Murder of a Stacked Librarian (8 page)

“All I’m saying is it’s mighty convenient timing.” Quirk took a deep breath, the overdeveloped muscles of his chest threatening to pop the buttons on his uniform shirt. “Especially since he asked for this week off in order to go on vacation with his girlfriend.”

Skye couldn’t remember ever meeting Zuchowski. He’d been hired a little more than eighteen months ago, and it seemed as if he was never around the PD when Skye was there. Wally had mentioned him from time to time—mostly commenting on his absenteeism, tardiness, and poor performance. Now she wondered if she hadn’t met him because he was never at work.

“Well,” Wally drawled, “that is quite a coincidence.”

“Maybe I’d better stop by his apartment.” Quirk ran his hand over his shaved head. He was ex-military and didn’t tolerate shirkers. “If he’s sick, he might need some chicken soup.”

“Good idea.”

“And if he’s not home?” Quirk’s mouth tightened and a vein on the side of his neck pulsed. “Should I leave him a little get-well note?”

“Hmm.” As Wally considered his options, he glanced around and finally noticed Skye. “Did you hear all this?” When she nodded he asked, “What do you think?”

“I think that if I ever want to actually meet the new guy, it better be soon.”

Quirk snickered and gave her a thumbs-up. He and Skye had had some issues in the past, but things had gotten better recently—mostly due to a concerted effort on her part to make Quirk feel more comfortable. Still, it was clear that he found it confusing to work with her since he couldn’t figure out her status. Was the psych consultant above or below the sergeant in rank? And did the fact that she was the chief’s fiancée make a difference?

As Wally took Skye’s hand, tugged her to his side, and gave her a hug, he said to Quirk, “If Zuchowski isn’t there, don’t let him know you stopped by. I’ll deal with him when he finally
recovers
from his illness, and I think it’s best if he doesn’t have any warning.”

“You got it, Chief.” Quirk touched an imaginary hat brim. “I’ll go over to Zuchowski’s place right now.” He turned and ran lightly down the stairs.

“So, besides an AWOL officer, anything else new around here?” Skye asked as she and Wally retreated to his office. “Any break on the murder?”

“The crime lab called a few minutes ago.” Wally took a seat behind his desk. “According to the FBI’s National Automotive Paint File and the PDQ, the paint chips at the scene come from a white 2006 Cadillac Escalade.”

“PDQ?” Skye pulled the visitor’s chair closer to the other side of the desk.

“The Royal Canadian Mounted Police’s Paint Data Query system. Those databases cover vehicles marketed in North America after 1973.” Wally picked up the sandwich Skye had put on a napkin in front of him. “The glass fragments confirm that the vehicle in question is that year and make.”

“At least that’s got to narrow it down. How many people drive a car that costs over fifty thousand dollars?”

“Not many,” Wally agreed around a mouthful of ham, cheese, and whole wheat bread. Swallowing, he added, “However, there’s a problem with locating vehicles involved in hit-and-runs. It’s not as easy as those crime shows you watch on television make it seem.”

“Oh?”

“I assigned one of the officers to start checking registrations, but the system’s been down all morning. Even once it’s up, after he looks into titleholders in the immediate area, it becomes exponentially more difficult to track ownership. If the killer lives more than forty or so miles away, we may never find him or her.”

“Can’t you inquire about suspicious damages at the repair shops?” Skye bit into her own sandwich.

“Yes. But there are hundreds of them.” Wally started to peel an orange. “And again, the owner may use a place as far away as Chicago or Bloomington or even Springfield. The farther away, the less likely we’ll locate it.”

“How about putting out some kind of APB to all the shops in Illinois?” Skye took a swig of her Diet Coke.

“Unfortunately that’s not possible.” Wally opened the Ziploc bag of Christmas cookies and selected a frosted reindeer. “There are just too many and there’s no organized list. I’ve got Martinez calling all the repair shops within a sixty-mile radius, but that will take her several days.”

Zelda Martinez was Scumble River’s only female officer, and also the newest hire, so she was often assigned the more routine tasks.

“Those guys I overheard at church mentioned being maintenance men.” Skye popped an orange segment into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose they’d have the cash to own an Escalade?”

“Maybe not.” Wally twitched his shoulders. “But you never know what kind of debt people are willing to go into for the car of their dreams.” He grabbed a file from his in-box, flipped it open, and ran his finger down one of the pages. “The vic’s husband is a land developer, so he’d definitely have the money for a luxury vehicle.”

“So who do we talk to first?” Skye finished eating and tossed the debris in the trash can. “The maintenance men or the husband?”

“None of the above.” Wally threw away his wrappers and slid a sheet of paper across the desktop. “I think we should start with the daughter.”

“Why?” Skye scanned the page in front of her, noting that the girl’s name was Phoebe and she had turned nineteen two weeks ago. “Because she argued with her mom right before the accident?”

“That’s one of the reasons.” Wally stood. “More important, we couldn’t locate her that evening.” He waited for Skye at the door. “When we finally contacted the vic’s ex that night, he said their daughter was supposed to spend Christmas Eve with him, but she wasn’t there.”

“Did she show up at her dad’s later?” Skye preceded Wally out of his office and down the stairs.

“Nope.” Wally told Thea that he and Skye were heading out, then led the way into the garage. “The next day, the ex’s new wife told Quirk that Phoebe never arrived at their house, and the girl didn’t answer her cell until late the next morning. The current Mrs. Osborn said her husband was frantic because he was afraid Phoebe had been in the car with her mother.”

“The poor man.”

“Poor man, my butt,” Wally snapped. “If the guy had contacted us, we could have told him there was no evidence of another passenger. The windows were all up, the seat belts were intact, and none of the doors had been opened once the vehicle was submerged.”

“Interesting that he didn’t call the police.” Skye slid into the squad car. “I take it he gave you her cell number and you tried it that night?”

“Yep.” Wally nodded as he joined Skye in the cruiser. “As soon as we confirmed Yvonne’s identity, I had Quirk go to her house, and Phoebe wasn’t there either.”

“So our mission today is to see where Miss Phoebe spent Christmas Eve?” She buckled her seat belt. “And find out if she drives an Escalade?”

“Exactly.” Wally pulled the robin’s-egg blue Caprice onto the street. “I also want you to see if you can tell what Phoebe’s relationship with her mom was like.”

“I’m on it.” Skye could usually get a feeling for how kids got along with their parents by little things they said and their facial expressions. “I’m guessing Phoebe’s out of high school. Does she go to college?”

“No. Her dad said there was some snafu with her application and she has to wait until next year to attend.” Wally took a left onto Maryland Street. “Meanwhile, she’s working part-time at your aunt’s dance studio, which is where we’re heading.”

Olive Leofanti had opened the Scumble River School of Adult Dance a little more than a year ago. When her original partner had been unable to come up with her half of the money for the business, the future of the studio had seemed bleak. But in June, Olive had found another investor, changed the name of the school to Turning Pointe, and expanded to include lessons for children. Immediately, class size had begun to increase, and now the place seemed to be thriving.

Having two left feet, Skye hadn’t been to the school since the grand opening, but her mother’s daily family bulletins had kept her informed. Skye vaguely remembered May mentioning that Olive’s new business partner was from out of state and that the woman had sent her daughter to represent her interests in the studio. But Skye didn’t recall receiving a report about the new hire. May must be slipping—normally even a part-timer would have rated a mention.

As Wally made a right onto Basin Street, Skye commented, “You said we’re going to the studio, but will Phoebe be at work today? After all, it’s the day after Christmas and her mom died less than thirty-six hours ago. Surely, Aunt Olive wouldn’t expect her to show up.”

“According to Mr. Osborn, Turning Pointe is having a recital tomorrow, and Phoebe insisted she couldn’t let down her bosses and had to be there for the students.”

“She sounds like a conscientious young woman.” Skye rummaged in her purse, drew out a tube of lip gloss, and applied it.

“Yeah.” Wally pulled into a parking spot in front of the school. “Except for the part about her disappearing the night her mom was killed.”

“That is suspicious,” Skye agreed.

As they walked through the double glass doors and into the lobby of the studio, Skye heard a cacophony of high-pitched, excited voices. She and Wally followed the sound to a large area that boasted polished wood floors and mirrored walls. Groups of females ranging in age from prepubescent to elderly were practicing everything from arabesques to hip-hop moves.

A beautiful woman in her late twenties or early thirties stood nearest the entrance. She was busy teaching a half dozen golden agers the steps to a jazz routine. When she noticed Wally, she told her group to take a break and approached him.

“Well, if it isn’t Chief Boyd.” The shapely blonde dressed in a skintight zebra-print leotard playfully tapped Wally’s arm. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Hi, Emmy.” Wally smiled warmly at the stunning woman. “I’ve been too busy to get out to the club.”

“That’s a shame,” Emmy purred. “We all missed you at the holiday shindig.”

Skye had been standing a little behind Wally, taking in the exchange with growing unease. At the mention of a party, she decided it was time to interrupt. She cleared her throat and moved closer to Wally.

He glanced at her with a sheepish expression, then said to the lovely dancer, “I don’t think you’ve met my fiancée, Skye Denison. Skye, this is Emerald Jones.” As the two women shook hands, he explained, “Emmy and I are members of the Laurel Gun Club. We shoot together every Wednesday night. She’s got the sweetest little Smith & Wesson Centennial 642CT and a Marlin 336XLR rifle.”

“Really.” Skye examined the tall, lithe woman who was beaming at Wally. “I’ve been thinking about learning to shoot. Wally’s taught me a little, but I’d like to get more comfortable with guns. There’s only so much protection pepper spray and a Taser can provide.”

“True.” Emmy tossed her ponytail. “And they aren’t half as much fun.”

“After the wedding, I’ll have to come out to the club with Wally.” Skye wasn’t sure if she was making casual conversation or warning the gorgeous woman away from her man. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”

“As Wally said, I’m at the club every Wednesday night, and I also go most Sunday afternoons.” Emmy arched a feathery brow and her sapphire blue eyes twinkled. “It would be nice to get to know you since I’ve heard so much about you.”

“From Wally?” Skye asked, trying to figure out why it seemed as if she’d met Emmy before. There was something oddly familiar about the woman.

“Well, he does talk about you all the time.” Emmy poked Wally’s arm again. “But then, so does your aunt Olive and my mom’s friend’s son.”

“Who’s that?” Skye thought she remembered that Emmy’s mother was from out of state. What was her connection with Scumble River?

“Simon Reid.” Emmy wrinkled her cute little turned-up nose. “According to him, you’re a paragon of virtue who can do no wrong and I’m as irresponsible as his mother.” She widened her eyes. “Seriously, I only got into a tiny bit of trouble in Lost Wages. I didn’t really
have
to leave town.”

Uh-huh!
Skye mentally slapped her forehead. That’s who Emmy reminded her of—Simon’s mother’s friend Ruby. The statuesque blonde had hid out with Bunny Reid in Scumble River three or four years ago, when she was running from a shady casino owner. So Ruby was Aunt Olive’s partner. How in the heck had that happened? It had to be Bunny’s doing.

“Believe me,” Skye declared, “when Simon and I were dating, he never thought I was perfect.”

Skye hid a smile. Simon was as straitlaced as they came. Depending on the kind of trouble Emmy had gotten into in Las Vegas, he would be having a fit that his mother was once again part of some harebrained scheme.

“That’s not how he tells it.” Emmy pouted.

“Although we broke up due to a misunderstanding, one of the reasons we never got back together was that he was always trying to change me,” Skye reassured her. “And one of the reasons I love Wally so much is because he doesn’t.”

“Good to know.” Emmy nodded to herself. “I can use that the next time Simon starts to give me a hard time about my past indiscretions.”

Hmm! Interesting!
Skye wondered how much time the vivacious blonde and the serious funeral director were spending together. Emmy seemed to be a younger version of Simon’s mother, which would drive him crazy. Then again, Skye detected a certain spark in the dancer’s eye when she talked about him. Was the attraction mutual?

“But we digress.” Emmy turned to Wally. “I doubt you’re here to take me up on the offer of a dance lesson for your wedding.”

“You’re right.” Wally put his arm around Skye. “We won’t be trying anything fancy. We’re keeping things as simple as possible.”

“At least as simple as my mother will allow,” Skye clarified.

“May is a pistol, all right, but you’re doing great.” Wally winked, then turned serious. “We’re here to talk to Phoebe Osborn.”

“Oh, sure.” Emmy grimaced. “Maybe I am as flighty as Simon keeps telling me I am. How could I forget that her mother was killed on Christmas Eve? Let me go find her for you.”

“Is that her?” Skye pointed to a young woman who was the spitting image of what a teenage Yvonne might have looked like. “Over there by the rear wall?”