Murder of a Cranky Catnapper (5 page)

Then again, it wasn't entirely nepotism on the part of her godfather. There hadn't been, and still weren't, any other applicants for the psychologist job. And in Skye's seven years working for the Scumble River school district, there hadn't been anyone interested in the social worker contract either. At least no one sane.

“Lynch has been
assuring
a lot of people a lot of things.” Pru folded her stick-like arms. “How do we know he'd follow through on his promises?”

“It's one of those handshake deals,” Wraige stated. “Men understand.”

“Nonsense.”

For once, Skye agreed with Pru. A large part of the reason Skye and the superintendent hadn't hit it off was his good-old-boy attitude. The way he treated women, especially his wife, got on her last nerve. In Skye's view, cheaters were among the worst villains.

“I'll keep an eye on him until the election.” Wraige patted the teacher's shoulder. “Let me worry about Palmer, Prudence. You'll just give yourself one of your migraines if you don't relax.”

Skye was shocked to hear the genuine caring in Wraige's tone. Surely, he wasn't having an affair with the unappealing woman? He was already sleeping with his much more attractive secretary.

Unless Karolyn had finally wised up. Or maybe her husband had caught on and put a stop to her extracurricular activities. Or, Skye wrinkled her brow, what had Charlie said a while back? Hadn't he mentioned that he had to take Karolyn out because of a favor?

“You're right, Shamus.” Pru squeezed the
superintendent's hand. “With all the end-of-the-year activities, I can't afford to be sick.”

Skye decided it was time to leave. If she stuck around much longer, someone was sure to notice and say something. Besides, it seemed that she'd missed whatever problem Pru and Shamus were discussing about Lynch. It was a shame that the important part of the conversation had taken place before Skye had started to eavesdrop.

*   *   *

When Skye arrived home, she found her husband snoozing in the sunroom on his recliner with Bingo on his lap. Although the cat swished his tail, when Skye greeted them, Wally didn't stir, so she went into the kitchen, grabbed the gallon of milk from the fridge and a package of cookies from the cupboard, and called Charlie.

She really wanted coffee or tea, but her obstetrician had instructed her to drink twenty-four ounces of nonfat milk a day and she tried to get it down as soon as possible so she could enjoy her preferred beverages without guilt. At least the Oreos helped. Although, according to her OB-GYN, she really shouldn't be eating the added calories. She cringed at the thought of stepping on the scale at her upcoming appointment.

When Charlie picked up the phone, between sips and bites, Skye quickly brought him up-to-date on what she'd heard about Lynch at church, then asked, “So any idea what kind of problem Dr. Wraige and Pru could have with Palmer?”

“Not a clue.” Charlie's voice rumbled out of the receiver. “But I'll get my spies working on it and I'll probably have the answer by this afternoon. Tomorrow at the absolute latest.” His voice didn't sound as confident as usual and Skye could hear him blowing smoke from his cigar before he said, “You did real good, kid. Anything from the teachers' lounges to report?”

“Nothing.” Skye swallowed the final bite of her cookie. “It's only been six days since you told me to keep my ears open at school, and everyone is too preoccupied with the end-of-the-year stuff to worry much about the school board right now.” She chugged the last of her milk and rinsed the glass in the sink. “Either that, or they don't talk around me because they know I'm your goddaughter.”

“Maybe we should recruit Trixie.” Charlie grunted. “If they're secretive around her, she's small enough to hide in one of the cabinets.”

“Are you calling me fat?” Skye teased. Then before he could answer, she said, “Gotta go. The veterinarian clinic is on the other line and I need to see why they're phoning me on a Sunday. Bye.”

Wrinkling her brow, Skye clicked, holding her breath and hoping she didn't cut off the other call. She was still getting used to the call waiting and caller identification features that Wally had insisted on adding after they were married.

Tentatively, she said, “This is Skye.” And blew out a relieved breath when she heard someone respond.

A clearly distraught Dr. Quillen said, “I wanted to let you know as soon as possible that I won't be able to conduct the pet therapy session tomorrow.”

“That's fine,” Skye assured him then asked, “Are you or the animals ill?”

Instead of answering her, the veterinarian said, “Hold on a minute.”

As she waited for him to get back on the line, Skye fingered her dress. She and Wally had plans to go to brunch at Café des Architectes, but with his bad back, she wasn't sure if he'd be up to the long drive to Chicago. Should she cancel the reservations, change clothes, and start thinking about what she could cook?

Finally after several long minutes, Dr. Quillen returned
to the line and said, “Sorry, the police just got here and I have to go. Someone broke into my clinic and stole Princess Honey Bluebell.”

“Your therapy cat?” Skye confirmed. The vet had introduced the feline to the boys in the group as Belle, but she recalled the cat's full name from the article she'd read in the local paper.

“Yes,” Dr. Quillen said hurriedly. “That's why I have to cancel. Her partner is distraught, and at present, I don't have any other trained animals.”

Before she could respond, the vet said good-bye and hung up. As Skye walked out of the kitchen, she wondered,
Who in the world would steal a cat?

Those who'll play with cats must expect to be scratched.

—MIGUEL DE CERVANTES

M
onday morning, Skye was running a little later than she'd planned when she drove into the high school's parking lot. She'd somehow managed to turn off her alarm—several times. Which, considering the fact that she had trouble locating her keys in her pocket, her wallet in her purse, and had never been good at pin the tail on the donkey, how in the heck had she succeeded in pushing the snooze button with her eyes closed from several feet away on her first try?

But maybe her luck was changing. There was a prime parking spot open by the front door. Quickly easing the Bel Air into the space, she cut the car's engine, then settled her purse strap on her shoulder and slipped the handles of her tote bag over her arm. Exiting, she hurried toward the building's entrance.

She hadn't had time for anything but an energy bar for breakfast so she savored the memory of yesterday's fabulous brunch. When Wally had woken up from his nap, his back had felt better and he'd insisted they keep their reservation at Café des Architectes.

Evidently, Wally had gotten over his latest bout of older-father-insecurity, and they had enjoyed the
restaurant's famous Harney and Son's tea selection, lingonberry waffle with honey-whipped ricotta, and shaved foie gras torchon. The foie gras had a texture like the creamiest butter Skye had ever tasted and melted on her tongue. The distinct cured sweetness, sliced on a toast triangle with mint chiffonade, had been one of the most amazing bites she'd ever eaten

Skye frowned. How many calories had that mealcontained? Her obstetrician weighed her at every appointment and wasn't happy when the numbers on the digital scale increased by more than a pound or two.

When her cell started to play Hilary Duff's 2003 hit “Come Clean,” she abandoned all worries about her doctor's impending wrath. Why was Dorothy Snyder calling her?

The last time Skye's former student, and now techie genius friend, Justin Boward, had visited her, he'd programmed her new smart phone with different ring tones for different callers. And this particular song was her part-time housekeeper's.

Curious, and a bit concerned, Skye stopped in midstride. She dug out the phone from her purse, swept the screen with her thumb, and said, “Hi, Dorothy. What's up?”

“Where are you?” Dorothy's voice cracked. “Can anyone hear you?”

“I'm on the sidewalk heading into the high school.” Skye glanced around. “And I'm alone. Why?”

“I need you to come to Palmer Lynch's house right now,” Dorothy wheezed.

“What's wrong?” Skye's pulse raced.

Was Dorothy having a heart attack? But why would she call Skye and not 911? Maybe Lynch had attacked her and she was hiding. But in that situation, the police would still have been a better choice.

“I . . . I can't.” Dorothy started to sob. “Just come right away.”

“But I'll be late for school.” As soon as the words left her mouth, Skye could have kicked herself for being so stupid. It was obvious whatever was happening with Dorothy took precedence over having to explain her lack of punctuality to the principal. “Never mind. But tell me what's wrong so I can be more helpful.”

“No!” Dorothy inhaled noisily. “Just get here as fast as you can.”

“Wait!” Skye yelled into the phone, afraid that Dorothy was about to hang up. “Where does Palmer Lynch live? I don't know his address.”

Dorothy named a road a block over from the school, and ironically also just a few blocks from the police station, then said, “It would be better if you walked so no one sees your car.”

Before Skye could ask her housekeeper any more questions, Dorothy disconnected. Skye dashed to her Bel Air, unlocked the door, and threw her tote bag on the seat. As she half jogged out of the parking lot toward Center Street, she put her purse strap across her chest and then repeatedly hit redial on her cell.

The call kept going to voice mail, and by the time Skye approached the house number that Dorothy had given her, she was panting. Part of her respiratory distress was from running, but more was from anxiety. Would she arrive to find the housekeeper dead or dying?

Dorothy was one of May's oldest friends. She and Skye's mother had been classmates, and her deceased husband had been in the Navy with Skye's father, Jed. The two couples had been close, and as a child, Skye had spent a lot of time with the Snyder family.

As Skye turned into Lynch's driveway, she thought she saw something zip across the window of the pedestrian door of the huge detached garage looming in front
of her. Before she could decide if she was imagining things, Dorothy moved out of the shadows at the side of the large house and motioned her over. Puzzled by the woman's behavior, but relieved that she appeared to be otherwise healthy, Skye stepped off the pavement and onto the grass.

When Dorothy grabbed Skye's hand and started walking toward the backyard, Skye asked, “Where are we going?”

“You'll see.”

Dorothy was a tall, solidly built woman in her early sixties. She was usually quick to smile and crack a joke, but today her mood was somber.

Silently, she led Skye through a sliding glass door. Once they were in the kitchen, she opened her mouth to speak, then shaking her head, she started crying. Her shoulders shuddered from her sobs as she dug a tissue from the pocket of her jeans.

Unsure what to say or do, Skye patted Dorothy's arm and murmured soothing nonsense words. As far as Skye could see, everything looked normal. The granite countertops were spotless and the expensive stainless steel appliances shined as if they'd been polished for a photo shoot in
House Beautiful
. But clearly, since she'd just been snuck in the back by a woman who was now bawling her eyes out, something was wrong.

Finally, Dorothy sniffed, blew her nose, and said, “I think I'm in trouble.”

“Why is that?” Skye asked, not sure she really wanted to know.

In her heart, she was well aware she should have called Wally the minute she got off the phone with Dorothy. But even though Dorothy had originally been Wally's cleaning lady and became Skye's only after they were married, for decades before that, she'd
been a close family friend so it was hard to turn down a plea for help from her.

“Well, you know, I usually do clean for you and Wally on Mondays,” Dorothy started.

“Right.” Skye wrinkled her brow. Surely Dorothy didn't think Skye would be upset because she was cleaning Lynch's house instead of hers?

“But Palmer called me Sunday afternoon and asked if I could do a quick tidying up here this morning.” She looked at Skye as if to gauge her reaction. “I was still going to get the work done at your place.”

“Of course.” Skye nodded. “Even if you had to postpone us, it wouldn't be a problem.” She smiled reassuringly. “I'm not a neat freak like Mom.”

“You can't tell May about this!” Dorothy's pupils dilated at the thought.

Ignoring the older woman's panicky expression, Skye infused her voice with a soothing calm and said, “So you came here this morning to clean for Mr. Lynch.” She was afraid that keeping whatever “this” was a secret from her mom might be the least of Dorothy's worries, but crossing her fingers, she asked, “Did you break something?”

“I wish that was it.” Dorothy cleared her throat. “I had told Palmer that I needed to start here at seven and he said that was fine.”

“So you arrived at seven, and . . .” Skye trailed off encouragingly.

“And he didn't answer the doorbell.” Dorothy twisted the tissue in her hand until pieces littered the floor at her feet. “I knocked and rang and even telephoned, but nothing.”

“But you didn't want to leave because you'd promised,” Skye guessed.

“Exactly.” Dorothy rushed to explain. “I didn't have time to come back, and Palmer could get real nasty if he didn't get his way.”

“If he's a regular, don't you have a key to let yourself in?” Skye asked.

“No.” Dorothy shook her head. “Palmer always insists on being here when I clean.”

“So . . .” Skye said slowly, realizing where this was going. “You broke in?”

“Technically, I didn't break in, but I entered.” Dorothy stared at the floor, a dull crimson staining her cheeks. “When I peeked inside and saw that the security bar that Palmer usually keeps in the tracks of the sliding glass door was leaning against the cupboard, I wiggled the handle and it slid right open.”

“Okay.” Skye grimaced. “And now you're afraid Mr. Lynch will be upset?” She doubted that was what had Dorothy so distraught, but it seemed like the least bad scenario.

“Not anymore.” Dorothy winced. “His days of getting mad at folks are over.”

“Because?” Skye was pretty darn sure she knew the answer, but clung to a small shred of hope that she was wrong.

“He's dead.” Dorothy's gaze searched Skye's face, then added, “As a doornail.”

“Are you positive?” She fought to keep her expression neutral.

“No. I just called you here to chew the fat.” Dorothy wasn't one to pull her punches. “There's a bullet hole in the middle of his chest, so unless he's a zombie or something, he's dead.”

“Are you sure whoever killed Mr. Lynch isn't still in the house?” Skye asked, looking over her shoulder as if she expected someone to spring out of a cupboard and start snacking on her brains.

“I grabbed a butcher knife and checked the house before I called you.” Dorothy shrugged at Skye's gasp. “I know that wasn't smart, but I wasn't thinking too straight.”

Skye nodded her understanding, then asked, “Where's Mr. Lynch?”

“In the master bedroom.” Dorothy jerked her thumb upward toward the second floor. “I found him when I went to get the sheets to wash.”

“Why didn't you call 911?” Skye pressed, then asked, “Because you were here illegally?”

“That, and because Palmer is . . . uh . . . not himself.” Dorothy blushed.

Skye barely kept from rolling her eyes. “In what way is he different?” If the man was dead, he certainly wasn't his normal self.

“He's naked.” Dorothy crossed her arms. “But that ain't the half of it.”

“Naked and dead isn't enough.” Skye snorted. “This just keeps getting better and better.” She narrowed her eyes. “What else?”

“I . . .” Dorothy's face turned a deeper shade of red and she grabbed Skye's wrist, towing her down the hall, up the stairs, and into the shadowy bedroom.

Before Skye's eyes could adjust to the darkness, Dorothy flipped on the overhead light fixture—an elaborate chandelier. Squinting, Skye turned toward the massive four-poster bed and gulped. Palmer Lynch was indeed naked. He definitely had a bullet hole in the center of his chest, but strangely even more disturbing, he was blindfolded and tied spread eagle across the mattress.

Skye was beginning to feel like maybe she had never woken up, and this was one of those stress dreams—the kind that no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't make sense out of what was happening. After all, nudity was often an element in those nightmares. Although most of the time she was the one without clothes, not someone else.

Blinking, Skye tried to erase the image from her
retinas, but it was there to stay. In an effort to remain calm, she scanned the rest of the room. The furniture was dark cherry and reminded her of a picture she'd seen of a Victorian brothel. The burgundy walls and heavy red velvet drapes only reinforced this impression.

Skye glanced at Dorothy, who was resolutely staring at a gilt-framed painting on the far wall. Taking a deep breath, Skye looked back at Lynch. Except for being dead, he was in good shape. He had a muscular chest, broad shoulders, and a trim waist.

Taking a closer look at the man on the bed, Skye saw that his skin had a waxy appearance and was almost blue-gray in color. She fought the urge to take Lynch's pulse or listen for breathing. It was clear he was dead, and that he had been for some time.

“I'm calling Wally.”

Skye fished her cell from her purse, but before she could dial, Dorothy plucked the phone from her fingers and said, “Wait.”

“For what?” Skye asked. Did Dorothy think that Lynch might reanimate?

“Couldn't we untie him and put some pajamas on him?” Dorothy took a step toward the bed, but this time it was Skye's turn to grab her.

“You can't disturb a crime scene.” Skye's nails dug into the older woman's biceps as she struggled. “Heaven knows what has already been lost.”

“You're right.” Dorothy hung her head. “It's just that Palmer's mother is a friend of mine from church. She's a sweet lady, a widow, and she'll be mortified if word gets out that her son was into this kinky stuff.”

“I'm sorry for Mrs. Lynch.” Skye's voice softened. “Truly, I understand. I'll ask Wally if I can be there when he informs her about Mr. Lynch's death and I'll try to soften the blow as best I can. But you and I both know there's no way around this getting out. In Scumble River
a secret is just something that is told to one person at a time.”

Something flickered behind Dorothy's eyes. She wrenched herself free, ran toward a wastebasket near the dresser, and vomited.

“Are you okay?” Skye found a packet of tissues in her purse, walked over, and offered it to the distraught woman.

Dorothy nodded and wiped her mouth. “I just realized what a freaking mess this is.” She dabbed her lips again. “Why didn't I just leave when no one answered the door? Everyone will be talking about this, and my name is going to be linked with this sick shit.”

“No one would think that you were a part of Mr. Lynch's unusual sex life,” Skye said.

However, even as the words left her mouth, she knew no matter what the facts, some people would always believe that Dorothy was involved. The housekeeper's complexion took on a greenish cast and Skye was afraid she would be sick again.