Murder of a Stacked Librarian (15 page)

“Probably. It’s going on one thirty now, so say an hour with the vic’s boyfriend and an hour to get home, we should be in town by four and I think the bank is open until five today.” Wally shrugged. “But it’s hard to say how long an interview will take or what will come up. If you can’t go tomorrow, maybe I can.”

“Let me think.” Skye tried to remember what she had scheduled for Thursday, then gave up and grabbed the big blue wedding organizer from her tote bag. The binder was heavy, but she’d decided several weeks ago that carrying the extra weight was worth the effort in order to keep track of everything. “Frannie and Trixie are coming over at ten to help me make the favors. Then we’re taking them, the seating plan, the place cards, and the guest book to the Country Mansion’s reception coordinator. So if I’m at the bank when it opens at nine, I should be in good shape.”

“Okay.” Wally pulled to a stop in front of the crime lab. “But let me know in the morning if you want me to get the cash and checks.” He got out of the Caprice, retrieved the carton of evidence bags from the trunk, and as he closed the driver’s door said, “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

While Skye waited for him, she ran a fingertip down her list. So far, she was on schedule. She had prepared the ceremony and reception boxes with the items that were needed for each event—programs, unity candle, emergency kits, etc.—and they were stashed in the foyer ready to be picked up by her aunt Minnie, who had volunteered to be in charge of their safe arrival at the church and restaurant.

When Skye got home today, she would place her hose, jewelry, makeup, and the backup list with the vendors’ phone numbers into the duffel that already contained her lingerie and shoes, then put that carryall in the front hall as well. She’d already given the wedding-day schedule to her attendants, the groomsmen, the ushers, her parents, and Wally’s father.

As Skye was sliding the organizer back into her tote bag, Wally got into the squad car and said, “They’re going to rush the tests and will call my cell in a couple of hours with the results.”

“Good.” Skye smiled; then, as Wally pulled the Chevy away from the curb, she asked, “Have your guys picked up their tuxes yet?”

“I guess so.” Wally would be wearing his dress uniform, but most of the other male members of the wedding party were renting tuxes. “I told them to get them by the twenty-sixth.”

“Call them tomorrow and make sure none of them forgot,” Skye commanded. “I’m not worried about my dad or Uncle Charlie—Mom will have made sure they have theirs—and your father and cousin are wearing their own, so that just leaves Vince and Justin and the two ushers. Come to think about it, I’m sure Mom has Vince’s tux under control, so you just need to check on the ushers and Justin.”

“Got it.” Wally nodded. “I’ll take care of the calls tonight. I might be too busy in the morning.” He glanced at her. “Anything else?”

“When’s Quentin arriving?” Skye asked. “The last time you talked to him, you told me he wasn’t sure because of some big deal he was working on. You said he might be out of the country this week.”

Quentin Boyd was Wally’s first cousin on his father’s side and second in command at CB International—a position Wally’s dad wanted him to take. Even though Quentin’s father had died when he was a teenager and he’d lived with Wally and his parents, the two men had never been close. Skye had been surprised when Wally had asked him to be his best man.

“He’ll be here sometime tomorrow.” Wally parked the cruiser in front of Riley’s Bakery. “I don’t have the exact time.”

“So he finished the deal and is back in the United States?” Skye asked, getting out of the car and stepping over the curb.

“I guess.”

“Is your dad coming in on the same flight?” Skye asked as Wally joined her on the sidewalk. “Are he and Quentin staying with you?”

“They’re both flying in on the company plane. And they’re staying in the presidential suite at the Drake in Chicago.” He smiled ruefully. “Dad’s philosophy is that cash is like compost. It’s just a pile of crap unless it’s spread around.”

“Oh.” Skye found it difficult to imagine just how different Wally’s father and cousin’s lives were from her own.

“Besides, my house doesn’t quite live up to their standards. There’s only one guest room and one bathroom, and neither my dad nor my cousin has ever learned to share. Not to mention no maids or room service.” As Wally held open the shop’s door for Skye, he added, “Remember, I gave Dorothy two weeks off. She’ll start back working for us at your house the Monday we get home from our honeymoon.”

Dorothy Snyder was Wally’s housekeeper. Skye wasn’t sure how she felt about having her clean and cook for them, especially since Dorothy was one of May’s best friends. But Wally had convinced Skye that Dorothy needed the work, so she’d agreed to the woman’s continued employment. She only hoped that Dorothy wouldn’t report their every move to May.

“Before I forget,” Skye said, putting aside the housekeeper issue, “you need to make sure to give Quentin the ring and the marriage license.”

“Got it on my preceremony list,” Wally assured her.

Having ticked those items off, Skye cleared the wedding from her mind and prepared to focus on the case. As they stepped inside the bakery, she looked around. The shop gave off an aura of welcome and hospitality with sunlight streaming through the plate-glass window and the air smelling of sugar, cinnamon, and fresh bread.

Half a dozen small tables and chairs were grouped on one side of the space along with a buffet holding two coffee carafes, a selection of sugar packets, stirrers, and a thermos of cream. Glass display cases lined the opposite wall. The store was empty, which wasn’t surprising since it was less than ten minutes before closing time.

A bell had rung when Skye and Wally entered, and now a compact man hurried from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. “Can I help you folks?” he asked, tucking the towel into the string tie of his apron. “I’m afraid we’re out of most items.”

“Are you Tom Riley?” Wally asked.

“Sure am.”

Wally introduced himself and Skye, then said, “We’re here to speak to you about Yvonne Osborn. I understand you two were dating?”

“Yes.” Tom ran his hands through his ginger-colored hair, and his warm smile turned sad. “We’d been seeing each other since Halloween.”

“And you’re aware that she died suddenly on Sunday evening?” Wally asked.

“Yes.” Tom nodded. “I heard about it on the radio yesterday morning.”

“You didn’t know until Tuesday?” Wally skewered the baker with a disbelieving stare. “Didn’t you call her to find out what happened to her when she failed to show up for your date on Sunday?”

Skye flicked a glance at Wally. Had they established for sure that Tom Riley had been the man Yvonne was meeting Christmas Eve, or was this an interrogation technique? She’d noticed that during suspect interviews, Wally often stated something as if it were true whether he was sure of the information or not.

“I left a message on her cell, her home phone, and the library, and when she didn’t call me back, I wasn’t sure what to think,” Tom explained. “I knew the police wouldn’t be able to do anything since I wasn’t a relative, and I had no idea who else to call. I didn’t have her daughter’s number and it wasn’t listed anywhere.”

Yvonne’s cell phone had been retrieved from her purse, but the river water had made it impossible to access. The crime techs were trying to dry it out, but held out little hope that they’d ever recover any data from it. And the library had been closed until today. But why hadn’t Phoebe returned Tom’s call when she heard him on the family’s answering machine?

“So you did nothing.” Wally was clearly taking the bad-cop role again.

“Can you tell us what you were thinking and why you made that decision?” Skye asked, employing a counseling method she often used at school.

“I considered checking with Yvonne’s ex-husband, but they didn’t get along very well, so I decided not to.” Tom collapsed against a counter, his shoulders sagging and tears running down his cheeks. “I wish I had done something.”

“Let’s sit down.” Skye glanced at Wally, who nodded his approval. She took the baker’s arm and settled him at the nearest table. “Is it okay if we turn off the ‘open’ sign and lock up?”

“Sure.” Tom wiped his face with his apron. “Sorry. I’ve been trying not to think about Yvonne. We’d only been together briefly, but we really connected.”

“Take your time.” Skye pulled her chair close to Tom’s while Wally handled the door. She waited until he returned and took a seat, then asked the baker, “You said that Yvonne didn’t get along with her ex-husband. Was it the normal stuff or something more?”

“A lot more.” Tom fingered an empty cup that hadn’t been cleared away. “She said he had the morals of a politician and the ethics of a television evangelist. She despised everything he stood for—conspicuous consumption, greed, and success at any cost.”

“So it wasn’t an amicable divorce.” Skye wanted to make sure she was clear about what Tom was saying since it contradicted Neil Osborn’s claims. “There definitely were hard feelings between Yvonne and her ex, and they hadn’t stayed friends?”

“The only contact they had concerned their daughter and Osborn’s attempt to corrupt Phoebe,” Tom stated firmly. “Yvonne didn’t share the specifics with me, but my take on it was that Osborn had tried to somehow buy the girl’s acceptance into college.”

“Yes.” Skye nodded. “We heard about that incident, but it was my understanding that they had sorted it out, and everyone, including Mr. Osborn, regretted their actions in the matter.”

“Hardly.” Tom snorted. “He was royally ticked that Yvonne had interfered in his scheme and livid that she had prevented their daughter from going to the University of Chicago last fall.” Tom shrugged. “Apparently, Phoebe had come to see her mother’s point of view, but Osborn sure hadn’t.”

“Did Yvonne ever say why she had married Mr. Osborn in the first place?” Skye couldn’t imagine a couple that was more ill-suited.

“She claimed he used to be different.” Tom shook his head. “She said his original plan was to build ecofriendly housing for middle-income families and rehab buildings using green technology. But then he was corrupted by the money people were throwing at the whole conservation movement, and being environmentally responsible turned into a scam.”

Wally nudged Skye’s knee with his own, indicating that he wanted to take over the interview; then he said to Tom, “How did you and Yvonne meet?”

“At the Stanley County Motorcycle Association.” Tom smiled. “She was at the fall rally, and we got to talking and hit it off.”

“A couple of police officers I know are members of that group, and I think I remember them saying that the rally is held at the end of September. Correct?” When Tom nodded, Wally asked, “Did you and Yvonne start dating right after you met at the club get-together?”

“No. We ran into each other a few more times—at the amateur-theater-group tryouts, a poker party given by mutual friends, and the Lions Club fish fry. Then I finally got up the nerve to ask her out.”

“You had a lot in common,” Skye said, still trying to picture Yvonne riding a Harley. “I imagine finding a woman with such diverse interests is rare.”

“It is.” Tom’s tone revealed the depth of his sadness at losing such a unique girlfriend. “I’d never met a woman like her before. She was so much fun and would try anything once, as long as it was legal and didn’t harm anyone else.” He shook his head. “People who didn’t really know Yvonne thought she was rigid and sanctimonious, but really all she wanted was to do the right thing.”

Skye murmured, “And that might have been what got her killed.”

CHAPTER 14

In a Binding

W
ally asked Tom Riley a few more questions about his relationship with Yvonne, then inquired as to his whereabouts during Sunday night when she was being forced off the bridge. The baker claimed to have been making local deliveries from three to five thirty that day. He had arrived at the last place—a children’s birthday party—at five fifteen, which meant there was no way he could have been at the crime scene between four forty-five and five fifty-five. It was at least three-quarters of an hour’s drive between Laurel and Scumble River.

Tom provided the numbers of his customers that afternoon, and Wally moved a few steps away to phone them to verify the baker’s alibi. As Skye listened to those one-sided conversations, her cell rang. She checked the caller ID and grimaced. Why was Isla Nugent, the woman making her wedding cake, calling?

“I am so sorry,” Isla apologized as soon as Skye said hello.

When Skye had hired Isla, the cake maker had been thrilled. Everyone in Scumble River agreed that Maggie Broacher, one of May’s best friends, was the premier special occasion cake maker in town, and she normally would have been the one to make Skye’s cake. But Maggie, her husband, Jonah, their kids, and grandchildren were spending Christmas week at a resort in the Bahamas. The family wouldn’t be arriving home until Friday night, and since that wouldn’t allow enough time to bake and decorate a wedding cake, Maggie had recommended Isla.

“What are you sorry about?” Skye asked Isla, her grip tightening on the tiny cell phone. “Please tell me it has nothing to do with my cake.”

“When I turned my oven on this morning, it exploded and the kitchen went up in flames before the fire department could put it out.” Isla’s voice rose.

“Are you okay?” Skye forced herself to ask, not wanting to sound completely heartless. She added for good measure, “Was anyone hurt?”

“I’m fine.” Isla exhaled. “We’re all fine. No one else was home, and I ran out the back door.”

“Are you insured?” Skye asked, willing herself to show concern before she grilled the poor woman about the fate of her cake.

“Yes. I’ll be able to replace everything—eventually . . .” Isla trailed off. “But I can’t even order stuff until I get the insurance check.”

“Will you be able to make my cake?” Skye finally allowed herself to ask, feeling that under the circumstances she’d been as understanding as could be expected.