Murder of a Cranky Catnapper (13 page)

Fumbling in her purse, Skye produced a crumpled bill. “All I have is a five.”

“Hand it over.” Loretta pocketed the money and demanded, “Spill.”

After Skye summarized the events of the day, she said, “What do you think?”

“I think that the Scumble River Police Department is in for a bad time. People are going to freak out at the idea of a killer going around and tying their victims up bare-ass-naked, then shooting them.”

“Even if it's likely that the victim was into that kind of alternate lifestyle?” Skye hadn't thought of folks being scared. Only titillated with Palmer's kinky sexual practices. “Why would they think his murder is anything but a love affair that ended badly?”

“Because maybe he isn't the only one around here who participates in a little BDSM.” Loretta's wicked smile sent a chill up Skye's spine. “Think how that could shake up this town.”

“You did not make me feel better.” Skye crossed her arms. “Wally will have a cow when I impart your little suggestion.”

“Make sure you share that tidbit with him right
before bedtime.” Loretta's tone was satisfied. “Why should my marriage be the only one that's shaken up?”

“We're planning on telling folks that Palmer's death was a result of a burglary gone wrong. With the American Legion break-in and the catnapping, it makes sense to lump the murder in with those.”

“If that's the story you're going to stick with”—Loretta swung open the massive mahogany door—“tomorrow should be an extremely interesting day.”

Skye made a face, then hugged her sister-in-law good-bye and walked to her car. As she drove home, Loretta's words of doom echoed in her head.

I gave an order to a cat, and the cat gave it to its tail.

—CHINESE PROVERB

O
n her way home, Skye stopped at the supermarket, so when she got back to her house, Wally's cruiser was already parked in the drive. From the sound of Bruce Springsteen's “Born to Run” pouring down the stairs, Skye deduced that Wally was in the gym that he'd installed in one of the extra third-floor bedrooms.

After putting away the groceries, she climbed the steps and found him lying flat on the weight bench. He was wearing low-riding nylon shorts and not much else.

Leaning against the doorjamb, Skye observed his chest and shoulder muscles flexing as he repeatedly lifted a barbell with a hundred-pound plate attached to each end. She admired the way the silver at his temples emphasized the midnight blackness of the rest of his hair and how his smooth olive skin stretched over his high cheekbones. He was such a handsome man that sometimes, when her insecurities surfaced, she wondered why he was with her.

Unwilling to go down the dark spiral of jealousy again, she pushed aside her self-doubt and smiled at Wally as he sat up, wiped his face with a towel, and grabbed a Dasani from the floor. Skye watched the strong column of his throat as he swallowed nearly half the water in one swig.

He put down the plastic bottle, got to his feet, and came toward her. “You're home.” He kissed her cheek. “How was your visit with Vince and Loretta?”

“Surprising.” Skye's grin was amused. “She's expecting again.”

“Oh?” Wally raised his brows. “I didn't realize she and Vince were planning to have children so close together.”

“They weren't. And I'm not sure when they'll announce it, so mum's the word.”

“Don't you mean ‘no mum'?” Wally asked. “As in ‘don't tell May'?”

“Exactly.” Skye gestured to the rest of the equipment. “Are you done?”

“Yeah.” Wally picked up a remote and cut off the music. “I was just about to grab a shower.” He shot her a seductive gaze. “Want to join me?”

“I'd love to. Another time.” Skye didn't meet his eyes. “But it's getting late. How about I warm up supper instead?”

“Did Dorothy come over after all?” Wally walked across the rubber tiled floor and picked up the empty water bottle and dirty towel.

“No.” Skye followed him down one flight of stairs and into the master bedroom.

“So what are you going to reheat?” Wally stripped off his shorts and underwear. He threw his discarded clothes and the towel in the hamper. “Did you pick up a pizza or something in town?”

“Nope.” Skye shook her head. “Dorothy sent her designated hitter, who washed our windows and left dinner in the fridge.”

Wally walked into the bathroom and turned on the water in the shower. “Your mother?” Wally asked, a note of concern in his voice.

“Yep.” Skye waved as she hurried away. “I'll tell you all about it while we eat.”

By the time Wally came downstairs, dressed in cargo shorts and a T-shirt, Skye had their salads on the table and the chicken parmesan and garlic bread in the oven. He poured a can of Caffeine-Free Diet Coke over ice for Skye, and uncapped a Sam Adams for himself.

Once they were seated, Wally picked up his fork, but paused as he lifted it to his mouth and asked, “So what did your mother have to say?”

As they ate, Skye summarized May's visit, omitting the part where Skye had turned into a suspicious, insecure puddle of raging hormones.

“Sounds like she was okay,” Wally said cautiously. “Not too overbearing.”

“Actually, she was sort of great.” Skye got to her feet, took the chicken and garlic bread from the oven, and placed them on the table. Adjusting hot pads beneath them, she added, “Once I played the baby card and drew a line in the sand, she backed off and we had a really good mother-daughter moment.”

“That's terrific.” Wally slid a chicken breast onto Skye's plate. “I know confronting your mom is hard. I'm really proud of you.”

“I am, too.” Skye tore off two hunks of garlic bread, handing one to Wally. “And since Dorothy didn't let the cat out of the bag about Palmer's state of undress, I managed not to tell Mom that he was naked and tied up.”

“That's great.” Wally took a drink of beer, then added, “Right now, the only ones who know about the circumstances of the vic's body at the time of discovery are the crime scene techs, Reid, Dorothy, Lynch's mother, and us, but I doubt that's anything we can keep secret for too long. Best-case scenario, no one finds out until after the
Star
comes out on Wednesday.”

“I did tell one person . . .” Skye had wanted to wait until after dinner to share her sister-in-law's theory, but couldn't ignore this opening. “I hired Loretta as
my lawyer, so she's sworn to confidentiality. I wanted her take as a criminal attorney on the situation.”

“Which was?” Wally asked. His tone was mild and he continued to eat.

“Loretta suggested that there might be a whole set of people in Scumble River that shared Palmer's unusual tastes,” Skye explained. “And that those folks might be our suspect pool.”

“I'm pretty dang sure if there was that type of club in town, I'd know about it.” Wally frowned and took another swig of beer.

“Well, not necessarily,” Skye said slowly, reluctant to bring up the incident when she'd snuck into a house she wasn't supposed to be in. “How about that kinky scene I witnessed at the Kesslers' after Barbie and Ken Addison were murdered? Those people liked to dress up in weird outfits and swap wives. Tony Zello had on some sort of black rubber suit that made him look like a giant condom and Nate Turner threatened me. You didn't know about those parties.”

“You told me that the folks in that group claimed that Ken forced them to participate in the sex parties,” Wally reminded her.

“Correct,” Skye admitted. “But who knows if they were telling the truth.”

Wally was quiet as he finished his meal, but when they were doing the dishes, he said, “I've been thinking about Loretta's idea.”

“And?”

“You did say that Zello and Turner were talking about Lynch after church.”

“Right.” Skye rinsed the last pan and screwed up her face. “And as I mentioned, both those guys were a part of that kinky sex group that Ken Addison started.”

“That moves them way up on my list of interviews for tomorrow.”

“Is Virginia still your number one suspect?” Skye asked, wringing out the dishcloth and hanging it over the faucet.

“She is.” Wally followed Skye into the sunroom and joined her on the wicker love seat. “But I'd like you to be in on that session so I'll ask her to come in after school.”

“Who are you going to talk to while I'm working?” Skye asked.

“As soon as I get the preliminary ME report, I'll go over and see Charlie, then decide the batting order from there.” Wally put an arm around Skye and cuddled her to his side. “There's a message for you on the answering machine from him, but don't answer his calls before I speak to him.” Wally's jaw tightened. “No doubt, May has already filled him in on what she knows, but I don't want anything else to slip out from you.”

“I hope he doesn't track me down at school.” Skye worried her lower lip with her teeth. “He'll be fuming that I haven't returned his call.”

“I'm hoping that by tomorrow morning the ME will have some information for me, and I'll speak to your godfather right after that.” Wally brushed his lips over the top of her hair. “If Charlie gets to you before I can talk to him, use the same tactic with him that you used with your mother. Play the baby card.”

“Yeah.” Skye stroked her belly. “That will work on Charlie, but it won't work on Trixie. How much can I tell her about the murder?”

Trixie had been writing a mystery for what seemed like forever so she was particularly fascinated by Skye's involvement in real-life cases. She was persistent and clever, with better sources than the police. Trixie would come knocking on Skye's door as soon as she found out another murder investigation was under way.

“Dodge her if you can,” Wally suggested. “But if she corners you, just make sure you avoid telling her about
the bondage aspect of the investigation.” He paused then said, “See if she's heard anything about the American Legion break-in or the catnapping.”

“I was thinking that I'd try to find some time tomorrow to hang out in the faculty lounge.” Skye wrinkled her nose. “Palmer's murder and that break-in should be the hot topics of conversation.”

“Okay.” Wally drew his brows together. “But don't let anyone know that you're particularly interested.” He kissed her cheek. “We don't want the killer to see you as a target.”

*   *   *

In a way, it was a shame Skye wasn't scheduled to be at the elementary school on Tuesday. It would have been interesting to see Virginia's demeanor. Was she distraught over Palmer's death or unaffected? On the other hand, Skye didn't have to worry about running into the teacher and making small talk, then seeing her at the police station and feeling like she'd misled the woman about her interest in the case.

With that in mind, when Skye finished doing her laps in the high school pool, instead of stopping by the grade school, Skye spent the rest of the morning at the junior high. She chaired five back-to-back annual reviews, and then at eleven thirty she headed to the Pupil Personnel Services meeting.

The session was scheduled for that time to take advantage of the double lunch hour. Teachers were able to attend during their free period. Unfortunately, since Skye was there for the entire gathering, it meant she missed eating altogether unless she could manage to gobble a sandwich in the five minutes it took her to walk across the campus to the high school.

This wasn't one of those days. While she hiked across the grass, she dug through her tote bag, but came up empty. She must have left her ham on rye at home.

As she pushed through the high school's glass front doors, her stomach growled and she felt light-headed, reminding her that she could no longer skip a meal without feeling the effects of the missing nourishment. She sure hoped she hadn't depleted her emergency cookie stash and forgotten to replace it.

She was trying to remember the status of her Pepperidge Farm supply when she heard a sarcastic male voice say, “Skye, so happy you could squeeze us in today.”

Uh-oh.
Homer sounded even more belligerent than usual. What sin had she committed? Surely he couldn't fault her for taking a personal day?

Homer Knapik had been the high school principal for as long as anyone under the age of forty could remember. Every May, for the past several years, he'd announced that he was stepping down. But like the taste of a bad burrito, he had always returned in the fall.

No one was quite sure how he managed that since the Illinois Teacher Retirement System required extensive paperwork to begin the retirement procedure, and once the forms were signed, it was difficult if not impossible to reverse the process.

After his last miraculous reappearance, the faculty was taking bets that should Homer pass away, the school board would have a life-size cardboard cutout placed in the chair behind his desk. Sadly, the only one who would be able to tell the difference would be his secretary, who would no longer have to fetch Homer pastries from the Tales and Treats café. Because as far as the running of the school went, the staff couldn't quite pinpoint what he did to contribute to the students' education.

She looked in the direction of the aggravating principal and her chest tightened. Why was the superintendent here? He rarely visited the schools, preferring to force everyone to come to his intimidating office for any meetings with him. This couldn't be good.

Taking a deep breath and hoping the superintendent was on his way back to his lair, Skye said, “Good afternoon, Dr. Wraige, Homer.”

“Get your keister into my office immediately!” Homer bellowed.

“I can come back when you and Dr. Wraige are through,” Skye offered. What in the world had she done to rile up the principal this time?

“Shamus is the one who wants to speak to you,” Homer sneered. “Now, do you want to do this here in the lobby or in private?”

Skye dragged her feet as she reported to the principal's office. With each step, her anxiety soared. She'd been so worried about how she'd manage her job with a baby, maybe that wouldn't be a problem. School psychologists weren't covered by the teachers' contract so she didn't have tenure. The administration could literally get rid of her anytime they chose.

Skye paused at the threshold to Homer's office, allowing the men to enter first. Homer plopped down behind his massive desk, but didn't invite her to take a seat. Dr. Wraige chose to stand, glaring at her as she shifted from foot to foot feeling like she was about to get expelled.

In his late fifties, Shamus Wraige was a solidly built two hundred pounds. His red hair had faded, giving it the appearance of a rusty steel wool pad. And his personality was about as warm. He towered over Skye, using his size and position to try to intimidate her.

After several long seconds of silence, the only sounds in the room Homer's giant slurps from his can of orange soda, Dr. Wraige gestured for Skye to sit in one of the visitor chairs. Once she complied, he moved in front of her and leaned his rear end against Homer's desk. His knees were a hair's width from hers and she could smell his anger.

“Mrs. Boyd,” Dr. Wraige began.

“Actually,” before Skye could stop herself, she blurted out, “it's Denison-Boyd.” When she saw his pale brown eyes narrow, she added weakly, “But, sir, why don't you just call me Skye.”

“Mrs. Boyd.” Dr. Wraige stared at her, daring her to object again.