Murder of a Stacked Librarian: A Scumble River Mystery

by Swanson, Denise

  Skye had candles scattered around the room and the CD player ready with Rod Stewart’s “Tonight’s the Night.”

  By the time she changed into an emerald green lace baby doll, Wally had lit all the candles and stripped down to a pair of black silk boxers.

  When she appeared in the bedroom doorway, he pushed the CD’s ON button. Slowly and seductively, his gaze slid down her body; then he took her hands and gently eased her onto the satin sheets. A ripple of excitement shot through her as he joined her, and suddenly she ached for his touch.

  He slid the gown off her shoulders and down her arms, then kicked off his boxers and gathered her against his chest. Skye instinctively arched toward him, and together they found the tempo that bound their bodies together. A moan of ecstasy slipped through her lips, and she knew that she had found the man who not only unlocked her heart, but also her soul.

  • • •

  Morning came much too soon. As Skye woke up, she realized that she and Wally had been able to make love—several times—and Mrs. Griggs hadn’t destroyed anything. In fact, there was a scattering of rose petals on the bed that Wally swore he hadn’t placed there. Had Trixie been right? Was the pesky poltergeist happy now that Skye and Wally were married?

  Smiling at that happy thought, Skye got dressed, and by six a.m., Wally’s T-bird was loaded with their honeymoon luggage and they were on their way to the police station. The prisoner had been held overnight in the station’s sole cell. It was located in the basement and rarely used, since most of the Scumble River detainees were transported to the county jail in Laurel.

  Skye and Wally slipped in through the garage entrance, and Quirk had Gaskin waiting in the coffee room. Wally and Skye’s goal was to accomplish the interrogation without anyone else becoming aware of their presence. The last thing they wanted was May finding out they had delayed their departure and were still in town.

  Gaskin was seated at the table, the remains of his breakfast—an Egg McMuffin and hash browns—scattered in front of him. The night in jail had taken its toll on the man. His shirt was wrinkled, there was a stain on his khakis, and his thinning hair stood on end. He looked every one of his fifty-eight years.

  Skye took the seat facing him and Wally leaned against the counter to the suspect’s left.

  Wally waited until Gaskin’s claims of innocence had sputtered to a stop, then confirmed, “You’ve been read your rights?”

  “Yeah.” The stocky man sulked. “But I’m not paying any shyster lawyer to tell me what to do when I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Really?” Wally took his notebook from his shirt pocket. He was dressed in his uniform and would change before leaving for the airport. “Because we know all about the contaminated land and Yvonne’s threat to expose your company’s fraud. We also have a witness who saw you threatening her with a crowbar on December twenty-third, just one day before she was murdered.” Wally paused, then delivered the coup de grâce. “And we have your Escalade in custody.”

  “How . . .” Gaskin gulped, a look of panic on his face. “I mean, where did you find it? Someone took it on Christmas Eve.”

  “Did you report it stolen?”

  “Uh.” Gaskin wrinkled his brow. “I, uh, have been meaning to, but with the holidays, I was just too busy.”

  “Right.” Wally’s voice was knife-edged. “The vehicle’s bumper was damaged, and we were able to get both wood and paint scrapings from it. The lab results from those samples should be back any minute. We’re certain the wood will match the bridge Yvonne Osborn was forced off and the paint will match her car.”

  “You’re saying whoever took my Cadillac killed poor Yvonne?” Gaskin’s voice cracked. “Well, it wasn’t me.”

  “The seat in the Escalade was adjusted for your height and there was blood on the steering wheel.” Wally crossed his arms. “Remember being tested last night? We already know the blood in the SUV is your type, and we’re running the DNA right now.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything.” Gaskin puffed his chest out. “I cut myself shaving the other day. The blood is probably from that.”

  “Or it’s from the gash on your knee.” Wally shrugged. “We have a witness who will testify that you were limping that night after the time of the murder.”

  “You’re twisting everything.” Gaskin slumped forward. “Maybe I do need a lawyer.”

  “Only if you want to escalate the proceedings.” Wally hooked his thumb in his belt loops. “And it’ll take a lot more time. I hope you don’t have anything planned for the rest of the day.”

  “I . . . I . . .” Hank scrubbed his eyes with his fists and looked at Skye. “What do you think I should do?”

  “Well, you do have a right to counsel, Hank.” She reached across the table and patted his arm. “But then you won’t be able to tell us your side of the story. We won’t know the mitigating circumstances of the situation.” She paused to let him think about what she’d said, then asked, “Do you want to call your attorney?”

  “No. I guess not.” Gaskin sniffed, obviously realizing he was running out of options.

  “Well, you can anytime.” Skye didn’t want the judge to throw out his confession because Gaskin’s rights hadn’t been upheld. “But let me tell you what I think happened.” She smiled reassuringly at him. “I think you were trying to catch up with Yvonne that night to talk to her. You were probably going too fast, so your Escalade slid on some ice and you accidently nudged her car off the road.”

  “Yeah. That’s it.” Gaskin nodded vigorously. “I just wanted to ask her for more time so we could clean up the site.” He straightened and spoke faster. “But she slammed on her brakes and I hit her.” He smoothed back his hair. “I tried to help her, but it was clear she was already dead and I panicked and left.”

  “So you admit you were behind the wheel?” Skye wanted to make sure it was clear that Gaskin had been the one driving the Escalade that forced Yvonne off the bridge.

  “Yes.” Gaskin nodded. “But I didn’t mean to kill her.”

  “Buzz. Wrong answer.” Wally pounced. “We have evidence that proves there was no way Yvonne’s car crash was an accident.”

  “But—but,” Hank stammered, then pointed at Skye. “But she said—”

  Wally interrupted him. “The forensics can prove Yvonne was intentionally forced off the road.” Wally raised a brow. “If, as you claim, you had hit her in the rear, there wouldn’t be paint from your SUV on the side of the victim’s vehicle.”

  “Hank.” Skye made her voice soothing and her expression sympathetic. She needed this scumbag to confess so she could go on her honeymoon. “If you tell us what happened and show remorse, I bet the prosecutor will take the death penalty off the table.”

  Gaskin buried his face in his hands and refused to speak.

  Wally stepped over to him and snatched his arm. He pushed up the man’s sleeve and said, “I hope you have good veins. Because if you don’t, they have to poke around with the needle, and all the time they’re jabbing you, you’re wondering, ‘Is it going to be now? Am I going to die now?’”

  Gaskin’s head jerked up, and sensing he was about to crumble, Skye asked, “Did Neil force you to help him kill his ex-wife?”

  “Sort of.” Gaskin collapsed against the back of the chair, a broken man who clearly had run out of ideas on how to deny his guilt. “Neil discovered that I had bought polluted land when he took the wrong file home. He told me that Yvonne knew and was going public unless we cleaned up the contamination and informed the buyers of what had previously been on the property.” Gaskin paused. “Neil told me to take care of the problem. That he wasn’t going down because I was a fool.”

  “So when you threatened her on the twenty-third and she ran you off with a shotgun, you felt you had no choice but to kill her?” Skye asked. “Does Neil know you were the one who ran her off the bridge?”

  “I think so.” Gaskin shrugged. “He told me that he was glad I had taken care of our problem.”
Gaskin sobbed. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone. But it all just sort of got out of control. If Yvonne told the media about the contamination on our site, our company would have gone bankrupt, and I couldn’t let that happen.”

  “Because of your gambling debts?” Skye asked.

  “Yeah.” Gaskin wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand. “Those guys don’t mess around. It was her or me.” His expression hardened. “That bitch just didn’t understand. You don’t mess with a man’s livelihood.”

  Skye and Wally exchanged a disgusted look, and he wrapped up the questioning. Three hours later, Gaskin’s case had been turned over to the city attorney and Skye and Wally were on their way to the airport.

  As they merged onto I-55, Skye said, “I’m surprised Gaskin caved as fast as he did.”

  “Except for habitual criminals, most people find it hard to maintain a lie when there is so much evidence against them.” Wally’s smile was grim. “Besides, in my years as a cop, it’s been my experience that if you act with authority, most people will tell you anything.”

  “I’ve seen that as a school psych, too.” Skye was silent for a few miles, then said, “What I admire about Yvonne is that she cared so much; she couldn’t look the other way even if it put her life in danger.”

  “Most folks are happy to do the right thing when it’s easy.” Wally kept his gaze on the traffic. “But when it gets hard, they usually put themselves first.”

  “So many people claim that principles are situational or personal, but that’s just an excuse to look the other way and not hold someone accountable for their actions. Yvonne believed that doing the right thing meant caring about others as much as herself.” Skye squeezed Wally’s hand. “The prevalent opinion seems to be that behaving honorably makes life less enjoyable. But really, doing the right thing allows us to live in a way that fulfills us. Otherwise, it’s like a diet of candy bars. Yummy while you’re eating them, but they never quite satisfy your hunger and you know that something you need is missing.”

  “That’s a hard message to get across to people.” Wally wrinkled his brow. “Maybe you can convince Kathy Steele to have the Scumble River Star do an article honoring Yvonne as someone who took a big risk and made the ultimate sacrifice for the common good.”

  “That’s a great idea.” Skye leaned over and kissed his cheek. “It would show all those people she annoyed that she was so nitpicky about the small rules because allowing herself to overlook them would have made it easier to ignore true evil when she was faced with it.”

  They were silent for a few miles; then, as the traffic thinned, Wally relaxed and said, “I wonder which parent Phoebe will be like.”

  “I hope she’s a blend of them both,” Skye murmured. “That way she’d have ethics, but also a sense of survival. If Yvonne had had that, she’d be alive today.”

  EPILOGUE

  Checking Out

  Skye and Wally snuggled on the white leather sofa in the middle of his father’s private jet. Carson and Quentin were in the front of the plane, seated on matching armchairs. Although Skye had flown several times in the past, this was nothing like those commercial flights.

  First of all, there had been no parking problem or luggage issues. Wally had pulled his Thunderbird into an empty hangar, and their luggage had been whisked away. Security had also been much quicker, and instead of taking two hours to board, they’d walked onto the plane in less than twenty minutes.

  Then there was the food. Since they’d skipped breakfast, Skye was hungry and hadn’t been looking forward to a package of peanuts and a soda. She was astounded when the flight attendant offered them a luncheon menu listing coq au vin, veal Oscar, or steamed Maine lobster. She’d chosen the lobster, which came with roasted red potatoes and grilled asparagus. Dessert was chocolate mousse cake.

  While they ate, she said to Wally, “So this is what your life was like before Scumble River?”

  “Pretty much.” He dug into his veal Oscar. They’d both burned a lot of calories the night before. “Except it was more like that.” He pointed his fork at his father poring over a stack of papers while Quentin talked on the phone.

  “I didn’t think you could use a cell while flying.” Skye watched her new cousin as he propped the tiny black rectangle between his shoulder and ear so he could take notes as he spoke.

  “Private jets have their own Internet and phone links that use either satellites or special ground stations.” Wally finished his entrée and reached for his dessert.

  “Oh.” Skye had no idea how the top one percent lived. “I suppose that’s a necessity, since most are used for business.”

  “And speaking of business, this is the last little bit. I promise.” Wally took out his cell as “Hail to the Chief” blared from his pocket. “Yeah.” He listened, then said, “Good.” He listened again and shook his head. “No. You’re in charge now. I don’t want to hear about it unless Scumble River is attacked by a band of vampire werewolf zombies.” He paused, then added just before clicking the phone closed, “Actually, not even then.”

  “Was that Quirk?”

  “Yep.” Wally turned his cell off and stuck it in his carry-on bag. “The lab results confirm that the paint is from the vic’s car and the wood is from the bridge. Proving the blood on the wheel is Gaskin’s will take a couple more days, but in exchange for immunity from an accessory charge, Neil Osborn has agreed to testify against him.”

  “Sounds like an airtight case.” Skye finished her cake. “But I’m still glad we got the confession.”

  “Me too.” Wally pushed his plate away and reached for Skye. “Now we don’t have to think about anything but us for the next seven days.”

  • • •

  “A cruise!” Skye squealed. “I’ve always wanted to go on a cruise. I was so jealous of Trixie getting to take one.”

  After the CB International jet had landed in Fort Lauderdale and they’d said goodbye to Carson and Quentin, a limo had taken Skye and Wally to the port, where Wally had finally revealed his big surprise. They were honeymooning in the eastern Caribbean on the Diamond Countess.

  “What ship is Trixie on?” Wally asked as a tuxedoed man showed them to their quarters.

  “I don’t know.” Skye shrugged, distracted by the soaring lobby. “I don’t think she ever said, or if she did, I don’t remember.”

  “Too much wedding talk, right?” Wally teased.

  “Probably.” Skye’s expression was sheepish. “I have been a little self-involved since we started planning it.”

  The man pressed the elevator UP button and announced, “Your suite is on deck seven.”

  “A suite!” Skye yelped. “Oh, my gosh!”

  “I told you I was able to afford an upgrade because I got such a good price using your mother’s tip.” Wally beamed at Skye’s excitement.

  “My mother.” Skye’s voice rose.

  “Yes. She told me about the special the travel agency in town was running.” Wally sounded puzzled. “Remember—”

  “No,” Skye interrupted him. “There, on the stairs.” She pointed. “Isn’t that my mother?”

  A book club meeting turns deadly

  and romantic rivalries take center stage in

  Denise Swanson’s next

  Devereaux’s Dime Store Mystery,

  Dead Between the Lines

  Available in March 2014 as a paperback

  and e-book.

  Read on for a fun excerpt. . . .

  Well, this was awkward. In my head, I could hear my grandmother Birdie yelling, “Devereaux Ann Sinclair, what have you gotten yourself into this time?” Ann wasn’t my real middle name, but little details like that never stood in Gran’s way when she was truly ticked off at me.

  I slid a cautious glance to my left. My shop, Devereaux’s Dime Store and Gift Baskets, boasted three soda fountain stools, and two of them were occupied by men who had recently kissed me silly. In the antique Bradley and Hubbard cast-iron mirror hanging behind the counter, I
could see them sitting shoulder to shoulder, glaring at each other. The gilt cherub on top of the glass smirked back at them.

  Being the coward that I am, I ignored the two rivals for my affection and forced my poor weekend clerk, Xylia Locke, to deal with them while I stayed firmly behind my beloved 1920s brass cash register, ringing up the purchases of the last few lingering customers. As I bagged Mr. Williams’s Lucky Tiger Liquid Cream Shave, I wondered what my straitlaced employee thought of the two smoldering men in front of her, or for that matter, what her opinion was of my less than orderly life. Xylia was majoring in business administration at the local junior college, and she hated it when life—especially the emotional part—got muddled, chaotic, or messy.

  Xylia liked her world to be as neat and tidy as she was, never appearing in public in anything but perfectly tailored slacks and sweater sets in muted colors. In fact, when I had first hired her, she’d offered to take a pay cut in exchange for not having to wear a sweatshirt with the store logo embroidered on the front. I’d been a little insulted that she didn’t want to have my name across her chest, but I’d swallowed my pride and agreed to her proposal.

  Even the small amount of money I saved on her salary was a godsend to my cash-starved bottom line. Because, while quitting my consulting job at Stramp Investments and buying the dime store had reduced my round-trip commute from two hours to fifteen minutes and cut the time I spent at work almost in half, it had also shrunk my income from six figures to nearly poverty level. So even if it bruised my ego a bit that Xylia didn’t like my sweatshirt design, any way that I could keep my books in the black was okay with me.

  The change in career path, aspirations, and lifestyle had all been worth it in order to be able to spend the extra time with my grandmother. When Birdie’s doctor had informed me that she needed me to be around more to keep an eye on her due to her memory issues, I knew it was my turn to help her. How could I do anything less, since she had been the one who had taken me in and loved me when I had nowhere else to go and no one else who cared?