Murder of a Cranky Catnapper (9 page)

Skye dug out her cell and made the call to the vet. Ten minutes later, Dr. Quillen's Ford E-450 pulled up behind Mrs. Lynch's Lincoln. The white cutaway van had
STANLEY COUNTY MOBILE VETERINAR
Y CLINIC
painted in blue on the side along with yellow and brown paw prints climbing up and over the roof.

The vet burst from the vehicle and raced toward Skye. He skidded to a stop in front of her and demanded, “Where's Belle?”

“The tech is processing her.” Reading the worry in the vet's face, Skye added, “She seems to be fine, but this is a crime scene.”

“Wow.” Dr. Quillen seemed to look around for the first time and said, “I'm impressed. I had the impression that the officer that took my report about Belle's catnapping wasn't going to do much to find her.”

“I'm not aware of what was put into place regarding that search,” Skye hedged, thinking that the vet's assessment was probably correct. Missing animals didn't get much attention. “Belle was discovered during another investigation.”

Wally joined them before the vet could respond and introduced himself, then said, “The tech is almost through. We'll bring her to you as soon as he's finished scraping under her claws.”

“Great.”

Wally steered Dr. Quillen toward his van, with Skye trailing behind. “Belle has been a perfect lady since she came to Skye, but she attacked the first crime scene tech when he entered the garage. Do you have any idea why she'd act that way?”

“She's the most docile cat that I've ever worked with.” Dr. Quillen looked at Skye. “You've seen her with the boys in your group.”

“Exactly.” Skye patted the vet's arm. “That's why her behavior seems so odd. All the guy did was walk into the garage. He didn't threaten her in any way. He said she leaped on his head from above.”

“The only explanation that I can think of is that she was drugged,” Dr. Quillen said. “I received a call Sunday night from a guy who claimed to have Belle and wanted me to supply him with ketamine to get her back.”

“Did you recognize the number or the voice?” Wally demanded.

“The ID was blocked and the voice was mechanically altered.”

“Did you agree?” Skye asked gently. “Did you set up the exchange?”

“I told him I needed time to get the pharmaceutical as I don't keep much in the clinic.” Dr. Quillen winced. “I didn't want to give him the drugs.”

“Of course not,” Skye said sympathetically.

The vet wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “The catnapper told me I had until Tuesday. If I didn't give him the ketamine by then, he'd send me one of Belle's paws. And every day after that, I'd get another piece of her.”

No matter how much cats fight, there always seem to be plenty of kittens.

—ABRAHAM LINCOLN

S
kye watched Dr. Quillen drive away with Princess Honey Bluebell. Wally had questioned him about the catnapping and the ransom call, but he had had nothing meaningful to add. After advising him that the police would want to talk to him further, Wally allowed the vet to leave.

Since the animal clinic had been closed Sunday and Monday, Wally had expressed hope there still might be some usable evidence present and had ordered the crime scene techs to process the break-in as soon as they finished with the murder scene. Dr. Quillen had been cautioned not to touch anything until after they were finished. The vet had promised full cooperation and stated that he'd make himself available anytime that Wally needed him.

As Dr. Quillen's van disappeared from sight, Skye turned to Wally and asked, “So was Palmer the catnapper? Or do you think maybe the catnapper killed him and for some unknown reason put Belle in his garage to frame him for the crime?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Wally shrugged, then pointed to Mrs. Lynch. “You better drive her home.
She looks as if she's fading fast. Maybe on the ride you can ask her if she knows anything about her son taking ketamine.”

“Yeah.” Skye rolled her eyes. “Right after I tell her about the kinky sex stuff.”

Wally's expression was sheepish as he said, “Reid and the crime techs are just about done here, and I'll leave Quirk to watch over the scene.” He kissed Skye on the cheek. “I'll pick you up at Mrs. Lynch's in twenty minutes or so. We can grab some lunch somewhere nice while you fill me in on her reactions.”

“Sounds good.” Skye started toward the Lincoln. “I'm starving.”

Wally grabbed her arm. “Do you need to eat something right now?”

“No.” Skye waved her hand. “Juniorette and I can wait a little longer.”

Before Wally could answer, the tech that Belle had attacked came up to him and announced, “We're finished here and the coroner is ready to remove the body. Want to take one last look to make sure we processed all the areas you're interested in before we go?”

“Sure.” Wally squeezed Skye's fingers and said, “See you in a few.”

*   *   *

It had taken a bit of persuasion, and all of Skye's counseling skills, but Mrs. Lynch had ultimately agreed that it was best if Skye drove her home. The older woman told Skye that her house was by the north bend in the river and had been built by her grandfather over a hundred and fifty years ago—before Scumble River had even officially existed.

While Skye slowly navigated the narrow street, she examined Palmer's mother and decided this was as good a time as any to tell her how her son had died. She wanted to have the conversation in the car so that
she could control the environment, and depending on traffic, which was generally nonexistent, the ride would take less than ten minutes.

“Mrs. Lynch,” Skye said hesitantly, “we told you that Palmer was murdered. But we didn't explain the circumstances of his death.”

“What do you mean?” Mrs. Lynch asked, a puzzled expression on her pale face. “I assumed he'd been killed during a home invasion.”

“That's certainly still a possibility.” Skye braked at the stop sign on the corner of Kinsman and Maryland Streets. “But there may be more to it than that.”

“What do you mean?” Mrs. Lynch's voice was heavy with dread.

“I'm so sorry to have to tell you this”—Skye looked both ways, then eased the Lincoln across the intersection—“but your son was found nude. He was bound to his bed and wearing a blindfold.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Lynch stared out the windshield for several seconds, then said, “Will those details be released to the public?”

“My husband is going to try to keep them quiet.” Skye wondered why Mrs. Lynch didn't seem more shocked. “Presently only Wally, the county crime scene techs, the coroner, Dorothy, and I saw him like that.”

“But there's a good chance it will get out.” Mrs. Lynch's mouth thinned. “I should have confronted Palmer when I found those magazines.”

“What kind of magazines?” Skye asked, although she had a darn good idea.

“Smut.” Mrs. Lynch scowled. “Naked people being tied up and . . .”

“I get the picture,” Skye said quietly. “When did you discover them?”

“A year or so ago.” Mrs. Lynch sighed. “He didn't hire Dorothy until he'd been divorced awhile and I
used to do his laundry and grocery shopping for him.” She quirked a brow. “He's my only child, so I suppose I spoiled him a little bit.”

Skye smiled her understanding, thinking of how much her own mother tried to do for her and her brother. Thinking of May's obsessive need to be acquainted with every detail of her children's lives, Skye figured Mrs. Lynch knew more about her son's habits than the man thought.

“Palmer had someone do the heavy cleaning, but while the clothes were washing, I'd tidy up.” She slid a glance at Skye then continued, “When I was dusting his bedroom, I noticed that the mattress was sitting funny on the box spring, so I shoved it over.”

“And the magazines were there,” Skye guessed. “It's perfectly understandable that you didn't speak to your son about them. He was a grown man and what he did in the privacy of his own home was no one's business but his and his partner's.” She paused then added, “That is, as long as the relationship was consensual.”

“Maybe that was what he and Virginia fought about,” Mrs. Lynch murmured.

“It's certainly something to consider,” Skye agreed, knowing Wally was undoubtedly intending to investigate that possibility.

“Virginia was the first woman since my son and Felicia split up whom he dated seriously,” Mrs. Lynch offered. “And he's been single for over a year.”

“Why did he and his wife separate?” Skye asked. She hadn't realized that Palmer was divorced, but at his age it made sense. It was rare to find an unattached man in his late forties who didn't have an ex or hadn't been widowed.

“Irreconcilable differences was the official reason.” Mrs. Lynch shrugged. “But I suspect it was because Felicia had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. My son saw her illness as a weakness.”

“I see.” Skye kept the disgust she felt for Palmer's actions from her voice, then forced herself to ask, “I hate to bring this up and I can't tell you why I'm asking, but are you aware of any reason Palmer might want to secure a large amount of ketamine?”

“Palmer did not use drugs if that's what you want to know.” Mrs. Lynch folded her arms and glared at Skye. “My son might have had unusual sexual preferences, but he was too much of a control freak to take any form of recreational pharmaceuticals.”

After making that statement, Mrs. Lynch was silent except to tell Skye when to turn. Following the older woman's directions, Skye realized that Palmer's mother lived just to the west of Red Raggers' territory.

Two groups of people dwelled in an uneasy alliance along the river. There were the upstanding citizens, like Mrs. Lynch, who either had inherited the land or bought it for their retirement homes, and the others who the locals disparagingly called the Red Raggers.

The Red Raggers was a group that consisted mostly of loosely related individuals who lived near one another on a two-mile stretch of land beside the Scumble River. Skye likened the group to a pack of wild hyenas. They were extremely loyal to their own kinfolk, but lacked the ability or desire to care about anyone else. They weren't known for being the brightest gems in Scumble River's crown, but they did have a talent for stumbling on, and taking advantage of, those who were even lesser jewels.

As the car approached the river, Skye's heart raced—and not from concern that she was entering the Red Ragger zone. It was the darn bridge. She knew it was silly, she'd crossed the one-lane structure that would take them to Cattail Path many times, but lately she'd been avoiding it.

The first time that she'd driven several miles out of
her way rather than drive across the shaky surface, she'd told herself that her fear was due to the fact that a lunatic had tried to kill her there.

But she knew she was lying to herself. Although she'd been forced to crash her car over the side in order to save herself, that had happened several years ago, and she'd never been afraid to drive over it before. So what had caused her sudden paranoia?

Maybe it was the narrow planks of wood that vehicles were supposed to position their tires on in order to cross safely that scared her. Wally had been telling the mayor that the city needed to widen that bridge or at least pave it, but his recommendation had fallen on deaf ears.

Still, the structure was in no worse shape than a few months ago when she'd crossed it several times a week. What was different now?

The only reason she could come up with was that she was pregnant. As a psychologist, she knew that it wasn't uncommon for people on the threshold of an enormous life-changing event to develop phobias. Even good changes—and lately she'd had a lot of those—could cause anxiety.

After being jilted a few months before her thirtieth birthday, Skye had prepared herself for the reality that she might never find her soul mate. Never have a baby. Never have a family. Then suddenly the man she had always loved was free to love her back.

In what seemed like the blink of an eye, she was married and pregnant. There were times she still couldn't believe it was true and she half expected to wake up alone, broke, and unemployed. The same way she arrived in Scumble River seven years ago.

It occurred to Skye that she was terrified that it all would be taken away. That Wally and the baby might vanish into thin air if she made one poor decision. Like choosing to cross a wobbly old bridge.

Glancing at Mrs. Lynch, a woman who had just lost her only child, Skye felt panic clawing at her throat. What if something happened to her baby? Or to Wally? He was a police officer. That was a dangerous profession. He could be shot. Or held hostage. Or—

Taking a deep breath, Skye forced herself to calm down. She clenched her jaw and slowly started the Lincoln over the rickety structure. A frisson of fear burned down her spine when she heard the hollow thumping sounds that the car's tires made on the wooden boards.

Clutching the steering wheel, she silently chanted, “The bridge is safe. I'm safe. The baby's safe. We will all live happily ever after.”

A few seconds later, pulse still racing and perspiration dripping down the back of her neck, she turned the Lincoln onto Cattail Path. A mile after that, she pulled the car into Mrs. Lynch's driveway, turned off the engine, and placed the keys in the woman's outstretched hand. They both exited the vehicle and walked up the steps to the porch of a large, well-maintained Victorian.

Mrs. Lynch unlocked the door, then reluctantly said, “Would you like to come inside?”

“Is there someone you can call?” Skye asked. “A relative who could stay with you?”

“My sister lives in Laurel.” Mrs. Lynch sighed. “She'll come over. But first, I need a few minutes by myself. Then I'll telephone her.”

Understanding the woman's desire to be alone with her grief, Skye said, “You go ahead. I'll sit on the swing here and enjoy your beautiful yard while I wait for my husband to pick me up.”

It was a little before two when Wally's squad car pulled into Mrs. Lynch's driveway and Skye hurried down the steps to meet him. Skye had developed an awful hunger headache and she really hoped he didn't have to be somewhere before he fed her. To make it
worse, the baby must be pressing on her bladder because she had to pee.

As soon as the cruiser rolled to a stop, Skye hopped in and said, “I need a bathroom sooner than later.”

“Wouldn't Mrs. Lynch let you use hers?” Wally shot an angry glance at the old Victorian's closed front door.

“She wanted some time alone to process her son's death,” Skye explained, warmed by his concern. “I certainly wasn't going to bother her with my little problem.”

“You need to stop being so damn nice.”

Skye ignored his comment and asked, “Where are we going for lunch?”

“I was thinking we'd try that new restaurant in Clay Center,” Wally said. “But it'll take fifteen minutes to get there.”

Skye's mouth watered. Everyone had been talking about Pesto's food. Crossing her legs, she said, “I think I can make it.”

“I can always use the sirens,” Wally teased with a lopsided grin.

“It might come to that, but I'm okay for now.” Skye gripped her purse as he reversed onto the road and peeled rubber. “Not that I'm not thrilled with your company, but I'm surprised you're willing to leave town with a fresh murder case.”

“Quirk's holding down the fort at the scene and coordinating Martinez's and Anthony's house-to-house canvass for possible witnesses.” Wally sped up to pass a slow-moving tractor. “The crime techs are working at Dr. Quillen's clinic and Reid's on his way to Laurel to drop off the vic at the ME's.”

“How long do you think it will take the medical examiner to give an official cause and time of death?” Skye squirmed in her seat.

“Depends if there's any bodies ahead of us.” Wally shrugged.

Remembering his question to Mrs. Lynch, Skye said, “I take it that eleven p.m. to one a.m. is Simon's estimate for the TOD.”

“Yep.” Wally lifted a brow. “I'm hoping the ME can narrow it down some.”

“So you don't need to be at the PD?” Skye asked, still surprised he was willing to take the time to have lunch with her.

“Nope.” Wally turned the car onto the road leading to Clay Center. “Next of kin is notified and I want to get my ducks in a row before doing interviews.”

“Makes sense.” Skye recrossed her legs. She really had to go.