Murder of a Cranky Catnapper (3 page)

“Unfortunately, he showed up just as Clifford ran out of the room.” Skye wrinkled her nose. “I was chasing him and bumped into Palmer.”

“Oh, my.” Virginia's lips quirked. “And Palmer was not amused?”

“No.” Skye exhaled loudly. “He was especially upset when he found out about the pet therapy. He called it snake oil and practically accused me of selling cure-all elixirs from my traveling medicine show.”

“Palmer is sort of old-fashioned about stuff like that,” Virginia said slowly, then added, “But I think the real problem is that he's not an animal lover.” She frowned. “His mom bred prize-winning German shepherds. One day he and his mother were having some sort of argument and a couple of her dogs attacked him.”

“Ah. That explains a lot.” Skye nodded. “And I do have to admit, he didn't get a very good introduction to the whole concept.” She smiled wryly. “I mean one kid running down the hall and the rest screaming about wolves.”

“That's a real shame.” Virginia tented her fingers and rested her chin on them.

“It is.” Skye blew out a frustrated breath. “Because once Dr. Quillen properly introduced the animals to the boys, they really seemed to enjoy the therapy session.”

“They loved it.” Virginia nodded. “When they got back to class, Alvin and Duncan voluntarily talked to the other kids. They told them all about the dog and
cat they got to pet. Then Clifford joined in the discussion, and he didn't even try to read his book for the rest of the afternoon.”

“That's amazing.” Skye beamed. “Way better results than I had hoped for.”

“Did Palmer make you discontinue the pet therapy?” Virginia asked.

“He tried,” Skye said. “But Caroline told him he didn't have the power to dictate her decision on that matter.”

“Oh, my! That's not good.” Virginia's voice held a note of alarm. “Palmer gets very angry when people question his authority.”

“What do you think he'll do about it?”

“I'm not sure, but you and Caroline need to watch your backs.” Red crept into the teacher's cheeks and she murmured, “Palmer demands complete control.”

Cats seem to go on the principle that it never does any harm to ask for what you want.

—JOSEPH WOOD KRUTCH

A
fter Virginia's warning about Palmer, Skye headed straight out to her car. Talking to Charlie had become more of a priority than checking in with Christopher and Gavin's teacher. She'd send the man an e-mail when she got home. And just for good measure, she would e-mail all five of the boys' parents with an update from the afternoon session. She'd found that keeping everyone overinformed often prevented frantic phone calls and lengthy explanations.

When Skye slid inside her 1957 aqua Chevy Bel Air, she frowned. Her husband of a little over four months, Wally Boyd, wanted to buy her a new car. The moment that they'd found out she was pregnant, he'd started lobbying for a safer and more baby-friendly vehicle.

Skye understood that Wally, as the chief of the Scumble River Police Department, had seen too many fatal accidents to be comfortable with his expectant wife driving a fifty-year-old automobile with retrofitted seatbelts and less than terrific safety ratings. However, lately he'd been muttering about moderate front overlap, side and roof strength, and head restraints, which made her wonder if she'd end up riding around in a tank.

And while Skye wasn't fond of her Chevy Bel Air, the aqua behemoth had been a gift from her father and Uncle Charlie. The two men had lovingly restored the vintage car and presented it to her when she was in dire need of transportation. If she traded it in for a new model, she was afraid her dad and her godfather would be hurt.

Still, Wally was tempting her with offers of a Mercedes-Benz M-Class SUV. She'd always wanted a Mercedes, but had never dreamed she could ever afford one.

Although no one knew it, Wally was the heir to a Texas oil dynasty. And while he didn't work in the family business and lived on his salary as a police chief, his mother had left him a hefty trust fund. Up until his marriage to Skye, he'd seldom touched the money he'd inherited, but lately he'd been more willing to dip into that account.

When she'd told him that he didn't need to buy her expensive presents, he'd gotten a tender look on his face, then he'd taken her hand and said, “You are the love of my life. I waited nearly twenty years for you. It's because you never ask for anything that it makes me happy to give you the occasional treat.”

Skye had blinked back tears and said, “I don't want you using those funds just because you think it will please me. I know how much you value your independence from your family.”

“A lot of the reason I never spent that money was because I knew that if I did, Darleen would see it as the first step toward me quitting my job and moving back to Texas.”

Darleen was Wally's ex-wife. He had been divorced for five years, but had never talked much about his previous spouse. One of the few things about her that Wally
had
shared with Skye was that Darleen had found it extremely frustrating to be married to a rich man, but living a middle-class life.

Thrilled that her new husband was finally revealing
that part of his past, Skye had let the subject of his lavish gifts to her drop. Now as she put the Bel Air into gear and headed out of the parking lot, she considered his offer of a new car. Perhaps it was time for a fresh start for the two of them.

Both she and Wally had come into the marriage with a lot of emotional baggage. He had his ex and his secret fortune, while Skye had arrived back in Scumble River after being jilted and fired from her position as a school psychologist in New Orleans. Maybe they needed to get rid of all those past issues. To concentrate on the future. And what better way to do that than in a brand-new luxury SUV?

Grinning at the idea of owning a car like that, Skye turned onto Maryland Street, which was part of historic Route 66. Charlie's motel, the Up a Lazy River Motor Court, was just across the bridge.

It was located on the banks of the Scumble River and adjacent to the town park. Most of its guests were fishermen or hunters, with the occasional tourist traveling down the Mother Road thrown in for variety.

Skye drove into the motor court's parking lot and pulled the Bel Air into one of several empty slots. Exiting the vehicle, she crossed the asphalt and pushed open the old-fashioned screen door. Charlie, dressed in his standard uniform of gray twill pants, limp white shirt, and red suspenders, was busy barking orders into the phone.

He waved a hand at her, then said into the receiver, “You are about to exceed the limits of my medication.” He listened briefly, ground his teeth, and warned, “There's a thin border between brave and stupid. Make sure you're in the right county when you make your choice.”

Skye rested her hip against the registration counter while she waited for Charlie to finish his conversation, and ignoring his shouts, she scanned the small office.
Little had changed since her first memory of the place when as a child she'd visited her godfather while her mother ran errands around town.

The walls were still painted a drab brown, the desktop was scarred and in need of refinishing, and the only chair was occupied by the owner. It had been specially designed for Charlie's six-foot-tall, three-hundred-pound physique, and no one sat in it without his express permission, which he rarely gave.

Charlie taunted, “You obviously went to school to become a wit. Too bad you only made it halfway.”

Skye's gaze shot to Charlie's face and she frowned. His complexion was ashen, and his rapid breathing scared her. He was seventy-seven, after all, with high blood pressure and a fondness for beer and heavy meals, and she worried about his health. Especially when he lost his temper, which happened at least once or twice a day. Sometimes more.

While she watched, Charlie's cheeks reddened and his lips drew back in a snarl. Suddenly, he roared into the phone, “You tell that asshole that I've been running things in Scumble River for forty years, and I'll be running them long after no one can remember his name!”

Skye murmured, “Uncle Charlie, you need to calm down or you're going to have a heart attack.”

He covered the receiver and said, “When it's your time, it's your time.”

“Possibly,” Skye conceded. “However, there's no need to oil the locomotive's wheels.” She glared at him. “We certainly don't want you getting into Heaven's train station early.”

Charlie flipped his hand back and forth as if getting rid of a pesky mosquito, then went back to his conversation.

Before Skye could respond, the window air conditioner made a high-pitched squeal. Its laboring attempt to keep the tiny room cool reminded her that when she'd driven
past the Scumble River First National Bank, the thermometer had read eighty-three degrees. Not a good sign for this early in May. If this kept up, summer would be a scorcher.

Skye dug into her pants pocket until she found the hair elastic she'd stashed there that morning. Gathering her now frizzy chestnut curls into a thick ponytail, she narrowed her emerald green eyes against the smoke from Charlie's cigar. Rapping her knuckles on the counter until she got his attention, she pointed to her baby bump and stared until he grudgingly extinguished his White Owl in the overflowing ashtray at his elbow.

Swiveling away from Skye, Charlie pounded on the desk and bellowed, “Tell him to check the goddamn bylaws! He demanded a copy when he took office so why in the hell didn't he do that in the first place?”

Charlie banged down the phone, ran sausage-like fingers through his thick white hair, and muttered, “I gotta stop asking people, ‘How dumb can you be?'” He shook his head. “Some folks seem to take it as a challenge.”

Sighing, he heaved himself out of the battered wooden swivel chair and swooped Skye into a bear hug. Intense blue eyes under bushy white brows scrutinized her face and he demanded, “Are you okay? Everything all right with the baby?”

Skye was breathless from his tight embrace, but returned his hug. “I'm fine and my obstetrician says Juniorette's progress is on track.”

A month ago, after Skye and Wally had announced the blessed event, everyone had driven her crazy asking about her health. While most people had finally relaxed, her mother, May, and Uncle Charlie were not most people. They still demanded daily updates.

Releasing her, he settled back down into the creaking chair and his expression turned cunning. “Juniorette? So is it a girl?”

“I call it Juniorette and Wally calls it Junior.” Skye wagged her finger in front of Charlie's nose. “You know darned well that we asked the doctor not to tell us the baby's sex.”

“Hey.” Charlie held up his hands as if in surrender. “I just thought maybe you changed your mind and May forgot to tell me.”

“As if.” Skye scoffed. Charlie may not be May's real father, but they were as close as if it were his blood flowing through her veins.

“So what's this I hear about your run-in with Palmer Lynch?”

“I don't know. What did you hear?” Skye answered evasively.
Shoot!
She'd been hoping to get to Charlie before the gossip mill did.

“Lynch has been burning up the phone lines accusing you and Caroline of turning the grade school into a wildlife park. He's telling everyone that you had wolves running up and down the hallways.”

“Son of a—” Skye stopped herself when Charlie shot her an outraged look. Clearly, he could swear like a drunken sailor, but she couldn't. “The boys in my fourth grade group haven't been making much progress with their issues, so when I read about Dr. Quillen's animal assistance therapy in the
Scumble River Star
, I wanted to give it a try.”

“You got all your ducks in a row, right?” Charlie puckered his brow. “Caroline and the school lawyer signed off and so did the parents?”

“Yes. And the insurance agent said we were covered, as well.”

“Good. You make sure you document everything.” Charlie tapped the side of his nose with his finger. “And from now on, copy me on your reports.”

“Got it. More paperwork, just what the job of school psych needs.” Groaning, Skye leaned her forearms
against the counter. “Does anyone believe Lynch about the wolves? You know it was just a dog, right?”

“I told the idiots Lynch was exaggerating, but some of them are too stupid to think for themselves.” Charlie rolled his eyes and folded his hands over his enormous stomach. “Which is why I gotta think for them. Otherwise this town would go to hell in a handbasket.”

“And that brings me to why I'm here.” Skye lowered her voice. “Is there any chance that Mr. Lynch will beat you out for board president?”

“Hell, no!” Charlie boomed. “What would make you ask a question like that? He's got a few members stirred up, that's all.”

“Stirred up how?” Skye's gaze followed Charlie's hand as he nonchalantly slid a stack of papers into his desk drawer and locked it.

“The thing is, Lynch is a tricky bastard.” Charlie picked up the cigar from the ashtray and ran it longingly between his fingers. “He's real good at innuendo and poking at folks' weak spots.”

“And he's doing that with you. Making insinuations?” Skye said. When Charlie nodded, she asked, “Did he bring up your gambling problem?”

Seven or eight years ago, Charlie had gotten in a little over his head with the riverboat casinos in the area. Luckily, he'd been able to pay off his debts with an unexpected inheritance and now he was supposed to be going to Gamblers Anonymous, but Skye knew that he still played poker with friends. Had his participation in his weekly game caused him to spin out of control again?

“Skye, honey, if you think there isn't a person in Scumble River who doesn't know every last detail of my past problem with the casinos, then your pregnancy hormones are taking over. There are no secrets here.”

“True.” Skye frowned. Charlie wasn't telling her something. “So what
is
Mr. Lynch doing?”

“Nothing that you need to worry about.” Charlie's expression was stubborn. “Your only job right now is having a healthy baby.”

“Hogwash.” Skye tapped her fingernails on the counter. “Spill.”

Charlie remained silent.

“I'll just ask someone else.” Skye leaned across the counter and prodded Charlie's shoulder. “As you just reminded me, there are no secrets in this town.”

“Sometimes when you open your mouth, your mother comes out.” Charlie glowered.

“You sure know how to hurt a girl,” Skye teased, putting her hand on her chest. “That was an arrow right through my heart.”

“May's a good woman,” Charlie protested. “She tries to take care of everyone.”

“And drives us all nuts doing it,” Skye shot back. Was she getting too much like her mom? Was the baby already changing her?

“Your point?” Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Sounds a lot like you, right?”

“Don't try to distract me.” Skye ignored her godfather's disturbing suggestion and said, “For the love of God, just tell me what Mr. Lynch is doing.”

“I'm so old my birth certificate expired, so I sure as hell can handle Lynch without you getting involved,” Charlie retorted. Then, seeming to realize that Skye wouldn't give up, he said, “Fine. He's got the booster club believing he'll back their request for a bigger budget for sports. And he's convinced the religious nuts that he'll make sure their values are the ones that are taught in the curriculum.”

“So he's playing everyone?”

“Exactly.” Charlie smiled meanly. “And all I have to do is make sure the various groups know it. Once they're aware that he's promising everyone everything, none of
the board members will dare vote for him because they would piss off their constituency.”

“But there's nothing he's doing that you can't neutralize.” Skye noticed a flicker of something in her godfather's eyes. “Right?”