Murder of a Stacked Librarian (12 page)

“So we know she left the library parking lot after quarreling with Phoebe, drove home, and changed clothes.” Skye listed Yvonne’s last-known activities aloud so Wally could follow her line of reasoning. “That means we can narrow down the TOD.”

“Right.” Wally pulled up to the entrance of the Pheasant Creek subdivision and flashed his badge at the guard. Once the yellow and black gate was raised and Wally had driven through, he said, “How long do you think it would take her to put on different clothes?”

“Well . . .” Skye reflected on what she knew about Yvonne. She was fairly sure the librarian hadn’t been the type to fuss much with her hair and makeup. “Considering the situation, she would have been in a hurry, so I’d say maybe ten or fifteen minutes, tops.”

“Which means if we allow fifteen minutes for the argument with her daughter and ten minutes to drive home, we can now assume she was forced off the road between four forty-five and five fifty-five,” Wally calculated.

“Not exactly a precise TOD, but better than the two-hour window we had before.” Skye examined the widely spaced houses as Wally steered the cruiser down a street lined with tiny trees and huge homes.

“Slightly.” Wally pulled into a long driveway. “Here’s Neil Osborn’s place.”

“Fancy.” Skye studied the imposing faux Tudor castle. “I hadn’t realized that there was this kind of affluence in Laurel.”

“It’s less than an hour from Chicago and handy to I-80, so people are taking advantage of the cheap land.” Wally parked behind a nondescript Honda. “In this area they can build a fifty-five-hundred-square-foot house for the same amount a duplex would cost in the city.”

“True.” Skye nodded, then asked, “Have you contacted Tom Riley yet?”

“No.” Wally got out, walked around the Chevy to Skye’s side, and opened her door. “The bakery closes at two, and Phoebe doesn’t know where he lives and doesn’t have his personal telephone number. I’ve got Martinez running down his address.”

“If he was the one Yvonne was meeting, I wonder what he did when she failed to show up for their date,” Skye remarked as they walked toward the house.

“That’s a good question.” Wally rang the bell. “He should have either been upset at being stood up or concerned for her welfare.”

“Unless he killed her,” Skye said, staring thoughtfully into space.

Before Wally could respond, the huge oak door banged open and a short, fiftysomething man wearing an expensive suit charged past him, flung himself inside the Civic, and drove away, his tires squealing.

Another fiftysomething man, this one taller and dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, appeared in the doorway, scowled at the departing Honda, then turned to Wally and Skye and said, “Can I help you?”

“Neil Osborn?” The man nodded, and Wally said, “I’m Chief Boyd from the Scumble River Police, and this is Skye Denison, our department’s psych consultant. We’re here to talk to you about your ex-wife’s death.”

“Sure.” Stepping aside, Neil said, “Come on in, but I have to warn you my wife has the flu and I think my son might be getting it, too.”

“Then we won’t shake hands.” Wally crossed the threshold. “Where’s the best place for us to sit? Where we won’t disturb your family?”

“Let’s go to my den.” Neil led them across a large foyer and down a short hallway. “I’ve got the baby monitor so I can hear Neil Junior if he cries.”

Neil showed Wally and Skye into a large room decorated with sports memorabilia and neon beer signs. The two choices for seating were barstools or a row of black leather theater chairs lined up facing a massive flat-screen television.

Wally nodded imperceptibly toward the stools, and Skye quickly said to Neil, “What a lovely bar. Do you mind if we sit here?”

“Thanks. Sure. Have a seat.” Neil grinned. “I designed it myself. I salvaged this black mesquite from a church they were leveling.” He ran a hand over the bar’s surface. “You can’t buy wood like this anymore.”

“Gorgeous.” Skye beamed. “I’ve been remodeling a house and have been trying to keep as much of the original structure as possible.”

“Yvonne loved old houses.” He wrinkled his forehead. “She hated to see any building torn down. Which was kind of hard to avoid in my business.”

“How long had you and your ex-wife been divorced?” Wally asked.

“It’ll be three years this summer.” Neil stood behind the bar and leaned on the polished surface.

“We talked to your daughter today about where she was Christmas Eve,” Wally said, watching the older man closely. “Did you know she and your ex had had a disagreement right before Yvonne was killed?”

“Mothers and daughters argue a lot.” Neil thrust his fingers through his short salt-and-pepper hair. “It’s no big deal.”

“Phoebe claims that she didn’t want to spend Christmas Eve with you, and her mom said she had to because she had given you her word.” Wally sat back. “Does that sound like something they’d fight about?”

“Yeah.” Neil sighed. “The divorce was hard on Phoebe. And even though she and my wife get along pretty well, she’s still not comfortable spending much time with us. We try to include her, but with the new baby, it’s hard to give her the attention she wants.”

Wally and Skye exchanged glances. Neil had confirmed what Phoebe had told them. She raised a questioning brow and he nodded.

Skye took a breath and said, “Phoebe also told us about the SAT scheme that Yvonne foiled.” She tilted her head. “That had to upset you. All that money down the drain.”

“I won’t lie to you. I was mad when it happened, but I came to realize she was right.” Neil’s expression was shamefaced. “It was a moron move. I don’t want to teach my little girl to be a cheater.”

Skye murmured wordless encouragement for him to keep talking.

“But Yvonne and I had an amicable divorce.” Neil exhaled loudly. “We didn’t have any hard feelings between us, and we made a point to stay friends so Phoebe wouldn’t be caught in the middle.”

“It seems as if your ex-wife had a pretty strong sense of right and wrong,” Wally interjected. “Was that a problem between you two?”

“One of many.” Neil shrugged. “There were no shades of gray on Yvonne’s color wheel.” He shook his head. “It was hard being married to someone who always insisted that you do the right thing.”

“I can imagine,” Skye said. “It must have been rough having to look into that kind of mirror every day. Probably not easy having someone like her as a mom either. Did Phoebe resent Yvonne?”

“No more than any other teenager resents their parents’ rules.” Neil stared over Skye’s head. “But Yvonne was never one to look the other way, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what got her killed.”

CHAPTER 11

Babble like a Book

I
t took only a few minutes to establish that Neil didn’t have a good alibi. He claimed that he had been with his wife and son during the time his ex was killed, but neither of them could be considered reliable witnesses. Wally then asked him a few more questions, but Neil maintained that he and Yvonne had had an amiable divorce. It was clear that the guy was either innocent of the murder or too smooth to incriminate himself.

When the baby started to cry and Neil edged toward the door to the hallway, Skye quickly asked, “Who was the man rushing away when we arrived?”

“My business partner, Hank Gaskin.”

“Phoebe mentioned that you two are more like brothers than partners.” Skye smiled. “In fact, she called him Uncle Hank. What was he so upset about?”

“Nothing.” Neil’s expression was bland. “He was just in a hurry.”

Wally and Skye exchanged skeptical looks, but silently agreed that Neil wouldn’t tell them any more. They said goodbye and left Yvonne’s ex to tend to his ailing family.

As soon as they got into the squad car, Skye grabbed the bottle of Purell she’d set at the ready on the dashboard. She motioned for Wally to hold out his palms, then squeezed a large dollop of the clear gel onto his fingers. After he rubbed in the liquid, he took his cell from his pocket, called the PD, and authorized Phoebe’s release.

While Wally was on the phone, Skye disinfected her own hands, then used a tissue saturated with the sanitizer to swab her purse and the door handles. When she finished wiping down the cruiser’s interior, Wally started up the Caprice, put it in gear, and pulled out of the drive.

As they headed toward town, he said, “If we don’t get a break in the case soon, we’ll have to come back and talk to the new Mrs. Osborn. I would have liked to question her today, but I draw the line at interrogating a sick woman.”

“Good thing.” Skye shuddered. “The air around her would be full of germs.”

“Remind me again, how many more days until you’re sane again?” Wally laughed without humor.

“Sorry.” Skye managed a smile. “That did sound a little cold.”

“Just a tad.” Wally patted her knee. “Let’s drop off Phoebe’s computer, then get some dinner. Where do you want to eat?”

“It’s hard to pick.” Skye thought for a moment. There were lots of restaurant choices in Laurel versus the two or three places in Scumble River. “Kinkade’s is nice and we haven’t been to Harry’s in long time.” Skye slid a questioning glance at Wally. “Unless that’s where your dad is holding our rehearsal dinner?”

“I have no idea where he’s taking us.” Wally parked the Chevy behind the crime lab and grabbed the plastic evidence bag containing Phoebe’s laptop from the rear seat. “Just remember, if you’re unhappy with his choice, I was the one who said we shouldn’t let him surprise us.”

As Wally walked toward the building, Skye nervously jiggled her foot. She hoped Wally’s strained relationship with his father wouldn’t become a problem this coming weekend. Understandably, the oil millionaire wanted his son to take over the family empire. But Wally had no interest in running CB International, which made for considerable tension between the two of them.

It didn’t help matters that Carson constantly tried to persuade Wally to change his mind. Carson had tried guilt, claiming to be sick; bribery, showering his son with presents; and even an elaborate scheme to buy a factory near Scumble River in order to involve Wally in the company. When none of that had worked, he’d turned his attention to Skye. Currently, his plan appeared to be to lure her to his side with extravagant gifts, and once she was there, persuade her to convince Wally that running CB International was his destiny.

Ten minutes later, Skye was still worrying about Wally and his father when Wally returned to the squad car and said, “How do you feel about Italian for dinner? The crime tech said Little Mario’s just moved into a new building on Branch and the food is great.”

“Yum.” Skye’s stomach growled. “In my opinion, nothing’s as good as my mom’s Italian cooking, but I’m always willing to try to prove that notion wrong.” She put away the to-do list she’d been holding. “Do you want to drive by Riley’s Bakery on our way? It might be interesting to see the place.”

“Sure.” Wally steered the Caprice out of the lot. “It’s on the main drag, so we can go past, then take a side street over to Branch.”

As they expected, the bakery’s display window was dark, but Skye could see that the shop was a nice size and had a good location. Tom Riley was almost certainly making a good living with his business.

Wally slowed as they cruised by. “The bakery’s hours are six to two. I’m guessing morning is the busiest, so my plan is to come over here to talk to him around one thirty.”

“Do you want me to go with you?” Skye asked, trying to remember her schedule for the next day and hoping she could fit in the visit.

“If you have time.” Wally’s expression was sober. “Riley might not know about Yvonne’s death yet, since Phoebe claimed not to have talked to him. She said he and her mother had been dating for a couple of months, so he might take the news that Yvonne’s dead pretty hard. It would be good to have you there, in the event he has a meltdown.”

“Okay.” Skye grabbed her appointment book from her purse and flipped to December. She ran her finger down the page until she reached the twenty-seventh. “I’m picking up my wedding gown at nine, and it’s a good hour to Barrington, so I might not be home until eleven. Then I have to go to the bank to get cash for the DJ and limousine driver and a money order for the photographer, since only the florist and cake maker will accept a personal check.”

“I could take care of that for you,” Wally offered. “Just give me a list of the balances and I’ll put them all in separate envelopes.”

“Great!” Skye was happy that she and Wally had decided to open a joint checking account so that either of them could take care of the bills. “That would be a real time saver for me.”

“When do we need to hand over the final payments?” Wally asked.

“The day of the wedding. I was going to pay the full amount up front, but then someone told me it wasn’t a good idea.” Skye massaged her temple. “Knowing that they won’t get the rest of their fee until they show up gives them an incentive to do a better job.”

“That’s a smart move.” Wally nodded approvingly.

“You know, even though I think Mom and Dad were relieved that we insisted on paying for our own wedding, I’m sure they feel a little uncomfortable that they aren’t footing the bill.” Skye pursed her lips. “What if we give Dad the envelopes and put him in charge of settling up with the vendors?” She thought a moment and added, “He doesn’t have much to do besides escort me down the aisle and the father/daughter dance at the reception, so it might make him feel more a part of the whole shebang.”

“Good idea.” Wally eased the Chevy into a spot near Little Mario’s entrance, then went around to open Skye’s door. “Still, I’m glad we’re taking care of the cost. Even keeping things simple like we’ve tried to do, I would guess that shelling out nearly twenty-five thousand would be a strain for your parents.”

“Definitely. Coming up with twenty-five grand would be tough for nearly anyone except a guy with a trust fund,” Skye teased Wally. Up until now, he’d lived on his police salary and had seldom touched the money his mother had left him, but he’d said his mom would have wanted him to use the cash for their wedding expenses.