“His Jeep was at his apartment, but he didn’t answer the door. I tried my key, but it didn’t work. Why would he have changed the lock?”
“Are you sure you had the right key? Or maybe you were so shook up the key stuck.” Skye couldn’t imagine someone as laid-back as her brother changing the lock on his apartment door.
May ignored Skye’s questions. “He wasn’t at the Feed Bag having breakfast, or anywhere else we tried. Finally we went back to the hair salon, and he was just pulling into the parking lot.”
“Where had he been?”
“He wouldn’t tell us.” May’s voice held the outrage of a two-year-old being denied the last piece of candy. “I want you to go talk to him and find out.”
“Mom. He’s nearly thirty-eight years old. He doesn’t have to account for his every movement.” Skye couldn’t quite bring herself to mention the S word to May. Somehow discussing her brother’s sex life with her mother was way too embarrassing, so she tried to be subtle. “Maybe he spent the night at a friend’s house.”
May snorted. “He broke up with that skanky little slut he’s been dating a couple of weeks ago, and no one’s told me he’s started seeing anyone else.” Skanky little slut! Skye nearly dropped the receiver into her open sandwich. May’s vocabulary was expanding, and not in a good way. Nevertheless, her mother was right about knowing if Vince was going out with a new woman. In Scumble River, someone would have told her.
“So, you have to find out what he’s hiding,” May finished saying. “I’ve been so worried, I couldn’t get a thing done today.”
“Mom, worry is like a rocking chair; it gives you something to do, but doesn’t get you anywhere.”
“Don’t try that counseling baloney on me. Just find out what’s going on with your brother.”
“I’ll talk to him, but no promises.” Skye grabbed the mustard bottle and squeezed. “Listen, Mom, I’ve got to go.
I’ve got a lot of other calls to make.”
“Whoa Nelly, not so fast.” May was only winding up; she apparently hadn’t thrown her final pitch yet. “A little bird told me that Wally came back out to your house late last night.”
Skye took a deep breath before answering, since she was pretty sure screaming at her mother was one of the top ten big sins that would get her a one-way ticket on the express train to hell, and she didn’t have time to go to confession.
“Does this little stool pigeon work as a police dispatcher?” Wally should never have had them call him back at Skye’s number. May was bound to be immediately informed.
“Who told me isn’t important,” May sputtered. “The fact of the matter is that even though I like Wally, he’s not the one for you.”
Skye silently counted to ten. “Why not? He’s a sweet, decent man with an important job.”
“He’s also divorced, six years older than you, and not Catholic.”
Skye put the top slice of bread on her sandwich and cut the whole thing in half as she tried to figure out how to respond to May without admitting anything. Finally, she said,
“The divorce wasn’t his fault, six years is not that many, and his religion is his own business.”
“You and Simon will patch things up.” May’s voice took on a wheedling tone. “He’s the best catch in town. He’s good-looking, well-off, never been married, has a lot of money, Catholic, did I mention he’s loaded?”
“Yes, Mother, you did.” Skye took a savage bite of her sandwich, chewed and swallowed. “What you failed to mention was that he’s a lying scumbag who won’t even apologize for cheating on me.”
“Everyone makes mistakes. Look at the poor example he’s had with that trollop for a mother.”
“Another reason not to be involved with Simon.” Skye popped open a Diet Coke and took a gulp. “How could I marry someone whose mother you hate?”
“Well, I mean she’s not, um . . .” May had talked herself into a corner, but rallied. “You can’t hold a man’s mother against him.”
“Mom, leave it alone.” Skye sank into a kitchen chair.
“I’m not marrying anyone right now, maybe never.” Her mother’s shriek was loud enough to shatter an eardrum; luckily Skye had moved the receiver away from her ear, prepared for May’s maternal wrath. “I really have to go. We’ll talk about my love life some other time — say February thirtieth.” Skye didn’t wait for her mother to realize what she had said. “Love you. Love to Dad. Bye.” Skye kept her finger on the phone’s disconnect button until she was ready to make her next call, sure that May would call back as fast as she could dial the phone. Skye didn’t want to talk about Wally or Simon with her mother anymore today, and a busy signal was the only thing that would stop May.
After locating Loretta’s numbers, Skye tried to call her at her home, office, and even on her cell phone, but she didn’t answer any of them. Skye left messages on all three, saying she urgently needed to discuss Dulci Smallwood.
Having hung up on her mother and left messages for Wally and Loretta, Skye was unsure of her next move. There was plenty to do around the house. The task of sorting out Mrs. Griggs’s vast accumulation of possessions and figuring out what was valuable and what was trash could take years all by itself.
Another chore her mother had just added to Skye’s list was to talk to Vince. She could go to his salon and try to get him to tell her why he had been late that morning, but that was probably best left until she could run into her brother casually — say at church.
Although she usually attended nine o’clock Mass, she’d attend the eleven thirty service tomorrow, which was Vince’s favorite. Afterward, she’d suggest they get a cup of coffee and see if she couldn’t get him to tell her what was going on.
If not clearing out junk or talking to her brother, then what? She had a nagging feeling there was something she was supposed to be doing. What was it? Bingo! Of course, what she really needed to do was look for Bingo.
Skye checked her watch. Nearly three. If she hurried she could look for the cat for a couple hours before she had to get ready for her date with Wally.
She ran upstairs and changed into old jeans, a hooded navy sweatshirt, and hiking boots. Back in the kitchen she glanced at the outdoor thermometer attached next to the window over the sink. It was still in the fifties, so she decided to skip a jacket. Her sweatshirt and the exertion of hiking should keep her warm.
As she stepped out the door, an ancient pickup rattled to a stop at the bottom of the front steps. Painted on the side of the truck was CLARK AND SONS PLUMBING.
An old man hopped out of the cab, grabbed a toolbox from the back, and moseyed up to Skye. “Where’s the kitchen?”
“Excuse me?” Was this Beau’s plumber? Hadn’t he heard the contractor was dead?
“I’m here to fix your faucet.”
“Oh, how much will that cost?” Skye did some quick calculations. It would be great to have running water in the kitchen again, but wouldn’t it be more economical to wait for the new contractor to take care of it?
“Nothing. I owe the chief a favor. He called this morning and collected on it.”
So Wally had sent her a plumber. She’d had guys send her flowers, bring her candy, and even give her an occasional piece of jewelry, but this felt different. She felt cher-ished. Should she accept?
As she was thinking, the man added, “The chief said to tell you that I’m a gift with no strings attached.”
“Well, in that case, okay. But only fix the faucet. I know there are a lot of other plumbing problems, but don’t do anything about them.”
He took off his cap and scratched his head. “The chief said you’d say that, and that was fine.”
“I’m on my way out for a couple of hours. Do I need to stick around?” Skye figured anyone working for the police chief probably wouldn’t steal anything.
“Nope. It’ll be fixed when you get back.” After showing the plumber to the kitchen, Skye grabbed a box of dry cat food, a long stick with a nail on the end, an
d a black plastic garbage bag, and started out walking south on the inside of the ditch along the road that ran in front of her house. Every few steps she shook the box or called, “Here, kitty, kitty.”
Skye had done this at various times every day since Bingo went missing, choosing a different direction for each search. So far, no luck.
As she walked, she used the long stick to poke into the underbrush. She found lots of beer cans, snack bags, and candy wrappers, which she deposited in the trash bag, but nothing to indicate Bingo had ever passed that way.
The fields along the road hadn’t been harvested yet, the yellow stalks of corn were heavy with ripe ears. Skye smiled, remembering how her father would laugh himself silly when he spotted weekenders from Chicago stopping along the road and picking the corn from his fields.
One day she had asked why he didn’t stop them from stealing, and Jed had said, “They’ll get their just deserts when they try to eat what they’ve stolen. They don’t realize that field corn is silage, grown to feed livestock, not humans. Imagine the looks on their faces when they bite into the steaming ear, full of butter and salt. Instead of the wonderful taste of sweet corn, they get a mouthful of crap.” Skye shook her head. Other farmers in the area ran the city thieves off with shotguns, but her dad considered them an afternoon’s entertainment.
She had been walking for nearly an hour, and her feet were starting to hurt, so she looked around for somewhere to rest before turning back toward home. She crossed the blacktop, planning to search the other side as she returned.
The ditch on this side was much deeper, and the water it held from recent rains raced along at a fast clip. Skye looked for a place to cross and found an easement that had been built for tractors to use to get into the fields.
A few feet past the entrance, Skye could see a line of trees separating one farmer’s field from the adjoining one. A couple of the evergreens had been knocked down, and Skye thought she could sit on one of the fallen trunks and rest.
She picked her way through the knee-high grass, trying to avoid the muddiest spots, but they were hard to see through all the weeds. She was nearly to the other side when her foot came down on something hard. Poking it with her stick, she tried to figure out what it was.
Finally, she squatted and pushed away the weeds. It was a book so saturated with dirt and rain its cover was completely obscured. The pages were swollen and stuck together, too, but she picked it up and rubbed the muck off on her denim-clad thigh.
After several attempts to clean the front enough to see the title, Skye could barely make out the word “Artists” and what she thought was a date —“.” She pried open the cover and saw that it was from the Scumble River library.
Why would anyone throw a library book along the side of a road?
Shrugging, she stuck the book in the garbage bag. At least if she couldn’t find Bingo, she could clean up her little part of the world by putting litter in its place.
FBI’s Ten Most
Wanted Fugitives
It was nearly six when Skye got back to the house. The light on her answering machine was blinking enticingly, but she fought temptation and went directly upstairs. She didn’t want to be half dressed when Wally showed up for their date. Knowing him, he’d come early, and being in a state of dishabille when he arrived would not send the right message concerning her wish to slow down their relationship.
Skye hurriedly showered. Her thick, wavy hair — feared by shorted-out flatirons everywhere — severely limited her choice of styles. She could scrape it back into a French braid, let it dry naturally into uncontrollable curls, or tame it with electric curlers and a significant amount of mousse and hair spray. For tonight she chose the latter.
Makeup was less of a problem. A little light bronzing powder to brighten her pale complexion, some amber shadow and dark brown liner to bring out the sparkle in her green eyes, and a few strokes of mascara to emphasize her long lashes, and she was finished.
Choosing the right outfit was the last hurdle. It would help if she knew the type of restaurant Wally had in mind.
Why did men invariably forget to mention those important facts when asking for a date?
Skye walked up and down the length of the worn Persian carpet between her bed and the closet, clad only in her bra and panties. What to wear, what to wear? Something cold brushed her shoulder. Startled, she whirled around. A shiver ran up her spine. She was alone in the middle of the room.
What had touched her?
Her heart was still doing the conga, but she drew a shaky breath and reassured herself. It must have been a draft. But where had it come from? Was there a tear in the plastic that covered the window holes? She went over to see. No. The sheeting appeared to be intact.
Maybe the French doors that led out to the second-story balcony were ajar? She moved over and grasped their handles. While she was pulling on them to make sure they were shut tight, she heard the jangle of wire hangers. She spun around and ran back toward the closet.
On the floor lay the new outfit she’d bought at Nord-strom’s last weekend. At first Skye smiled — it was the perfect thing to wear tonight. But then she frowned — how did it get from the rod to the floor? Could the breeze she had felt earlier have swept the clothes off their hangers?
That must have been it. There was no other logical explanation. Skye’s mind skittered around the idea that Mrs.
Griggs’s spirit might be trying to help with her wardrobe selection, but she shoved that thought away. She wasn’t going down that path.
Besides, time was slipping away. Her priority was getting dressed, not examining the possibility of a poltergeist. Skye shimmied into the copper-colored A-line skirt, smoothing the soft corduroy over her hips. Next she slipped a cream cashmere turtleneck over her head, and then shrugged into the copper-on-copper, floral brocade box jacket. Twisting in front of the cheval mirror, Skye decided the only jewelry she needed were her gold love knot earrings.
Skye was pulling on brown suede boots when the doorbell rang. Glancing at her clock radio, she saw it was ten to seven. She liked that Wally wasn’t precisely on time. A little early or a bit late was fine, as long as it wasn’t exactly on the dot as Simon had always been.
The bell rang again as she ran down the stairs, and Skye realized another item to add to her endless list of home improvement projects was an intercom. It was a long way from her bedroom to the front door.
Using the peephole, Skye confirmed it really was Wally ringing the bell, then let him in.
He strode into the foyer, stopped and stared at her, then growled low in his throat. “Mmm. You look like a cinnamon roll, good enough to eat, or at least lick all over.” Skye’s pulse leapt in response, but she managed to keep her voice even when she said, “Thank you. You look pretty yummy yourself.” He looked roguishly handsome in black twill slacks and a black-and-white herringbone sports jacket that matched the black and silver of his hair.
The wind had added a warm glow to his olive complexion, and he moved toward her with an athletic grace, sweeping her into his arms. “I could call and postpone our dinner reservation. We could have dessert first.”
“Remember our agreement.” She gave him a quick kiss on his nose, than squirmed loose. “No dessert.”
“But I’m starving.”
Skye crossed her arms and shook her head.
“Then I suppose we’d better go to dinner.” Skye grabbed her purse and stepped out the door. “Where are we going?”
“The Country Mansion in Dwight.”
Before she could comment on his choice, she glimpsed the taillights of a white car pulling out of her driveway.
Turning to Wally, who was tugging on the knob to make sure the lock caught, she pointed. “Did you see that car?”
“What car?”
“I thought I saw a car pulling out of my driveway.”
“Maybe someone was turning around.” Wally took her elbow as they walked down the porch steps.
“Yea
h. That must be it.” Skye allowed herself to be distracted by the sight of the bluish silver Thunderbird con-vertible parked out front.
She realized she couldn’t remember seeing Wally in any vehicle except a police cruiser. His choice of private car was a revelation. She would have pictured him in a pickup or a Jeep, or even a Cadillac, but the Thunderbird was such a carefree, fun choice, it surprised her and suggested that maybe she didn’t know him as well as she had thought.
As Wally held the door open, Skye slid into the passenger seat. “Cool car. I love the color. What’s it called?” He mumbled, “Sky blue.”
She grinned. “Now I really like it.” She didn’t flatter herself that Wally had chosen the color based on her name alone, but she found it sweet that it might have influenced him. “It’s a shame it’s too cold to put the top down.”
“Yes, it’s great zooming down some of these deserted country roads with the top down and the radio blasting on a warm sunny day.”
“I don’t remember seeing you driving it before.”
“I’ve only had it since April.” His expression was a little sheepish when he added, “It was a belated fortieth birthday present from my dad. The card said it would help with my midlife crisis.”
Skye was speechless as Wally walked around the hood and climbed behind the wheel. His parents were another area of Wally’s life she knew nothing about. He never mentioned them. She was aware he hadn’t been born in Scumble River, having moved there eighteen years ago when he was hired as a rookie police officer, but she had no more than a vague idea of what his first twenty-two years of life had been like. How could she have even considered sleeping with a man she knew so little about?
“What?” Skye asked, Wally’s question bringing her out of her thoughts.
“I asked if you’d been to the Mansion recently.”
“No, not for ages.” Skye settled into the soft leather seats.
Wally grinned. “Good. I was afraid it might be a favorite haunt of yours and Reid’s.”
Murder of a Real Bad Boy Page 8
