Murder of the Cat's Meow: A Scumble River Mystery (28 page)

The Silk Shirt gang backed up when they saw the Dooziers’ weaponry, but the leader grunted something to the others, and they resumed their positions.

“No one has to get hurt,” Mr. Silk Shirt said. “All you have to do is turn over this locker to me and we can walk away.”

Earl chortled. “Oh, yes, somebody does got to get hurt.” He bared the few teeth he possessed. “Ain’t no one threatens a Doozier and lives to tell the tale.” Looking behind him, he yelled, “You boys ready?”

“Inna second, Pa.” Junior’s gleeful voice rang out from the unit’s interior.

Skye tensed. What were Junior and Cletus up to? She glanced at her phone; still no bars. Everybody loved their cells so much, but what good were they if they never worked when you needed them?

The Silk Shirt gang exchanged uneasy glances, but the leader said, “Don’t be wusses. We can take one scrawny redneck, a woman, and an old broad.” He flicked a scornful look at Skye. “And that fat chick won’t be any trouble. Will you, babe?”

Until then Skye had been hoping to stay out of the fray, but she really hated being called a fat chick, and
babe
was almost as bad. Her fight-or-flight instinct had been triggered, and since she couldn’t flee, there was only one option left. She slung her purse strap across her chest, checked that her pepper spray was aimed outward, and moved next to the Dooziers.

The thugs hesitated, clearly unsure of their next move. And as if picking up on their apprehension—sort of like a pair of guard dogs in a junkyard—Cletus and Junior burst out of the locker. They wore matching maniacal grins and held bright blue, oversize Supersoaker water machine guns.

Skye raised her eyebrows. So that’s what the boys had had in their backpacks. Evidently Earl had kept his promise about not allowing the boys to go around with actual weapons, and had compromised by buying them squirt guns. Honking huge squirt guns that could probably shoot twenty-five feet with the power of a water cannon.

The teenagers were pumping the levers as they advanced, and before the Silk Shirt gang could react, Junior darted forward and slid back the handle of his Super Soaker. A stream of oil arced into the air and drenched the three stunned tough guys. Immediately, Cletus followed with his own spray, which appeared to be a mixture of flour and rainbow sprinkles.

The teenagers continued showering their foes with alternating cascades until their adversaries were coughing and sputtering. The two henchmen stumbled away, but Mr. Silk Shirt charged toward the boys, swinging his
bat like an enraged baseball player coming after an umpire who had made an unfavorable call.

Without considering the consequences, Skye threw herself between the man and the teenagers, aimed her can of pepper spray, and pressed the button. Simultaneously, Cletus and Junior pumped their Super Soakers and fired.

While Mr. Silk Shirt turned and ran, clawing at his eyes, Skye was hit with the full force of the oil and flour sprays. Who knew that rainbow sprinkles propelled at a high speed could hurt so much?

“N
o way. No how.” Dante shook his head. “She is not getting in my car.” He took a step backward, as if to avoid contamination. “She looks like a giant donut and smells like a rancid bagel.”

“If you want me to escort this creep to the Laurel PD,” Wally said, his tone brooking no argument, “you will give your niece a ride home.”

Wally had explained to Skye that he’d spotted Mr. Silk Shirt as the guy fled past the storage facility office. Since the man looked suspicious—most of the bidders who were leaving the auction were not covered in goop—Wally had stopped him. Then when the man refused to answer any questions, he’d decided to detain him.

The slime path led Wally to Skye and the Dooziers, and after hearing that Mr. Silk Shirt had tried to force Earl into giving him his locker’s contents by threatening him with a baseball bat, Wally had handcuffed the thug and called the local police.

Now, Wally stood with a firm grip on the guy’s upper arm as he waited for a Laurel officer to arrive. He stared at the mayor, an unyielding expression on his face.

“Don’t you forget that I’m your boss,” the mayor blustered.
“I can make sure that the city council votes not to renew your contract.”

“Uncle Dante.” The flour and oil mixture was starting to harden on Skye, and she was rapidly losing her patience. “I don’t think you’ve considered the whole situation. Do you really want me to call your sister and tell her you’re refusing to take her daughter home?”

“She’ll understand.” Dante stood firm. “May doesn’t like a mess any more than I do.”

“Maybe. But I’m positive she won’t appreciate your threatening to fire my fiancé.” Skye brought out the heavy artillery. “Especially since it means I would have to leave Scumble River when he took a new job elsewhere.”

A nerve near Dante’s right eye twitched, but he whined, “It’s a brand-new Cadillac with leather seats. You’ll ruin them.”

“Think what Mom will do to your car when her grandchild is born in another state. A little damage to the seats will seem like nothing in comparison to the wrath of May.” Skye stared down her uncle, then hastily added, “And no, I’m not currently pregnant.”

“Fine.” Dante pouted. “But I’m washing you off and wrapping you in garbage bags.” As he left to find the hose, he said over his shoulder, “And you have to promise not to touch anything. Especially me.”

“Fine.” Skye turned to Wally, who was having some difficulty keeping a grip on his flour-and-oil-covered prisoner, and waved him away. “Go ahead. I’ll be fine, and if Uncle Dante tries to strand me here, I’ll get Mom on the phone to straighten him out.”

“It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours to process this scumbag.” Wally started toward the Laurel squad car that had just pulled into the lot. “The Dooziers are meeting me at the PD tonight to press charges, but I’ll tell the chief that you’ll come over Monday afternoon to give your statement.” He wrinkled his brow.
“How in the heck did you ever get Earl and his kin to cooperate?”

“I told them that either they pressed charges against this guy”—Skye pointed to Wally’s prisoner—“or I pressed charges against them for assaulting me with a deadly water pistol.”

“That explains it.”

As she walked over to her uncle, who was motioning with one hand and flapping a hose in her direction with the other, Skye asked over her shoulder, “Are you coming by my house after you finish at the Laurel PD?”

“Absolutely.”

An unfamiliar vehicle was parked in front of Skye’s house when Dante steered his Cadillac between the wrought-iron gates. She squinted at the late-model sedan, trying to figure out who her visitor might be, but couldn’t think of anyone she knew who drove a dark blue Chrysler Sebring. Uninvited guests were rarely a nice surprise, and she braced herself for an unpleasant encounter.

While most of the males in her family would have asked if Skye knew her visitor, Dante seemed indifferent to his niece’s safety. He had barely pulled his Cadillac into the driveway when he squealed to a stop and shoved her, and the plastic bags he had enveloped her wet body in, out the door. As soon as Skye’s feet hit the gravel, he threw the car into reverse, zoomed backward onto the road, and sped toward town.

Skye yelled a sarcastic thank-you at the retreating vehicle. It took her a few seconds to fight loose of the plastic, but once free, she gathered the trash bags into a ball, hitched up her purse, and headed toward the front porch, her feet squishing with every step.

Most of her had dried off during the forty-five-minute trip from Laurel to Scumble River, but her shoes were still soaked from the hosing to which her uncle had subjected her.
Although she had never quite understood how waterboarding torture worked, she was getting a glimmer of an idea now.

As soon as Skye neared the house, she saw Spike sitting on her porch swing. Relief washed over her—at least it was a friend and not another crisis coming to visit—and she called out, “Hey, Spike. I wasn’t expecting you. I hope you weren’t waiting long.”

“No.” Spike got up, and after Skye climbed the stairs, she continued, “And since you didn’t know I was coming, it would be my own fault if…” Spike stuttered to a stop when she got a good look at Skye. “What in the world happened to you?”

“It’s a long story and I really need to take a shower before I become a papier-mâché statue.” Dante’s hosing had helped, but getting rid of flour mixed with oil really required soap, and lots of it.

“I can see that,” Spike said.

Skye inserted her key and turned the lock. “Can you give me fifteen minutes to clean up or is there something you need in a hurry?”

“I’m just here to see you. I’ve tried a couple of times, but never caught you home. I guess I should learn to call first.” Spike followed Skye inside. “I’ll make us a hot drink while you unmold. Just point me to the kitchen.”

After Skye had bathed, dressed in a pink and black velour tracksuit, and clipped her hair on top of her head, she joined Spike, who had entranced Bingo with a bag of treats she must have produced from her purse. The cat was lying across her lap purring like a diesel engine and literally eating out of her hand.

As they sipped tea and munched on Oreos that Skye had retrieved from her cupboard—she still hadn’t replaced her cookie jar—Spike said, “I really miss my sweet kitty.”

“Chopsticks, right?” Skye remembered Spike mentioning him in her e-mail.

“Right.” Spike stroked Bingo’s sleek black fur. “I found her in back of a Chinese restaurant with her head stuck in a carryout container.”

“Is your grandfather bringing her when he moves to Illinois?” Skye asked.

“Yes.” Spike nodded. “I haven’t had a chance to look for an apartment or a car, so I have no idea when that will be. The station is providing me with a rental and putting me up at an extended-stay hotel until I find my own place. And since it’s a studio, there’s no room for Grandfather, and it doesn’t allow pets.”

“Are you still tracking down small-town government corruption?” Skye unscrewed the two chocolate wafers of an Oreo and scrutinized the cream center. After an experience with doctored cookies that had made her ill, she always checked to make sure that nothing had been added to the filling before she ate an Oreo. Some people might have avoided Oreos altogether after an experience like that, but Skye was made of sterner stuff.

“Yes.” Spike watched Skye without comment. “But I’m getting discouraged. As I’m sure you know, it’s hard to get people around here to trust a stranger, especially one who doesn’t exactly look like their neighbors. I think I’d have an easier time if I was blond with a Swedish last name like Anderson or an Italian one like Votta.”

“Maybe. But I do think that the local residents are getting more tolerant. At least I hope so,” Skye added, thinking about Loretta, Vince, and their future biracial offspring. “Is your suspect’s identity still top secret?”

“I guess not.” Spike wrinkled her nose. “Just don’t call up a rival reporter.”

“Cross my heart.” Skye took a sip of her tea, then put her cup down.

Spike reached into her purse and pulled out a folder. She flipped it open and pointed to a group photo of two women and eight men. “It’s the Viderville Village Board,
which consists of six trustees plus the city attorney, the comptroller, the clerk, and the mayor.”

Skye scrutinized the faces. “They look pretty typical of a small-town board.”

“Don’t they?” Spike scratched under Bingo’s chin, sending the cat into a fit of ecstasy. “However, the tipster claims that any contractors who want to do business within the corporate limits of the village have to obtain a special license. Which means plumbers, builders, electricians, lawn crews, et cetera have to pay to play, as they say in Chicago politics.”

“Isn’t it usual for towns to charge some sort of fee to verify that workers are legitimate and not ripping off the citizens?”

“The tipster claimed the money wasn’t going into the town coffers, but rather into the trustees’ pockets,” Spike explained. “In fact, apparently the mayor and his cronies are making a ton of money skimming from their constituents.”

“Hmm.” Skye half closed her eyes. Why did she think she knew something about that?

“Anyway,” Spike continued, “I’ve got an appointment with Mayor Todd Urick tomorrow at eleven a.m. He’s been putting me off, but he must have gotten tired of me calling every hour so he finally agreed to see me.” She sighed. “Although since I have no clout, I can’t figure out how I can make him tell me anything important.”

“Oh, my gosh.” Skye covered her mouth, having just remembered what she’d seen earlier that evening at the storage facility. “I think I might know how to get him to talk.”

“How?”

Skye explained about the auction and the brand-new merchandise with
PROPERTY OF THE CITY OF VIDERVILLE
stamped on its unopened boxes. She finished with, “So I bet they order materials and equipment that on paper they
claim are for various city departments. They use money from the city’s budget to pay for the stuff, but when it arrives, they never add it to the departments’ inventory. At my school, for instance, we have to stencil the items with a number that corresponds to the master list that the principals keep. But in Viderville, the mayor and his cronies sell the unopened goods and pocket the cash themselves.”