Murder of a Cranky Catnapper (17 page)

“Smart.” Skye beamed at her friend. “It's a win-win situation. We don't have to deal with the wicked witch and she gets some much-needed makeup tips. Who knows? Maybe Glenda will even stop going for the raccoon look with her eyeliner and mascara.”

“We can only dream.” Trixie smirked, then asked, “So what's the plan? I told Earl that I wanted to discuss Bambi's GIVE award.”

“Get Involved, Value Everyone” was the service club Trixie had recently established as one of the high school's extracurricular activities. Much to her and Skye's surprise, Earl's youngest daughter had joined and become one of the leading freshman members.

“I don't have a plan per se,” Skye admitted. “More like a beginning, middle, and I hope an end that doesn't involve Earl's shotgun.”

“Sort of like how I write.” Trixie laughed. “I hate outlines. Which might be why it's taking me forever to finish this dang book.”

“I love outlines.” Skye crossed her arms. “But I didn't have time to come up with one for this project. Winging it is so not how I like to do things, but I figure we'll start out with the award stuff.” Skye glanced at Trixie. “You do have that worked out, right?”

“Sure.”

“Phew.” Skye blew out a long breath. “Then I'll casually mention the Legion's break-in and try to steer the conversation toward Sunday night.”

“So far, so good.” Trixie nodded her approval. “But what's the ending?”

“Once Earl admits he was at the Legion, I'll ask him what time he left and why his car was there after the place was closed.”

“And if he doesn't have a good answer or refuses to say?” Trixie prodded.

“That part is harder to figure out.” Skye chewed her bottom lip.

“Well, you better do it soon.” Trixie spun the wheel and pulled into a rutted driveway. “Because we're here.”

One cat just leads to another.

—ERNEST HEMINGWAY

M
arching up the Dooziers' weed-choked sidewalk, Skye was relieved to see that Glenda's Chevy was gone. There were various vehicles scattered in and near the ramshackle garage, but the prickly woman's prized 1974 baby blue Monte Carlo—a car no one but Glenda was allowed to drive—was conspicuously absent.

When Skye first returned to Scumble River, she and Glenda had an argument about Glenda's kids throwing rocks at the glass marquee in front of Vince's hair salon. The annoyed mother hadn't taken Skye's intervention well and had never forgiven her for interfering with her God-given right to ignore her children's bad behavior. It didn't take a very big person to carry a grudge, and if Glenda's shoulders could lug around her double-D boobs, they certainly could support her vendetta against Skye.

Shaking her head at the bleached blonde's pigheadedness, Skye studied the Doozier house. It was far more dilapidated than the shacks she'd seen as a Peace Corps volunteer in Dominica. Random tufts of crabgrass grew between cars up on cinder blocks and in the
front yard; old appliances were scattered around like lawn ornaments.

A new hand-lettered sign had been added since the last time Skye had visited. Tacked to a tilted wooden stake near the front of the house was a poster that read,
KEEP OUT. SHYSTERS COST 2 DAMN MUCH SO W
E SHOOT 2 KILL
. She was impressed that all of the words were spelled correctly and wondered if Bambi had been enlisted as Earl's ghostwriter.

In the warm humid air, Skye could smell animals, and the growls and snarls coming from the backyard were anything but welcoming. She was trying to remember just how many dogs the Dooziers owned and if the pen holding them was a sturdy one when Junior burst out the side door.

He had a red crew cut, and a wide jack-o'-lantern grin lit up his freckled face. “Miz F, Miz D, what are you two doing here? You okay, Miz D?” He had come to her aid on more than one occasion, and now considered himself her personal guardian angel.

“I'm fine, thanks.” Skye smiled. “How have your sophomore classes gone?”

Skye hadn't seen too much of Junior during the school year and she hoped that was because he was doing well in school. The boy had average intelligence, but he had a severe learning disability and often gave up trying to learn because he felt stupid.

“Okay.” Junior dug his sneaker-clad toe in the dirt. “My SpEd teacher says that I might make all C's if I do okay on—finals.”

“That's awesome!” Skye would have loved to hug the boy, but touching a student was a dangerous idea. Too many innocent educators had been falsely accused or hit with groundless lawsuits to risk an embrace. Instead, she held up her hand for a high five. “You come
see me when you get your report card. If you get all C's or above, I'll have a reward for you.”

“What kinda reward?” Junior asked. “Not some stupid old sticker?”

“Nope.” Skye shook her head. “It's a surprise, but I promise you'll like it.”

Junior remembered the incentives Skye had given out when he was in grade school. Too bad that once the kids moved on to junior and senior high, the cost of prizes skyrocketed. Once the students entered their teens, she switched to McDonald's gift cards, which she had to purchase with her own money since the district refused to give her any type of budget.

“Wait until I tell Cletus. He ain't doin' half as good as me.” Junior started to run off.

Skye called after him. “We're here to see your dad. Is he home?”

“Yeah.” Junior skidded to a stop. “Ma went off somewhere to pick up a prize, but Pa's here.” The boy motioned for them to follow him. “Come on.”

Junior led Skye and Trixie through the side screen door, past a tiny entryway, up a few steps covered in peeling linoleum, and into the kitchen. Skye wrinkled her nose at the odor of stale beer and cigarettes hanging in the air, then cringed at the raised voices blasting from the other side of the room.

A chipped Formica-topped table had been shoved against a stained wall, and Earl Doozier had an extremely handsome man in his forties backed against the edge. Earl was heavily tattooed and wearing only a pair of camo shorts, while the other guy was dressed in crisp khaki shorts and a mint green polo shirt. One of the men looked out of place in the Doozier home, and it wasn't Earl.

Trixie elbowed Skye in the side and asked, “Who's the hunk?”

Skye jumped at her friend's touch. She'd been
engrossed in trying to figure out what the men were arguing about. Most of what she could make out were either threats or cursing.

“That's my fiancé, Dr. AJ Martino,” Yolanda Doozier answered, stepping between Skye and Trixie.

Yolanda was a raven-haired beauty whose lush curves made the twisting Scumble River look as straight as a telephone pole. Although not in the same class, the three women had gone to high school together. Yolanda was one of the rare Red Raggers with ambitions beyond Scumble River, and she made it a point to speak standard English instead of Doozierese.

“Congratulations!” Skye and Trixie said in unison.

“AJ and I are getting married as soon as he clears up a few technicalities.” Yolanda thrust her left hand in their faces.

As Skye oohed and ahhed over the large diamond solitaire sparkling on Yolanda's finger, she wondered what sort of technicality was holding up the wedding. Could it be the same issue that had delayed Skye's own nuptials? Was the groom Catholic and waiting for an annulment? After all, the Dooziers might not worship anything except beer and guns, but that didn't mean their future in-law wasn't religious.

Suddenly, Yolanda grabbed Skye's wrist and said, “Yours is nice, too.” Her thumb stroked the two-carat stone of the engagement ring and the baguette-studded wedding band. “I heard you did pretty well in the marriage sweepstakes.”

“Wally is a wonderful husband,” Skye agreed, knowing that wasn't what Yolanda meant. “I hope you and AJ will be as happy as we are.”

“We will.” Yolanda shot a pointed glance at Skye's midsection and patted her own slim waist. “But we'll be a heck of a lot more careful. No way am I ruining this figure by popping out a kid.”

“Everyone has to make the right choice for them,” Skye said, admiring Yolanda, as she did Trixie, for knowing that motherhood wasn't for all women.

“Choice?” Yolanda laughed. “Let's see. You got married the end of December, and you're what?” She gazed at Skye's stomach and pursed her lips. “Five, maybe six months pregnant? I'd bet that's an oops baby.”

“Then you'd be wrong.” Skye lifted her head. There wasn't a chance in hell that she was allowing that rumor to get started. “Wally and I have been open to conceiving since our engagement.”

“Right.” Yolanda sniggered, then shrugged. “Although at his age, I guess . . .”

Before the woman could start down another innuendo trail, Skye asked, “When did you get back in town, Yolanda? After Dr. Addison's death and your move into the city, I don't recall you visiting much.”

Yolanda had been the office manager for Ken Addison's medical practice. When he'd been murdered, her job disappeared. Rumor had it that she'd decided to make a fresh start somewhere that no one knew her or her relatives' reputations.

“That's right.” Yolanda crossed her arms. “At first I was too busy. I tried a lot of different kinds of work. Then a few months ago, I took a position at the Golden Mile Center for Cosmetic Surgery and fell in love with the boss.” She beamed in the direction of her fiancé and said, “AJ is the owner of the clinic.”

“So you brought AJ here to meet your family?” Trixie asked.

“Yeah.” Yolanda fingered the rose tattoo peeking from her cleavage. “I put it off as long as I could, but AJ insisted on coming. A fraternity brother that he'd recently gotten back in contact with lives in Scumble River and he wanted to look him up.” She jerked her chin at Earl and her fiancé. It appeared as if they were
about to come to blows. “I bet AJ's sorry now he didn't listen to me.”

“What's the problem?” Skye asked. “Doesn't your brother approve of the marriage?”

“Like I give a flying crap what he thinks,” Yolanda snorted. “No. A few minutes after we got here Saturday afternoon, Earl ran over AJ's brand-new Porsche Boxster with some mutated bulldozer thingy he built. He smashed the entire driver's side and we've been stuck in this shit town ever since.”

“Can't you rent a car?” Trixie asked. “Or have Earl drive you to Chicago?”

Before Yolanda could answer, Earl bellowed, “Iffen you didn't go parkin' in my blind spot, Ida never hit your goldang hotrod.”

“Nevertheless, you're liable for the damage.” AJ adjusted the Rolex on his wrist. “And since you have no insurance, you need to make it right.”

“They've been going at it for the past four days.” Yolanda shook her head. “Earl said that he had a friend who could fix the damage. The guy came Saturday night and picked up the Porsche. He promised that we'd have it back by Tuesday, but still no sign of it.”

“Which friend?” Skye tensed, fearing that AJ's Porsche was in some distant chop shop, resting in pieces.

“No idea.” Yolanda bent to adjust the gold bracelet around her ankle. “And Earl claims to have lost the guy's phone number.”

“Shit!” Trixie yelped, then glanced at Junior and put her hand over her mouth.

“AJ refuses to leave until he has his car back.” Yolanda poked out her bottom lip. “Which means our Disney vacation is ruined. I had reservations to eat breakfast with Cinderella and everything.”

“You were on your way to Florida and figured a quick stop in Scumble River would be a good idea?” Skye
guessed. “That way just one night, introduce him to the family and a swift departure down the highway?”

“Twenty-four hours in and out was how AJ talked me into it.” Yolanda stalked over to Earl and tugged him away from her fiancé. “Instead, I'm trapped in this hellhole.”

As Yolanda manhandled her brother or half brother or stepbrother or however they were related—the Doozier lineage was tough to follow—Skye grimaced. Except for a modest beer belly that hung over the waist of his shorts, Earl was as thin as a snake, but she feared what would happen if Yolanda pushed him too far.

Scumble Riverites knew you didn't put your hands on a Doozier, even kin, without his permission. Obviously, several years away and four days held hostage in the Doozier compound had made Yolanda forget.

Earl's face was now redder than the Miller High Life trucker cap on his head, and he windmilled both arms around wildly, nearly hitting Yolanda in the face. “You tell your highnmighty feeunsay that my friend ain't no thief. He'll get that fancysmancy car of his back here as soon as it's fixed.”

“Couldn't Earl drive it back to the city?” Skye asked. “Then you and AJ could fly to Orlando.”

“AJ doesn't like airplanes.” Yolanda rolled her eyes. “He claims they trigger his asthma.”

“Maybe you two could take Earl's Buick, and on your way back from Florida you could pick up the Porsche,” Trixie suggested, pulling Yolanda away from her brother.

“I'm not driving that piece of shit.” AJ moved next to Yolanda.

“Hell no!” Yolanda crossed her arms. “It didn't even make it back from the bar Sunday night.”

“It was fine when we left here.” Earl sputtered. “Somebody must've messed with it when we were inside.” He
shrugged. “Anyways I always says that the most interestin' trip starts with a broken fan belt and a leaky tire.”

Trixie wiggled her brows at Skye, indicating this was their opening. Skye nodded and cleared her throat. Three pair of eyes swung in her direction.

“So you all went out Sunday night,” Skye said cheerfully. “Where did you go?”

“Some hole-in-the-wall American Legion post,” AJ sneered.

“Did your frat brother tell you about it?” Trixie asked.

“Uh. Yeah.” AJ shot her an irritated look. “He was busy so we couldn't get together, but he said that there was an interesting contest called the King of Diamonds and suggested it might be fun to give it a try. But once I saw how the game was set up, I immediately figured out the only big winner would be the house.”

“And the car broke down?” Skye ignored AJ's tantrum. “How did you get home?”

“One of Yolanda's friends gave everyone else a lift.” AJ screwed up his face.

“But not you?” Trixie's expression was flirtatious and she tapped his arm.

“No.” AJ shuddered. “The proffered transportation was in the back of a dirty pickup.” He scowled. “I wasn't risking my APO jeans.”

“So you stayed with Earl's car?” Trixie asked. “That had to be boring.”

“It wasn't fun.” AJ shrugged. “But his friend, the one supposedly fixing my Porsche, finally showed up and got the beater running.”

“What time was that?” Skye asked.

“Why do you ask?” Yolanda's thickly lashed violet eyes narrowed and she tilted her head. “What are you doing here anyway?”

“That's exactly what I want to know.” An angry
voice shrilled from the doorway and Glenda Doozier stomped up to the group. Thrusting her face into Skye's, she sprayed saliva as she yelled, “You better not be accusin' anybody in this family of nothin'.”

“Of course not.” Skye's pulse rate increased and she crossed her arms protectively around her baby bump. “Mrs. Frayne and I just stopped over to tell you about Bambi's award and invite your family to the final GIVE meeting to see her accept it.”

“What in the hell is Bambi doin' now?” Glenda clutched a huge purple and green purse to her ample chest. “We ain't givin' nobody nothin'.”

“GIVE stands for Get Involved, Value Everyone,” Trixie rushed to explain. “It's a service club. We promote community welfare and goodwill.”