“Good. That’s one less piece of evidence Peterson has against you.”
“Yippee,” Skye said, whirling her finger in the air like a New Year’s Eve noisemaker.
Wally took her chin in his hand and tilted her face upward. “Trust me. I won’t let Peterson hurt you.”
“I know.”
“And I know that you can take care of yourself, so I’ll trust you to do that.”
Skye smiled and cupped her hands over his. Wally had said exactly what she needed to hear. “I suppose you have to leave right away?”
He nodded. “I want to be there when the techs arrive.”
“Can you wait one second while I run upstairs and get the jacket you loaned me?”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
When she returned with the coat, he was standing by the front door wearing his leather jacket and utility belt.
His goodbye kiss was slow and thoughtful, and when she closed the door behind him, the reality of what she had been about to do with him sank in. What had she been thinking?
It was too soon. She wasn’t the kind of woman who flitted from man to man.
As Skye climbed the steps to her bedroom, she resolved to slow down their newly forming relationship. She needed time to get to know Wally as a boyfriend before becoming his lover.
Be at Sixes and Sevens
Skye turned over, dragging the sheet and blanket with her.
She reached out to stroke Bingo’s warm fur, but encountered only a cold unoccupied pillow.
Puzzled, Skye pried open an eye. Bingo always slept next to her, and never left the bed until he was sure she was heading toward his food bowl.
Abruptly, Skye remembered that Bingo was gone. Her beautiful black cat was out on his own — cold, hungry, and in danger — all because of that jackass, Beau Hamilton.
Oops! Beau Hamilton was dead. For a moment Skye had forgotten yesterday’s events. She closed her eyes and said a quick prayer for the contractor’s soul. She had a feeling he might need it.
Next, the memory of what she had nearly done with Wally the night before popped into her mind. A small inner voice warned that she had to persuade him they needed to take things slowly — but more importantly, she had to convince herself she didn’t want him to sweep her off her feet and have his way with her.
She closed her eyes again and prayed, “Lord, please don’t lead me into temptation,” then muttered, “I have a feeling I can find the way all by myself.” Now that she remembered Bingo’s disappearance, Beau’s death, and Wally’s kisses, she also recalled that she was supposed to start her day being interrogated by the county sheriff. She hoped that being at the Scumble River PD versus his own office would keep Peterson under control.
Skye slumped back against her pillows. It was all too much. Depression washed over her and she wondered if murder suspects could call in sick. Her fondest wish was to claim she had the flu, pull the covers over her head, and stay in bed all day.
Her new clock radio clicked on at quarter to eight. She had thrown away her old alarm, a gift from Simon, when she moved. Instead of an annoying high-pitched beep, this one usually woke her to the soothing music played by a local station.
Today, however, the DJ’s voice roused Skye from her thoughts. “Yesterday evening Beau Hamilton, a successful local contractor, was transported from a Scumble River residence he was in the midst of renovating to Laurel Hospital, where he was pronounced dead on arrival. Details on the hour.”
Skye put a pillow over her head. It hadn’t taken long for news of Beau’s death to get out. She reached to turn off the radio, then stopped. It would probably be a good idea to hear what was being said about the murder.
She showered in record time and ran back into her bedroom as the th Dimension sang the last few lyrics of
“Going Out Of My Head.” Skye skidded to a stop and plopped down on the vanity bench while still towel-drying her hair.
After giving traffic and weather updates, the newscaster finally said, “Scumble River contractor Beau Hamilton was pronounced dead yesterday evening at Laurel Hospital. Police chief Walter Boyd and Stanley County Sheriff Buck Peterson are jointly investigating the death, which is currently being termed suspicious. No other details have been released.”
Skye blew out a relieved breath. She had been afraid her name and address would be mentioned.
After finishing her hair and makeup, Skye opened her closet and pondered her choices. What should she wear to be questioned by a hostile sheriff and to make the right impression on a sexy police chief whom she wanted to keep interested but wasn’t ready to leap into bed with? Considering how bad she had looked last night, she needed a terrific outfit to redeem herself this morning.
Finally she selected a pair of black jeans, a black turtleneck, and a pale yellow cardigan with leopard print trim around the neckline and down the front plackets. She hesitated between short black boots and flat black loafers, deciding on the former when she remembered she also planned to go out to the Recreation Club and take a look at where Beau’s truck had been abandoned.
It was already quarter to nine by the time she was ready, and cooking anything in her partially remodeled kitchen was out of the question, so Skye grabbed a brown sugar cinnamon Pop-Tart from her emergency stash on the way out the door. A can of Diet Coke completed her breakfast of champions. She generally drank caffeine-free, but she always kept a six-pack of regular for those mornings when she didn’t have time for her usual cup of Earl Grey tea.
Skye pulled into the police station parking lot at five to nine, noting the sheriff’s car was already occupying the handicapped spot nearest the door. She wondered if she could persuade Wally to give Peterson a ticket.
Swallowing the last of the Pop-Tart, she got out of the Bel Air and headed toward the entrance. She only vaguely knew the part-time dispatcher who ushered her into the interrogation/coffee room; May generally worked Monday through Friday and wasn’t on duty, a small blessing Skye duly noted.
Sheriff Peterson sat at the end of the table with a Styro-foam cup at his elbow, an unlit cigar clenched between his teeth, and a newspaper open in front of his face. Wally leaned against the far wall, his arms crossed and his eyes watchful.
Skye felt the tension in the room as soon as she entered, and glanced at Wally questioningly.
He gave her a reassuring wink, then said, “Have a seat.
Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“No thanks.” Skye sat as far from the sheriff as possible, reached into her tote bag, and produced the can of Diet Coke. “I brought my own.”
Peterson threw his paper aside, scowling. “Are you sure you’re all comfy?”
“I’m fine. Thank you.” Skye wondered why the sheriff was acting so hostile toward her and her family. As far as she knew, they hadn’t done anything to cause his enmity.
Wally settled into the chair across from Skye, smiled his encouragement, and looked down the table to the sheriff.
“Then let’s get started.”
Peterson muttered, “It’s about time.” Wally clicked on the tape recorder, listed those present in the room, gave the date and time, then asked, “Ms. Denison, are you aware you’re being recorded?”
“Yes.”
“Please state your full name and address.” After Skye complied, Wally said, “We’d like you to tell us your whereabouts and actions from four thirty p.m. Friday until you arrived back at your dock with the victim in the boat.” Skye ignored the sheriff’s grunts of disbelief as she retold her story. Instead she looked into Wally’s steady gaze and recounted every detail she could remember.
After she had finished, Wally said to the sheriff, “Do you have any questions?”
Peterson rose slowly from his seat and walked over to Skye. As he leaned over her shoulder, she had to fight a surge of nausea as tobacco and alcohol fumes engulfed her.
His fingers dug into the flesh of her upper arms as he whispered, “Don’t think because you’re leading Boyd around
by his dick, you’re fooling me.”
“What?” Skye squeaked. Had the sheriff lost his mind?
“Once we get the posh mortem results, your ass is grass.” Was the sheriff thinking about the death styles of the rich and famous? Skye suppressed a giggle. Or maybe Peterson was just plain crazy.
Without another word to Skye, Buck slammed out the door, saying to Wally, “I’ll expect a copy of that statement by noon.”
“What did he say to you?” Wally asked, getting up from his chair and moving around the table to Skye, his expression protective.
“That I’m not fooling him.” Skye edited the sheriff’s message.
Wally’s look was skeptical, but he didn’t press her. Instead he gave her a yellow legal pad and pen, and said,
“Okay, write out your statement and we’ll be done.”
“But I thought you recorded it.”
“The only dispatcher who could transcribe from tape quit about a month ago. The rest of them need a written page to type from.”
“Then why did you record it?”
“Because the attorney wants all statements taped.” Wally massaged his temple. “It’s a vicious circle. The board won’t vote the department any budget increases, but the needs of the town keep growing.”
“Did the police department get any money from the Route Yard Sale proceeds?”
“That money hasn’t been voted on yet. The meeting is next week. But the library, school, roads, water, and sewer all want a piece of that pie.”
“Should be an interesting meeting.” Skye reached into her tote bag for a small notebook and made a note. “I think I’ll have the school newspaper cover it.” Wally brushed a curl from her cheek and pushed the yellow legal pad closer. “Right now, let’s just get the statement taken care of.”
Skye was distracted by Wally’s presence as she wrote.
The attraction between them was even stronger than it had been last night. Every time her gaze met his, her heart turned over.
When she finished and handed him her statement, she asked, “Did they find anything in Beau’s truck?” He raised an eyebrow, clearly not fooled by her attempt to pretend there was nothing between them, but answered affably, “Nothing helpful. Just what you’d expect — tools, paperwork, and trash.”
“Fingerprints?”
“Wiped clean.” Wally frowned. “Too many damn TV
programs like CSI and NYPD Blue are teaching criminals how to avoid getting caught.”
Skye refrained from mentioning that those were a couple of her favorite shows, and instead asked, “How about the boat? Anything on it?”
“With the exception of your fingerprints, there’s only one interesting one on the transom. It looks like it might have been made when the motor was attached, and whoever wiped the boat clean overlooked that spot because the motor covered it.”
“Whose is it?” Skye brightened, hoping the print would belong to someone that the sheriff would consider a better suspect than herself.
“All we know for sure is it’s not yours or Hamilton’s.” Wally shook his head. “It takes a lot longer to identify a print than TV would lead you to believe. Then there’s always the chance that it’s completely innocent — the print of the guy who sold the boat to the suspect, or someone like that.”
Skye’s shoulders slumped. Darn. A moment ago the fingerprint had seemed so promising.
“And if the person who made the print isn’t in the system, we may never figure out whose it is.”
“Oh, right.” Skye felt completely deflated, then perked up at another possibility. “Did they find the gun?” she asked, hoping they had and it wasn’t somewhere on her property.
Even though the shore, woods, and yard had been searched, there were a lot of hiding places in the house, and it would have been easy for the murderer to get inside. Considering the state of disrepair, he or she could crawl through a hole that had once held a window.
“No.”
“So, what’s next?” Skye asked, struggling to keep upbeat. “Besides Sheriff Peterson trying to prove I’m guilty.”
“Don’t worry about Buck.” Wally stroked her hand. “I’ve got Quirk out interviewing Hamilton’s crew, suppliers, and customers, and another officer trying to track down the boat’s origins. Plus I’ll be talking to his sister this morning and any personal contacts this afternoon.”
“Good.” Skye got up and moved away from his touch, her pulse skittering. “It scares me that the sheriff seems to think it’s me.”
“Buck is like a hunting dog. He gets on one scent and can’t see that there’s a bear in back of him about to bite his butt.” Wally opened the door for Skye. “Stop back in a couple of hours to sign this.” He waved the sheets of yellow paper.
“Okay.”
“What are you doing the rest of the day?” Wally asked as he walked her to her car.
“It sounds coldhearted, but I guess my first priority is finding a new contractor.” Skye settled behind the wheel. “I can’t live with gaping holes where windows should be, or a partially ripped off roof.” She dropped her tote bag on the seat next to her. “I hope hiring someone right away won’t make me look even more guilty to Sheriff Peterson.”
“Buck is very political. I can’t figure out why he’s so an-tagonistic toward you, since you’d think the last thing he’d want to do is offend your family — which includes nearly everyone in the county. I’m sure that as soon as we find him another suspect he’ll back down.” Wally stood between the open door and the car’s interior. “As to being coldhearted, one thing this job teaches you is that life goes on. You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do.”
“Intellectually, I know that’s true, but emotionally it feels funny. It’s like saying people are interchangeable, and if one dies or leaves, there’s another ready and willing to take his place.”
“Sometimes that’s exactly how it is, and how it’s supposed to be.” Wally cupped her face in his large hand.
“You’ve got to grab happiness when you see it, before it gets away and you’ve lost that chance forever. You know opportunities are never lost. Someone else just takes the ones you miss.”
Skye forced her hands to remain in her lap. She had an overwhelming urge to throw her arms around Wally’s waist and rest her head against his chest. The sexual magnetism between them was thrumming like a taut rubber band, and she had a feeling they were no longer talking about hiring a new contractor.
When she didn’t answer, Wally shrugged. “But I suppose there’s no harm in taking things slowly.” He leaned forward and lightly kissed her lips before asking, “How about dinner tonight?”
Skye took a relieved breath. “I’d really like that, but I have to warn you there won’t be any dessert.” She knew they had to slow down, but if Wally pressed the issue, she wasn’t sure she could resist.
“What?”
“No repeat of last night,” Skye explained. “I need to get to know you before we . . . ah . . . you know.”
“We’ve known each other for nearly eighteen years,” Wally protested.
“Not really. We sure didn’t really know each other when I was a teenager. Then when I was gone for twelve years we didn’t keep in touch. And in the past four years, how much time have we spent together, alone?”
“Can we talk more about this tonight?” Wally asked.
When she nodded, he said, “Good. I’ll pick you up at six.” Skye nodded again and motioned for him to let her close the car door.
Before getting out of the way, he leaned down, brushed a velvety kiss across her forehead, and said softly, “See you tonight.”
As she drove off, she could still feel the imprint of his lips on her skin. She needed to break his spell so she could concentrate. She deliberately pictured herself in jail — no electric curlers, no choice of clothes, no Earl Grey tea or Diet Coke. She shivered. Wally might not be worried about Buck Peterson, but Skye wasn’t about to leave her fate in that good old boy’s dirty hands.
Skye drove slowly toward the Scumble River Recreation Club, her mind still on Wally and the morning’s events.
She probably should have told him she was going out to look at the place where Beau’s truck had been dumped.
Wally had been open with her, and unlike in the past, he hadn’t fussed about her investigating. So, why hadn’t she told him? Maybe it was that their new relationship felt so iffy. It was too recent to rely on. It took a while to build trust, and they hadn’t had that time yet.
Yes, that was exactly it, and it was also exactly why they shouldn’t sleep together. She’d tell him so tonight.
As Skye made the turn into the club’s entrance, she reached into the inside zipper pocket of her tote bag for the key to the gate. From Memorial Day until Labor Day a guard was employed to check identification cards and determine who was allowed in. But during the rest of the year, members had to get out of their cars, unlock the gate, drive their vehicles through, and get back out to close the gate behind them. It was a tedious process unless you had a passenger along to help.
Climbing back into the Bel Air the second time, it dawned on her that whoever drove Beau’s truck here must have had a key to get in. She’d have to mention that to Wally and see if the police had already realized that little clue.
From what Wally had said when he got the call about the truck the night before, she was pretty sure she knew where it had been abandoned. After driving through the entrance, she took a left turn, then followed the road as it kept forking right.
She drove slowly to avoid the many puddles on the dirt lane. Autumn had been wet, and it had rained hard again Thursday night, leaving the unpaved roads a muddy mess.
Trees that lined the edge of the road were starting to turn colors, their leaves glowing red and gold.
Suddenly the lake loomed in front of her. In reality, it was a bit to her left, but the way the terrain dipped, it appeared that the road ran right into it.
Why had the killer picked this particular place to dump Beau’s truck? It was one of the shallowest bodies of water in the whole recreation area. There were several deeper lakes a little farther into the club’s interior. If the murderer had sub-merged the pickup in any one of those, it would probably never have been found. So, why this one?
Murder of a Real Bad Boy Page 6
