Murder of a Cranky Catnapper (16 page)

Clearing his throat, Wally asked, “When did all this take place?”

“He initially showed me his ‘toys' a week ago today.” Virginia shrugged. “Then he appeared at my door Sunday evening and asked me to reconsider. I said no.”

“What time did he arrive and what time did he leave?” Wally asked.

There was a slight hesitation, then Virginia answered, “He got there a little before six and left about twenty minutes later.”

Wally raised an eyebrow at Skye, who shrugged. Virginia's explanation sounded right.

“Did anyone see Lynch arrive at or leave your house?” Wally asked.

“When I opened the door for Palmer, I waved to my next-door neighbor, who was sweeping her porch,”
Virginia offered. “But I don't know if anyone saw him leave.”

“Where were you from eleven p.m. to midnight on Sunday?” Wally asked.

“In bed.”

“Was anyone with you?”

“Of course not.” Virginia's eyes slitted. “I had just ended a monogamous relationship. I certainly didn't hop right into the sack with another man.”

There are two means of refuge from the miseries of life: music and cats.

—ALBERT SCHWEITZER

W
ally asked several more questions, but Virginia's answers never varied. Finally, he got up and said to Skye, “Time for a break.” He motioned her through the door and called for Zelda to stay with Virginia.

Once Wally and Skye were back in his office, he asked, “What do you think?”

“Everything Virginia said sounds plausible.” Skye eased into a chair and kicked off her pumps. Lately she'd been retaining water and every pair of shoes she owned seemed to shrink by late afternoon. “And Virginia's not stupid, so she knows it will be easy enough to check with her neighbors to see if she's telling the truth about Palmer coming by her place when she said he did.”

“Yep.” Wally scooped up the telephone, pushed a button, and said, “Have Anthony talk to Virginia Elder's neighbors and find out if any of them saw Palmer Lynch at her house Sunday night.”

When Wally hung up, Skye said, “Pru did tell me that Palmer planned to approach Virginia and try to repair their relationship. Or at least make sure she didn't talk about his unusual tastes.”

“Yeah.” Wally walked in front of Skye, leaned against the edge of his desk, and lifted her foot into his lap. “Wraige mentioned that, too.”

“Palmer was killed in his bedroom, right?” Skye asked, then moaned in pleasure as Wally rubbed her toes. “His body wasn't moved?”

“That's right.” Wally continued to massage as he spoke, his thumbs pressing into Skye's heel.

“So the question then becomes, why would Virginia follow him to his house and kill him?” Skye sighed as Wally's fingers caressed her ankles. “If they quarreled during his visit and she killed him in anger, wouldn't she have done so during the fight?”

“That certainly would be more logical than the whole elaborate setup in his bedroom.” Wally returned Skye's left foot to the floor and placed her right in his lap. “The thing that bothers me the most is what motive would Virginia have to murder Lynch?”

“If he tried to force her into a type of sexual relationship she didn't want, that could be a reason to kill him, but just asking her if she'd participate doesn't seem like enough.”

“I agree.” Wally circled Skye's ankle with his fingers and tightened his grasp. “I did a little research today, and it appears the whole BDSM lifestyle is based on consent rather than force.”

“What kind of research?” Skye teased. “Will we need to have Justin clear your computer history before the mayor starts building a case against you? You know Uncle Dante is still out to get you.”

Skye's uncle, her mother's brother, was the mayor of Scumble River. And ever since his get-rich-quick scheme to farm out the city's law enforcement needs to the county was thwarted, he'd had a vendetta against the police department in general and Wally in particular.

“I was careful.” Wally winked. “I called a buddy of mine from college.”

“You have a friend who is . . .” Skye trailed off suggestively.

“Who knows?” Wally smirked. “But I called him because he's a professor of human sexuality.”

“Ah.” Skye smiled. “Which leads us back to a lack of motive for Virginia.”

“That it does.” Wally released Skye's ankle and gently put her foot on the floor. “Unless Virginia was so outraged by Lynch's suggestion, she really doesn't have any reason to murder him.”

“And if women killed men due to unwelcome or repugnant propositions, a good portion of the male population would be dead.”

*   *   *

Wally and Skye had continued to question Virginia after their conference in his office, but didn't discover any new information. Virginia restated that Palmer wouldn't tell her who else belonged to the private club and that he'd left her house Sunday evening after she turned down his attempt at reconciliation.

When her neighbors corroborated her statement regarding Lynch's arrival and departure the night of the murder, Wally told Virginia she could go.

Watching Virginia leave, Skye asked, “Are we talking to anyone else tonight?” It was past seven thirty, but she tried not to let the exhaustion show in her voice.

“Dr. Quillen is next on my list, but I want to wait until the forensic results are in.” Wally slipped an arm around Skye's waist. “Let's head home, get some dinner, and you can put your feet up.”

“When will the crime scene techs have a report for you?” Skye allowed Wally to guide her out of the station, through the garage, and into the parking lot.

“They promised the summary no later than tomorrow
noon.” Wally opened the passenger door of Skye's Bel Air and helped her inside.

As Wally slid behind the wheel, Skye asked, “What about your car?”

“You can drop me at the PD on your way to school.” Wally drove the Chevy onto the street. “I want to come in early anyway.”

After feeding Bingo, they made a quick meal of the leftover chicken parmesan and garlic bread, cleaned up the kitchen, then curled up on the sunroom's sofa to watch television. Skye sat in her husband's arms and rested her hands on her baby bump. They had both almost dozed off when a painful spasm radiated through Skye's calf.

Jumping to her feet, Skye ran to the kitchen and tiptoed on the cold tile floor. Wally followed, a look of concern marring his handsome face.

As the cramp eased, Skye hobbled back into the sunroom and sank back down on the couch. Wally sat next to her. Brushing a curl behind her ear, he silently began massaging her calf and thigh.

When she relaxed and laid her head back, he asked, “Better?”

“Much.” The pain had started her adrenaline pumping, and now wide awake, she said, “Hey, I forgot to ask you about the American Legion break-in. Is there anything new on that investigation?”

“Someone reported seeing an old Buick Regal in the Legion's parking lot after closing time,” Wally said. “No license plate number, but they said the paint job was mostly primer and Bondo.”

“You know who has a car like that, don't you?” Skye raised a brow.

“No.” Wally frowned, then groaned. “Earl Doozier.” Wally sighed, “Great. I need to squeeze in a visit with him tomorrow, too.”

Skye bit her lip thinking about her firsthand knowledge of Earl's family. “The Dooziers don't usually resort to breaking and entering. Their MO leans toward swindling folks rather than out-and-out robbery.”

“True. Except for the occasional brawl, they generally walk that fine line between legal and illegal.” Wally pursed his mouth. “The Dooziers may have a permeable view of reality, but they aren't downright delusional.”

“Maybe I should talk to him,” Skye offered. “Earl's a lot more likely to come clean with me than you. Something about your uniform triggers his natural inclination to lie.”

Earl Doozier was the head honcho of the Red Raggers, a group that was hard to explain to anyone who hadn't grown up in Scumble River. The RRs were the crowd that your mother was referring to when she told you not to go into certain parts of town.

They were the folks who were most often the subject of complaint in the newspaper's “Shout Out” column—although they were never mentioned in any letters with signatures, because no one was foolish enough to purposely get the Red Raggers sore at them.

In short, the Dooziers and their clan had family trees that didn't so much branch out as they twisted inward, until all that was left was a Gordian knot of genetic mistakes. Forget survival of the fittest. The Red Raggers were more survival of the sneakiest.

Skye had a special relationship with the Dooziers. She protected them from the bureaucratic school rules, and they protected her from her tendency to be too trusting and believe that there was good in everyone. Normally, she didn't like to press her luck, all too aware that the whammy could hit at any minute, but she knew that things would go better for both Wally and Earl if she was the one to ask why the family's
Regal had been spotted at the scene of a crime. And if Earl had an alibi.

“I don't want you to go to the Dooziers alone,” Wally cautioned.

“They'd never hurt me.” Skye was fairly sure the only Doozier she had to worry about was Earl's wife, Glenda, who hated her guts.

“Still. I should come with you.” Wally's voice was firm. “What if they've changed their methods and now really are into burglary?”

“How about I ask Trixie to come along?” Skye countered. When Wally frowned, she added, “We can casually stop at the Dooziers' place so Trixie can discuss his daughter, Bambi. She's in that club Trixie sponsors, and I understand she's up for an end-of-the-year award.”

“Fine.” Wally narrowed his eyes. “But if you feel the least bit threatened, grab Trixie and get out of there. No second-guessing. Earl isn't the harmless pet you think he is. He may be dumber than your old cell phone, but stupidity can be dangerous.”

“I understand, sweetie.” Skye yawned, rose from the sofa, and said, “I'm pooped. Is it too early for you, or are you ready for bed, too?”

Wally got to his feet, slipped an arm around her, and murmured huskily into her ear, “I'm always ready to join you in bed.”

“Uh . . .” Skye stuttered. “The thing is, I'm really tired . . .” She trailed off.

Wally pressed openmouthed kisses along her neck. “Want me to carry you?”

Heck!
Skye mentally screamed. He wasn't getting the message and she really couldn't blame him. Up until a few weeks ago, she couldn't get enough of her handsome husband. She'd wanted him so often, she'd been half afraid that she would wear him out.

But now, her libido seemed to be in the permanent
OFF
position. And when she crawled into their king-size four-poster, all she wanted to do was sleep. Unfortunately, she hadn't quite gotten up the nerve to let Wally in on her feelings. How do you tell your husband of less than five months that you aren't interested in sex?

Great!
Now Wally was looking at her funny. Realizing she hadn't answered him, Skye stepped out of his embrace, poked him in the chest, and said, “No Rhett Butler moves for you, mister. It's only been a few days since you hurt your back, and with this baby, I weigh a ton.”

“I can still sweep you off your feet.” Wally grinned and reached for her.

Before he could swing her into his arms, she darted away and said over her shoulder, “Make sure the lights are out and the door is locked.”

“This isn't over,” Wally warned, his voice fading as Skye trudged up the stairs.

Knowing she had only a few minutes, Skye hurriedly changed into her nightshirt, washed her face, brushed her teeth, and climbed into bed. As her eyelids drifted shut, she vowed to call her doctor and ask if there was anything she could do to jump-start her sex drive. Or at least get an ETA as to when it might be back.

*   *   *

The next day, after dropping Wally off at the police station, Skye headed for the grade school for another session of pet therapy. When Wally had said he wanted to talk to Dr. Quillen that afternoon, she'd forgotten the vet would be with her in the morning. She should have asked if there was anything she should try to find out.

A quick text to Wally and she had her answer—a
resounding no. Wally didn't want Dr. Quillen to have any warning before he interviewed him.

The pet therapy session went smoothly, and Skye walked the vet to the front office. He tried to ask Skye about the murder investigation, but when she explained that she wasn't at liberty to discuss any details, he nodded and said, “Whatever else happens, at least Belle is back safe and sound.”

Skye's afternoon at the junior high was jammed with annual reviews, but she took a few seconds to call Trixie. A promise of a lengthier explanation to come, and her friend agreed to arrange the meeting with Earl and meet Skye in the high school parking lot as soon after the dismissal bell sounded as possible.

Getting Glenda out of the way was a bit trickier, but Trixie said she had a plan. Skye didn't get a chance to ask for details, which was probably for the best. Her friend's schemes were frequently convoluted, but more often than not successful, so it was best to go along, but not necessarily know all the particulars.

The afternoon dragged on, and by the time the final annual review ended, Skye was sick of the words
Individualized Education Plan
. After a crucial bathroom stop—Baby Boyd seemed to be doing a tap dance on her bladder—Skye hurried across the campus to the high school.

Rushing toward the parking lot, Skye was relieved to see Trixie leaning against her Honda. If she wanted to talk to Earl
and
get to the PD in time to help Wally with interviews, Skye needed to streamline the upcoming Doozier encounter.

As Skye skidded to a stop, her friend straightened and tucked the cell phone she'd been holding into her pocket. Today Trixie wore skinny ankle-length floral slacks with an asymmetrical celery green shirt. Skye smoothed her own boring black and white checked
maternity top over her stomach, fingered her wrinkled black slacks, and grimaced. She looked like the ugly stepsister.

“Get in.” Trixie slid behind the wheel, and after Skye maneuvered into the passenger seat and fastened her safety belt, she turned on the engine and sped out of the lot. Once they were rocketing down the road, Trixie said, “Fill me in.”

“Earl's car was spotted in the American Legion parking lot the night of the break-in and I figured he'd tell us more than the police,” Skye summarized, then asked, “Were you able to get rid of Glenda?”

“Yep.” Trixie grinned. “She has to go claim her prize this afternoon or she loses it.” When Skye made a continue motion with her hand, Trixie explained, “I asked a pal of mine who sells Lady Ladonna cosmetics to call Glenda and tell her she'd won a free demo.”