, where's Vanessa?"

  Charli was busily rearranging the magazines on her heavy oak coffee table. "She had to run a couple of errands and then she was going over to be with Beth. I'm watching her kids until she gets back."

  I looked at the anniversary clock on Charli's mantle. It was getting late. I really wanted to talk to Vanessa before I had to go to work. I needed to take a shower and change clothes before I went in, too.

  Mom said, "I guess they've told Beth by now. Poor girl, I can't imagine how she must feel."

  "Neither can I," Charli said, as she stood up. "Speaking of kids, I better go check on them. They're being way too quiet."

  After she left, Mom swished her ice around in her glass. "Do you want some more tea?" she asked.

  "No, I'm fine. Thanks anyway." I rubbed my temples.

  "I'm going to get some more." She looked at me with concern. "I think I better call the doctor and ask him about your head, too. Be right back."

  I listened to the clock tick and tried to imagine living in Charli's house. Charli inherited Mom's taste in decor, too. The French doors that we'd come in through were next to a massive stone fireplace. The furniture was picture perfect, a tasteful leather sectional and matching chair, everything perfectly accessorized, and looked like something you see in a magazine. It was all very soothing and peaceful, if you like that sort of thing, I guess. I tend to prefer modern stuff. Of course, being a poor, struggling DJ, my decor is more along the lines of 'early yard sale'.

  Mom came back in and sat down next to me on the sofa part of the sectional. I'll bet it cost a fortune.

  "The doctor is going to call me back," she said. "You know, I just can't help thinking about the Turners and Poor Warren. He graduated with you, didn't he?"

  I nodded. The bobbing caused my head pain to increase. "He's a year older, but I think he flunked a grade before they moved here."

  "They moved here? When was that?" she asked.

  "Fourth grade. I'll never forget it either. Poor Wart was real short and real fat and, bless his heart, his Mom dressed him in all these really bizarre outfits. She made him wear a burnt orange polyester leisure suit and a lilac shirt with a green and yellow striped tie that first day."

  "Poor kid!" said Charli. She came back in and sat in a matching leather recliner.

  "I know. And, to make matters worse, he had a flat top and thick, black, horn-rimmed glasses. He looked like a miniature accountant who had dressed up like a pimp for Halloween, instead of a ten year old kid. I'm ashamed to say that we teased him unmercifully. In fact, by the end of the day, the boys were all calling him Warren the Warthog."

  "Martina, you should be ashamed! Kids can be so cruel, but I thought I taught you better than that," Mom lectured.

  "I am ashamed, Mom. We were pretty cruel. But, you know, I don't think it bothered him. In fact, I don't think anything bothered him. He was such a mean little guy. He was always looking up girl's dresses and cussing and talking back to the principal and stuff. I think he had detention every single day in sixth grade." I took a sip of tea and looked up at the portrait over the fireplace. Charli's perfect family smiled back at me.

  "When we got to high school, things just got worse. He got into fights all the time, got suspended three or four times every year. Supposedly, he was selling drugs, and there was a rumor that he was the one that set the fire that burnt down the old Carson place, but he didn't get arrested, so I don't know if it was true or not. Probably was. Anytime there was trouble, you could pretty much count on Wart being involved. He was a real head case."

  "I always wondered what Beth saw in him," Mom said. "I mean, she's so pretty and smart. They just didn't fit."

  "No, they didn't. They looked so weird together, too. I mean, she must have been six or seven inches taller than him. Of course, almost everybody was taller than Wart. Except Charli, of course."

  Charli stuck her tongue out at me.

  Mom said, "He wasn't really a bad looking man."

  She was right. He was actually pretty nice looking: light brown hair, grayish-blue eyes, and strong features. But he was a real shrimp. I'm five-four and about one-twenty. Wart was at least an inch shorter than me and I doubt he even weighed as much. He'd lost all that baby fat by the time we got to ninth grade.

  As far as I can remember, he never had a girlfriend or even a date during the first three years of high school. He mostly hung around with a couple of other guys who were delinquents too. Then, our senior year, he met Beth Brown.


  "Beth must have seen something in him, something beyond that roughness," Mom said.

  I yawned and stretched, then got up to leave. “I guess. Well, this has been fun, but I’ve gotta get ready for work. See y’all later.”

  "Martina, dear,” Mom called as I headed out the door, ”you know, you really should do something with your hair before you go to work."

  Geez, the things I have to put up with sometimes.

  7

  The best part about doing remote broadcasts? Talent money. It isn't usually a lot, but, since I do them off the clock, it helps pay my cat food bills. Truth be told, they can also be sort of fun. You get to meet people, give away stuff, just generally have a good time. Sometimes, though, things don't go so well. In fact, they can be downright disastrous. And when that happens, it's sort of like going bungee jumping and realizing, when you're halfway to the ground, that you forgot to attach the bungee cord.

  The Thompson's Precision Engine remote broadcast I had to work that afternoon turned out to be even worse than that. Evidently, Destiny and her sick sisters weren’t going to stop until I was splattered like a bug on the windshield of life.

  Thompson's Precision Engines is located on East Main Street, also known as 'Gasoline Alley' for all the car dealerships and repair shops. TPE is right next to Nancy Winslow Automotive, a used car dealership. I turned into the driveway and parked in a corner spot next to the yellow aluminum building, right in front of the office door.

  Fred Thompson, the owner of the place, stood between the door and my car, talking to Detective Luray. Actually, standing and talking doesn't really describe what he was doing. He was shouting. Screaming. Jumping up and down.

  His face was so red and contorted with anger that I thought about just staying in the car. I mean, with the way my day was going, having to make a quick getaway was a distinct possibility. However, curiosity got the best of me. I climbed out. But I stayed right by the car door, just to be on the safe side.

  Fred is a great big bear of a man. Exceptionally handsome, with thick silver gray hair and blue eyes that twinkle when he smiles, he has a manner that makes you want to curl up next to him. If he weren't the same age as my dad, and didn't happen to be married, I might find myself thinking impure thoughts about him. Since he is, though, I manage to keep my thoughts out of the gutter. Most of the time, anyway.

  At that particular moment there was no threat to my impending sainthood. He was about as appealing as a pissed-off rattlesnake.

  He drew himself up to his full height, towering over the detective, and stabbed his finger toward her. "Are you crazy? Are you nuts? I hated him with a passion, but I didn't have anything to do with killing him. You think I like it that he was wearing my name on his shirt. He wasn't fit to wear anybody's softball jersey, but especially not one of mine!"

  Detective Luray held her hands out, palms toward Fred. "Sir, please, no one is accusing you of anything. I just need to ask you a few questions. This would be a lot easier if you'd cooperate."

  Fred's face grew even redder, almost as red as the Thompson's Precision Engine t-shirt he was wearing. I tried to remember how to do CPR.

  "Cooperate? Cooperate? You think I'm going to help you try and pin this on me?" He took a step toward her, still jabbing his finger in the air.

  Detective Luray held her ground. "Mr. Thompson, I suggest, very strongly I might add, that you control yourself."

  Fred backed off, but he kept arguing with her, shouting and almost spitting with anger. She stayed calm and never once lost her temper. She kept her head high, her shoulders back, her hand near her gun.

  Fred's son, Zach, came out of one of the three service bays that are on the side of the building next to the used car lot. He wore a red t-shirt like Fred's, a pair of dirty khaki pants, and a black baseball hat. He looked like he was roasting. I did sort of a double take. He also looked extremely hot in that other sense of the word. I didn't remember him being that good-looking.

  He wiped his greasy hands on a pink shop towel and trotted over to the detective and Fred. He laid his hand on his dad's shoulder and spoke softly to Fred, too softly for me to overhear. Shoot.

  Fred shook his head violently and pulled away from Zach. "No, I won't do that!"

  Zach grabbed his father's arm and spun him around so that they were nose to nose. This time, when he spoke, I didn't have any problem hearing. "Yes, Dad! You have to do it. There isn't any choice. Just get it over with. You know what this sort of thing does to her."

  Suddenly, all the fight seemed to go out of Fred. His shoulders slumped and he rubbed his beard.

  Zach patted his dad on the back, tapping and stroking the way a parent does to comfort a child.

  "I'll talk to you," Fred said to Detective Luray, "but let's go down to the station to do it."

  "That will be fine," the detective said.

  While Fred was getting in her car, which was parked in the slot next to mine, she closed her eyes for a split second and I saw her mouth move, almost like she was saying a little prayer.

  Since the fireworks appeared to be over, I moved away from my car and toward the building. Zach glanced at me, but went over to the passenger side of the detective's car, where Fred was sitting. Fred rolled down the window.

  Zach leaned down and looked in his father's eyes. "It's going to be okay Dad. You didn't do anything wrong. Just remember that."

  Fred reached out the window and caressed the side of Zach's face. "I know, Son, I know. Now, you go take care of her. I'll be back as soon as I can."

  He rolled up the window as Detective Luray drove through the parking lot and turned right onto Main Street, toward the police station.

  I noticed that I wasn't the only one who had witnessed the confrontation. Nancy Winslow, the owner of the used car lot, stood beside the curb that separated the two businesses, a satisfied looking grin plastered on her face.

  Zach gazed after the police car. He pulled his hat off and ran his fingers through his hair. He looked so sad and alone. I went to him and touched him gently on the arm.

  "Hi, Zach. Everything okay?"

  He startled. "Oh, hey there, Marty. I forgot you were here. Yeah, I guess everything's okay. I don't know." There were tears in his eyes. "You hear about Wart?"

  "Yeah. I found his body."

  He gawked at me. "You did? What a bummer. Are you all right?"

  "I'm doing fine. It's poor Beth and those two little ones that we should be worried about." Mom would have been so proud of me. I guess her lecture on 'saying the proper things' had actually paid off.

  He nodded solemnly. "You got that right. It's a real shame." He wiped at his eyes with the dirty shop towel.

  "Is there something I can help you with?" he asked.

  "Well, I'm supposed to do a remote. For your fifteenth anniversary celebration, I think." The salesperson from the station was supposed to handle all the details. She wasn't there yet.

  “Crap! I forgot all about it, what with Wart's getting murdered and the cops showing up. They're questioning Dad. They think he had something to do with it. Because of the jersey."

  "The jersey?"

  "You know, the one Wart was wearing."

  I shook my head. "I didn't get a good look at the body so I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Wart had on a TPE softball jersey. A brand new one that we hadn't even given out to anyone on our team yet. The only people who had them was me and Dad. That's why they think Dad's involved. And because of the fight they had yesterday."

  "Fight? What fight?" I asked.

  "Just a stupid misunderstanding. It wasn't important and it certainly doesn't mean Dad killed Wart." He glanced toward the office door. "Listen, I need to make a phone call. Can you wait here for a minute?"

  I checked my watch. The saleswoman was running late. "I guess. But I really need to get set up pretty soon. I'm supposed to do the first break-in at five after four."

  "I'll make it quick." He disappeared into the last ser
vice bay.

  Cars streamed by out on Main Street. Nancy Winslow was still rooted to where she'd been standing earlier, looking my way. She waggled her fingers at me. I waved back.

  Zach returned two minutes later. "Okay, let's go talk to my Mom, see if she knows where you're supposed to set up. I'm just a hired hand around here, nobody tells me anything." He grinned. His eyes twinkle, too.

  He put his hand on the door handle, but didn't open it. "Uh, listen, Marty, this thing with Wart? My mom is, well, she hasn't been doing so great since my brother died. She's real fragile. I don't want her to know about the cops suspecting Dad. It would tear her up. You won't say anything, will you?"

  "Of course not."

  "Thanks." He put his arm across my shoulder and gave a little squeeze. A shiver went down my back. One of those nice kind.

  When he let go, I glanced over to the car lot. Nancy was still watching us. What the heck did she find so interesting?

  Zach turned to see what I was looking at. "That woman is so damned nosy," he said.

  Nancy stuck her hand in the air, her middle finger straight up. She cackled and went into her office, the door slamming behind her.

  "That was cute," I said.

  "Wasn't it though. But what do you expect? That's the way she is." Zach opened the office door and we went inside to talk to his mom, Roberta.

  It took my eyes a minute to adjust to the light when we got inside. Roberta was sitting behind a desk, sort of slumped down in the chair. To say I was shocked at her appearance would be an understatement.

  I hadn't seen her in about a year and a half. Time hadn't been kind to her. I remembered a tall, graceful, exquisitely beautiful woman, not this haunted looking scarecrow.

  The desk was littered with papers and three overflowing ash trays. I looked around for a place to sit, but the molded plastic visitor's chairs were piled high with files and cardboard boxes. The calendar on the wall still showed June. The place reeked of burnt coffee, cigarette smoke, and a citrusy-piney smell that I thought was gin. A window air conditioning unit churned and hummed, but it didn't make much of a difference. The office was stifling.