First, May jumped to her feet and yelled that the groom was too old. Next, Wally’s ex-wife, Darlene, screamed that she still loved him, followed closely by Skye’s ex-boyfriend Simon, who shouted that he still loved her. Then finally, just as Pope Benedict XVI came down the aisle to challenge Wally’s annulment, the church exploded as if struck by a cruise missile.
Coming fully awake, Skye put her hand to her racing heart. What a nightmare. She turned to tell Wally about it, then remembered that he had said he was going into the police station early. She’d been tempted to beg off helping with the murder investigation. There were only four days until the wedding and she already had enough on her plate without adding the duties of police psych consultant. But in the end she knew her conscience would nag at her if she didn’t do everything she could to find Yvonne’s killer.
Skye checked the clock radio on the nightstand, then rocketed out of bed. Shoot! It was already past nine o’clock. Wally must have fed Bingo before he left, or the cat’s stomach alarm would have gone off hours ago and he would have roused her, demanding his breakfast. She hoped Wally had also cleaned the litter box, because if he hadn’t, the finicky feline might very well show his displeasure by leaving her a little gift—possibly right in the middle of the parlor on her new hand-knotted wool rug.
As Skye showered, she scrolled through her mental file of chores. It might be the twenty-sixth of December, but there were no after-Christmas sales in her future. Instead, she had to contact the photographer, florist, and DJ to go over the final arrangements, confirm the schedule of events, and make sure none of the vendors screwed up.
She was trying hard not to become the crazed bride her California cousin had been before her wedding, but after some of the mistakes that had already occurred, Skye had a newfound empathy for all the bridezillas she had sneered at in the past. It wasn’t that she demanded perfection; she knew that would never happen. She just didn’t want a disaster.
Since Wally had said he wouldn’t need her at the PD until after lunch, Skye had almost three hours to work on the wedding. But first she had to figure out what to wear.
Because she had to dress up for her job as a school psychologist, she’d been looking forward to spending this week in sweats. Regrettably, there was no way she could take part in an interrogation looking like she’d just come from the gym, so instead of her comfy tracksuit, she put on a pair of camel wool slacks and a green cashmere sweater set that matched her eyes.
After checking that Bingo’s litter box met his lofty standards, she fixed herself tea and an English muffin. Thus fortified, she started making phone calls to the various vendors in her file. The DJ confirmed that he had the two most important songs—the first dance, “At Last,” sung by Etta James, and the father/daughter dance, “I Loved Her First,” sung by Heartland. The rest of the playlist would be a combination of fifties, sixties, and seventies classics with some present-day country music mixed in.
Next, Skye reiterated to the photographer that she didn’t want to take pictures of her and Wally together in advance of the wedding. It might be a superstition, but they’d had enough bad luck in their relationship, and she wasn’t taking a chance by allowing the groom to see her in her bridal gown before the ceremony.
The call to the florist went quickly, and a few minutes before noon, Skye closed her wedding organizer, grabbed the lunch she had packed to share with Wally, and headed to the PD. There were only a few cars in the lot adjacent to the redbrick building shared by the police station, city hall, and the library. As Skye passed the entrance to the stairs leading up to the library, she noticed a black wreath hanging on the door. She paused, wondering how Yvonne’s daughter was coping with her death. Losing a parent was never easy, and now Christmas Eve would forever be associated with her mother’s passing. Skye pressed her lips together. No matter how many murders she helped investigate, she would never understand why someone would kill a fellow human being.
Sighing, Skye went into the station. She waved hello to Thea, who was on the phone at the dispatcher’s desk, then used her key to let herself into the back. The cubicles that the officers used to do paperwork were empty, and the station was eerily quiet. But as she started to climb the stairs to Wally’s office, she heard voices coming from the top of the steps.
Apparently Wally and Roy Quirk were standing in the corridor that separated the police chief’s office from the mayor’s, discussing staffing issues, because Skye heard Wally say, “I know you don’t like Zuchowski, but you’ve got to work with the tools you’re given.”
“Yeah, but it’s unfortunate that Zuchowski is one of those tools.” Skye reached the landing just in time to catch Quirk folding his arms across his chest and saying, “And he’s going to be missing from the toolbox again. He called a few minutes ago to say he won’t be coming in again today. The last shift he worked was days on Saturday.”
“What in holy hell is the problem this time?” Wally’s ears were red. “Don’t tell me he has another family emergency.”
“Nah.” Sergeant Quirk was Wally’s second in command and handled personnel scheduling. “He says he has the flu. Probably won’t be able to take the duty again until next week.”
“But you don’t believe him?” Wally had his back to Skye.
“All I’m saying is it’s mighty convenient timing.” Quirk took a deep breath, the overdeveloped muscles of his chest threatening to pop the buttons on his uniform shirt. “Especially since he asked for this week off in order to go on vacation with his girlfriend.”
Skye couldn’t remember ever meeting Zuchowski. He’d been hired a little more than eighteen months ago, and it seemed as if he was never around the PD when Skye was there. Wally had mentioned him from time to time—mostly commenting on his absenteeism, tardiness, and poor performance. Now she wondered if she hadn’t met him because he was never at work.
“Well,” Wally drawled, “that is quite a coincidence.”
“Maybe I’d better stop by his apartment.” Quirk ran his hand over his shaved head. He was ex-military and didn’t tolerate shirkers. “If he’s sick, he might need some chicken soup.”
“Good idea.”
“And if he’s not home?” Quirk’s mouth tightened and a vein on the side of his neck pulsed. “Should I leave him a little get-well note?”
“Hmm.” As Wally considered his options, he glanced around and finally noticed Skye. “Did you hear all this?” When she nodded he asked, “What do you think?”
“I think that if I ever want to actually meet the new guy, it better be soon.”
Quirk snickered and gave her a thumbs-up. He and Skye had had some issues in the past, but things had gotten better recently—mostly due to a concerted effort on her part to make Quirk feel more comfortable. Still, it was clear that he found it confusing to work with her since he couldn’t figure out her status. Was the psych consultant above or below the sergeant in rank? And did the fact that she was the chief’s fiancée make a difference?
As Wally took Skye’s hand, tugged her to his side, and gave her a hug, he said to Quirk, “If Zuchowski isn’t there, don’t let him know you stopped by. I’ll deal with him when he finally recovers from his illness, and I think it’s best if he doesn’t have any warning.”
“You got it, Chief.” Quirk touched an imaginary hat brim. “I’ll go over to Zuchowski’s place right now.” He turned and ran lightly down the stairs.
“So, besides an AWOL officer, anything else new around here?” Skye asked as she and Wally retreated to his office. “Any break on the murder?”
“The crime lab called a few minutes ago.” Wally took a seat behind his desk. “According to the FBI’s National Automotive Paint File and the PDQ, the paint chips at the scene come from a white 2006 Cadillac Escalade.”
“PDQ?” Skye pulled the visitor’s chair closer to the other side of the desk.
“The Royal Canadian Mounted Police’s Paint Data Query system. Those databases cover vehicles marketed in North America after 1973.”
Wally picked up the sandwich Skye had put on a napkin in front of him. “The glass fragments confirm that the vehicle in question is that year and make.”
“At least that’s got to narrow it down. How many people drive a car that costs over fifty thousand dollars?”
“Not many,” Wally agreed around a mouthful of ham, cheese, and whole wheat bread. Swallowing, he added, “However, there’s a problem with locating vehicles involved in hit-and-runs. It’s not as easy as those crime shows you watch on television make it seem.”
“Oh?”
“I assigned one of the officers to start checking registrations, but the system’s been down all morning. Even once it’s up, after he looks into titleholders in the immediate area, it becomes exponentially more difficult to track ownership. If the killer lives more than forty or so miles away, we may never find him or her.”
“Can’t you inquire about suspicious damages at the repair shops?” Skye bit into her own sandwich.
“Yes. But there are hundreds of them.” Wally started to peel an orange. “And again, the owner may use a place as far away as Chicago or Bloomington or even Springfield. The farther away, the less likely we’ll locate it.”
“How about putting out some kind of APB to all the shops in Illinois?” Skye took a swig of her Diet Coke.
“Unfortunately that’s not possible.” Wally opened the Ziploc bag of Christmas cookies and selected a frosted reindeer. “There are just too many and there’s no organized list. I’ve got Martinez calling all the repair shops within a sixty-mile radius, but that will take her several days.”
Zelda Martinez was Scumble River’s only female officer, and also the newest hire, so she was often assigned the more routine tasks.
“Those guys I overheard at church mentioned being maintenance men.” Skye popped an orange segment into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose they’d have the cash to own an Escalade?”
“Maybe not.” Wally twitched his shoulders. “But you never know what kind of debt people are willing to go into for the car of their dreams.” He grabbed a file from his in-box, flipped it open, and ran his finger down one of the pages. “The vic’s husband is a land developer, so he’d definitely have the money for a luxury vehicle.”
“So who do we talk to first?” Skye finished eating and tossed the debris in the trash can. “The maintenance men or the husband?”
“None of the above.” Wally threw away his wrappers and slid a sheet of paper across the desktop. “I think we should start with the daughter.”
“Why?” Skye scanned the page in front of her, noting that the girl’s name was Phoebe and she had turned nineteen two weeks ago. “Because she argued with her mom right before the accident?”
“That’s one of the reasons.” Wally stood. “More important, we couldn’t locate her that evening.” He waited for Skye at the door. “When we finally contacted the vic’s ex that night, he said their daughter was supposed to spend Christmas Eve with him, but she wasn’t there.”
“Did she show up at her dad’s later?” Skye preceded Wally out of his office and down the stairs.
“Nope.” Wally told Thea that he and Skye were heading out, then led the way into the garage. “The next day, the ex’s new wife told Quirk that Phoebe never arrived at their house, and the girl didn’t answer her cell until late the next morning. The current Mrs. Osborn said her husband was frantic because he was afraid Phoebe had been in the car with her mother.”
“The poor man.”
“Poor man, my butt,” Wally snapped. “If the guy had contacted us, we could have told him there was no evidence of another passenger. The windows were all up, the seat belts were intact, and none of the doors had been opened once the vehicle was submerged.”
“Interesting that he didn’t call the police.” Skye slid into the squad car. “I take it he gave you her cell number and you tried it that night?”
“Yep.” Wally nodded as he joined Skye in the cruiser. “As soon as we confirmed Yvonne’s identity, I had Quirk go to her house, and Phoebe wasn’t there either.”
“So our mission today is to see where Miss Phoebe spent Christmas Eve?” She buckled her seat belt. “And find out if she drives an Escalade?”
“Exactly.” Wally pulled the robin’s-egg blue Caprice onto the street. “I also want you to see if you can tell what Phoebe’s relationship with her mom was like.”
“I’m on it.” Skye could usually get a feeling for how kids got along with their parents by little things they said and their facial expressions. “I’m guessing Phoebe’s out of high school. Does she go to college?”
“No. Her dad said there was some snafu with her application and she has to wait until next year to attend.” Wally took a left onto Maryland Street. “Meanwhile, she’s working part-time at your aunt’s dance studio, which is where we’re heading.”
Olive Leofanti had opened the Scumble River School of Adult Dance a little more than a year ago. When her original partner had been unable to come up with her half of the money for the business, the future of the studio had seemed bleak. But in June, Olive had found another investor, changed the name of the school to Turning Pointe, and expanded to include lessons for children. Immediately, class size had begun to increase, and now the place seemed to be thriving.
Having two left feet, Skye hadn’t been to the school since the grand opening, but her mother’s daily family bulletins had kept her informed. Skye vaguely remembered May mentioning that Olive’s new business partner was from out of state and that the woman had sent her daughter to represent her interests in the studio. But Skye didn’t recall receiving a report about the new hire. May must be slipping—normally even a part-timer would have rated a mention.
As Wally made a right onto Basin Street, Skye commented, “You said we’re going to the studio, but will Phoebe be at work today? After all, it’s the day after Christmas and her mom died less than thirty-six hours ago. Surely, Aunt Olive wouldn’t expect her to show up.”
“According to Mr. Osborn, Turning Pointe is having a recital tomorrow, and Phoebe insisted she couldn’t let down her bosses and had to be there for the students.”
“She sounds like a conscientious young woman.” Skye rummaged in her purse, drew out a tube of lip gloss, and applied it.
“Yeah.” Wally pulled into a parking spot in front of the school. “Except for the part about her disappearing the night her mom was killed.”
“That is suspicious,” Skye agreed.
As they walked through the double glass doors and into the lobby of the studio, Skye heard a cacophony of high-pitched, excited voices. She and Wally followed the sound to a large area that boasted polished wood floors and mirrored walls. Groups of females ranging in age from prepubescent to elderly were practicing everything from arabesques to hip-hop moves.
A beautiful woman in her late twenties or early thirties stood nearest the entrance. She was busy teaching a half dozen golden agers the steps to a jazz routine. When she noticed Wally, she told her group to take a break and approached him.
“Well, if it isn’t Chief Boyd.” The shapely blonde dressed in a skintight zebra-print leotard playfully tapped Wally’s arm. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Hi, Emmy.” Wally smiled warmly at the stunning woman. “I’ve been too busy to get out to the club.”
“That’s a shame,” Emmy purred. “We all missed you at the holiday shindig.”
Skye had been standing a little behind Wally, taking in the exchange with growing unease. At the mention of a party, she decided it was time to interrupt. She cleared her throat and moved closer to Wally.
He glanced at her with a sheepish expression, then said to the lovely dancer, “I don’t think you’ve met my fiancée, Skye Denison. Skye, this is Emerald Jones.” As the two women shook hands, he explained, “Emmy and I are members of the Laurel Gun Club. We shoot together every Wednesday night. She’s got the sweetest little Smith & Wesson Centennial 642CT and a Marlin 336XLR r
ifle.”
“Really.” Skye examined the tall, lithe woman who was beaming at Wally. “I’ve been thinking about learning to shoot. Wally’s taught me a little, but I’d like to get more comfortable with guns. There’s only so much protection pepper spray and a Taser can provide.”
“True.” Emmy tossed her ponytail. “And they aren’t half as much fun.”
“After the wedding, I’ll have to come out to the club with Wally.” Skye wasn’t sure if she was making casual conversation or warning the gorgeous woman away from her man. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”
“As Wally said, I’m at the club every Wednesday night, and I also go most Sunday afternoons.” Emmy arched a feathery brow and her sapphire blue eyes twinkled. “It would be nice to get to know you since I’ve heard so much about you.”
“From Wally?” Skye asked, trying to figure out why it seemed as if she’d met Emmy before. There was something oddly familiar about the woman.
“Well, he does talk about you all the time.” Emmy poked Wally’s arm again. “But then, so does your aunt Olive and my mom’s friend’s son.”
“Who’s that?” Skye thought she remembered that Emmy’s mother was from out of state. What was her connection with Scumble River?
“Simon Reid.” Emmy wrinkled her cute little turned-up nose. “According to him, you’re a paragon of virtue who can do no wrong and I’m as irresponsible as his mother.” She widened her eyes. “Seriously, I only got into a tiny bit of trouble in Lost Wages. I didn’t really have to leave town.”
Uh-huh! Skye mentally slapped her forehead. That’s who Emmy reminded her of—Simon’s mother’s friend Ruby. The statuesque blonde had hid out with Bunny Reid in Scumble River three or four years ago, when she was running from a shady casino owner. So Ruby was Aunt Olive’s partner. How in the heck had that happened? It had to be Bunny’s doing.
“Believe me,” Skye declared, “when Simon and I were dating, he never thought I was perfect.”
Skye hid a smile. Simon was as straitlaced as they came. Depending on the kind of trouble Emmy had gotten into in Las Vegas, he would be having a fit that his mother was once again part of some harebrained scheme.
Murder of a Stacked Librarian: A Scumble River Mystery Page 6