Buzz Off (10 page)

“What?” I said, glaring over and acting annoyed, an offensive response I learned from the master of emotional manipulation—my mother.

“We need to talk,” Johnny Jay said. “Right now.”

“I’m a little busy.” I glanced at my watch. If I didn’t get moving, Gerald Smith would beat me to Manny’s place and I’d lose my window of opportunity. “Move your SUV.”

“This isn’t an optional request. We can do it nice and easy or we can do it my favorite way.” He dangled a pair of handcuffs.

“Where’s Hunter?” I wanted to know. Johnny had local jurisdiction, but Hunter’s Waukesha County credentials might trump Johnny Jay’s. Or so I hoped.

“Hunter Wallace doesn’t have anything to do with official business in this town,” the police chief said, dashing my hopes. “Other than responding with C.I.T. when we have a situation.”

He played with the cuffs.

“This might be one of those situations,” I suggested.

“Besides, how do you think a dog trainer can help you? Don’t you know he transferred from being a real cop to the K-9 unit to train mutts?” Johnny snickered, like the K-9 unit and dog training were the lowest of the low.

When Hunter had shown up with a dog in the back of his SUV, I never imagined police dogs were his full-time job. Since he and I usually stuck to flirting, and more recently to finding dead bodies, that wasn’t a subject we’d covered yet.

Johnny Jay tried to open the truck door, but I’d locked it. He reached in the window, unlocked the door, opened it, and said, “Get out. Now!”

After that, I ended up “downtown” just like in the movies. Only the station wasn’t downtown because the new building was way too enormous to fit inside the business section of town. Why is it that every small town thinks it needs its very own, state-of-the-art, big-tax-drain fire station? In Moraine’s case, at least they combined fire with police in the multimillion-dollar taxpayer-funded monument. After 9/11, fire and police were high on everyone’s referendum agenda, and that’s how Johnny Jay got his special facility.

My interrogation was conducted in a sterile conference room that contained nothing more than an empty table, six chairs, and a picture of an eagle hanging on the wall. The police chief grilled me back and forth and sideways about Hunter and the kayak and the ill-fated canoe trip. My story stayed straight and simple, focusing mostly on Hunter as guide and decision maker. I already knew that Johnny Jay was not my friend.

And based on the intensity of his questioning, chances were good that Faye Tilley had been murdered. I’d been worried about that even though I hadn’t spotted any blood in the kayak or any other signs of an attack. My first thought was, if she had to get herself killed, why did she have to do it in
my
kayak? Then I felt bad for having the thought.

But steel bars did
not
go with any of my outfits, including the black one I was wearing at the moment.

“I’ve told you what happened at least sixteen times,” I said, exaggerating. “And Hunter told you, too. How much more information do you think you can squeeze out of me? That’s it. The whole deal.”

“You still haven’t explained why the deceased was in your kayak.”

Johnny Jay was flopped back in a swivel chair with his feet plopped up on the table, crossed at the ankles.

“How should I know why she was in my kayak? It was missing. I thought kids took it for a joy ride again. Hunter helped me look for it, we found it, she was in it.”

“You have to do better than that.”

I sighed as heavy and disgusted as possible.

Suddenly Johnny Jay’s feet came up off the table so he could lean into my face. I wanted to smirk and tell him where he could go, but it might not be in my best interest to go with my first impulse. What he said next scared me almost to death. “Let’s talk about the night before,” he said. “And you can tell me what you were doing out on the bank of the river behind your house with Faye Tilley?”

I felt a chill. That question had come out of nowhere. “What?” I managed to croak out.

“Someone saw you two, said it sounded like you were arguing.”

My gasp of shocked indignation sounded good even to my terrified ears. “Who would say such a horrible thing?”
Well, who would?
This was crazy.

I saw it in his eyes. Johnny Jay thought I had killed her.

“Are you trying to tell me it isn’t true?” he demanded.

“Absolutely not. I mean, er, yes!”

“Which is it, yes or no?”

“I wasn’t arguing with Faye. I didn’t even see her. Someone’s lying big-time.”

“So is the answer yes or no?”

That’s one of Johnny Jay’s tricks to trip people up. He asks questions that will sink you no matter which response you give. Whether you say yes or no, he comes at you.

I went on. “Where did that lie come from?”

Johnny Jay had his head tilted back and he was watching me down his nose. “A tip.”

“Well, I demand to know who this ridiculous tip came from.”

“You don’t get to make demands, not even for a lawyer. Unless I decide to arrest you.”

“And are you arresting me?” I really expected him to say yes once I thought about it—a body in my kayak and not just any body, my ex-husband’s girlfriend’s body. And a tip. Big-time incrimination evidence. So I was surprised when he said, “Not yet. Too bad the tip was anonymous. Once we find the witness, I’ll be paying you another visit.”

“Then I’m out of here.” I jumped up.

“Missy Fischer,” he said, getting in the last word. “I’ll be watching you. Closely. We aren’t finished with this.”

On the way out I stopped in dispatch. Sally Maylor, one of my steady customers and a good person, was working the airwaves.

“Hey, Sally,” I said.

“He let you go,” she said, smiling. “Good for you. I was worried.”

“So was I. So Faye Tilley
was
murdered?”

“I can’t say until the chief makes a public statement,” Sally nodded, giving me the answer anyway.

“Why is he after me?” I asked. “Sure, it was my kayak, but that can’t be enough.”

“He sure doesn’t cut you any slack, that’s for sure. Maybe the police chief knows how to hold a grudge.”

“About what?”

“Now, do you regret turning him down for prom?”

“That was more than fifteen years ago! You’re kidding, right? Is that really why he gives me such a hard time?”

“That’s the talk.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “Somebody called in a tip,” I said. “Saying they saw me with Faye.”

“I heard about that.”

“Who called?”

“We don’t know.”

“With all the technology around here”—I gestured at all the gadgets and blinking lights—“surely you can trace a phone call.”

“It came from a computer—e-mail.”

“Well, trace it!”

“We did. It came from one of the library’s public computers, we know that, but the account used to send the e-mail was untraceable.”

Damn. That meant it could be anyone.

I couldn’t sleep that night, considering that my friend and mentor Manny Chapman was dead and gone, and my ex’s latest girlfriend, Faye Tilley, had been found dead in my kayak. Not to mention the fact that someone was trying to frame me for Faye’s murder and doing a bang-up job of it.

Worse yet, the most obvious suspect in Faye’s death was the man I’d married and divorced: Clay Lane. He could have argued with Faye. I froze, suddenly recalling the loud voices I’d heard in the night. I remembered the scream that I’d chalked up to a bad dream. Only instead of a nightmare, it must’ve been Faye.

Could Clay have killed his girlfriend?

But even if the pieces fit together regarding means and opportunity, I couldn’t come up with a motive strong enough. Why would Clay go to all the trouble? Sure, he messed around on me and on every other woman, too, but when his flings ended, he didn’t really care. He was all passionate and lovey-dovey at the beginning, cold and impersonal at the end.

If anyone should be dead, it should be Clay. Some woman should have killed him by now.

Which led me to wonder at the possibility of one of his other women committing the crime. There are all kinds of nutcases in the world; maybe some crazy woman was picking off her competition? Even if, in my opinion, she’d have to be totally insane to go to those drastic measures for someone as superficial as Clay. But whether the killer was Clay or one of his women, based on what Johnny Jay told me about the tip he’d received, someone was trying to pin this on me!

By the time the sun rose, I was cranky from lack of sleep and ready for hand-to-hand combat with Clay.

But my number one priority every morning, the very first thing I did even before coffee, was go check on my bees. I did a quick buzz past my honeybees. They were happy and busy.

Then I banged on Clay’s door until I noticed that his car was missing from the drive. I never was at my sharpest when operating on zero sleep. Clay wasn’t exactly an early riser, so my guess was he had stayed someplace else last night. Was there another woman already? That would be rotten, even for that scum.

I was so crabby at the moment, I couldn’t stand myself.

Annoyed that Clay wasn’t home but knowing he never locked his door, I let myself in. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but figured I’d know it when I saw it.

One thing I will say for the man, Clay kept his lair clean and tidy. Sexy feet and neatness were two attributes I had admired in him once upon a time. But now I’d take a sloppy, loyal man over one like my ex any day of the week.

Clay lived in several rooms in the back of his jewelry shop. The space wasn’t large—small bedroom and living room, and a very tiny kitchen—so I was through it in less than a few minutes, ignoring the array of sex toys in the nightstand and girly magazines stacked in the closet and next to the toilet. The man needed therapy. Sex addiction is a major relationship buster, as he should have figured out by now.

His wire-making jewelry workshop would take longer to search. There were a zillion hiding places. His workbench looked like a carpenter’s table—pliers, file hammers, vises, torches, wire cutters—and the shelves above the bench were stacked with containers filled with supplies he needed to create his art: wires in copper, silver, yellow brass, gold, beads, gems. Half-finished projects took up another major section.

Then there was the showroom where he displayed his pieces, some of which, and I really hated to admit this, were fabulous.

I had hardly started rummaging through the workshop when I saw his car pull into the driveway. Clay got out and headed for the door. I didn’t have the energy to panic or to hide. Instead, I met him in his living room.

“What are you doing here?” He said, surprised to find me on his sofa. Clay looked like he’d had a bad night, too. His eyes were puffy and red-rimmed. He moved past me like a sleepwalker and sank into the sofa next to me without waiting for a response. “This is hell,” he said.

“At last we agree on something.” I was on guard, ready for anything, convinced that I could take him, what with all that rage I’d worked up through the night. But seeing Clay like this, all messed up and miserable, reminded me of his nonviolent, albeit totally selfish, nature. He just wanted to be loved. And loved. And loved.

“Did you kill Faye?” I blurted.

Clay bent forward and buried his hands in his face, ignoring me. “I can’t believe she’s dead,” he said, or at least I think that’s what I heard. The sound was muffled.

“I’m sorry for her and for her family. And for you,” I said. “But did you know the police chief pulled me in last night and all but accused me of killing her?”

Clay uncovered his face and focused on me for the first time. “I didn’t see you down there. They kept me all night. Police Chief Jay thinks I killed her.”

“I thought Johnny Jay had
me
in his scope.”

“He does,” Clay said. “He thinks we’re in it together.”

“That’s ridiculous!” I said. “Everybody in town knows how I feel about you. I just threw a party celebrating our divorce! I’d never do anything with you. I wouldn’t even share the same side of the street with you if I could help it, let alone murder your girlfriend with you.”

“That’s what I tried to tell him.”

I had a few more accusations to throw his way before I went back home. “Why did you tell me Faye was in your bedroom when I came asking about my kayak?” I said. “She must’ve been already dead.”

“We had a fight and she left. I never said she was here.”

“I’m pretty sure you did.” Or he’d implied it, at least, with his gestures and facial expressions.
Would that hold up in court?

“We argued,” he said.

“About what?”

Clay’s eyes went to the ceiling, a sure indication that he was concocting a lie. “Um.”

“Don’t lie to me.”