“It seemed the lesser of two evils.” Wally turned onto the road that would take them toward Laurel. “Dante’s request was more like an order, and I thought it was best to pick my battles.”
“But why am I coming along?” Skye asked. “Surely, my uncle didn’t ask for the psych consultant.” Her uncle had often voiced his opinion that the Scumble River PD didn’t need any blankety-blank shrink on staff.
“Not exactly.” Wally grinned. “But he did demand two security guards.”
“Really?” She giggled. “I’m the other security guard? He won’t be happy.”
“I’m not sure why he thinks he needs guards anyway.” Wally scowled.
“Probably because he’s as much of a jerk to his customers as he is to everyone else. He’s afraid someone will object to his selling their possessions when they’re only a couple of days overdue with the rent—or whatever the legal limit is. You do realize I’m more likely to throw the first tomato at my uncle than save him.”
“Good.” Wally decelerated for a dump truck turning into the local landfill. “If there’s trouble, which I doubt, I’ll handle it. You head for the car and call the Laurel police.”
Skye hid a smile. Wally had to know she would never leave him alone in that kind of situation, but instead of pointing that out she demanded, “Tell me about Elijah’s confession. How could you drop a bomb like that, then fall asleep before giving me the details?”
“I knew you’d be upset.” Wally’s expression was sheepish. “Sorry.”
“Fine.” Skye crossed her arms. “Now, how did you make him confess?”
“Believe me, I wish I could take the credit, but it wasn’t any great interrogation skill on my part.” Wally’s expression was rueful. “We handcuffed him, read him his rights, and he said he did it.”
“Son of a gun!” Skye wiggled in her seat. “Did he say why?”
“Because God told him to.” Wally tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “Supposedly, sometime toward the end of the bowler disco party, Jacobsen received a heavenly message to go to the basement and kill the vic because she was an unrepentant sinner.”
“So how did he get Alexis to go down there with him?” Skye asked.
“Jacobsen claims he doesn’t recall that part.” Wally concentrated on navigating the T-Bird around a curve. “He says his memory’s bad.”
“Did he bring the cat toy with him?” Skye asked. “And why did he use it instead of something more lethal?”
“He also claims he doesn’t recollect committing the actual homicide.” Wally blew out an irritated sigh, then muttered almost under his breath, “In fact, when we asked him to describe how he killed her, he said he stabbed her with his pocketknife.”
“That’s odd.” Skye knew the details of the homicide hadn’t been released, but the murderer should know how he had done it.
“I think he’s just setting himself up for an insanity plea.” Wally’s lips formed a thin white line. “Despite his so-called brain damage, he seems to have some flashes of intelligence and cunning. Unfortunately, Zuchowski made a rookie mistake and blurted out that Alexis was strangled with a cat toy, and then Jacobsen quickly changed his tune.”
“Oh. Anything else from Elijah’s confession that struck you as strange?” Skye didn’t bother to explain the nature of a head injury again. It was fairly clear that Wally didn’t believe that the ex-doc’s issues were real. “Did he remember leaving the bowling alley?”
“He says he woke up, saw the body, and just went home.” Wally twitched his shoulders as if his neck was stiff. “It seems God didn’t tell him to stick around or tell anyone that he killed her.”
After a few minutes of contemplation, Skye asked, “When did God tell him to go into the wilderness?”
“The next morning.” Wally passed a slow-moving Grand Am with its windows down. The weather had warmed up into the seventies and the Pontiac’s driver was clearly enjoying the pleasant temperature.
Skye let her thoughts wander; then as Wally guided the T-Bird into the self-storage lot, she said, “So that’s that. Case closed?”
“Yep.” Wally parked the T-Bird beside an extended-cab pickup. “Jacobsen confessed and we don’t have any other leads to follow, so unless something new turns up…” He trailed off, shrugging his shoulders.
“And you really, really think that Elijah is the guilty party?”
“Not entirely, but as I said, he confessed, so without new evidence, it’s out of my hands.” Wally’s tone held a hint of impatience. “I went over everything with the county prosecutor today and he’s satisfied. Unless something comes up in the pretrial motions, the police department’s role is officially over.”
Skye let the matter drop even though she was far from happy with Wally’s explanation, and she was silent as he opened her door. Exiting from the low-slung sports car, she examined the storage facility. She’d been here once before while searching for a missing police file, and she still thought it looked like a fifties-style motel, although the fact that it was windowless and surrounded by a six-foot-high chain-link fence with razor wire strung across the top tended to spoil that illusion.
There were two types of lockers available. The smaller size had a regular pedestrian entrance, but the larger units had a heavy metal panel that rolled up into the ceiling like a garage door. The siding was a dirty tan, and the place reeked of bad luck and desperation.
While Skye was pursuing that thought, Dante waddled up to them and bellowed, “It’s about time you got here.” Short, squat, and with an enormous beer belly, the Scumble River mayor could have been a stand-in for the Penguin on the old Batman TV show. “The auction starts in ten minutes. Where’s the second guard at?”
“Right here, Uncle Dante.” Skye waved from beside Wally, then hid her grin behind her hand when the older man’s face turned red.
“What the hell?” Dante sputtered, rounding on Wally. “I told you I wanted two of your people here to protect my property.”
“And you have two.” Wally’s face was expressionless, but his fists were clenched. “Skye works for the police department and so do I.”
While Dante ranted about insubordination, Skye observed the throng gathered near the office. The parking lot was almost full. Most of the spaces were occupied by pickups, but there were a few SUVs, a snazzy sports car, and an expensive sedan. But the vehicle that caught her attention was a beat-up Buick Regal.
The Buick’s exhaust pipe was sticking out from under the passenger door and suspended by a seat belt. Shifting her gaze, Skye saw that the windshield had a spider-web crack and the side mirror was duct-taped to the body. She closed her eyes and shuddered.
It couldn’t be. She quickly scanned the crowd, waiting for the auction to start. Was that a familiar badly dyed blond hairdo near the front? Oh, oh! She couldn’t see with all the people milling around.
Skye glanced over her shoulder. Wally and Dante were still arguing, or rather Dante was throwing a fit like a little kid who didn’t get what he wanted for his birthday. His pointy, beaklike nose was twitching and he was stamping his foot on the asphalt.
Skye edged closer to the horde of potential bidders, but before she could get a good look, she heard, “Whoo-ee! If it ain’t Miz Skye.”
In front of her, waving his arms as if he was directing a 757 to a gate at O’Hare, was Earl Doozier. The pint-size man was wearing red, green, and yellow print Zubaz pants, a white sleeveless T-shirt, and a purple gimme cap with a Copenhagen can embroidered on the front and his ponytail sticking out the back. He patted his little round belly and beamed a toothless smile.
Skye cringed. This was not going to end well. A Doozier’s presence at an emotionally overcharged event like an auction guaranteed a disaster.
CHAPTER 22
Not Enough Room to Swing a Cat
After exchanging a few words with Earl, Skye told him that she didn’t have time to say “howdy” to the rest of the clan that had gathered. While he was still nodding, sh
e slipped away and quickly returned to where Wally and the mayor were standing. She pulled Wally to one side and whispered, “The Dooziers are here.”
“All of them?” Wally’s tone was a mixture of disbelief and horror.
“Just Earl, Glenda, MeMa, Junior, and Cletus,” Skye reported.
“That’s more than enough.” Wally grimaced. “What are they doing here?”
“Hunting for treasure,” Skye explained. “Glenda saw some TV show where people were buying old stuff at yard sales and making big bucks selling it online. So when Earl noticed Dante’s ad in the paper about this auction, he figured it was easier to buy a bunch of junk in one place than to go from garage sale to garage sale.”
“Shit!” Wally scowled. “I can’t think of any valid reason to ask them to leave.”
“Me, neither.”
“But it would probably be best if we don’t mention their presence to Dante.” Wally glanced over at the mayor, who was screaming into his cell phone and shaking his fist in the air.
“Absolutely.” Skye heartily agreed. “What my uncle doesn’t know won’t hurt us.” Although she didn’t know why, Dante had a profound hatred of the Dooziers. He wouldn’t care about the niceties of the law; he would simply order the family’s removal whether the action was legal or not. “Do you want me to distract the mayor?” Skye asked. “I speak fluent patriarchy even though it isn’t my mother tongue.”
It took Wally a second, but he finally chuckled and said, “I’ll deal with Dante.” He tipped his head at the crowd. “How about you hang around with Earl and his merry band while the sale is in progress?”
“That’s probably a good idea.” Skye smiled bravely. Best-case scenario, she could act as a buffer between the family and the rest of the attendees. Worst-case scenario—no, she didn’t even want to think of the worst-case scenario, since it would probably involve her getting between an enraged gang of Dooziers and an even more infuriated mob.
While Wally headed back toward the mayor, Skye went looking for the Dooziers. Earl wasn’t where she had left him, so by the time she found the family, her uncle and his police escort had made their way to the front of the crowd and the mayor was trying to get everyone’s attention.
He wasn’t having much luck until the woman standing beside him handed him a megaphone, which he used to shout, “Okay, folks, listen up.”
Apart from the scuffle of feet and the heavy breathing, people quieted. Everyone, that is, except Glenda Doozier, a tall, meaty blonde wearing a camouflage miniskirt and a matching crop top that were riding up to reveal stretches of dead-white skin both above- and be-lowdecks. Hair dyed one shade beyond believability was swept into a towering beehive with a huge swirl riding low over her forehead. Her earrings, made from bullet casings, dangled nearly into her cleavage.
Peering out from behind the enormous curl, Glenda narrowed her rodentlike brown eyes and said to Skye in a high-pitched, pain-inducing voice, “Cain’t you find nowheres else to stand than beside my man?”
Earl’s wife was not a fan of Skye’s, and she was vocally unhappy that her husband didn’t feel the same way. Earl had learned through painful experience that disagreeing with his wife was futile, but he darted an apologetic glance at Skye and made a distressed sound.
MeMa cackled at the drama unfolding between Glenda and Skye. The elderly woman had a face like a sock puppet, and was the clan matriarch as well as Earl’s grandmother—or maybe great-grandmother. It was hard to keep track of the Dooziers’ twisted family tree since every time someone shook it a bunch of nuts fell out.
Wearing a neon orange muumuu and her signature red high-top sneakers, MeMa was clearly having a wonderful time. She leaned on a debonair-looking black cane, which she used to prod anyone who got in her way, while voicing loud opinions of the weight, attractiveness, and intellect of those around her.
Next to MeMa, Junior and Cletus, Earl’s son and nephew, respectively, giggled and elbowed each other in the side. Skye noticed that they both had large backpacks strapped across their shoulders and she wondered what was in them. In times past, she had warned Earl about allowing the teens to carry guns and he’d promised they would leave the weapons at home. She hoped he had kept his word.
Dante squinted in the direction of the Dooziers and Skye held her breath. She crossed her fingers that because her uncle was too vain to wear his glasses, he wouldn’t be able to detect their faces in the crowd.
Apparently Dante didn’t spot the Dooziers among the other people, since after a few seconds, he continued with his speech. “Cash is king. I’m not taking credit cards, checks, IOUs, or sob stories.”
A discontented murmur rose from the audience, but Earl hooted, “I’s got the money, Sonny. So let’s stop wastin’ my time.”
Dante frowned, seemingly still unable to see who was heckling him, then raised his voice. “Here are my rules. Once the door of the locker is opened, you got five minutes to look around. You can’t go inside, open any boxes, or touch anything. I don’t want any rough stuff and if you bid, you better have the dough.”
With that, Dante nodded to the woman next to him. “This here’s Willie Jo. She manages this place for me and will be collecting the payments.”
A statuesque platinum blonde waved a bunch of keys in one hand and a pair of bolt cutters in the other, then yelled, “Let’s go!”
Dante stuck out his arm, Willie Jo rested her hand on it, and the mismatched couple led the way through a maze of lockers. As Skye struggled to keep up with Earl and his family, she examined the attendees. They ranged in age from teenagers to octogenarians, affluent to hard up, diminutive to gargantuan, and average-looking to downright odd. For once, the Dooziers fit right in.
Skye hadn’t realized the facility was so large. Previously, she’d seen only the front strip of lockers. But finally, after trekking down row after row, Dante and Willie Jo stopped in front of one of the larger units.
Dante shouted, “This is a ten by twenty-five. Cut the lock, Willie Jo.”
The blonde snipped off the padlock, rolled the metal door up, and quickly stepped aside as the pack descended. Skye stuck to Earl’s side, peeking into the dark, somewhat spooky interior. It held old appliances, particleboard furniture, and a mountain of bulging black plastic trash bags.
Earl turned to his wife and whispered furiously, gesturing avidly at the locker.
“I don’t care if you saw somebody’s great-aunt’s girdle go for a thousand dollars on eBay,” Glenda hissed. “We may a’ got married for better or worse—you couldn’t do no better and I couldn’t do no worse—but…” She pulled the V-neck of her camo crop top away from her body and pointed down to her boobs. “Iffen you go over two hunert, you’ll never play with these babies again.”
“But, honey pie,” Earl whined. “Don’t youse see that big ol’ doll thingy in the back? I bets we could get a ton a money for that.”
Glenda bent forward and Skye quickly moved behind her to block the view as the woman’s camo micro mini crept up, revealing a dimpled derriere that should never have made the acquaintance of a thong. All they needed was Earl having to defend his ladylove’s honor from some guy with a smart mouth or a fast hand.
“Two hunert,” Glenda repeated. “Ain’t no headless green plastic woman with a phone in her belly worth more than that. The furniture’s nothin’ but cheap crap, and we don’t got no idea what’s in those bags.”
Earl’s bid was quickly overtaken by a tall guy with slicked-back hair. His neck was the size of a Sunday ham, and he was dressed in tight black pants and a red silk shirt. He carried a small leather bag.
As he passed the Doozier clan to claim his locker, the man smirked and said to Earl, “Step aside for a real player, Shorty.”
Skye recoiled, waiting for the first punch.
But Earl just narrowed his beady little eyes and said, “Dumbass, I ain’t short. I is fun size.”
Mr. Silk Shirt paused as if to turn back and say something more, but someone from the crowd sa
id to him, “Word to the wise. Let it go.”
Word to the wise? Skye shook her head. Really? Shouldn’t that be word to the stupid?
Earl murmured something to Glenda, who nodded, and the pair moved on.
The next few units were filled with brown paper grocery sacks overflowing with used clothing and more black trash bags holding who knew what. A couple of them smelled so bad they made Skye’s eyes water. She’d seen everything from dirty diapers to unwashed dishes, and couldn’t believe the rubbish people paid good money to keep in storage.
The bidding had been lackluster, but the final locker of the sale perked everyone up. According to Dante, it was ten by thirty feet and big enough to store the contents of an entire moving van. As the lock was cut, a wave of excited chatter rose from the attendees, and immediately the crowd surged forward to get a better view. The unit was packed with what appeared to be new merchandise.
Skye was shoved over the threshold and into a stack of cartons. Steadying herself on a pile of boxes that bore pictures of lawn mowers, weed whackers, and leaf blowers, she noticed the words stamped in red ink along the sides and top: PROPERTY OF THE CITY OF VIDERVILLE.
She frowned. Viderville was a municipality about twice the size of Scumble River, located fifteen miles south of her hometown. Why was its property being stored in Laurel? Almost before Skye could form the question, her uncle grabbed her arm and yanked her out of the locker.
Shouting above the multitude of excited voices, the mayor addressed the crowd. “Sorry, folks. Wrong unit. The ink was smudged. This is three-six-six and we wanted eight-six-six.”
Grumbling, the mob followed Dante and Willie Jo to another large locker. This one contained an industrial oven, several rolling metal racks, and a mixer the size of a ten-year-old. There were also fifty-pound bags of flour, cornstarch, and sugar, as well as a huge white plastic tub of rainbow sprinkles and several gallon jugs of cooking oil. It looked like a bakery had gone out of business, and Skye heard the folks around her murmuring appreciatively.
Murder of the Cat's Meow: A Scumble River Mystery Page 20