Murder of a Bookstore Babe srm-13

by Denise Swanson

  “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 Internet 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.” Jos
ephson 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 possibilities, 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.

  Several different expressions crossed Xenia’s face before she settled on nonchalant. “I thought it would be an interesting experience.”

  “Try again.”

  “I don’t answer to you.” Xenia’s posture was belligerent as she shoved the book into a bag.

  “No, you don’t,” Skye replied smoothly. “But if it has anything to do with Kayla’s murder, I really need to know.”

  “Why?” Xenia’s voice was bitter. “Nothing will help Kayla now.”

  “That’s true,” Skye agreed. “But once you kill someone, it’s much easier to do it a second time.”

  “So you’re worried about me.” Xenia’s tone was a little less hostile.

  “Yes, I am.” Skye stuffed her purchase into her tote bag.

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re my friend.” Skye realized that was true. She did regard the prickly teen as a friend. “And I don’t want to see anything bad happen to you.”

  “Say I believe you. I can’t talk about it here.” Xenia glanced over her shoulder. “I get off work in twenty minutes. Meet me at my car.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Lady Chatterley’s Lover

  “Like everything about Xenia, there’s no one clear reason,” Skye said to Wally as he drove them toward Troy Yates’s house. “She’s making a documentary about people who have downsized and simplified their lives. She’s observing Risé and Orlando to see if they’re happier in their new circumstances, or if they would prefer to go back to their previous existence.”

  The Yateses lived in one of the new subdivisions just inside the Scumble River School District. Previously, the county sheriff’s department had been responsible for patrolling that area, but it had been annexed into the city limits a couple of years ago.

  “And?” Wally pulled into a paved driveway flanked by two concrete lions—one with its right paw raised in the air and the other its left.

  “And she wants to find Kayla’s killer.” Skye craned her neck to examine the massive brick house as it came into view. It had lots of fancy shaped windows, expensive landscaping, and a five-car garage that was bigger than many homes. The Yateses certainly didn’t appear to be hurting for money. “Since Xenia had no clue where to begin to investigate a murder, she figured working at the scene of the crime was her best bet.”

  “Not bad reasoning.” Wally stopped the squad car and turned off the engine.

  “She’s get
ting bored working in the bookstore, so I don’t think she’ll last much longer.” Skye got out of the cruiser and met Wally on the walkway. “Plus she finds it a strain to be pleasant to people she considers her inferiors.”

  “Don’t we all.” Wally grinned, then discretely tipped his head toward the house. “Let me do the talking here.” Someone had drawn back a curtain and was watching them. “You gauge Yates’s reactions and give me a sign if you want to ask something.”

  “That’s probably best, considering Mr. and Mrs. Yates tried to sue me last year for printing that unflattering article about their daughter in the Scoop.” Skye followed him to the front door. “Even after I rescued Ashley from a deranged killer, I don’t think they completely forgave me.”

  Mrs. Yates responded to the doorbell, and when Wally asked to see her husband, she ushered them through an impressive marble foyer containing a striking curving stairway, down a short hallway, and into a huge family room. A wall of floor-to-ceiling windows displayed an in-ground pool surrounded by a brick patio.

  Troy Yates lay sprawled on an enormous leather sofa in front of a mammoth TV. It took his wife several tries to get his attention, but he finally tore his gaze away from Sylvester Stallone blowing up people. He muted the set, put down the remote, and said, “Chief Boyd, what can I do for you? Is there a problem at the bank?”

  “No.” Wally moved so that Yates could see Skye, who had been standing behind him. “We wanted to talk to you about something personal.”

  “Have a seat.”

  Wally and Skye settled into matching club chairs that flanked the sofa.

  Troy gestured to a mahogany bar in the corner. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “No, thanks,” Wally answered for both of them. “When I said personal, I meant your personal dealings versus the bank. We’re here on police business.”