Murder of a Stacked Librarian (23 page)

Finally, the monitor blinked into life and Skye clicked on the AOL icon. And clicked. And clicked.
Crap!
The Internet was down again. As with cell phone coverage, Scumble River’s wireless service was iffy at best, and apparently, tonight wasn’t her lucky night.

After several attempts at other locations in the house, including the second-story balcony, Skye admitted defeat and switched to plan B—trying again in the morning.

Skye and Wally had agreed that they’d spend the two nights immediately before their wedding apart. She had wanted some time to herself before the big day and thought it would be good for Wally to have a little alone time, as well. This would give them both a chance to say goodbye to their single lives, contemplate the step they were about to take, and anticipate their future together.

Thinking about how Dante’s scheme could change that future, Skye put on her flannel pajamas, washed her face, and went to bed. She was sound asleep within seconds of lying down and dreamed of billows of smoke blowing away all her hopes and aspirations as Scumble River burned.

Skye was up before six, feeling edgy and unrested. Aiming to lighten her mood, she selected a cheery butter yellow twin set to wear with brown wool slacks and her new suede ankle boots. Once she was dressed, she fed Bingo, gave him fresh water, and cleaned his litter box. As she drank a cup of coffee and ate a bowl of Special K, she tried once again without success to access the Internet.

She had promised to meet Wally at nine at the police station in order to drive to Lawnton to reinterview Neil Osborn. Neil’s secretary had said that her boss rarely got to the jobsite before ten, and Wally wanted to arrive shortly after Yvonne’s ex.

But before Skye resumed her role as psych consultant, she really needed to go online. As she finished the last of her coffee, she pondered her options. The library wasn’t open until later, and she didn’t want to use the PD’s computers in case Dante had somehow bugged them. She had no idea if that was even possible, but why take chances? Was there anywhere else she could go?

A moment later, Skye silently yelled
Eureka!
The one place in town that always seemed to have a signal was Tales and Treats Bookstore. And, thank goodness, the bookstore’s café had started opening at six in order to supply the before-work crowd with their much-needed fix of caffeine and sugar. She’d indulge in a cappuccino, log on, and dig up some facts about the profitability or, she hoped, losses of municipality-owned incinerators.

Feeling slightly more optimistic now that she had a strategy, Skye headed out the door. She had a lot to accomplish within the next twenty-four hours, and she was determined to get it all done before her wedding.

When the bookstore was open, customers entered Tales and Treats through the main doorway. But during the early-morning hours, when only the coffee shop was doing business, patrons came in through the side entrance that brought them directly into the café. As Skye turned the corner into the alley and saw that the line went all the way to the sidewalk, she hesitated. Did she have enough time to wait?

Shrugging because she really had no other option, Skye joined the queue. What seemed like an eternity later, she finally greeted Orlando Erwin, the co-owner of Tales and Treats, and placed her order.

While Orlando made her cappuccino, she looked around. Most of the small tables were already occupied, and several people were tapping away on their laptops. Relieved, Skye paid for her drink and reluctantly declined his offer of a muffin. After she’d stuffed herself the night before, it wouldn’t be wise to indulge in the calorie-laden treat. At least not if she wanted to fit into her wedding dress.

Skye found a seat and had been surfing the Web for several minutes when she struck pay dirt. A city out east had built an incinerator, expecting to use the fees to pay off the construction loan and then, once it was free and clear, gradually make a profit. Instead, the town was now millions of dollars in debt.

Their problem was that the machinery had never worked correctly and they’d needed to refurbish it several times, borrowing more and more money to fix the faulty mechanisms. Who was to say that Scumble River would have any better luck with their equipment?

Skye made a note of the URL where she’d found the article, then started her second search. This time she was looking for crime statistics on towns that had eliminated their police force and relied solely on the county sheriff’s department for protection.

An hour later, Skye had her facts compiled and left the café. Her next stop was the local newspaper. The
Star
’s owner and editor, Kathryn Steele, lived above its offices, and she was known for being on the job nearly 24-7. Kathryn and Dante had had many disagreements, so Skye was betting the journalist would be open to printing a special edition with the story about Dante’s plans for Scumble River.

The newspaper’s front counter was vacant when Skye entered the building. The space had a dusty, slightly deserted feeling to it, and the odor of ink made Skye’s nose wrinkle in anticipation of the sneeze she could feel threatening the back of her throat.

The jingle of the bell above the door must have alerted the owner because Skye heard Kathryn call out, “If you have a story for me, I’m in my office. Anything else, come back at nine when Nan gets here.”

“Hi, Kathy,” Skye called as she made her way toward the sound of the woman’s voice. “I hope it’s not too early for me to stop by.”

“Depends.” Kathryn was seated behind a desk overflowing with papers. “Have you and that hot police chief of yours found Yvonne Osborn’s killer?”

The newspaper owner was an attractive woman in her thirties. Her dark hair was held back with a large gold barrette, and diamond studs twinkled in her ears. Skye had always wondered about Kathryn’s background and apparent wealth. She’d arrived in Scumble River four years ago, purchased the
Star
, and changed its content from mostly advertisements and local sports statistics to actual news.

Realizing she’d been lost in thought and hadn’t answered Kathryn’s question, Skye said, “Not quite yet, but we’re hoping to make an arrest soon.” She indicated the visitor’s chair. “Mind if I sit?”

“Be my guest.” Kathryn leaned forward. “What can I do for you?”

“Have you heard about the mayor’s plan to eliminate the police department in order to fund the construction of an incinerator at the edge of town?” Skye asked, pulling her notes from her tote bag while she closely watched the newspaperwoman’s expression.

“Not in so many words.” Kathryn adjusted the lapel of her exquisitely tailored red suit. “Why don’t you tell me all about it?”

Skye outlined Dante’s scheme, then summed up the articles she’d researched on incinerators and towns that had eliminated their police forces. While Skye talked, the newspaperwoman scribbled furiously on a yellow pad she’d pulled from one of the towering piles on her desktop, pausing occasionally to ask a question.

After providing Kathryn with the Web addresses of the articles to back up her claims, Skye said, “So you didn’t know anything about Dante’s plans?”

“Well . . .” Kathryn said slowly, plainly considering how much she would share with Skye. “Someone did mention the idea of using the sheriff’s department in place of local police. And on a separate occasion this person also asked what I knew about town-owned incinerators.”

“But you didn’t connect the two or investigate it as a story?”

“No.” Kathryn pursed her lips. “The conversations took place several days apart, and at the time, I thought the person was referring to articles that she had read and just wanted my opinion.”

“Who was it?” Skye twisted the strap of her tote bag into a knot. “Clearly that person knew about the mayor’s scheme.”

“Sources are confidential.” Kathryn tapped a perfectly manicured nail on a folder. “But I guess since she’s deceased and wasn’t really a source . . .” She trailed off, then seemed to make a decision and said, “It was Yvonne Osborn who brought up both topics.”

CHAPTER 20

Out of Circulation

A
s Skye drove to the police station, a new anxiety gnawed at her. Had her uncle been involved in Yvonne’s death? It appeared that the substitute librarian had been aware of the mayor’s scheme. What if she had confronted him? Could Dante have been behind the wheel of the vehicle that forced Yvonne’s car off the bridge? Although he didn’t own an Escalade, he was partial to Cadillacs. If he were going to steal an SUV, he’d be drawn to his favorite brand.

Pushing the concern about her uncle’s possible homicidal actions aside, Skye focused on another worrisome issue. The more she thought about it, the more she suspected that she should have told Wally about Dante’s scheme the night before.

At the time, she’d convinced herself that she didn’t want to ruin his evening. There really hadn’t been a good moment during the party to drop the bombshell on Wally that his career was about to go up in smoke. Then they’d left the theater separately, so she hadn’t been able to speak to him about the situation afterward either.

At least that’s what she told herself, but in truth, she’d been afraid to admit to Wally that another one of her family was about to cause him problems. She was related to half the local population, so it was inevitable that her relatives would have some run-ins with the police. But how many fiascos could Wally take before he decided Skye was more trouble than she was worth? Or maybe he’d give in, do what his father wanted—move to Texas and take over CB International.

Wouldn’t that be the ultimate irony? A few years ago, Skye’s most fervent wish had been to escape her hometown. But slowly and surely, Scumble River and its citizens had won her over and carved a place in her heart. Now the last thing she wanted to do was leave. How could she tell Wally what her uncle was up to?

As soon as Skye turned onto the block that held the PD, city hall, and library, she realized that informing Wally about Dante’s plans was now out of her hands. She watched in astonishment as an undulating wall of humanity marched in front of the building holding anti-incinerator picket signs.

The parking lot was packed, and Skye had to drive several blocks before she found a space for the Bel Air. Hiking back toward the station, she heard rumbling that she thought was thunder, but as she got closer, she realized it was angry voices.

A few more steps and she made out the words being shouted, “Hell, no! The police shouldn’t go!”

Apparently, May had been able to rally a huge number of supporters with her calls. Skye had to give her mother and the grapevine credit; there were at least a hundred and fifty people marching, holding placards, and chanting. Quite a feat for a community with a population of just over three thousand. And all achieved in a little less than twelve hours.

Skye stopped in front of the throng to admire some of their signs. Miss Letitia, the ninety-year-old president of the Scumble River Historical Society, held a poster that read: BURN THE MAYOR, NOT THE TRASH. Jess Larson, owner of the Brown Bag Bar and Liquor Store, had one that said LESS COPS = MORE CRIME. And Risé Vaughn from Tales and Treats carried a notice with ANOTHER IDIOT IDEA BROUGHT TO YOU BY THE BUREAUCRATS blazing in red letters across a white background.

Edging through the mob, Skye recognized most of the protestors. Everyone she passed patted her on the back and told her they were a hundred percent behind Wally and his officers. She thanked them and kept moving, intent on reaching the door.

At the front of the building, she noticed Judy Martin standing by the door that led to the stairway up to the library. Last night, Skye had never gotten a chance to talk to Judy, so she walked over to her and said, “Quite a turnout, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Judy shook her head, her sandy brown ponytail swinging. “I’m a little shocked that so many people support the police department and are willing to show it.” She wrinkled her freckled nose. “It sure makes me proud to live here.”

“Do you have a minute?” Skye asked, admiring the petite brunette’s vintage purple swagger coat with its oversize moonstone plastic buttons. “Has Wally talked to you about Yvonne Osborn?”

“No.” Judy furrowed her brow. “Why would he? I really didn’t know her.”

“You hired her though, right?” Skye said, and when Judy nodded, she asked, “Did you work with her at all before you left?”

“We spent a day together while I showed her the ropes, but that’s all.”

“I assume you thought she was a good librarian or you wouldn’t have chosen her, but what was your impression of her as a person?”

“Well . . .” Judy hesitated, sticking her hands in the coat’s deep pockets. “It was clearly important to her to do the right thing, not just what was easy or expedient.” Judy hunched her shoulders. “Yvonne lost her previous job because she blew the whistle on a shady deal that the library director had made with a supplier. She was willing to take the consequences of her actions and didn’t try to sugarcoat what she’d done.”

“That’s pretty much what we’ve heard about her,” Skye agreed. “I know there were probably a lot of people who disliked her for taking the moral high ground, but have you heard about anyone who was seriously threatened by or angry with her about her ethics?”

“She left me a folder with some of her concerns.” Judy bit her lip. “In fact, I just discovered it this morning in the computer files. Evidently, she had planned on e-mailing it to me at the conclusion of her employment, but she must have been killed before she had the chance to send it.” Judy sighed. “Yvonne was supposed to be on duty this week. I wasn’t scheduled to go back to work until January second.”

“The police will need a copy of that file.”

“I already printed out Yvonne’s report and dropped it off with the dispatcher.” Judy glanced at her watch. “I’d better get going. It’s almost time to open up the library.”

“Was there anything she’d written in her notes that we should check into right away? Maybe somebody who frightened her?”

Judy opened the door, then turned and said, “There was one person Yvonne seemed more intimidated by than the others.” Judy gazed at the protestors. “She had somehow found out about the mayor’s plan to eliminate the police department and put up an incinerator—probably because when Dante’s talking on the phone, you can often hear him through the heating vents that connect his office to mine.”