Murder of a Bookstore Babe

by Denise Swanson

  After she made the rounds, the store owner shook her head. “It seems as if everything is just like I left it. I took the cash.” Risé paused, then said thoughtfully, “The only things that anyone could get some real money for are the first editions and rare books.” She pointed to the smashed cabinet that Wally and Anthony had leaned against the wall. “And they were in there.”

  “Could that cupboard have fallen on its own?” Wally asked. “Maybe if it were bumped?”

  “I doubt it.” Risé’s voice was bitter. “I told Orlando that it wasn’t fastened to the wall securely enough because I was worried about an earthquake. But otherwise, it’s so heavy, someone would have had to shove it over on purpose.”

  Skye touched her arm. “Do you have an inventory of the valuable books?”

  “On my laptop.” Risé gestured with her chin. “It’s in my car.”

  Skye and Wally waited while Risé fetched her computer, booted it up, and compared the list to the volumes scattered on the floor. Wally had supplied her with a pair of rubber gloves but cautioned her not to move anything from where it lay.

  Finally, Risé straightened and said, “At least seven books are missing.”

  “Are those missing the ones that are worth the most?” Skye asked.

  “Not all of them.” Risé tapped the laptop’s screen. “But this one, a nineteen twenty-two first edition of The Velveteen Rabbit, is worth eight thousand dollars.”

  Wally had been inspecting the place on the wall where the cabinet had been fastened, but when he heard Risé’s claim, he said, “Okay. Everyone out. I’m requesting the county crime scene techs.”

  Skye, Wally, and Risé trooped outside. While Wally made his call, the women sat at an outdoor table. Skye thought how lucky they were that the weather was still mild. Early-September temperatures in Illinois could range from eighty degrees during the day to freezing at night.

  A few minutes later, Wally joined them. “It’ll take the techs forty-five minutes to an hour to get here.” He turned to Skye. “Sugar, if you want to take off, that’s fine.”

  Skye nodded and started to rise, but before she got to her feet, Risé grabbed her hand. “I’d appreciate it if you stayed.” Her cheeks reddened. “But I understand if you can’t.”

  “Of course I’ll stay if you want me to.” Skye looked at her watch; it was only a little past twelve thirty. “No problem.”

  “Thank you.” Risé slumped back in her chair. “I’m not usually this needy.”

  They were sitting silently when Skye’s stomach growled. “Hey, I just had an idea.” She realized the only thing she’d had to eat all day was a cup of gas station coffee. Now she sort of wished she’d taken Simon up on his offer of breakfast. “How about I go get takeout from McDonald’s? I’m starving, and I bet the chief is, too. How about you, Risé? Could you do with some lunch?”

  “Well.” Risé hesitated. “I did skip breakfast, hoping Orlando would show up.”

  “What would you like?”

  “I try to eat vegetarian, but I think considering the past twenty-four hours, today I’ll call a Big Mac a vegetable.” Risé smiled for the first time. “What the hell, get me fries and a chocolate shake while you’re at it.”

  “Wally?” Skye looked at him.

  “Sounds good.” He took out his wallet and handed her a twenty. “Chow’s on me.”

  When Skye arrived back from her food run, Wally had cordoned off the block. She rolled down her car window and said to Anthony, who was watching the south entrance, “What’s up?” It was unusual to barricade a whole section of street for anything less than a hostage situation or a shoot-out.

  “When I got back from the station, the chief told me to set up the barricades. He wants to keep out any onlookers.” Anthony was a nice-looking young man with sandy brown hair. He worked part-time for the PD and part-time for his father, who owned an appliance repair business. “The bookstore is scheduled to open any minute.”

  “What are you supposed to tell people who show up?” Skye was trying to figure out what story would cause the least amount of harm to Tales and Treats’ reputation.

  “Chief Boyd never mentioned that.” Anthony puckered his brow. “Any idea what I should say?”

  “Hmm.” Skye tapped her chin. “Will everyone have heard it on their scanners?”

  “No.” Anthony gave her a shy smile. “We kept it off the radios.”

  “Excellent!” Skye wrinkled her nose. “Then you can just say a possible gas leak is being investigated.”

  “And the real truth is?” a sharp voice asked.

  Skye turned and stared into Orlando Erwin’s bloodshot eyes. “Mr. Erwin, am I glad to see you.” Skye had been half afraid he was lying dead somewhere.

  “And why is that?” Orlando sat astride his motorcycle, pulled up next to the Bel Air’s rear passenger door.

  “Because—”

  “Shit!” He cut her off. “I was supposed to look at some old books for you, wasn’t I? Sorry. I was chemically inconvenienced.”

  “Yes, but that’s not what’s important now.” Skye said to Anthony, “This is the missing store owner we’ve been looking for. Let him in.”

  The young officer moved one of the sawhorses so she and Orlando could get past the cordon. They pulled in behind Risé’s Prius. Skye got out of her Chevy, balancing the cardboard drink carrier and three white McDonald’s bags. Squinting, she could see Zelda Martinez, the newest Scumble River police officer, guarding the other end of the street.

  Curious as to where Orlando had been, Skye hurried to catch up with him as he strode over to where his wife and Wally were sitting.

  She arrived in time to hear him say, “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”

  Risé remained seated. Ignoring him, she thanked Skye, who had handed her a paper cup and a sack of food.

  Skye looked at Wally, who shook his head. He wanted to hear what the couple might say in the heat of the moment.

  “I slipped.” Orlando took a deep, harsh breath. “The pressure got to me.”

  Risé unwrapped a straw and stuck it into the opening on the milk shake’s plastic lid.

  “With our grand opening ruined, it suddenly hit me that we didn’t have the cushion of your salary or a fat savings account anymore. I couldn’t take it.” Orlando’s tongue darted out, and he ran it over his chapped lips. “I thought after fifteen years I could take just one drink, but I woke up this morning in the drunk tank at the county jail, with no memory of how I got there.”

  Skye whispered in Wally’s ear, “Why didn’t County report that Orlando was in their jail when you told them to be on the lookout for him?”

  “They don’t formally process the drunks,” Wally said in a low voice. “They just let them sleep it off and then release them once they’re sober.”

  “Oh.” Skye turned her attention back to the store owners.

  Orlando was still trying to explain. “They let me out about an hour ago.” He shoved a hand through his brown hair. “I tried to call you, but your cell is off, and you weren’t answering at the motor court or at the store, so I came straight here.”

  “Shut up!” Risé’s face was set in hard, tight lines. “Just shut up! We’ll talk about this later. Kayla’s dead, and we’ve been robbed.”

  “Oh, my God!” Orlando sank to his knees. “Poor thing. She was such a sweet girl.”

  “Yes, she was.” Risé blinked back tears. “She really was.”

  For a long moment no one spoke; then Orlando broke the silence. “That’s it, then.” He uttered a string of vivid and anatomically detailed invectives. “We’re ruined. We’ll lose everything. Who’ll want to come to a store where someone has died?”

  Skye caught her breath. Was Orlando right? Would people hold the death of a local girl against Risé and Orlando, as Chase had? Would they boycott the shop out of fear or revulsion or just plain spite? Was this the end of Tales and Treats before its story even got started?

  CHAPTER 9

 
Look Homeward, Angel

  When Skye arrived home, her lights were on and vehicles of every description filled her driveway. Crapola! Just what she needed—her family must have heard the news about the body in the bookstore and descended on her to find out the details. Once Wally put up the barricades and sent Chase to the police station, it was inevitable that the Scumble River grapevine would kick into high gear—and Skye’s mother was one of the biggest grapes.

  From the cars parked in front of her house, Skye knew exactly who was inside. The white Oldsmobile belonged to her mother, the blue pickup to her dad, Uncle Charlie drove the Cadillac, her brother owned the Jeep, and Trixie’s Civic rounded out the group.

  Shoot! She really didn’t want to have to deal with any of them right now. When the crime scene techs had finally arrived from Laurel, it had taken the team a couple of hours to go through the store. Meanwhile, Wally had sent Risé and Orlando to the police station, left his officers in charge at the store, and he and Skye had driven to Kayla’s parents’ house to inform them of her death.

  Afterward, Wally and Skye had taken the bookshop owners’ reports, along with a statement from Chase Wren. It was now past five, and Skye craved quiet and solitude. And maybe a sandwich, since she had never gotten to eat her Big Mac.

  She sat unmoving in the Bel Air. What would happen if instead of getting out, she turned around and headed to Wally’s? A moment’s reflection reminded her that if her family thought she was missing, their ensuing actions would be worse than facing their questions now. May and Charlie were not above calling in the National Guard, not to mention the cadaver dogs and the FBI.

  Blowing out an exasperated breath, Skye dragged herself out of the Chevy and trudged up the sidewalk. She wasn’t surprised that her family was inside her house instead of waiting on the front porch. Her mother had a key, and although she was supposed to use it only for emergencies, May would definitely classify her quest for the most recent buzz as urgent.

  As Skye stepped through the front door, the smell of roast beef and the hum of chatter greeted her. She crept forward and peeked into the kitchen. The men were gathered around the table, while May and Trixie bustled from stove to refrigerator to cupboard. Bingo, Skye’s black cat, gazed at her from beside his food bowl. He nudged it in her direction, and when she made no move to fill it, he meowed unhappily.

  Bingo’s mew drew May’s attention to Skye, and her shriek alerted the others. In the blink of an eye, they all descended on Skye like shoppers on a Black Friday door-buster sale item.

  Skye braced herself for the onslaught. May won the race, which was nothing short of remarkable considering that Trixie was twenty-five years younger and had come in third in the Stanley County marathon a few weeks ago.

  “Are you all right?” May swept Skye into a hug, pulled her into the room, and whirled her around, all the while talking so fast she nearly stuttered. “What kept you so long? What happened? Who died?”

  Skye stood still and let her mother fuss. When May worked herself up to this state, she resembled an overly caffeinated telemarketer, and there was nothing you could do but let her get through her spiel.

  The others gathered around them, and Skye spotted Loretta Steiner grinning at her from the doorway. She was Skye’s sorority sister, sometimes her attorney, and possibly her future sister-in-law. At six feet tall, with coal black hair and mahogany skin, she looked like royalty from some exotic land, a queen wearing Manolo Blahnik sandals and a Cartier ruby pendant.

  Loretta found Skye’s family vastly entertaining and didn’t try to hide her enjoyment. Skye wondered whether she’d still be as amused if she and Vince became engaged and Loretta replaced Skye as the target of May’s attention.

  Skye’s father, Jed, interrupted her thoughts by awkwardly patting her shoulder. “You okay?” His faded brown eyes peered anxiously from his tanned, leathery face.

  “I’m fine, Dad.” Skye kissed Jed’s cheek, hugged her mom, and led the brigade back toward the table. “Wally and I had to wait for the crime scene techs to finish. Then we talked to the owners. I don’t think they know what happened yet. Kayla Hines was the victim.” Since the next of kin had been notified, Wally had said it was okay to reveal who had died.

  There was a split second of silence while everyone absorbed the information; then Uncle Charlie said, “I knew those new people were going to be nothing but trouble from the minute I met them. He’s some old hippie still ‘scarred’ by the war, and she thinks she’s so freaking green, she might as well be Kermit the Frog.”

  Charlie was an imposing figure, weighing in at more than three hundred pounds and standing six feet tall. He was also opinionated, manipulative, and he disliked change. But he would do anything for May, whom he thought of as a daughter, or Vince and Skye, whom he considered his grandchildren.

  “Really, Uncle Charlie.” Skye blew a curl out of her eyes. “Trying to conserve our natural resources is a good thing, and Orlando fought for this country and doesn’t deserve to be called names.”

  He harrumphed but didn’t argue. After a moment, he, Jed, Vince, and Loretta sat down, and May and Trixie went back to the stove. As soon as everyone was settled, they all started talking and asking questions at once. Skye’s head was spinning, and she swayed, unable to focus on what anyone was saying. She felt like she might pass out.

  Suddenly, Loretta put her fingers in her mouth and let out a piercing whistle. Everyone fell abruptly silent, and Loretta said, “People, give her a chance to talk.” She turned to Skye. “Start at the beginning and tell us what happened. Don’t leave anything out.”

  Charlie and May frowned, but Vince and Trixie nodded. Jed shoved back his John Deere gimme cap and scratched his head, his expression hard to read.

  May said, “Is that the way to behave in front of your maybe, I hope, future mother-in-law?”

  “Sorry.” Loretta’s expression was neutral. “Too many years dealing with unruly clients, I guess.” She turned her head toward Skye and winked. “So . . . ?”

  Skye walked over to the fridge and retrieved a can of Diet Coke. After popping the top and taking a healthy swallow, she described her day, skipping her coffee with Simon. She ended by saying, “Which means, it looks as if the store was robbed, and poor Kayla was unfortunately in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “What aren’t you telling us?” May aimed her laser-like truth-finding glare at Skye.

  “Nothing that’s relevant to the situation.” Skye could have kicked herself. Why had she added those last five words?

  “How about what isn’t relevant? Come on, Skye. You’re the police consultant and engaged to the chief. The girls expect me to tell them stuff everyone else doesn’t know.”

  Skye opened her mouth, but Jed spoke first. “Ma, gossip’s not very Christian of you.”

  May’s cheeks reddened. “I can’t help it. I got RLS.”

  “What’s that?” Trixie asked.

  “I saw it on that talk show,” May explained. “That one with the Hollywood psychiatrist. He says people like me have Restless Lips Syndrome.”

  For a nanosecond the group was silent; then they all chimed in with their opinions regarding TV hosts and their medical qualifications. As the voices reached a peak, Skye caught a blur of black fur out of the corner of her eye and rose from her chair.

  With everyone distracted, Bingo must have decided this was the perfect time to make a move on the roast. He ran past the people seated at the table, crouched, and launched himself at the counter. They all watched as at the last moment he apparently realized he couldn’t make it and flailed all four legs as if he were trying to fly, then dropped to floor. Everyone roared with laughter, and Bingo stalked out of the kitchen.

  “Poor kitty,” Trixie murmured. “Do you think he’s hurt?”

  Skye shook her head. “Just his pride.” She sat back down. “A cat’s irritation rises in direct proportion to his embarrassment times the amount of human laughter.”

  Bingo’s antics had se
rved to sidetrack the conversation, and May remembered that supper was ready. Which was a relief. Skye was starving. As the others discussed the burglary, the new store owners, and Kayla’s death, Skye devoured several slices of juicy roast beef, a mountain of creamy mashed potatoes, and heaping spoonfuls of corn casserole, then finished it off by using one of May’s homemade Parker House rolls to sop up the rich, dark gravy.

  Once her hunger was appeased, she tuned back into the conversation just in time to hear Charlie say, “I don’t think it was a break-in at all. I bet you six ways to Saturday someone meant to kill that Risé woman.”

  Skye asked, “What makes you say that, Uncle Charlie?”

  “That woman and her husband have rubbed a lot of people the wrong way.” Charlie took the last swallow of his Budweiser and held up the can, jiggling it to indicate he was in need of another. “They’re sticking their hands into a lot of people’s pockets, and you mess with someone’s livelihood and you’re likely going to get burned.”

  “Who?” May hurried to replace Charlie’s beer. “Anyone important?”

  “Me, for instance.” Charlie reached for the bowl of Waldorf salad. “Flip Allen told me they’re fixing up rooms above their store to rent out to tourists. That’s going to cut in on my business at the motor court.”

  “How did Flip know they were going to use that space as a bed-and-breakfast?” Skye asked. Flip was married to her cousin Ginger Leofanti Allen.

  “He was the one who did the remodeling for them.” Charlie emptied the remaining potatoes onto his plate. “Said they tried to stiff him.”

  “How?” Trixie asked.

  “Wouldn’t pay him after he did all the work.” Charlie ladled gravy over the snowy mound.

  Skye was silent for a moment, remembering that Kayla had mentioned overhearing that argument; then she said, “I thought Flip worked for that big builder who’s been putting in that development west of town. When I talked to him about doing some stuff at my house last summer, he told me he signed a contract with them not to do any independent jobs.”